#fear on his face in two out of six endings and these six endings comprise a grand total of like 10 minutes in the life of raymond delver

[yappacadaver]

the absolute fucking speed with which he hangs his head when rebecca's like "pfft normal. right."

[riding-with-the-wild-hunt]

fëanorian week day six ✷ amrod + amras

“In the morning the host was mustered, but of Fëanor’s seven sons only six were to be found. Then Ambarussa went pale with fear. ‘Did you not then rouse Ambarussa my brother (whom you called Ambarto)?’ he said. ‘He would not come ashore to sleep, he said, in discomfort.’ But it is thought (and no doubt Fëanor guessed this also) that it was in the mind of Ambarto to sail his ship back and rejoin Nerdanel; for he had been much shocked by the deed of his father.

‘That ship I destroyed first,’ said Fëanor (hiding his own dismay). 'Then rightly you gave the name to the youngest of your children,' said Ambarussa, 'and Umbarto "the Fated" was its true form. Fell and fey are you become.' And after that no one dared speak again to Fëanor of this matter."

-JRR Tolkien, The Peoples of Middle-earth, “XI. The Shibboleth of Fëanor,” “The Names of the Sons of Fëanor”

[ID: A picspam comprised of 16 images, mainly colored in grey with some orange accents.

1: A close-up of the models Coral and Tanisha Kwayie. They are Ghanian-British and have curly red hair, freckles, and tan skin. They are hugging and resting their heads on each other’s shoulders / 2: Black serif text reading “where you go, I go” on a grey background / 3: Treetops shrouded in mist / 4: Coral and Tanisha Kwayie, facing the camera with neutral expressions / 5: A bed with a grey blanket / 6: Grasses against an overcast sky / 7: Shiny silver stars of varying sizes on a grey surface / 8: Coral and Tanisha Kwayie standing together wearing black, high-collared coats. Tanisha is looking out in to the distance and Coral is facing the viewer with a thoughtful look / 9: Coral and Tanisha Kwayie, in the same coats as Image 8, but this time Tanisha is leaning her head against Coral with her eyes closed while Coral looks vigilantly into the camera / 10: A grey wolf sleeping in the snow / 11: Black serif text on a grey background reading “I heard your heart beating / You were in the darkness too / So I stayed in the darkness / With you” / 12: A ship floating in the mist / 13: Coral and Tanisha Kwayie, sitting side by side facing the camera with their knees pulled up / 14: Two transparent hands reaching out for each other. When they overlap, they become fully visible / 15: An arrow sticking out of a grey target / 16: Tanisha Kwayie resting her head on Coral Kwayie’s forehead. They are both wearing striped shirts and are resting mittened hands on each other’s shoulders /End ID]

[artandthebible]

Jacob with Leah And Rachel

Artist: Andrea Appiani the Elder

The Story of Jacob with Leah and Rachel

The complicated story of Jacob, Leah, and Rachel comprises one of the larger sections of Genesis and includes much information relevant to the history of the Jewish people. Jacob, the son of Isaac and grandson of Abraham, fled to his mother’s brother Laban. At the time, Jacob feared his twin brother, Esau, would kill him (Genesis 27:41–46). It was at Laban’s that Jacob met Leah and Rachel.

Laban offered his nephew Jacob a place to stay. Jacob soon fell in love with Laban’s younger daughter, Rachel, and agreed to work for Laban seven years in exchange for marriage to her (Genesis 29:16–20).

Laban agreed, but after seven years, he deceived Jacob. On the night that Jacob and Rachel were to be married, Laban gave Rachel’s older sister, Leah, to him as a wife instead. Jacob protested, but Laban argued that it wasn’t the custom to give the younger daughter in marriage first. So it was official: Jacob and Leah were to stay married. Laban then said Jacob could still have Rachel in exchange for another seven years of work (Genesis 29:21–30). In an ironic twist, the deceiver Jacob had himself been deceived. In exchange for fourteen years of labor, Jacob had two wives, Leah and Rachel.

Jacob showed favoritism to Rachael and loved her more than Leah. God compensated for the lack of love Leah received by enabling her to have children and closing Rachel’s womb for a time (Genesis 29:31). There developed an intense rivalry between the two wives. In fact, at one time the wives bartered over the right to sleep with Jacob. Genesis 30:16 says, “When Jacob came from the field in the evening, Leah went out to meet him and said, ‘You must come in to me, for I have hired you with my son’s mandrakes.’ So he lay with her that night,” and Leah became pregnant. In the end, Jacob fathered twelve sons and a daughter. Jacob and Leah had six sons and a daughter; Zilpah, Leah’s maidservant, bore Jacob two sons; Jacob and Rachel had two sons together; and Bilhah, Rachel’s maidservant, bore Jacob another two sons (Genesis 35:23–36).

After twenty years with Laban, Jacob and Leah and Rachel, now very wealthy, moved their family back to Canaan. As they were leaving Laban’s house, Rachel stole her father’s teraphim and lied about having them (Genesis 31). As he drew closer home, Jacob knew that he would have to face Esau again. He still feared Esau’s anger, and he sent gifts to satisfy him before he arrived. The night before Jacob crossed the Jabbok River, he “wrestled with God” and was given the name “Israel” along with God’s blessing.

The story of Jacob and Rachel ended tragically, as Rachel died giving birth to her second child, Benjamin. Rachel named him Ben-Oni (“son of my trouble”), but Jacob renamed him Benjamin (“son of my right hand”). Rachel “was buried on the way to Ephrath (that is, Bethlehem). Over her tomb Jacob set up a pillar, and to this day that pillar marks Rachel’s tomb” (Genesis 35:19–20).

Jacob and Leah’s marriage lasted longer, but eventually Leah, too, died in Canaan and was buried in the same tomb as Abraham and Sarah and Isaac and Rebekah (Genesis 49:30–32). Jacob and his son Joseph would later be buried in this tomb as well (Genesis 50).

The story of Jacob, Leah, and Rachel is filled with much difficulty, yet God used these people greatly to impact history. Their twelve sons were the leaders of the twelve tribes that became the nation of Israel. Through their family, God blessed the entire world, as Jesus Christ was born from the tribe of Judah and offers salvation to all (John 3:16; Luke 2:10).

[dishwater-blondie]

Wic(f) I’d love to see how Gabriel would treat Nathalie when she is like halfway through her pregnancy. If your still doing these! I love your style so much!!!!

Read the preceding ficlets here: x And here: x

Patches of light blue paint dapple the wall in rough brushstrokes, and Gabriel finds her tracing her fingers between them as if she can tell between the different shades through the dark of night. Sheets of canvas line the floor beneath her bare feet. A wooden ladder stretches towards a space in the ceiling where a light fixture used to be. Aside from the books still lining the tall shelves and the unopened boxes of furniture crowded near the door, the room is an empty work-in-progress. Hardly a comfortable place to hang around past two in the morning. 

But this is where he thought to seek her when he woke and found her side of the bed vacant. Here she is, just now noticing him enter, turning suddenly to look as he approaches. Cindery light catches on her hair, on the arc of her eyes and the silk of the robe tied snugly around her body. When he gets close enough to touch her, she glances away. 

“Can’t sleep?” he says. 

Nathalie shakes her head at the wall. 

“You should be careful. There could be nails are screws dropped on the floor, and I-don’t-know-what-else from getting everything moved out of here.” 

The corner of her mouth quirks. She shrugs. 

“At least put some slippers on.” 

He drops them on the floor in front of her. Some dry noise like a chuckle quivers in her throat before she slips them on her feet.

Then, she steps towards him, ducking her head into his shoulder. Gabriel holds on with his arms around her waist, careful not to squeeze as tight as his heart is aching to, as if he could press the anguish out of her. 

“I had a dream about my mother,” she tells him. 

“Oh.” Gabriel leans his cheek into her head. 

“It happens all the time now. I used to never think about her, and now I feel like I can’t stop.”

“I’m sorry, Nathalie.”

“Sometimes I wonder what she would say if she could tell me what to do, or what not to do.” Nathalie buries her face into Gabriel’s neck. “I…wonder what she would say if she knew what this had done to me.” 

“You’ll be okay, my dear. You have people taking care of you.” He repeats the familiar reassuring phrase. The last six months have been marked by repetition, a cycle of panic and temperamental relief that Gabriel worries won’t be broken until the baby arrives. Though he knows the end is in sight, his heart pangs for the weeks his wife has yet to endure. She lives her greatest fear in hopes of living a greater gift when it is over, terrified of all her inheritance comprises. 

“Mama didn’t have any help,” Nathalie whispers, mostly to herself. “She was sick.” 

“That’s right.”

“I’m sick.”

“It’s not the same. You know that.” Gabriel strokes the back of her head. “Your condition is stabler now. It’s being looked after. What did we hear at the appointment today, Nathalie?”

“She’s healthy,” his wife murmurs. “She’s 36 centimeters.”

“And you?”

“I’m as well as I can be.” 

“Look at me.” Gabriel gently cups Nathalie jaw and raises her head. Her dazed expression sharpens as she meets his eyes. There is tension in her neck and in her hands, but she takes a deep breath and tries to let some of it go. “I have perfect faith that in just three more months, this room will be finished, our daughter will be beautiful, and you are going to be safe and sound. I wish there was something I could say to make you stop reliving that day.” 

“I wish there was too,” she replies, smiling sadly. “But thank you, Gabriel. You’re doing everything you can.” 

“Come back to bed. You don’t have to sleep, but lie down at least. We’re hiring people to renovate this place,” he reminds her with a light-hearted nudge. 

Nathalie sweeps her gaze around her former bedroom, soon-to-be nursery. “I know. I can’t wait to see it when it’s finished. I…” Her eyes glitter. She brushes a hand down the curve of her belly. “I can’t wait to hold her.”

“See?” Gabriel wraps an arm around her as they begin to leave. “There’s so much to look forward to.” 

[mayasaura]

Alecto, The River, and Colum Asht

I’ve been working on a few different Harrow the Ninth meta theories, and I noticed some threads that seemed to pull them together. Maybe you could call this another megatheorum, but I’m not sure it’s comprehensive enough for that.

I think whatever kind of monster Alecto is, the clues we need to guess are in salt water and the death of Colum Asht.

Salt water leads us to the River. @ovrgrwn @sauntering-vaguely-downwards ​ and I were talking about the symbolism of salt water in the series, and Ovrgrwn mentioned both that Alecto is a “saltwater creature” and that the River isn’t salt water. The thing is, I realised later that the River is salt water.

One of the biggest puzzles we were left with pieces of in Harrow the Ninth was "What is Alecto?". She's been called a lot of things, but we know very little abit definitively. There’s a theory that I was discussing with @thunderon and @asimovsideburns that Alecto is something like a Resurrection Beast, in that she and Harrow are both communal souls forged through human sacrifice. There’s a theory that maybe she was someone else before the Resurrection and in trying to pull her soul back John accidentally got a whole bunch of souls instead. Or she could literally be Alecto the First the way Harrow is an entire generation of the Ninth, with every soul that used to inhabit the world of the First packed into her body. I like all these theories—it feels like we’re on the right track, but also like we’re missing something. This by itself doesn’t seem like it would be so viscerally terrifying to Augustine and Mercy, who were present for the creation of Teacher and the revenant constructs in Caanan House. If she’s an overstuffed suitcase of ten billion souls, why is she a saltwater creature? Why does Teacher call her tomb a zoo, and why are her eyes Like That?

[Image: It came down around her in shreds, as light and insubstantial as drifts of spiderweb. The water sprayed through white holes, rushing in with a pounding roar: that brackish, bloodied water that only existed within the River. She was bouyed up by a spray of ice water and filth - but she wasn’t; she seemed to be walking down her long black corridor again-]

In chapter 53 when Harrow tears her way out of the bubble of the false Canaan House, the River is described as “brackish, bloodied water”. Brackish water is the water that’s found at the place where a river meets a sea; too salty to drink, but not as salty as sea water. The River is brackish salt water, and Alecto is a saltwater creature.

Brackish water is mentioned only one other time in either book.

[Image: She appeared behind the grey-thing-that-had-been-Colum. She took its twisted neck in her hands as calmly and easily as though it were an animal, and she tilted it. The neck snapped. Her fingertips dipped inside the skin; the eye-mouths shrilled, and the tongue around Gideon’s neck flopped away, and both those mouths dissolved into brackish fluid. The body dropped to the floor—]

When Colum Asht dies in chapter 34 of Gideon the Ninth, a brackish fluid runs out of his eye sockets. Whatever creature was inside Colum, it came from the River. And then there’s the description - it’s too long and spread out to quote in full here, but the details are that his eyes went liquid black, and he moved “like there were six people inside him, and none of those six people had ever been inside a human being before”. There are lights under Colum’s skin and things pushing and slithering along his muscles as he walks. When he opens his eyes again, they’re toothed mouths with tongues, and Colum’s tongue has become long and prehensile and it wraps around Gideon’s neck like a tentacle.

The stoma at the bottom of the the River, the mouths to Hell that only open for Resurrection Beasts and the Emperor, are described like this:

[Image: It was a huge, hideous, dark expanse, and it had seething, weird edges; it took the lights pattering over them for me to see that the edges of the hole were enormous human teeth. Each one must’ve been six bodies high and two bodies wide, with the dainty scalloped edges of incisors. The teeth shivered and trembled, like the hole was slavering. And that hole had nothing in it; that hole was blacker than space, that hole was an eaten-away tunnel of reality.]

[Image: Streamerlike lingual tentacles emerged—the unassuming pink you got on normal, non-Hell-bound tongues—easily a thousand of them, jostling, questing, blindly thrusting up out of that mouth. Pyrrha flinched.]

Colum’s eyes have become miniature stoma. It’s interesting that while the thing possessing Colum advances on and kills Silas first, the stoma don’t open until Gideon attacks it. It uses Colum’s sword to kill Silas, but draws Gideon in with its tongue, like the tongues from the stoma at the bottom of the River draw her father the Emperor and Augustine in. But that’s another meta post.

Perhaps the stoma are creatures, sentient hellmouths lurking at the bottom of the River, and it’s stoma that are possessing Colum the Eighth. Maybe it’s the river itself possessing Colum, and the lights under his skin are souls. Maybe it’s something from beyond the stoma, something that came out of Hell. It’s an important question, but not one I have an answer to right now. I am confident in the connection between the stoma and the Eighth House. In chapter 36 of HtN Augustine accuses Mercy of not taking the stoma seriously “which is why your whole damned House sucks at it like a grotesque teat-”. Mercy’s House is the Eighth House, so whatever the metaphysical effect of siphoning is, it presumably involves the stoma. What interests me most about Colum’s transformation for now is that his eyes went full liquid black, and that he was possessed by a creature that left salt water behind it.

Still with me? Now we tie it all together with Alecto’s eyes, the eyes currently in the face of God, the Emperor of the Nine Houses. Like the possessed Colum, their sclera are black. Unlike Colum, their eyes have irises and pupils. The irises are “dark and leadenly iridescent - a deep rainbow oil slick, ringed with white.” Even before I had any idea about Alecto, I wondered what sort of soul the God who was once a man had consumed to have eyes like that. The way Ianthe’s eye colors swirled and merged when Naberius was fighting her, I wondered if his dark iridescent irises were the colors of ten billion souls swirling together, but that wouldn’t explain the black sclera. Now I think the Resurrection Beasts, the stoma, and these theories about Alecto are offering an explanation.

Perhaps Alecto is an enormous collection of human souls, like in our theories, but she is not only human souls. Whatever was possessing Colum Asht is also a part of Alecto. The black sclera she gets from the River, and the iridescent irises she gets from thousands or millions or billions of human souls. Depending on how you interpret what possessed Colum, that could mean a few different things. Maybe she's a human stoma, a human soul merged with the mouth of hell. Maybe she's a tributary or avatar of the River, and the power of all of history's death runs through her. Maybe she's partially comprised of a creature from the incomprehensible chaos of Hell.

The stoma option seems like the most likely to me, to explain the fear and disgust that Mercy and Augustine feel toward Alecto. An avatar of the River is terrifying, but also awesome. That's not the right vibe for 'put that thing down before it hurts one of us'. It was implied in the conversation about Hell and the stoma at the end of chapter 36 that nothing had ever been observed coming through the other way, and it's plainly stated by the Emperor that nothing which goes in has ever come back. If Mercy and Augustine were aware that part of Alecto was from Hell, I would expect it to be hinted at in that scene, and it wasn't really. I did notice that Augustine is more scared of Alecto than Mercy. When Mercy thought Alecto had come to kill her, she spoke to her. When Augustine thought he had seen Alecto, he turned and ran. Maybe Mercy is just braver in general, but Mercy is also less afraid of the stoma than Augustine.

As a closing note, evoking the stoma or what might lie beyond it would explain the only line in Annabel Lee as a metaphor for Alecto that puzzles me.

And neither the angels in heaven above,

  Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee

[butterflies-dragons]

Eugénie Grandet and Sansa Stark

Art credit: 1) Chinese Book Cover for "Eugénie Grandet" by Margarita Winkler; 2) Lady Sansa by Batata-Tasha

She pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of Florian and Jonquil, of Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight, of valiant Prince Aemon and his doomed love for his brother's queen.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

Channeling my inner Sansa Stark in order to avoid the terrible reality of late, I lost myself in some of the French, Spanish and Russian classics. Eugenié Grandet (1833) by Honoré de Balzac was one of them.

Eugenié Grandet is a book that Sansa Stark would love:

They were beautiful songs, but terribly sad. —A Clash of Kings - Sansa VI

Eugénie (23) and Sansa (13) are kind, generous, eager to please and extremely romantic girls.

Although they are both dutiful daughters, they have a strained relationship with their fathers and at some point they defy them out of love.

The main different between Eugénie and Sansa, aside their age, is their education. While Eugénie is a provincial girl from Saumur with almost zero formal education, Sansa, a northern girl, comes from high nobility and has been educated to be the perfect lady and queen.

Eugénie and Sansa aren't exactly the same, but while reading Balzac's novel it's very difficult not to find them similar. Even Eugénie's house in Saumur resembles Winterfell and the North, the same way Eugénie's walnut tree from her garden resembles the Heart Tree from Winterfell's godswood.

I'm sure that GRRM knows about Honoré del Balzac, however I have no certainty if he has read Eugénie Grandet. But I would not be surprised to know that he did read the novel, and in that case I would even suspect that Eugénie inspired him, even a little, while creating Sansa.

It could all be just a coincidence, of course.

FAIR WARNING : EUGÉNIE GRANDET SPOILERS

Saumur / The North & Winterfell

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

There are houses in certain provincial towns whose aspect inspires melancholy, akin to that called forth by sombre cloisters, dreary moorlands, or the desolation of ruins. Within these houses there is, perhaps, the silence of the cloister, the barrenness of moors, the skeleton of ruins; life and movement are so stagnant there that a stranger might think them uninhabited, were it not that he encounters suddenly the pale, cold glance of a motionless person, whose half-monastic face peers beyond the window-casing at the sound of an unaccustomed step.

Such elements of sadness formed the physiognomy, as it were, of a dwelling-house in Saumur which stands at the end of the steep street leading to the chateau in the upper part of the town. This street—now little frequented, hot in summer, cold in winter, dark in certain sections—is remarkable for the resonance of its little pebbly pavement, always clean and dry, for the narrowness of its tortuous road-way, for the peaceful stillness of its houses, which belong to the Old town and are over-topped by the ramparts. Houses three centuries old are still solid, though built of wood, and their divers aspects add to the originality which commends this portion of Saumur to the attention of artists and antiquaries.

(...) The whole history of France is there.

(...) The house in Saumur, without sun, without warmth, always in shadow, melancholy, is an image of her life.

—Eugénie Grandet

* * *

The vast and frigid realm of the Kings of Winter, the Starks of Winterfell, is generally considered the first and oldest of the Seven Kingdoms, in that it has endured, unconquered, for the longest. The vagaries of geography and history set the North apart from their southron neighbors.

It is often said that the North is as large as the other six kingdoms put together, but the truth is somewhat less grand: the North, as ruled today by House Stark of Winterfell, comprises little more than a third of the realm. Beginning at the southern edge of the Neck, the domains of the Starks extend as far north as the New Gift (itself part of their realm until King Jaehaerys I convinced Winterfell to cede those lands to the Night's Watch). Within the North are great forests, windswept plains, hills and valleys, rocky shores, and snow-crowned mountains. The North is a cold land—much of it rising moorlands and high plains giving way to mountains in its northern reaches—and this makes it far less fertile than the reaches of the south. Snow has been known to fall there even in summer, and it is deadly in winter.

—The World of Ice and Fire - The North

Robert snorted. "Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I've never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people?"

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

The rising sun sent fingers of light through the pale white mists of dawn. A wide plain spread out beneath them, bare and brown, its flatness here and there relieved by long, low hummocks. Ned pointed them out to his king. "The barrows of the First Men."

Robert frowned. "Have we ridden onto a graveyard?"

"There are barrows everywhere in the north, Your Grace," Ned told him. "This land is old."

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard II

Sewing and Embroidery

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

By the window nearest to the door stood a straw chair, whose legs were raised on castors to lift its occupant, Madame Grandet, to a height from which she could see the passers-by. A work-table of stained cherry-wood filled up the embrasure, and the little armchair of Eugenie Grandet stood beside it. In this spot the lives had flowed peacefully onward for fifteen years, in a round of constant work from the month of April to the month of November. On the first day of the latter month they took their winter station by the chimney.

(...) Mother and daughter took charge of the family linen, and spent their days so conscientiously upon a labor properly that of working-women, that if Eugenie wished to embroider a collar for her mother she was forced to take the time from sleep, and deceive her father to obtain the necessary light. For a long time the miser had given out the tallow candle to his daughter and la Grande Nanon just as he gave out every morning the bread and other necessaries for the daily consumption.

(...) In short,—if it is possible to sum up the effect this elegant being produced upon an ignorant young girl perpetually employed in darning stockings or in mending her father’s clothes.

(...) "and your cousin (...) who will spend her life in darning towels.”

(...) Her treasuries were not the millions whose revenues were rolling up; they were Charles’s dressing-case, the portraits hanging above her bed, the jewels recovered from her father and proudly spread upon a bed of wool in a drawer of the oaken cabinet, the thimble of her aunt, used for a while by her mother, which she wore religiously as she worked at a piece of embroidery,—a Penelope’s web, begun for the sole purpose of putting upon her finger that gold so rich in memories.

—Eugénie Grandet

* * *

Sansa's needlework was exquisite. Everyone said so. "Sansa's work is as pretty as she is," Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. "She has such fine, delicate hands."

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

Underestimated

"We will try to relieve the monotony of your visit here. If you stay all the time with Monsieur Grandet, good heavens! what will become of you? Your uncle is a sordid miser who thinks of nothing but his vines; your aunt is a pious soul who can’t put two ideas together; and your cousin is a little fool, without education, perfectly common, no fortune, who will spend her life in darning towels.”

(...) “Not at all, monsieur l’abbe. This young man cannot fail to see that Eugenie is a little fool,—a girl without the least freshness. Did you notice her to-night? She was as yellow as a quince.”

—Eugénie Grandet

* * *

"I … I had not thought, my lord." "Your Grace," he said sharply. "You truly are a stupid girl, aren't you? My mother says so."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

The king studied her a moment. "Perhaps you're not so stupid as Mother says." He raised his voice. "Did you hear my lady, Dontos? From this day on, you're my new fool. You can sleep with Moon Boy and dress in motley."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

. . . ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you . . .

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II

Sansa reddened. Any fool would have realized that no woman would be happy about being called "the Queen of Thorns." Maybe I truly am as stupid as Cersei Lannister says.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

The woman that calls Eugénie a "little fool" is Madame des Grassins, who despite underestimating Mademoiselle Grandet, wants her to marry her son Adolphe.

In a similar way, Cersei Lannister underestimates Sansa, believing her unworthy of her beloved son Joffrey.

Romantics

They were able to examine Charles at their leisure without fearing to displease the master of the house. Grandet was absorbed in the long letter which he held in his hand; and to read it he had taken the only candle upon the card-table, paying no heed to his guests or their pleasure. Eugenie, to whom such a type of perfection, whether of dress or of person, was absolutely unknown, thought she beheld in her cousin a being descended from seraphic spheres. She inhaled with delight the fragrance wafted from the graceful curls of that brilliant head. She would have liked to touch the soft kid of the delicate gloves. She envied Charles his small hands, his complexion, the freshness and refinement of his features. In short,—if it is possible to sum up the effect this elegant being produced upon an ignorant young girl perpetually employed in darning stockings or in mending her father’s clothes, and whose life flowed on beneath these unclean rafters, seeing none but occasional passers along the silent street,—this vision of her cousin roused in her soul an emotion of delicate desire like that inspired in a young man by the fanciful pictures of women drawn by Westall for the English “Keepsakes,” and that engraved by the Findens with so clever a tool that we fear, as we breathe upon the paper, that the celestial apparitions may be wafted away. Charles drew from his pocket a handkerchief embroidered by the great lady now travelling in Scotland. As Eugenie saw this pretty piece of work, done in the vacant hours which were lost to love, she looked at her cousin to see if it were possible that he meant to make use of it. The manners of the young man, his gestures, the way in which he took up his eye-glass, his affected superciliousness, his contemptuous glance at the coffer which had just given so much pleasure to the rich heiress, and which he evidently regarded as without value, or even as ridiculous,—all these things, which shocked the Cruchots and the des Grassins, pleased Eugenie so deeply that before she slept she dreamed long dreams of her phoenix cousin.

(...) In the pure and monotonous life of young girls there comes a delicious hour when the sun sheds its rays into their soul, when the flowers express their thoughts, when the throbbings of the heart send upward to the brain their fertilizing warmth and melt all thoughts into a vague desire,—day of innocent melancholy and of dulcet joys! When babes begin to see, they smile; when a young girl first perceives the sentiment of nature, she smiles as she smiled when an infant. If light is the first love of life, is not love a light to the heart? The moment to see within the veil of earthly things had come for Eugenie. —Eugénie Grandet * * * All she wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way they were in the songs.

(...) It was a great honor to ride with the queen, and besides, Prince Joffrey might be there. Her betrothed. Just thinking it made her feel a strange fluttering inside, even though they were not to marry for years and years. Sansa did not really know Joffrey yet, but she was already in love with him. He was all she ever dreamt her prince should be, tall and handsome and strong, with hair like gold. She treasured every chance to spend time with him, few as they were.

(...) He took her by the arm and led her away from the wheelhouse, and Sansa's spirits took flight. A whole day with her prince! She gazed at Joffrey worshipfully. He was so gallant, she thought. The way he had rescued her from Ser Ilyn and the Hound, why, it was almost like the songs, like the time Serwyn of the Mirror Shield saved the Princess Daeryssa from the giants, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight championing Queen Naerys's honor against evil Ser Morgil's slanders.

The touch of Joffrey's hand on her sleeve made her heart beat faster. "

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games. The splendor of it all took Sansa's breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind … and the knights themselves, the knights most of all. "It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

She loved King’s Landing; the pagaentry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. The tournament had been the most magical time of her whole life, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows. She could not bear the thought of losing it all.

[…] They were going to take it all away; the tournaments and the court and her prince, everything, they were going to send her back to the bleak grey walls of Winterfell and lock her up forever. Her life was over before it had begun.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

Eugénie and her deep infatuation with her Parisian cousin Charles Grandet, reminds me a lot of Marianne Dashwood and John Willoughby from Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility.

Charles was a prince in Eugénie's eyes, with all his dandy manners and Parisian refinement. Charles was the South and the pretty songs for Eugénie, the same way Prince Joffrey and even Ser Loras were the South and the pretty songs for Sansa.

Dressing well as a weapon

An early riser, like all provincial girls, she was up betimes and said her prayers, and then began the business of dressing,—a business which henceforth was to have a meaning. First she brushed and smoothed her chestnut hair and twisted its heavy masses to the top of her head with the utmost care, preventing the loose tresses from straying, and giving to her head a symmetry which heightened the timid candor of her face; for the simplicity of these accessories accorded well with the innocent sincerity of its lines. As she washed her hands again and again in the cold water which hardened and reddened the skin, she looked at her handsome round arms and asked herself what her cousin did to make his hands so softly white, his nails so delicately curved. She put on new stockings and her prettiest shoes. She laced her corset straight, without skipping a single eyelet. And then, wishing for the first time in her life to appear to advantage, she felt the joy of having a new gown, well made, which rendered her attractive. —Eugénie Grandet * * * "Do remind her to dress nicely today. The grey velvet, perhaps. We are all invited to ride with the queen and Princess Myrcella in the royal wheelhouse, and we must look our best." Sansa already looked her best. She had brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone, and picked her nicest blue silks. —A Game of Thrones - Sansa I Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. —A Game of Thrones - Sansa II "I will need hot water for my bath, please," she told them, "and perfume, and some powder to hide this bruise." The right side of her face was swollen and beginning to ache, but she knew Joffrey would want her to be beautiful. —A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI Knowing that Joffrey would require her to attend the tourney in his honor, Sansa had taken special care with her face and clothes. She wore a gown of pale purple silk and a moonstone hair net that had been a gift from Joffrey. The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey's gifts as well. —A Clash of Kings - Sansa I I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he's always liked me in this gown, this color. She smoothed the cloth down. The fabric was tight across her chest. —A Clash of Kings - Sansa III

Here, while Eugénie uses the business of dressing to try to impress and gain the affections of her cousin Charles, Sansa uses the same resource as a shield against Joffrey's ill temper and to cover the bruises left on her skin by Joffrey's ill temper.

Complimenting someone's name

“Is anything the matter, my cousin?” he said. “Hush!” said Madame Grandet to Eugenie, who was about to answer; “you know, my daughter, that your father charged us not to speak to monsieur—” “Say Charles,” said young Grandet. “Ah! you are called Charles? What a beautiful name!” cried Eugenie. —Eugénie Grandet * * * "I don't even know your name." "Gilly, he called me. For the gillyflower." "That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl, but perhaps the courtesy would please her. "Is it Craster who frightens you, Gilly?" —A Clash of Kings - Jon III "I . . . I could call myself after my mother . . ." "Catelyn? A bit too obvious . . . but after my mother, that would serve. Alayne. Do you like it?" "Alayne is pretty." Sansa hoped she would remember. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

Kissing Cousins

“My dear cousin—” “Hush, hush! my cousin, not so loud; we must not wake others. See,” she said, opening her purse, “here are the savings of a poor girl who wants nothing. Charles, accept them! This morning I was ignorant of the value of money; you have taught it to me. It is but a means, after all. A cousin is almost a brother; you can surely borrow the purse of your sister.” —Eugénie Grandet

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

When the two lovers were alone in the garden, Charles said to Eugenie, drawing her down on the old bench beneath the walnut-tree,— “I did right to trust Alphonse; he has done famously. He has managed my affairs with prudence and good faith. I now owe nothing in Paris. All my things have been sold; and he tells me that he has taken the advice of an old sea-captain and spent three thousand francs on a commercial outfit of European curiosities which will be sure to be in demand in the Indies. He has sent my trunks to Nantes, where a ship is loading for San Domingo. In five days, Eugenie, we must bid each other farewell—perhaps forever, at least for years. My outfit and ten thousand francs, which two of my friends send me, are a very small beginning. I cannot look to return for many years. My dear cousin, do not weight your life in the scales with mine; I may perish; some good marriage may be offered to you—” “Do you love me?” she said. “Oh, yes! indeed, yes!” he answered, with a depth of tone that revealed an equal depth of feeling. “I shall wait, Charles—Good heavens! there is my father at his window,” she said, repulsing her cousin, who leaned forward to kiss her. She ran quickly under the archway. Charles followed her. When she saw him, she retreated to the foot of the staircase and opened the swing-door; then, scarcely knowing where she was going, Eugenie reached the corner near Nanon’s den, in the darkest end of the passage. There Charles caught her hand and drew her to his heart. Passing his arm about her waist, he made her lean gently upon him. Eugenie no longer resisted; she received and gave the purest, the sweetest, and yet, withal, the most unreserved of kisses. “Dear Eugenie, a cousin is better than a brother, for he can marry you,” said Charles.

(...) After the kiss taken in the passage, the hours fled for Eugenie with frightful rapidity. Sometimes she thought of following her cousin. Those who have known that most endearing of all passions,—the one whose duration is each day shortened by time, by age, by mortal illness, by human chances and fatalities,—they will understand the poor girl’s tortures. She wept as she walked in the garden, now so narrow to her, as indeed the court, the house, the town all seemed. She launched in thought upon the wide expanse of the ocean he was about to traverse. At last the eve of his departure came. That morning, in the absence of Grandet and of Nanon, the precious case which contained the two portraits was solemnly installed in the only drawer of the old cabinet which could be locked, where the now empty velvet purse was lying. This deposit was not made without a goodly number of tears and kisses. When Eugenie placed the key within her bosom she had no courage to forbid the kiss with which Charles sealed the act.

“It shall never leave that place, my friend,” she said.

“Then my heart will be always there.”

“Ah! Charles, it is not right,” she said, as though she blamed him.

“Are we not married?” he said. “I have thy promise,—then take mine.”

“Thine; I am thine forever!” they each said, repeating the words twice over.

No promise made upon this earth was ever purer. The innocent sincerity of Eugenie had sanctified for a moment the young man’s love.

—Eugénie Grandet * * * How would you like to marry your cousin, the Lord Robert?" —A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI Before she could summon the servants, however, Sweetrobin threw his skinny arms around her and kissed her. It was a little boy's kiss, and clumsy. Everything Robert Arryn did was clumsy. If I close my eyes I can pretend he is the Knight of Flowers. Ser Loras had given Sansa Stark a red rose once, but he had never kissed her . . . and no Tyrell would ever kiss Alayne Stone. Pretty as she was, she had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. —A Feast for Crows - Alayne II "I don't want you to marry him, Alayne. I am the Lord of the Eyrie, and I forbid it." He sounded as if he were about to cry. "You should marry me instead. We could sleep in the same bed every night, and you could read me stories." (...) She put a finger to his lips. "I know what you want, but it cannot be. I am no fit wife for you. I am bastard born." "I don't care. I love you best of anyone. " (...) "You must have a proper wife, a trueborn maid of noble birth." "No. I want to marry you, Alayne." Once your lady mother intended that very thing, but I was trueborn then, and noble. (...) "The Lord of the Eyrie can do as he likes. Can't I still love you, even if I have to marry her? —The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

Eugénie and her cousin Charles's brief romance is nothing like any of Sansa's experiences with suitors, but it reminds me a bit of Sansa and her little cousin Robert Arryn interactions.

Despite looking at his provincial relatives with disdain at first, after knowing about the financial disgrace and death of his father, Charles gets use to the humble and monotonous life of Saumur and especially gets fond of Eugénie's kindness and generosity.

In a similar way, despite the violent events from Sansa's snow castle chapter in A Storm of Swords, after the the death of his mother Lysa, Sweetrobin clings to Sansa/Alayne as a mother figure and later love interest.

Charles is nothing like Sweetrobin though, he is more similar to men like Harrold Hardyng and John Willoughby from Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility.

At the end, similar to John Willoughby's actions, Charles Grandet chooses to marry a girl he doesn't love to re-gain his high status in Parisian society and a nobility title, unbeknownst that Eugénie had become extremely rich, richer than him and his new bride combined.

Harrold Hardyng is not Sansa's cousin but Robert Arryn's cousin and heir. Harry consented the betrothal to Alayne only to gain the political support from Petyr Baelish.

And while cousin Charles's kisses mean love's kisses to Eugénie, cousin Robert's unrequited kisses remind Sansa of another forced and unrequited kisses from the past that left only trauma and fear in her.

But despite all her awful experiences from unworthy suitors, Sansa still longs to know kisses of love, and she associates those with Snow and she happens to has a cousin named Snow. More about this later.

You will know it some day / You may learn that one day

It was a death worthy of her life,—a Christian death; and is not that sublime? In the month of October, 1822, her virtues, her angelic patience, her love for her daughter, seemed to find special expression; and then she passed away without a murmur. Lamb without spot, she went to heaven, regretting only the sweet companion of her cold and dreary life, for whom her last glance seemed to prophesy a destiny of sorrows. She shrank from leaving her ewe-lamb, white as herself, alone in the midst of a selfish world that sought to strip her of her fleece and grasp her treasures. “My child,” she said as she expired, “there is no happiness except in heaven; you will know it some day.” (...) Terrible and utter disaster! The ship went down, leaving not a spar, not a plank, on a vast ocean of hope! Some women when they see themselves abandoned will try to tear their lover from the arms of a rival, they will kill her, and rush to the ends of the earth,—to the scaffold, to their tomb. That, no doubt, is fine; the motive of the crime is a great passion, which awes even human justice. Other women bow their heads and suffer in silence; they go their way dying, resigned, weeping, forgiving, praying, and recollecting, till they draw their last breath. This is love,—true love, the love of angels, the proud love which lives upon its anguish and dies of it. Such was Eugenie’s love after she had read that dreadful letter. She raised her eyes to heaven, thinking of the last words uttered by her dying mother, who, with the prescience of death, had looked into the future with clear and penetrating eyes: Eugenie, remembering that prophetic death, that prophetic life, measured with one glance her own destiny. Nothing was left for her; she could only unfold her wings, stretch upward to the skies, and live in prayer until the day of her deliverance. “My mother was right,” she said, weeping. “Suffer—and die!” —Eugénie Grandet * * * "Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow." —A Game of Thrones - Sansa III "Life is not a song, sweetling," he'd told her. "You may learn that one day to your sorrow." —A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI The moment came back to her vividly. "You told me that life was not a song. That I would learn that one day, to my sorrow." —A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

This is a parallel but also a contrast between Eugénie and Sansa.

Eugénie's mother wasn't happy with her husband. Monsieur Felix Grandet was an awful husband and father. His only love was gold. That's why at her hour of death, Madame Grandet envisions a destiny of sorrows for her daughter, knowing well that not only the Cruchots and des Grassins coveted Eugénie's inheritance, but it was her own father, Monsieur Grandet, the most dangerous threat to Eugénie's welfare.

On the other hand, Catelyn Stark, Sansa's mother, was very happy with Eddard Stark. Ned was a good husband but a terrible father. Being aware of her good luck in her marriage, Catelyn said this to his firstborn son Robb: "We're all just songs in the end. If we are lucky." —A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V.

Catelyn's words of hope to her son contrast to Petyr Baelish's words of sorrow to Sansa, not only because the bad omen, but because he is an active player in the sorrows that await Sansa and her family.

Strained relationship with their fathers

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

On the morrow Grandet, in pursuance of a custom he had begun since Eugenie’s imprisonment, took a certain number of turns up and down the little garden; he had chosen the hour when Eugenie brushed and arranged her hair. When the old man reached the walnut-tree he hid behind its trunk and remained for a few moments watching his daughter’s movements, hesitating, perhaps, between the course to which the obstinacy of his character impelled him and his natural desire to embrace his child. Sometimes he sat down on the rotten old bench where Charles and Eugenie had vowed eternal love; and then she, too, looked at her father secretly in the mirror before which she stood. If he rose and continued his walk, she sat down obligingly at the window and looked at the angle of the wall where the pale flowers hung, where the Venus-hair grew from the crevices with the bindweed and the sedum,—a white or yellow stone-crop very abundant in the vineyards of Saumur and at Tours. Maitre Cruchot came early, and found the old wine-grower sitting in the fine June weather on the little bench, his back against the division wall of the garden, engaged in watching his daughter. —Eugénie Grandet * * *

He had only to look at Sansa's face to feel the rage twisting inside him once again. The last fortnight of their journey had been a misery. Sansa blamed Arya and told her that it should have been Nymeria who died. And Arya was lost after she heard what had happened to her butcher's boy. Sansa cried herself to sleep, Arya brooded silently all day long, and Eddard Stark dreamed of a frozen hell reserved for the Starks of Winterfell.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard IV

Monsieur Felix Grandet and Lord Eddard Stark were awful fathers to Eugénie and Sansa. They both used their daughters for their own business but they never tried to understand the girls. They both could only watch them from apart not knowing how to approach them.

The severity of Père Grandet and Lord father Stark towards their daughters made Eugénie and Sansa defy them for the first time when they fell in love with Charles and Joffrey.

Ned was not the awful person that Monsieur Grandet was, though. Despite all his flaws as Sansa's father, he gave his own life in order to save Sansa from the same fate.

Melancholic Beauty

When his daughter came down the winding street, accompanied by Nanon, on her way to Mass or Vespers, the inhabitants ran to the windows and examined with intense curiosity the bearing of the rich heiress and her countenance, which bore the impress of angelic gentleness and melancholy. (...) “Mademoiselle, the best way to stop such rumors is to procure your liberty,” answered the old notary respectfully, struck with the beauty which seclusion, melancholy, and love had stamped upon her face. —Eugénie Grandet * * * Their litter had been sitting in the sun, and it was very warm inside the curtains. As they lurched into motion, Tyrion reclined on an elbow while Sansa sat staring at her hands. She is just as comely as the Tyrell girl. Her hair was a rich autumn auburn, her eyes a deep Tully blue. Grief had given her a haunted, vulnerable look; if anything, it had only made her more beautiful. —A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

Although it is a bit morbid to find beauty in someone's grief and misery, this image of our heroines being graceful while in disgrace got my attention.

This regard of Eugénie and Sansa comes from two men that wanted to reach them and gain their favor. Monsieur Cruchot, the notary, wanted Eugénie to marry his nephew, President Cruchot de Bonfons, while Tyrion Lannister, already married to Sansa, wishes to get her affections despite their forced marriage.

This is the point of view of two men that wanted to play the hero of a damsel in distress, but they are not the heroes that those fair maids wished for.

Love's kisses / Lover's kisses

Her imprisonment and the condemnation of her father were as nothing to her. Had she not a map of the world, the little bench, the garden, the angle of the wall? Did she not taste upon her lips the honey that love’s kisses left there? She was ignorant for a time that the town talked about her, just as Grandet himself was ignorant of it. Pious and pure in heart before God, her conscience and her love helped her to suffer patiently the wrath and vengeance of her father. —Eugénie Grandet A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here. Yet she stepped out all the same. Her boots tore ankle-deep holes into the smooth white surface of the snow, yet made no sound. Sansa drifted past frosted shrubs and thin dark trees, and wondered if she were still dreaming. Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

While Eugénie's love to Charles gives her strength and dignify her in her tribulations, Sansa, in front of a beautiful winter scenery, feels soiled by her southern experiences. She feels that she doesn't belong in that pure, innocent world, as white as Snow.

Yet Sansa, defying her supposed maculated fate, embraces the beauty of the falling Snow that reminds her of home, and compared the sensation of the snowflakes brushing her face to lover's kisses.

The calling of the Snow at dawn was too powerful for Sansa to resist it. It was like the Snow telling her, you are wrong, you belong with me, let me kiss you to prove it.

"Jon Snow?" she blurted out, surprised.

"Snow? Yes, it would be Snow, I suppose."

She had not thought of Jon in ages. He was only her half brother, but still . . . with Robb and Bran and Rickon dead, Jon Snow was the only brother that remained to her. I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again. But of course that could never be. Alayne Stone had no brothers, baseborn or otherwise.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

No one will ever marry me for love

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

Only six individuals had a right of entrance to Monsieur Grandet’s house. The most important of the first three was a nephew of Monsieur Cruchot. Since his appointment as president of the Civil courts of Saumur this young man had added the name of Bonfons to that of Cruchot. He now signed himself C. de Bonfons. Any litigant so ill-advised as to call him Monsieur Cruchot would soon be made to feel his folly in court. The magistrate protected those who called him Monsieur le president, but he favored with gracious smiles those who addressed him as Monsieur de Bonfons. Monsieur le president was thirty-three years old, and possessed the estate of Bonfons (Boni Fontis), worth seven thousand francs a year; he expected to inherit the property of his uncle the notary and that of another uncle, the Abbe Cruchot, a dignitary of the chapter of Saint-Martin de Tours, both of whom were thought to be very rich. These three Cruchots, backed by a goodly number of cousins, and allied to twenty families in the town, formed a party, like the Medici in Florence; like the Medici, the Cruchots had their Pazzi.

Madame des Grassins, mother of a son twenty-three years of age, came assiduously to play cards with Madame Grandet, hoping to marry her dear Adolphe to Mademoiselle Eugenie. Monsieur des Grassins, the banker, vigorously promoted the schemes of his wife by means of secret services constantly rendered to the old miser, and always arrived in time upon the field of battle. The three des Grassins likewise had their adherents, their cousins, their faithful allies. On the Cruchot side the abbe, the Talleyrand of the family, well backed-up by his brother the notary, sharply contested every inch of ground with his female adversary, and tried to obtain the rich heiress for his nephew the president.

This secret warfare between the Cruchots and des Grassins, the prize thereof being the hand in marriage of Eugenie Grandet, kept the various social circles of Saumur in violent agitation. Would Mademoiselle Grandet marry Monsieur le president or Monsieur Adolphe des Grassins?

(...) “If I had a man for myself I’d—I’d follow him to hell, yes, I’d exterminate myself for him; but I’ve none. I shall die and never know what life is. Would you believe, mamz’elle, that old Cornoiller (a good fellow all the same) is always round my petticoats for the sake of my money,—just for all the world like the rats who come smelling after the master’s cheese and paying court to you? I see it all; I’ve got a shrewd eye, though I am as big as a steeple. Well, mamz’elle, it pleases me, but it isn’t love.”

(...) She (Eugénie's mother) shrank from leaving her ewe-lamb, white as herself, alone in the midst of a selfish world that sought to strip her of her fleece and grasp her treasures.

(...) (Eugénie) Madame de Bonfons (sometimes ironically spoken of as mademoiselle) inspires for the most part reverential respect: and yet that noble heart, beating only with tenderest emotions, has been, from first to last, subjected to the calculations of human selfishness; money has cast its frigid influence upon that hallowed life and taught distrust of feelings to a woman who is all feeling.

—Eugénie Grandet

* * *

“If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done.”

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

A pity Ned Stark had taken his daughters south; elsewise Theon could have tightened his grip on Winterfell by marrying one of them. Sansa was a pretty little thing too, and by now likely even ripe for bedding. But she was a thousand leagues away, in the clutches of the Lannisters. A shame.

—A Clash of Kings - Theon IV

It came to her suddenly that she had stood in this very spot before, on the day Lord Eddard Stark had lost his head. That was not supposed to happen. Joff was supposed to spare his life and send him to the Wall. Stark’s eldest son would have followed him as Lord of Winterfell, but Sansa would have stayed at court, a hostage. Varys and Littlefinger had worked out the terms, and Ned Stark had swallowed his precious honor and confessed his treason to save his daughter’s empty little head. I would have made Sansa a good marriage. A Lannister marriage. Not Joff, of course, but Lancel might have suited, or one of his younger brothers. Petyr Baelish had offered to wed the girl himself, she recalled, but of course that was impossible; he was much too lowborn. If Joff had only done as he was told, Winterfell would never have gone to war, and Father would have dealt with Robert’s brothers.

—A Dance with Dragons - Cersei II

“I will be safe in Highgarden. Willas will keep me safe.” “But he does not know you,” Dontos insisted, “and he will not love you. Jonquil, Jonquil, open your sweet eyes, these Tyrells care nothing for you. It’s your claim they mean to wed.” “My claim?” She was lost for a moment. “Sweetling,” he told her, “you are heir to Winterfell.”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II

“Yes. You are a ward of the crown. The king stands in your father’s place, since your brother is an attainted traitor. That means he has every right to dispose of your hand. You are to marry my brother Tyrion.”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

“The girl’s happiness is not my purpose, nor should it be yours. Our alliances in the south may be as solid as Casterly Rock, but there remains the north to win, and the key to the north is Sansa Stark.” […] “She must marry a Lannister, and soon.” “The man who weds Sansa Stark can claim Winterfell in her name,” his uncle Kevan put in.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion III

“How would you like to marry your cousin, the Lord Robert?” The thought made Sansa weary. All she knew of Robert Arryn was that he was a little boy, and sickly. It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love. But lying came easy to her now. “I … can scarcely wait to meet him, my lady. But he is still a child, is he not?”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

As you can see, Monsieur Grandet's banker des Grassins wished Eugénie to marry his son Adolphe, while his lawyer Monsieur Cruchot wished Eugénie to marry his nephew President Cruchot de Bonfons. Both, the Cruchots and des Grassins, coveted Eugénie's inheritance.

In a similar way, the Lannisters, the Tyrells, Theon Greyjoy, Petyr Baelish, Harrold Hardyng, and even Lysa Tully in the name of his son Robert Arryn, coveted Sansa's claim to the North and Winterfell, with all the lands, money, armies and political power that come with the name Stark.

So, when I read these lines, 188 years after Balzac wrote them:

(...) and yet that noble heart, beating only with tenderest emotions, has been, from first to last, subjected to the calculations of human selfishness; money has cast its frigid influence upon that hallowed life and taught distrust of feelings to a woman who is all feeling.

I couldn't help but think about Sansa Stark and one of the saddest quotes from the ASOIAF series:

It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love.

Walnut Tree / Heart Tree

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

When the two lovers were alone in the garden, Charles said to Eugenie, drawing her down on the old bench beneath the walnut-tree,— (...) I cannot look to return for many years. My dear cousin, do not weight your life in the scales with mine; I may perish; some good marriage may be offered to you—”

“Do you love me?” she said.

“Oh, yes! indeed, yes!” he answered, with a depth of tone that revealed an equal depth of feeling.

“I shall wait, Charles—Good heavens! there is my father at his window,” she said, repulsing her cousin, who leaned forward to kiss her.

(...) When Eugenie placed the key within her bosom she had no courage to forbid the kiss with which Charles sealed the act.

“It shall never leave that place, my friend,” she said.

“Then my heart will be always there.”

“Ah! Charles, it is not right,” she said, as though she blamed him.

“Are we not married?” he said. “I have thy promise,—then take mine.”

“Thine; I am thine forever!” they each said, repeating the words twice over.

(...) In the mornings she sat pensive beneath the walnut-tree, on the worm-eaten bench covered with gray lichens, where they had said to each other so many precious things, so many trifles, where they had built the pretty castles of their future home. She thought of the future now as she looked upward to the bit of sky which was all the high walls suffered her to see; then she turned her eyes to the angle where the sun crept on, and to the roof above the room in which he had slept. Hers was the solitary love, the persistent love, which glides into every thought and becomes the substance, or, as our fathers might have said, the tissue of life.

(...) Sometimes he sat down on the rotten old bench where Charles and Eugenie had vowed eternal love; and then she, too, looked at her father secretly in the mirror before which she stood.

(...) At the beginning of August in the same year, Eugenie was sitting on the little wooden bench where her cousin had sworn to love her eternally, and where she usually breakfasted if the weather were fine. The poor girl was happy, for the moment, in the fresh and joyous summer air, letting her memory recall the great and the little events of her love and the catastrophes which had followed it.

—Eugénie Grandet

As you can see, Eugénie's walnut tree is the heart of her house in Saumur. In the old wooden bench beneath that immense tree, the cousin lovers Eugénie and Charles Grandet exchanged vows of eternal love. As Charles said later, beneath that walnut tree they got married.

Eugénie sat in that same wooden bench for years, remembering and waiting for her lover. Charles, on the other hand, forget his promises of eternal love, broke those vows and married another woman.

In a similar way, the weirwood trees are called heart trees, the weirwood from Winterfell's godswood is called the Heart of Winterfell, and godswoods are a sacred places for praying and meditation, under the weirwood tress lovers kiss and make promises, and heroes vows to protect the realms of men:

At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. “The heart tree,” Ned called it.  The weirwood’s bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. They were old, those eyes; older than Winterfell itself. They had seen Brandon the Builder set the first stone, if the tales were true; they had watched the castle’s granite walls rise around them. It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn centuries before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I

The sun was sinking below the trees when they reached their destination, a small clearing in the deep of the wood where nine weirwoods grew in a rough circle. Jon drew in a breath, and he saw Sam Tarly staring. Even in the wolfswood, you never found more than two or three of the white trees growing together; a grove of nine was unheard of. The forest floor was carpeted with fallen leaves, bloodred on top, black rot beneath. The wide smooth trunks were bone pale, and nine faces stared inward. The dried sap that crusted in the eyes was red and hard as ruby. Bowen Marsh commanded them to leave their horses outside the circle. "This is a sacred place, we will not defile it."

When they entered the grove, Samwell Tarly turned slowly looking at each face in turn. No two were quite alike. "They're watching us," he whispered. "The old gods."

"Yes." Jon knelt, and Sam knelt beside him.

They said the words together, as the last light faded in the west and grey day became black night.

"Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow," they recited, their voices filling the twilit grove. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

The woods fell silent. "You knelt as boys," Bowen Marsh intoned solemnly. "Rise now as men of the Night's Watch."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon VI

Robb bid farewell to his young queen thrice. Once in the godswood before the heart tree, in sight of gods and men. The second time beneath the portcullis, where Jeyne sent him forth with a long embrace and a longer kiss. And finally an hour beyond the Tumblestone, when the girl came galloping up on a well-lathered horse to plead with her young king to take her along.

—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V

In contrast to Eugénie, who fervently clung to her walnut tree that became the symbol of her vows of eternal love to Charles, since Sansa left Winterfell, she only found godswoods without a weirwood tree:

The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned’s cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon’s breath surrounded the girls where they lay. “I dreamed of Bran,” Sansa had whispered to him. “I saw him smiling.”

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard V

She awoke all at once, every nerve atingle. For a moment she did not remember where she was. She had dreamt that she was little, still sharing a bedchamber with her sister Arya. But it was her maid she heard tossing in sleep, not her sister, and this was not Winterfell, but the Eyrie. And I am Alayne Stone, a bastard girl. The room was cold and black, though she was warm beneath the blankets. Dawn had not yet come. Sometimes she dreamed of Ser Ilyn Payne and woke with her heart thumping, but this dream had not been like that. Home. It was a dream of home. The Eyrie was no home. […] When Sansa opened her eyes again, she was on her knees. She did not remember falling. It seemed to her that the sky was a lighter shade of grey. Dawn, she thought. Another day. Another new day. It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for. But who could she pray to? The garden had been meant for a godswood once, she knew, but the soil was too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root. A godswood without gods, as empty as me.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

Even the gods were silent. The Eyrie boasted a sept, but no septon; a godswood, but no heart tree. No prayers are answered here, she often thought, though some days she felt so lonely she had to try. Only the wind answered her, sighing endlessly around the seven slim white towers and rattling the Moon Door every time it gusted. It will be even worse in winter, she knew. In winter this will be a cold white prison.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

But despite the absence of a weirwood tree, those empty godswoods became a metaphor of Sansa herself, lost in the south and longing to come back home:

A godswood without gods, as empty as me.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

But Sansa Stark has started her journey back home, she is going back North to take back her heart:

But when Brienne asked about Sansa, she said, “I’ll tell you what I told Lord Tywin. That girl was always praying. She’d go to sept and light her candles like a proper lady, but near every night she went off to the godswood. She’s gone back north, she has. That’s where her gods are.”

—A Feast for Crows - Brienne II

A veil of courtesy / Courtesy is a lady's armor

She appeared in the evening at the hour when the usual company began to arrive. Never was the old hall so full as on this occasion. The news of Charles’s return and his foolish treachery had spread through the whole town. But however watchful the curiosity of the visitors might be, it was left unsatisfied. Eugenie, who expected scrutiny, allowed none of the cruel emotions that wrung her soul to appear on the calm surface of her face. She was able to show a smiling front in answer to all who tried to testify their interest by mournful looks or melancholy speeches. She hid her misery behind a veil of courtesy.

—Eugénie Grandet

What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady's armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, "I'm sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

Courtesy is a lady's armor. You must not offend them, be careful what you say.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

"Courtesy is a lady's armor," Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

A lady's armor is her courtesy. Alayne could feel the blood rushing to her face. No tears, she prayed. Please, please, I must not cry.

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

Agency, richness, power... And loneliness

At the end, life gives Eugénie her revenge, especially against the people that always coveted her vast wealth.

Eugénie was at last free, independent, rich and powerful, but she was very lonely. Her only comfort was the company and loyalty of la Grand Nanon:

Eugenie Grandet was now alone in the world in that gray house, with none but Nanon to whom she could turn with the certainty of being heard and understood,—Nanon the sole being who loved her for herself and with whom she could speak of her sorrows. La Grande Nanon was a providence for Eugenie. She was not a servant, but a humble friend.

—Eugénie Grandet

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

La Grand Nanon was often compared to a loyal dog and she was in charge of the wolf-dog that protected the old Grandet House in Saumur.

Nanon did everything. She cooked, she made the lye, she washed the linen in the Loire and brought it home on her shoulders; she got up early, she went to bed late; she prepared the food of the vine-dressers during the harvest, kept watch upon the market-people, protected the property of her master like a faithful dog, and even, full of blind confidence, obeyed without a murmur his most absurd exactions.

(...) Like a watch-dog, she slept with one ear open, and took her rest with a mind alert.

(...) Nanon went to bolt the outer door; then she closed the hall and let loose a wolf-dog, whose bark was so strangled that he seemed to have laryngitis. This animal, noted for his ferocity, recognized no one but Nanon; the two untutored children of the fields understood each other.

—Eugénie Grandet

La Grand Nanon and the wolf-dog remind me of the Stark children's direwolves, of course. Loyal companions and protectors until the very end.

After the deaths of Monsieur et Madame Grandet, only Nanon remains to Eugénie. Then, thanks to the new financial independence of Mademoiselle Grandet, La Grand Nanon became rich as well, and she even got married to her old suitor Antoine Cornoiller.

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

The day on which Maitre Cruchot handed in to his client a clear and exact schedule of the whole inheritance, Eugenie remained alone with Nanon, sitting beside the fireplace in the vacant hall, where all was now a memory, from the chair on castors which her mother had sat in, to the glass from which her cousin drank. “Nanon, we are alone—” “Yes, mademoiselle; and if I knew where he was, the darling, I’d go on foot to find him.” “The ocean is between us,” she said. While the poor heiress wept in company of an old servant, in that cold dark house, which was to her the universe, the whole province rang, from Nantes to Orleans, with the seventeen millions of Mademoiselle Grandet. Among her first acts she had settled an annuity of twelve hundred francs on Nanon, who, already possessed of six hundred more, became a rich and enviable match. In less than a month that good soul passed from single to wedded life under the protection of Antoine Cornoiller, who was appointed keeper of all Mademoiselle Grandet’s estates. Madame Cornoiller possessed one striking advantage over her contemporaries. Although she was fifty-nine years of age, she did not look more than forty. Her strong features had resisted the ravages of time. Thanks to the healthy customs of her semi-conventual life, she laughed at old age from the vantage-ground of a rosy skin and an iron constitution. Perhaps she never looked as well in her life as she did on her marriage-day. She had all the benefits of her ugliness, and was big and fat and strong, with a look of happiness on her indestructible features which made a good many people envy Cornoiller.

Eugénie became so rich that she was considered a Queen and the sovereign of her own court:

It seemed unlikely that Mademoiselle Grandet would marry during the period of her mourning. Her genuine piety was well known. Consequently the Cruchots, whose policy was sagely guided by the old abbe, contented themselves for the time being with surrounding the great heiress and paying her the most affectionate attentions. Every evening the hall was filled with a party of devoted Cruchotines, who sang the praises of its mistress in every key. She had her doctor in ordinary, her grand almoner, her chamberlain, her first lady of honor, her prime minister; above all, her chancellor, a chancellor who would fain have said much to her. If the heiress had wished for a train-bearer, one would instantly have been found. She was a queen, obsequiously flattered. Flattery never emanates from noble souls; it is the gift of little minds, who thus still further belittle themselves to worm their way into the vital being of the persons around whom they crawl. Flattery means self-interest. So the people who, night after night, assembled in Mademoiselle Grandet’s house (they called her Mademoiselle de Froidfond) outdid each other in expressions of admiration. This concert of praise, never before bestowed upon Eugenie, made her blush under its novelty; but insensibly her ear became habituated to the sound, and however coarse the compliments might be, she soon was so accustomed to hear her beauty lauded that if any new-comer had seemed to think her plain, she would have felt the reproach far more than she might have done eight years earlier. She ended at last by loving the incense, which she secretly laid at the feet of her idol. By degrees she grew accustomed to be treated as a sovereign and to see her court pressing around her every evening. Monsieur de Bonfons was the hero of the little circle, where his wit, his person, his education, his amiability, were perpetually praised. One or another would remark that in seven years he had largely increased his fortune, that Bonfons brought in at least ten thousand francs a year, and was surrounded, like the other possessions of the Cruchots, by the vast domains of the heiress.

Later, after knowing about Charles's betrayal, Eugénie chooses to marry President Cruchot de Bonfons under certain conditions. It was a sham marriage, only in name, but never consummated:

(...) “Monsieur le cure,” said Eugenie with a noble composure, inspired by the thought she was about to express, “would it be a sin to remain a virgin after marriage?” (...) “Monsieur le president,” said Eugenie in a voice of some emotion when they were left alone, “I know what pleases you in me. Swear to leave me free during my whole life, to claim none of the rights which marriage will give you over me, and my hand is yours. Oh!” she added, seeing him about to kneel at her feet, “I have more to say. I must not deceive you. In my heart I cherish one inextinguishable feeling. Friendship is the only sentiment which I can give to a husband. I wish neither to affront him nor to violate the laws of my own heart. —Eugénie Grandet

And even when President Cruchot de Bonfons was waiting to Eugénie's early death, he was the one that died and made his widow even richer by adding the Cruchot's fortune to the already vast Grandet's fortune:

Nevertheless, Monsieur de Bonfons (he had finally abolished his patronymic of Cruchot) did not realize any of his ambitious ideas. He died eight days after his election as deputy of Saumur. God, who sees all and never strikes amiss, punished him, no doubt, for his sordid calculations and the legal cleverness with which, accurante Cruchot, he had drawn up his marriage contract, in which husband and wife gave to each other, “in case they should have no children, their entire property of every kind, landed or otherwise, without exception or reservation, dispensing even with the formality of an inventory; provided that said omission of said inventory shall not injure their heirs and assigns, it being understood that this deed of gift is, etc., etc.” This clause of the contract will explain the profound respect which monsieur le president always testified for the wishes, and above all, for the solitude of Madame de Bonfons. (...) Endowed with the delicate perception which a solitary soul acquires through constant meditation, through the exquisite clear-sightedness with which a mind aloof from life fastens on all that falls within its sphere, Eugenie, taught by suffering and by her later education to divine thought, knew well that the president desired her death that he might step into possession of their immense fortune, augmented by the property of his uncle the notary and his uncle the abbe, whom it had lately pleased God to call to himself. The poor solitary pitied the president. Providence avenged her for the calculations and the indifference of a husband who respected the hopeless passion on which she spent her life because it was his surest safeguard. To give life to a child would give death to his hopes,—the hopes of selfishness, the joys of ambition, which the president cherished as he looked into the future. —Eugénie Grandet

But Eugénie's vast riches were an empty victory for her. The avarice of her father marked her life.

Due to the frugal life style imposed by Monsieur Grandet, Eugénie was never attached to money and gold like her father was:

In spite of her vast wealth, she lives as the poor Eugenie Grandet once lived. The fire is never lighted on her hearth until the day when her father allowed it to be lighted in the hall, and it is put out in conformity with the rules which governed her youthful years. She dresses as her mother dressed. The house in Saumur, without sun, without warmth, always in shadow, melancholy, is an image of her life. She carefully accumulates her income, and might seem parsimonious did she not disarm criticism by a noble employment of her wealth. Pious and charitable institutions, a hospital for old age, Christian schools for children, a public library richly endowed, bear testimony against the charge of avarice which some persons lay at her door. The churches of Saumur owe much of their embellishment to her. Madame de Bonfons (sometimes ironically spoken of as mademoiselle) inspires for the most part reverential respect: and yet that noble heart, beating only with tenderest emotions, has been, from first to last, subjected to the calculations of human selfishness; money has cast its frigid influence upon that hallowed life and taught distrust of feelings to a woman who is all feeling.

“I have none but you to love me,” she says to Nanon.

The hand of this woman stanches the secret wounds in many families. She goes on her way to heaven attended by a train of benefactions. The grandeur of her soul redeems the narrowness of her education and the petty habits of her early life.

Such is the history of Eugenie Grandet, who is in the world but not of it; who, created to be supremely a wife and mother, has neither husband nor children nor family.

—Eugénie Grandet

Eugénie was meant to be a wife and a mother, she wanted to love and be loved, but life only gave her sorrows and riches.

This sad ending reminds me a bit of Show Sansa's ending. She was a Queen of an independent Kingdom, but she didn't get any of her siblings with her at Winterfell.

But, unlike Eugénie that only knew the likes of Charles Grandet, the Cruchots and the des Grassins, and even if Sansa doesn't know it yet, there is someone who despite being offered Sansa's claim, had chosen her over Winterfell and the North and the name Stark:

“By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon I

Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV

Unlike Tyrion, Willas, Theon, Littlefinger or even little Robert, who pursued Sansa’s claim over her, Jon Snow chose Sansa over her claim. Among all the high lords interested in becoming the Lord of Winterfell by marrying Sansa Stark, the bastard Jon Snow refused to despoil his sister Sansa of her rights, even if her claim is the one thing he has wanted as much as he had ever wanted anything.

Jon Snow is not some fancy suitor from the South like Charles Grandet was to Eugénie, like John Willoughby was to Marianne Dashwood, like Joffrey, Loras and even Harry were/are for Sansa/Alayne. Jon Snow has Stark blood, he was raised by Ned Stark, he worships the old gods, and he knows very well that you can't make false promises in front of a weirwood tree:

Jon said, “My lord father believed no man could tell a lie in front of a heart tree. The old gods know when men are lying.”

—A Clash of Kings - Jon II

So, there is hope.

The end.

[This post is very personal and was written during somehow convulsed times. So, if you have come this far, thanks for reading.]

[ladykissingfish]

Under the Mistletoe with the Akatsuki // Part Nine // Pein (Nagato)

Leader. Never in a million years did Nagato Uzumaki believe he had it in him for be a leader, and especially not one of a group of S-ranked criminals like the ones that comprised his Akatsuki. But perhaps he really wasn’t; after all, save for Konan, none of them had even met him before. All they knew about him was Pein, the body that he animated and controlled through his chakra. Yet despite all he and his group have accomplished, the nagging feeling never leaves him ... that Yahiko would have done a much better job than Nagato. It’s one of the main reasons that Nagato fashioned his main Pein-body after his old friend; to try and infuse some of Yahiko’s wisdom and charisma into his own leadership style. One of the things Yahiko often stressed was the importance of having people around you that you could trust, and depend on. In short - friends. Aside from Konan, Nagato doesn’t truly consider anyone in this organization to be his ‘friend’ ... rather, he’s come to think of the group as a whole of being his family. And apparently families played games with each other, hence why he (as Pein) agrees to this mistletoe game now.

Kisame

“Good evening, Leader.” Kisame was by far one of the more desirable members that Nagato had strived to bring into his group. Mature, experienced with battle and ninjutsu, and one of the fabled Seven Swordsmen of the Mist. In any given situation, in any conflict between members of the group, Kisame will most often be the voice of reason. Nagato chose to pair him with the young but mature beyond his years Itachi, believing they’d have much to learn from one another, and he was correct. Out of all the duos, theirs was probably the most stable (and certainly the least problematic). Despite being both tall and intimidating, the half-shark had a surprisingly gentle, almost shy nature to him when one caught him in a one on one situation, as was the case now. Kisame walks up to Pein but seems unable to take the initiative, so Pein does so himself. He puts one hand on Kisame’s shoulder, leans up slightly, and kisses his cheek. Kisame blushes and grins, before going back to his room for the evening.

Sasori

Unbeknownst to the others, aside from Konan, Sasori is the only member of the Akatsuki that knows that Pein isn’t who (or what) he presents himself to be. After all, spending years hidden inside a puppet body gave one a little leeway into seeing into (or perhaps seeing past) others’ true selves. But Sasori understands Nagato’s need to conceal his real body; in fact, he’s even helped him a few times. He’s travelled with Konan before to meet the actual Nagato, when the latter came down with an illness that Konan wasn’t sure how to treat. Sasori used his extensive knowledge of medical procedures to help Nagato, and since then, the two had become good friends. He also gave him valuable advice (again from his own experience of using chakra to control multiple puppets at once) to Nagato in how to more effectively maneuver his Six Paths of Pein bodies during battle, even helping Nagato to tweak them to better control their movements. Sasori shows Nagato (and ultimately, Pein) the same respect that he would a fellow master puppeteer. He approaches Pein now, in his own body. Pein leans down and kisses his cheek, and the two nod at each other before Sasori returns to his own room.

Itachi

“He murdered his entire clan in one evening.” “Are you sure?” “Well, all but his younger brother. But I’m sure if he ever got the chance —“ Nagato still remembers the conversation he had with Konan, the day before they brought Itachi into the Akatsuki. Nagato had been against it at first, believing that one who could commit such callous atrocities against his own clan and family would no doubt have trouble turning against a group of people that were strangers to him. But Itachi pleasantly surprised Nagato, with how calm, and quiet, and kind he was. He often forgets how young Itachi is, considering he speaks and acts like a man decades older. But still ... there was a sadness that could be felt whenever Itachi was in the room, tangible even to someone who’s “real” body was quite far away, like Nagato’s was. When Itachi comes to him, the Pein body reaches out and pulls the boy into a hug. Itachi seems surprised, but whether out of respect to the leader or because he truly needed it, he lets the embrace happen. The two stand there for longer than seems feasible, until Pein breaks it by gently kissing Itachi’s forehead. Itachi steps back, gives Pein a smile (which turns back the clock even more and makes Itachi seem like a child) and goes back to his room.

Deidara

Nagato felt real, valid concern when bringing the 15 year old Deidara into his group. Besides being the youngest, besides having that volatile temper and wanton pleasure in causing chaos and destruction ... the kid was beautiful. An odd word for a male, perhaps, but it was the most fitting term for him. In the Akatsuki it was more or less made clear that Konan was off-limits in terms of things like that, but Deidara ... with his long silky hair, big blue eyes, soft skin ... what was to stop one (or possibly ALL) of these older (and likely stronger) members from attempting to — but Nagato was lucky, in that everyone exhibited more self-control than he gave them credit for. And pairing him first with the older Sasori and then with the wily Tobi had seemed to be good choices, as well. One taught him maturity, and the other, patience. Although sometimes — “Oi, Leader ... can you talk to Kakuzu for me?” “For what?” “He won’t let me have an advance on my pay, because he says I’m just going to waste it on ‘my stupid clay’, hm!” “I do not interfere with the financial decisions of my treasurer, Deidara.” “But —“ Pein kisses his forehead and says, quietly, “Learn to exercise restraint when it comes to your artistic endeavors, Deidara.” Deidara grumbles as he walks away, and Pein smiles and shakes his head as he watches him go.

Kakuzu

“Pein. No matter what Deidara said to you, you won’t convince me to give him an advance on his pay. That boy is already three weeks into his money, and our budget simply won’t allow —“ “Do not fear, Kakuzu. I don’t intend to step on your toes regarding our finances.” Never in Nagato’s life has he met anybody quite so concerned with money as Kakuzu. He was strict not only with his own money, but every other member’s, as well. While Nagato found this to be a character flaw at first, now, he saw Kakuzu’s thriftiness and frugal tendencies as being a God-send. It was only because of him that they were able to move from hideout to hideout, to put food on the table, to buy clothes and weapons and any number of things that the group needed to survive. But his finance-savvy ways weren’t even the most impressive thing about him; it was the fact that he dealt with Hidan, day in and day out, and had not been driven to madness. The older man walks up to Pein now, lowers his mask, and delivers a light kiss to the cheek. Pein nods and watches as he leaves, noting, as he often did, his cold Kakuzu’s skin is. Nagato can feel it through Pein’s sensors; standing close to Kakuzu is much like standing in front of an open grave. He often felt that he should suggest redesigning Kakuzu’s Akatsuki robe to make it warmer, but Nagato knows that this suggestion would be rapidly rejected.

Zetsu

On the day that it is Pein’s turn under the mistletoe, Zetsu is nowhere to be found. Nagato knows where he is, of course; traveling through the earth at the speed of sound, going to scout out an enemy territory before the Akatsuki makes a move on it. Zetsu and his infiltration skills have helped Nagato countless times in the past, providing valuable intel on targets and mapping out the most problem-free routes for the rest of the group to take on missions. Still, though; there’s something about the plant-man that gave Nagato the slighter touch of unease. Being near Zetsu, even through the barrier of Pein, gave Nagato the feeling of being inches away from a wild animal. Hearing him speak was like listening to a dog that suddenly begins speaking in a human tongue. Nagato is very glad that Pein does not have to kiss this individual, and in fact hopes that his turn will end before Zetsu makes his inevitable return.

Tobi

Tobi, Tobi, Tobi ... such a confusing young man. Such a surprising young man. Many months ago, the Pein-body walked into Tobi’s room to retrieve him for something, and happened to catch him sleeping. Nagato was curious and made his artificial body approach the side of the bed that Tobi’s face was on ... but all Nagato was met with was darkness. A solid, blurred-out black where the boy’s face should have been. Nagato thought that perhaps something was malfunctioning in the Pein body’s ocular region ... but everything else was clear as a bell. Did Tobi have some kind of exterior defense mechanism set into place that would bar Pein, specifically Pein, from seeing his actual face? And if that was the case, then WHY? What exactly was he hiding?? It made Nagato nervous, but he never let this on to Tobi. “Pein-sama, Pein-sama! Is it Tobi’s turn for a kissy?!” Pein nods and Tobi approaches him, slides his mask halfway off ... and again all Pein can make out is blackness. He can feel his cheek being kissed, but his vision doesn’t return to 100% until Tobi’s mask is fully back in place. “Thanks, Pein-sama!”, Tobi says; and is it Nagato’s imagination or is there a touch of smugness to his voice? Well, regardless, the kid is leaving, and a Nagato can put him out of his mind once more.

Hidan

“I’ve had to kiss every single one of you fucks, including the old geezer and the orange idiot. Now I’ve gotta slobber with the boss too?? What’s next; are we are jumping into bed and having a group fuck?!” Nagato hadn’t rolled his eyes in many years (and rolling Pein’s eyes would have been an unbecoming gesture for a leader), but hearing Hidan speak always made Nagato want to break this self-imposed rule. With his additional bodies, his Rinnegan, his seemingly unlimited chakra and his fabled Uzumaki clan endurance, Nagato considers himself to be an earthbound God. But then this kid, this foul-mouthed violent crusader, comes into the group speaking about HIS God, Lord Jashin, and flaunting his (admittedly enviable) gift of immortality. From the very beginning, Hidan made it clear that offering sacrifices to his God was his main priority; and the kid wasn’t lying. It’s always been Pein’s (Nagato’s) mandate that as long as one completed their assigned mission, then they would be free to do as the my liked in their spare time. But Hidan’s preferred “hobby” left even someone as war-weary and hardened as Nagato feeling a bit queasy, in the pit of his stomach. “Come, Hidan.” Hidan visibly balks at being given an order; but he’s never love hesitated to obey the Leader. He goes to Pein and, after Pein studies his face, receives a kiss on the nose. The gesture is so light and whimsical that it leaves Hidan blushing and flustered, as evidenced by his leaving without uttering a single swear word.

Konan

The kiss between Konan and Pein is ... disappointingly short. Surprising, considering how close the two of them are, and how much Pein seems to care about her. But it’s a very quick forehead peck, and then both Pein and Konan retire to their rooms. The Pein-body shuts down in his own room, but Konan is getting dressed. It’s a somewhat lengthy journey, especially for this time of night, but one Konan is very familiar with. She comes every single day, after all, after everyone else is asleep or preoccupied for the evening. The old cave is so far into the woods, and from the outside seems abandoned, but ... “Nagato? I’m here.” Nagato turns his head and, although he’s happy to see her, can’t help but sigh. “You’re soaking wet.” Konan uses her cloak to wipe her face, telling him it’s not a big deal, just a little drizzle outside... but it is to Nagato. Trapped like this, a prisoner of his body and his hatred and pain ... anybody else would have walked out and left him years ago. But Konan, no matter what, she stayed by his side, and showed him more caring and comfort than Nagato felt he deserved. “I brought you some beef and curry rice tonight,” Konan said, now uncovering a small bowl. “It’s still warm.” She moves into position to feed him, and as she does, she quietly tells him little tidbits about her day. It’s solely through Konan that Nagato has any sense of the outside world at all, or any REAL idea about what the members of the Akatsuki are actually like. And he’s grateful to her. He’s grateful to her for so many — “Konan?” She looks up from where she’d been tidying up. “Yes?” “I’m so sorry.” She stops and looks at him, head tilted. “Sorry? What are you sorry about?” “I’m sorry that you’re not married, I’m sorry that you don’t have children, or a family, I’m sorry that you go from hideout to hideout and village to village and all you see is the same pain we saw when we were kids. And I’m sorry that things are only this way because of me. I couldn’t save Yahiko, and I’m destroying you, and any chance at happiness you could have had. I never meant for things to be this way. I’m —“ but Konan’s arms are around him before he can finish his sentence. “You’re a goddamn idiot,” she mumbles, her voice slightly shaky. “Yahiko dying wasn’t your fault, and my life — my life is full, and despite what you may believe, I’m happy, Nagato. This Akatsuki you’ve created; you’ve done two things. You’re fulfilling Yahiko’s dream, and you’ve given me, US, a family. So stop with this nonsense, okay?” “But I —“, and Konan interrupts him again, this time with a soft kiss on the cheek. Her lips breathe warmth and comfort into his chilled skin. “You’re the most important person on this earth to me, and I love you,” she murmurs as she pulls away, a smile on her face. “But I swear if you don’t cheer up, you’re not getting any of this dessert I made.” A pause, and then, with a smirk reminiscent of the shy boy he once was, “I’ll only cheer up if it’s something I like.” “Strawberry pie.” Nagato gives Konan an even bigger smile, to which she replies “That’s better”; and the two laugh. He feels like a weight has been lifted off of his heart. After dessert, he tries to mentally prepare himself for her leaving again ...but to his surprise she pulls a blanket from her satchel spreading it out neatly along the ground. “You’re staying tonight?” “I’m staying.” “Good. I love you, too, by the way.” “I know.” Before bed she spends a good deal of time gently brushing out his hair, telling him jokes and stories, the same that she used to do with him and Yahiko when they were all children, during those many long, cold nights when hunger or anxiety kept them awake. Neither is present now, but the goodness of the feeling remains the same. After awhile they both fall asleep, and for once their dreams are calm and peaceful.

[girlwithouthands]

Travellers arriving in an unfamiliar city used to worry that they’d climb in a taxi and be driven to their destination by the most circuitous route possible, racking up an enormous bill. That’s pretty much what Big Oil and its allies in government and the financial world are doing with the climate crisis—in fact, at this point, it’s the heart of the problem.

Yes, there are a few bitter-enders who refuse to acknowledge that change must come. Earlier in the summer, the Saudi Minister of Energy, Abdulaziz bin Salman, reportedly told a Bank of America gathering that “every molecule of hydrocarbon” will be drained from his country’s oil fields. But most fossil-fuel profiteers have learned to talk the talk. Jamie Dimon, the C.E.O. of JPMorgan Chase, for instance, has lent more money to the fossil-fuel industry than anyone else—but he was wise enough to say, in April, that “climate change and inequality are two of the critical issues of our time.” The bank has pledged that, by 2030, it will invest a trillion dollars in “green initiatives that boost renewable energy and clean technologies.” Does that mean one of America’s largest financial institutions is moving away from fossil fuels? Of course not. Last year, Chase once again topped the charts as Big Oil’s biggest financial lifeline. Indeed, earlier this month, DeSmogBlog released transcripts from an “energy capital conference” held earlier in the year. There, Chase’s managing director, Greg Determann, was asked by one expert if the company was “still going to be lending to oil and gas companies.” “For a long time,” Determann said, without hesitation. “Mr. Dimon is quite focussed on the industry. It’s a huge business for us and that’s going to be the case for decades to come.”

The same logic that governs companies often governs countries, too. As the veteran energy analyst Ketan Joshi pointed out, the Australian Prime Minister, Scott Morrison, has set the de-rigeur target of “net zero by 2050,” but, in April, indicated that “the trajectory to any net-zero outcome is not linear, and anyone who thinks it is I think doesn’t get it.” Morrison traced a curve in the air with his hand after he spoke, Joshi noted, “suggesting emissions reductions occur very late in the 30 years between now and 2050.” “What we are seeing here is a mumbled acknowledgement of the macro problem, but an aggressive refusal to consider the micro components that comprise it,” Joshi wrote. “It is the core engine of climate inaction.”

This is absolutely correct. We call it “greenwashing,” but that’s too technical a term. We should call it what it is: people with a vested interest are learning how to slow-walk this crisis. They’ve done it with a thousand other crises, too, of course—one thinks of how, following the Supreme Court’s ruling in Brown v. Board of Education, segregationists managed to delay action for a decade or more, focussing on a single phrase in the decision: “with all deliberate speed.” But here they’re doing it in the face of an absolute deadline imposed by science. As the United Nations’ Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change has made clear, we must cut emissions in half by 2030 or our chances of meeting the targets that we set in Paris just six years ago fall by the wayside. Slow-walking is sabotage—smiling, and deadly.

And, in the course of that slow-walking, Big Oil is figuring out how to game the system in every way possible: as Inside Climate News recently reported, energy companies and their lobbyists are filling the infrastructure bill with billions of dollars for carbon-sequestration projects—essentially, getting taxpayers to fund equipment to capture the climate-destroying gases that Big Oil’s products emit. That’s absurd: it would be much cheaper to simply shut down those power plants and build out solar and wind power instead. But, for the fossil-fuel industry, preservation of the business model is paramount—they want to burn the stuff they own, no matter the consequences. The Biden Administration is caught in a very hard place: the White House is sincerely trying to accelerate climate action, but to do so it has to get past industry allies in the Democratic Party (Joe Manchin, for instance, who fears that we’re “going to the EV” too fast), not to mention a business-friendly judiciary, which has, for instance, blocked Biden’s plans to stop new drilling leases on federal lands. That’s why, one guesses, you get leaders who know better, like the domestic-climate czar, Gina McCarthy, repeating old bromides about “all of the above” energy supply, or ignoring the increasingly bitter protests over follies like the Line 3 tar-sands pipeline, which runs through Minnesota.

The eventual outcome is not in doubt: eventually, the planet will run on renewable energy. But how long that transition takes will determine what kind of shape we leave the planet in. At the moment, the bankers and politicians in the driver’s seat are taking us for a very long, very dangerous, and very expensive ride. We didn’t ask for Hell when we climbed in the cab, but that may well be where we end up, unless we figure out how to grab the wheel.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Vampr Erik Origin

Okay so let me make a disclaimer:

I had to do a lot of research to try and create his back story in summary form. I basically learned a lot of shit that I didn’t know so with that being said, you guys can feel free to fact check me because I feel like this needs to be factual as far as the history of it goes. Also, Erik was born/reborn in an era that is very touchy. I mean, we go through crap as black people everyday but I used some very degrading words to represent how it was back in this time. If this is offensive, please feel free to let me know I will change it. I don’t want to offend or make anyone feel bad. So, here it is! This is the origin I came up with.

Erik Stevens is his alias but he was born Ricardo Dupoux. Erik was born in 1856 in New Orleans, Louisiana. Just 29 years before he became a vampire.

Erik’s mother was born in 1836. Her name was Fabiola Adonis and she is from Louisiana but her parents and family (Erik’s grandparents) are from Sainte-Dominigue which is now known as Haiti.

Erik’s father was named Jacques Dupoux. He was born in 1827 in Cuba and he migrated to Louisiana with his family when he was just four years old.

Both sides of Erik’s family originated in Sainte-Dominigue and began to migrate out during the black Haitian Revolution as free people of color. The Haitian Revolution was a successful insurrection by self-liberated slaves against French colonial rule in Saint-Domingue, now the sovereign state of Haiti. The revolt began on 22 August 1791, and ended in 1804 with the former colony's independence. It involved blacks, mulattoes, French, Spanish, and British participants—with the ex-slave Toussaint Louverture emerging as Haiti's most charismatic hero. The revolution was the only slave uprising that led to the founding of a state which was both free from slavery, and ruled by non-whites and former captives. It is now widely seen as a defining moment in the history of the Atlantic World.

Haitian Vodou, is an Afro-American religion that developed in Afro-Haitian communities amid the Atlantic slave trade between the 16th and 19th centuries. It arose through a process of syncretism between the traditional religions of West Africa and the Roman Catholic form of Christianity. Vodou is an oral tradition practiced by extended families that inherit familial spirits, along with the necessary devotional practices, from their elders. In the cities, local hierarchies of priestesses or priests (manbo and oungan), “children of the spirits” (ounsi), and ritual drummers (ountògi) comprise more formal “societies” or “congregations” (sosyete). In these congregations, knowledge is passed on through a ritual of initiation (kanzo) in which the body becomes the site of spiritual transformation. Many Vodou practitioners were involved in the Haitian Revolution which overthrew the French colonial government, abolished slavery, and formed modern Haiti. The Roman Catholic Church left for several decades following the Revolution, allowing Vodou to become Haiti's dominant religion. They referred to themselves as “serving the spirits” more so than using Voudou to refer to Haitian religion.

Jacques Doupoux and Fabiola Adonis were well respected within the Vodou community. Erik’s father was a hounsi bosale and Artisan. Hounsi is essentially a dedicated member of Vodou, an apprentice of priests. His mother, Fabiola, an Ounsi, oversaw the liturgical singing and shaking the chacha rattle which is used to control the rhythm during ceremonies. She had a voice that used to lull Erik to sleep. Jacques wanted Erik to follow in his footsteps and later become an oungan; a Vodou priest. He was born as a “child of the house” or a pititt-caye. Being an oungan provides an individual with both social status and material profit. Erik was present for his father's initiation when he was just a baby with his mother in a shared Ounfò; Vodou temple. There were four levels of initiation that Jacques Doupoux went through. That sealed Erik’s future.

The Ounfò was a basic shack in Bayou St. John. The main ceremonial space within the Ounfò is known as the peristil. brightly painted posts hold up the roof, which is often made of corrugated iron but sometimes thatched. The central one of these posts is the poto mitan or poteau mitan, which is used as a pivot during ritual dances and serves as the "passage of the spirits" by which the Loa; the spirits, enter the room during ceremonies. It is around this central post that offerings, including both vèvè and animal sacrifices, are made.

Free people of color owned the most property in Louisiana but of course, that didn’t go down in history because the whites didn’t like it. As for Erik’s family, his mother and father were free people of color that became sugar planters, for slave owners, and they also shared Haitian refining techniques to successfully granulate sugar. Erik favors his father more so than his mother, sometimes confused as his father’s younger brother.

The Colfax massacre and the Coushatta massacre happened in 1873. This sparked fear for Erik’s family and they held a certain Fete for Lwa which is a public ceremony. The drums beat, the congregation started to sing and dance for the Lwa. The Lwa came to the ceremony via possession. The Lwa prophesied, healed people, cleansed people, and blessed them and assisted them in resolving issues. Erik was 17 years old and he didn’t share this with his parents but he was running for his life from a group of white Southerners one day when he was walking the bayou of New Orleans. Erik ended up sleeping in Baton Rouge until the morning.

Erik often stays within the Ounfò, well into adult age. He became a hounsi bosale like his father, often participating as a ritual drummer or an ountògi. He would sing specific songs in Haitian Creole with some words of African languages incorporated in it. He was a Food Artisan like his mother. He admired her craftsmanship in the kitchen. Cheeses, breads, fruit preserves, cured meats, beverages, oils, and vinegars were some of her handmade specialties. This is one thing that attracted women to Erik besides his handsome features. He was Strong, tall, studly, rough around the edges and not afraid to challenge someone to a fight or a gun battle. Erik was charming, protective, heroic, funny, cocky which earned him the nickname “Big Ego Ricardo”. Erik was hard-working, religious, smart, sculpted, dependable, and an amazing lover in bed.

Long dreadlocks, whiskey-colored eyes, full, soft lips, and a smile with dimples so deep it charmed anyone. He wore fundamental ivory cotton band collar work shirts unbuttoned to show off his defined pectorals because he was proud of his body, sometimes paired the shirts with a vest, cotton brown or black knickers, riding boots, and a series of Vodou jewelry around his neck and on his fingers, some with symbols representing Papa Legba, La Sirene, Ogoun King, and Baron Samedi. During Vodou rituals, Erik would wear a cotton cloth around his head like a bandana, bare torso because of the amount of sweating he does during drumming to keep up with the dancers, Vodou symbols painted on his face to represent whichever Loa they were serving, white linen pants and bare feet.

He was obsessed with guns. He would often go down to the bayou to practice with stolen pocket pistols, shooting empty glass bottles and bean cans. He’s a protector, he did this just in case his family were in danger. The symbol of Vodou love on one of his ring fingers is what attracted his late wife, Justine LeBlanc to him when he was 27 years old. He was selling artisan bread one afternoon from an open shop window on Bourbon Street. Justine was six years younger than Erik. She was a Creole of color from Louisiana, like Erik, except her family were sent to Louisiana on slave ships from sub-Saharan Africa instead of Haiti like Erik’s family. She spoke a bit of English, and French with words from African languages. Erik spoke English and Haitian Creole with a little bit of Portuguese and Spanish.

Justine LeBlanc worked closely with Marie Laveau, who was rumored to be the granddaughter of a powerful priestess in Sainte-Dominigue, who began to dominate New Orleans Vodou that later became Louisiana Voodoo. These spiritual leaders served a racially diverse, mostly female, congregation. Weekly worship services took place in the homes of Voodoo leaders. Their sanctuaries were characterized by spectacular altars, laden with statues and pictures of the saints, candles, flowers, fruit, and other offerings. Voodoo ceremonies consisted of Roman Catholic prayers, chanting, drumming, and dancing. Vodou was brought of Haitian origin, however, the type practiced in Louisiana later in years is almost always known as Voodoo.

Erik was known to be a ladies man. He spent time flirting and fucking woman within his community. Pussy was practically thrown at him. Justine, however, changed all of that. They spent so much time together within one summer that Erik decided that he wanted to jump the broom with her which was symbolic of sweeping out of the old and sweeping in to the new to welcome a new household to the community. Justine lost her virginity to him the evening after their marriage and that’s when they started having children. Erik has two young twin girls; Rose Fabiola Dupoux and Felicie Ines Dupoux. After that, Justine couldn’t conceive anymore which she was often depressed about. Erik wanted to be fruitful because his mother came down very ill when he was five and she couldn’t conceive either. It was either her life or her ovaries so she had them removed.

Despite everything going on in America with slavery and racism, Erik; Ricardo, lived a happy life. He was feared and respected, a following of close male friends were like his comrades. They had his back, Erik had theirs. That all didn’t last very long. In June of 1884, when Erik was just 28 years old, things began to make a turn for the worst. Erik’s father, Jacques Dupoux, was lynched. With the 1880s dawning, a new era of violence ensued. White supremacy represented a central tenant of their platform and led to even greater levels of violence as they tried to reverse the advances made for African Americans during Reconstruction. They capitalized on rumors that black crime had expanded after the abolition of slavery. As a result, the number of lynchings soared across the South and hundreds of lives were being taken. Lynch mobs often justified their actions as attempts to defend white Southern womanhood from “libidinous” black males.

This angered Erik, causing him to gather a following of men who also lost family. Erik led the revolt to fight back white supremacy. They attached about 15 homes and killed between 55 to 60 whites throughout Louisiana. They also arrived on a local sugar and cotton plantation that often sought help from Erik’s own family for harvesting sugar cane. The revolt and about 20 slaves burned the plantation to the ground but that wasn’t before they hacked the entire family to death. Erik was made public enemy number one. His face was on wanted posters throughout the South but he was depicted wearing a scarf around his mouth and nose. Of course with Erik’s actions, some of his family and friends suffered. Vodou rituals were invaded and the members slaughtered. Marie Leveau and her following were protected but not Erik’s lineage.

Ricardo Dupoux AKA Erik Stevens returned home after successfully burning down another plantation and killing the entire family, including the children, execution style in 1886. Marie Laveau warned Justine that Erik was dangerous and he would endanger her and the children if she stayed with them. Marie instructed Justine to bring her something that belonged to Erik, something sentimental. Justine brought her Erik’s father’s ring that he wore around his neck. Marie performed a ritual that later informed Justine that Erik was in grave danger and this life as Ricardo Dupoux would soon come to a bloody, gory, gruesome ending. Marie told Justine that she couldn’t interfere because that could possibly go badly. Justine had to keep that big secret to herself to protect her children no matter how much she loved and adored Erik.

Erik wasn’t himself anymore. He became this angry, rude, vengeful man that killed without a backwards glance. He also turned to what is said to be evil magic in Vodou. Instead of becoming an Oungan, Erik became a Bokor and an occultist. A Bokor is a Vodou witch for hire who is said to serve the loa “with both hands”, practicing for both good and evil. Their black magic includes the creation of zombies and the creation of ‘ouangas’ talismans that house spirits. Bloods are usually chosen from birth but Erik was instead initiated in. He found the spirits, the orisha’s the Eruziles, not a priest in the flesh. The whites kept crossing the line in a spiritual and physical sense, it became Erik’s right to protect himself and his family with curses and hexes.

Erik caused moderate to severe suffering to those he seeked revenge on by hexing them and also using dark charms such as curses, the most heinous act on an individual; the worst kind of dark magic. He performed blood maledictions, a specific type of curse that may not kill the target but can remain within the victim's body, and be passed down as a genetic defect that can resurface generations later. Erik would inflict intense, excruciating pain on his victims, poison them, and cause flames called Move Dife which means “bad fire”, an enormous flame infused with dark magic to seek out living targets. Fabiola and Justine were afraid and they didn’t support Erik’s new choices. The light she saw in her son was indeed gone. He was of greatest fear within his community and within the Southern white community.

How did Erik meet his demise?

It happened in June of 1888, five months before Erik’s 33rd birthday. The White league and the Ku Klux Klan had been deactivated since the 1870s but some members worked closely together to hunt down and kill Ricardo Dupoux, soon to be known as Erik Stevens. He decided to use Erik Stevens as an alias since his name was so well known in Louisiana where he lived. No one besides the people close to him knew how his face looked since he wore it covered but his name however was remembered. If things didn’t go as planned for him and he needed to flee with his Mother, Wife, and children, he could have his name changed to Erik Stevens. A trusted friend named Augusto Richard’s wife named Beatrice Richard and her five children were held at gunpoint in their home. They found out where Augusto lives and used that as they way of finding Ricardo.

From what they tell him, Augusto’s family will be freed if he agrees to help the Southern white men capture and kill Ricardo Dupoux. At first, Augusto declined and said that Ricardo is a trusted friend of his. They punished him by beating his wife and threatened to hang her from a structure similar to a gallow. Augusto finally gives in, joining forces with the evil white men in exchange for his family's protection. Ricardo and Augusto have been friends since they were children. Augusto was sort of a co-planner with Ricardo to attack white supremacy and racists homes along with plantations. Augusto fabricated a new place to attack, suggesting that him and Ricardo go alone this time. Ricardo agreed without hesitation because he trusted Augusto. They arrived by horse outside of New Orleans near Maurepas Swamp……..

_______________

“Augusto...poukisa nou is it la?” Ricardo asked Augusto in Haitian Creole why they were there. He didn’t like speaking English just in case he was overheard. Ricardo’s eyes squinted suspiciously around him before he cut his eyes that looked black in the dark at Augusto.

“Mwen regrèt, frè,” Augusto spoke with a shaky voice, tears flooding his eyes. He told Ricardo that he was sorry.

Ricardo pulls out his pistol, aiming it at the shadows of the trees. He couldn’t believe he was being set up by someone that is supposed to be his friend. Ricardo told his wife and mother that he would be home safely and for them not to worry. He couldn’t trust anyone now. If he got out of this alive, he was going to cut ties with his followers.

“Well, well, well...look what we got here, a nigger with a gun!!”

Ricardo follows the source of that thick southern accent echoing in the night and finds a white man standing behind him with a gun pointed at his temple.

“Drop it, boy, or I will splatter this here swamp with ya monkey brains,” He threatened while making his gun click. Ricardo could see out of his peripheral more white men stepping out of the shadows. The moon light made the weapons in their hands shine.

“Listen to him nigger!!!” One yelled.

“AIN'T SO TOUGH NOW!!!” Another yelled while a series of laughter came soon after.

“Listen, I know ya can speak English, boy. Ya friend here told us everything. How ya niggers get a hold of books I wouldn’t understand,” He laughs before spitting in his face, “I’m gonna enjoy killing ya, just like ya enjoyed killing my friends ya fucking animal. This is how we’re gonna celebrate the ending of slavery...we’re gonna gut ya, and then we’re gonna throw ya filthy dead fucking body in the swamp so the gators can finish ya.”

The foul breath of this white man would have made Ricardo puke if it wasn’t for the gun pointed at him.

“Hey, Jenson, pass me my knife!” He yells, “I wanna Kill this one slowly.”

Like a swarm of stinky flies, the white men crowded Ricardo, some kicking him in his ribs, others in his face, bloodying him up. Ricardo didn’t drop to his knees willingly, he took each and every blow like a champion, even when his vision blurred from the blood trickling from a gash in his head from being pistol whipped. Augusto stood watching the entire thing. He was Disgusted with himself for allowing it to happen.

“Should we kill his wife? His mama? His little girls?!!!!” One of them punched him in the face while two men on each side kept him still since he’s so damn strong. It was almost inhumanly strong.

“AUGUSTO OU FUKIN TRÈT!!!” Ricardo yelled, before spitting out blood on the dirt covered ground. He called Augusto a fucking traitor, “Mwen gen yon fanmi! ti bebe mwen yo! ti bebe mwen yo! ou trèt!” Ricardo growled angrily with his deep fearful voice. He could only think about his family right now. What if some of these men were watching his house right now? They definitely were plotting something besides beating the living shit out of him in the swap.

“Kick this nigger down!!! It’s six of you and one of him!!!!”

A blow struck Ricardo’s spine so hard he felt it snap. He was on his stomach, his cheek hitting the dirt painfully. One foot was placed to the back of his head while angry tears fell from his eyes.

“Any last words? And say it in English before I slice your goddamn tongue off,” The man with the boot to his head spoke harshly.

Ricardo clenched his jaw while breathing in the dirt. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, however, the asshole in him wanted to toy with them.

“...Which one of ya is da father of Helen Landry?” He asks.

It was silent for a second until the boot on the back of his head was gone, being replaced with a hand yanking him by his dreads, lifting his head from the ground. Ricardo smiles smugly, his bloody smile almost as sinister as the blood from the gash in his head flooding his eyes.

“Let me ax ya something...are ya the reason my little Helen is dying? Doctor says she only has three days left...ya poison my little girl with ya voodoo magic?”

“I CURSED ya little girl with my Vodou magic…” Ricardo spits his blood in his face, “And if I were ya, I would go check on her, Doctors don’t always tell da truth.”

Augusto flinched when he witnessed Ricardo being kicked in the face. His jaw had to be broken now. He was being lifted off of the ground again, a sharp whimper of pain escaping his mouth. His feet gave out beneath him and now he was being dragged. His chest and abs were covered in dirt just like his handsome, swollen, and bloody face. His busted lip drooped and leaked blood while his groggy voice tried to form sentences. The men laughed at him but all Ricardo did was look at Augusto with unblinking eyes, one of which displayed broken vessels.

“Anything else ya got to say, nigger?”

The source of the voice didn’t matter to Ricardo. All he kept thinking about was his family and how he failed them. His father was probably ashamed. Ricardo looked towards the sky. If only he could call on Baron Samedi or Maman Brigette. He wasn’t in the safety of his Ounfò either. He could only hope that at this moment his mother, Fabiola, was summoning the spirits.

“Guess not, hold him down.”

With a dull, jagged knife, Ricardo was stabbed in his stomach. He felt like he was punched. The impact pushed him back a little and he wheezed. A tearing sensation and a noise followed. The pain took a while to kick but he could feel the blood trickling. When it was finally withdrawn, he felt something hot and cold at the same time, pulling the skin with it as it's removed. Ricardo’s cry was a brilliant sound to them, guttural chokes mixed with an agonized roar. His fists clenched and shook each time his skin was being torn to shreds. The knife rotated and the sound of his muscles and nerves being gouged growing louder. Then, without warning, the white man jerked it all the way into his stomach, until the shiny metal had disappeared inside him and the black handle was pushing against his broken skin.

“Die Coon!!!” They yelled in unison before celebrating with loud hoots.

“Look at him choking! This ugly motherfucker is bleeding out! Let’s take him to the water!”

Ricardo could feel his body falling to the ground. His hand clutched his wound but blood seeped between his fingers. He felt weak, his eyes opening and closing. Augusto stood there spewing apology after apology while crying hysterically.

“As for ya,” the white man that stabbed Ricardo multiple times drops his knife in the dirt, reaches in his back pocket with his bloody, cut up hand and pulled out a gun, “what? Did ya really think we were gonna let ya go free? Ya just another disgusting nigger too, and ya nigger bitch, ya nigger kids? Dem dead too.”

Ricardo watched with low eyes while Augusto took his last breath before being shot in the head, point blank range.

“Wastin’ all dese good bullets,” the white man pocketed his gun again, “Hall em’ up! Let’s take em’ swimming!”

_____________

Crowded tabletops with tiny flickering lamps; stones sitting in oil baths; a crucifix; murky bottles of roots and herbs steeped in alcohol; shiny new bottles of rum, scotch, gin, perfume, and almond-sugar syrup. On one side was an altar arranged in three steps and covered in gold and black contact paper. On the top step an open pack of filterless Pall Malls lay next to a cracked and dusty candle in the shape of a skull. A walking stick with its head carved to depict a huge erect penis leaned against the wall beside it. On the opposite side of the room was a small cabinet, its top littered with vials of powders and herbs. On the ceiling and walls of the room were baskets, bunches of leaves hung to dry, and smoke-darkened lithographs.

This is where Ricardo Dupoux rested upon a makeshift bed surrounded by oil burning candles. A sulfurous rotten-egg smell that is often associated with marshes and mudflats occupies the room. His entire body ached and the sharp pain prickled his scalp. Licking his dry lips with his equally dry tongue, Ricardo tried looking around with his sore eyes but the discomfort caused him to close them. It felt damp and gloomy around him, clearly nothing is quite what it seems to be. Ricardo could feel a powerful energy surrounding him, if only he could move his body. A few rickety floorboards creaked like someone was sneaking up on him and it made Ricardo jumpy. He wasn’t physically able to help himself.

“Ricardo Dupoux, ki sa yon sipriz bèl eh?”

A seductive voice of a woman spoke to him in Haitian Creole. This wasn’t a pleasant surprise exactly.

“Kiyes ou ye?” His voice was so hoarse and his throat felt raw.

“Who muh? Well...I’m yuh rescuer of course, handsome.”

“Kisa...ki kote sa a?” Ricardo coughs painfully. He could taste blood in the back of his throat.

“Well, don’t Yuh sound sexy speaking deh Creole to Mama Dalma. Yuh in muh shack, Ricardo.”

“Mama Dalma? Prètès Vodou a?” He spoke with astonishment.

“So, muh assumin’ yuh heard stories about muh from way back when...what else do yuh know bout’ me?”

“...Nothing.” He finally speaks English.

“Yuh know so much about muh voodoo mystic powers in the Caribbean 175 years ago…I’m honored.”

Finally, standing above his shell of a body was Tia Dalma herself. Tia Dalma was a practitioner of voodoo, a hoodoo priestess with fathomless powers that was perceived as a legend. Supposedly, she has uncanny powers to foretell the future, to summon up demons, and to look deep into men’s souls. She’s mysterious and beautiful with delicate patterns accentuating her hypnotic eyes, long but slender dreadlocks like him, deep melanin skin so smooth and unblemished, and lips painted black. She wore a sheer black dress that showed off her nudity beneath it, so many curves that looked delicious, and a mystical necklace dangling between her small breasts. Ricardo could feel her seductive energy enticing him into a tangled net. She playfully giggles while stroking Ricardo’s bare, sweaty chest with her long black nail flirtatiously.

“Poor baby, him carve yuh up?” She spoke with her Jamaican Patois. Mama Dalma looks Ricardo up and down like she wanted to mount him. She was so happy she couldn’t hide her beautiful smile.

“Did ya heal me, Mama Dalma? I thought I was gon’ die by a white man’s hand.”

“I’ve seen yuh fight big brawla, I’ve seen yuh cap a shot, I’m impressed wit’ yuh...haven’t seen a man deh brave in a while...queng dem white boys.”

“...ya been watching me?” He squints his whiskey colored eyes,“who ya for ya to be watching me?”

“Mhm, I been watching yuh, handsome...It’s because I want to save yuh...give yuh a better life than this.”

Ricardo was shivering, his skin pale and cool, difficulty breathing, mentally confused, and his blood pressure kept dropping. His chest was rapidly moving from breathing too fast, heart rate beating so fast it was almost painful, and he felt like he was running a fever.

“Easy nuh, yuh going into septic shock.” She takes her hand to pet his dreaded hair like a baby with the back of her hand.

“W-what?” His lips trembled. He was numb.

“Awoah. Muh herbes are keeping yuh stable but if I take deh herbes away...yuh die.”

Ricardo closes his eyes.

“Unless...yuh have two options, handsome.”

“One’s that I should trust? How do I know ya not poisoning me? Hm?”

“I’m gonna ignore deh...here are yuh options. Yuh can stay here on muh table and die slowly...or I can give yuh immortality.”

“Imòtalite? Baron Samedi?” He almost choked on his own spit from trying to speak.

“Better than the power of a Loa...yuh be immortal until meeting deh true death. Yuh have superhuman physical abilities, senses, flight, and healing.”

“What power is dat?” Ricardo’s eyes are glossy. He didn’t have much time. Mama Dalma was cunning, she could have healed him with her voodoo but what’s better? Healing him with the possibility of him dying again or turning him into what she became 175 years ago back in her little shack in a tree in Cuba, hanging onto her last breath. Ricardo was perfect in every way and she wanted to walk the earth with someone close to her...someone attractive and strong.

“Yuh ain’t got much time...make a decision, Ricardo Dupoux,” Tia strokes his face, “It could all be yours…”

Ricardo’s eyelids fluttered before he nodded his head. Anything to stay alive. Anything to get revenge. If he was going to come back stronger and immortal, he could wipe out every single one of them. He needed to get off of that table. Mama Dalma was convincing. Maybe it was her magic that persuaded him but none of that mattered.

“I’m glad Yuh agreed.”

Sharp, fangs extended from her teeth while she looked at him excitedly with hungry eyes. She came down on Ricardo with superhuman speed like a blur, causing his eyes to grow wide with surprise. It was almost painless, more like a pinprick considering how his body felt at the moment. The sharp points sank into his flesh like a knife to soft butter. His body twitched as his blood pooled around the back of his head, dripping to the floor of the shack and seeping between the wood. He started feeling even more woozy and lightheaded. She was really applying pressure with her fangs. He could feel his body going cold and then it felt as if his soul had left his body. Ricardo didn’t know how long this went on but it felt like forever.

Mama Dalma retracts her fangs, lifting her face from the crook of his neck slowly before staring down at Ricardo with her enchanting eyes. Her fangs pop out again and now she bites her own wrist before placing it over Ricardo’s mouth. He hesitated at first but Mama Dalma opened his mouth for him. Ricardo tasted his own blood before from his busted lip or if his gums were bleeding. He even tasted blood during a sacrifice at a Vodou ritual. It was vile with a salty metallic taste. However, Mama Dalma’s blood was surprisingly sweet, and scrumptious. Just that small amount dripping on his tongue gave him the effects of alcohol consumption.

“Deh is enough, Ricardo,” She tells him, “Ricardo...deh is enough.” She says with a more stern voice.

Ricardo wraps his hand around her wrist, applying pressure to keep it there. He could feel his body changing for the better already. Her blood...he couldn’t stop. He grunted, growled, and moaned from the taste. His tongue swiped her wrist and his own teeth tried to bite her for more but he was still so weak.

“Ricardo, deh is ENOUGH, no more!!!!!”

Mama Dalma yanked her wrist away speedily, her eyes staring down at her wound healing before her. She gave Ricardo a cold look, one that has him wishing he would have listened.

“When I tell yuh to stop, yuh listen,” She spoke with a spiteful tongue.

“It was so good,” Ricardo spoke with a weakened voice, “I want m-more.”

“Soon, muh child…” Mama Dalma kisses his lips, “Now we go to rest,” Mama Dalma wraps her arms around Ricardo and then with her superhuman speed they were out of her shack and laying in a dug up ditch. The soil was cold against Ricardo’s back. Mama Dalma places him in a wooden coffin, the moonlight creating a halo around her. His eyes drooped shut and he could feel his body shutting down like his organs were no longer working. Mama Dalma crawled into the coffin with him, resting her head on his chest and wrapping a single leg around his waist.

“When yuh wake, muh child, yuh will be Erik Stevens now...Ricardo Douboux died tonight.”

Mama Dalma kissed his cold cheek before she shut the coffin so they could finally rest until tomorrow night when Erik Stevens will finally be immortal.

[pangtasias-atelier]

Not Exactly As Planned

This was another commission done for the amazingly wonderful @beepboop260 ~

This one involves Yone and a big, chonky Thresh, both in their spirit blossom variants. I know nothing about league but like, this was still super fun to do cause of all our talks lol. Thanks again for the commission😢

_______________

An eternity, gone in an instant. A second, lasting a millennium, the strange machinations comprising the Spirit Realm never cease to bother Yone.

Still on the search for his brother, a horde of azakana had derailed Yone’s seemingly never-ending journey. Unable to regain the track he had once found, aimless wandering had been the only option. So long without a pause, each step feels like two, the trained warrior weary from his journey.

His white hair a bit more matted from the journey, his parted bangs droop. Sitting atop his head are two blue horns, the protrusions sticking slightly outwards and partially up. The back of his head manages to retain its perfectly tied state. The end of his mane still cascades down to the edges of his hips. Two parts of his hair braided, one on each side, the braids reach halfway down his neck. Two rich blue tassels braided into them, the strands of fabric reaching down to his thighs, the long strands sway with each step. In his usual pristine attire, any sort of weariness shown from his expression is completely absent from the state of his clothes. Still crisp, his white robe remains loose on his trim upper body. His robe lined with black, gold detailing on them, the dark, rich color draws further attention to his revealed skin, his pale chest and abs prominent. The lower portion of his outfit flares out somewhat, his clothes nipped at the waist to reveal his slim yet powerful figure. A slit for his legs, the open area shows off his black leggings. Walking endlessly, the deft yet strong legs are exemplified as the leggings cling to the surface of his thighs and calves.

Currently in a grove, the mangled landscape offers zero notable landmarks, each distorted and crooked tree blending in with the other. The warped trunks are covered with patches of moss. One small clearing after another, even those are indistinguishable, the same scattered crushed rocks in the northern part of the clearing littering the floor, the same perfectly circular patch of dirt crunching under his feet. Even each step feels the same as the one before. Trees looming above, the overbearing fauna seemingly stares at him as the rustling leaves a constant ringing in his ears. Catching his mistake, Yone falters. He closes his eyes. His blades drawn in an instant, he holds them out forward, his arms splayed as he holds the blades securely. The forest entirely silent, any semblance of life has suddenly vanished. Even the wind’s presence feels absent, the air far too stagnant. Listening, the deafening silence remains.

A faint sound coming from behind him, Yone swings without hesitation, his blades cutting whatever would be his attacker cleanly in two.

Except his blades only meet the air, nothing behind him. Opening his eyes, the bright vibrant blue of a river enraptures his vision. Once solid ground, a stream replaces it, an arched wooden bridge leading off to a path. Yone finds himself pondering, wondering what possibly perverse machinations drive the forest, the land reacting to him. Glancing behind him, the ongoing forest is gone. Somehow finding himself in an alcove of trees, the forest of trees forbids any other path. Sheathing his blades, Yone follows the placed path.

The bridge holding, the only noise is the soft thumps of his feet against the wood as he steps on it. On the crest of the bridge, the sight of a shrine pulls into view. Grand in its size, the monumental display fills the entirety of Yone’s vision. By the time he steps off, spirits appear. All of them are off to the side of the trail, each as aimless as the last. Floating in the air, the spirits barely move, flickering like flames. Fixated in the air, the spirits remain in their position even as Yone walks past them. Spirits continue to frame the path as the shrine draws closer.

The tall gates framing the end of the path, the front of the shrine stands proudly in front of Yone. The entire area is well kept. The calm aura radiating from the shrine is enough to put Yone somewhat at ease, but not enough. His hand still rests on the hilt of his blade. Taking a step forward, his skin bristles with magic from the gates. The gates acting as a barrier, the effect wears off as Yone passes through them. He finds the scenery to be exactly the same as before.

The only difference is his blood turning cold, the shrine’s owner making themself known.

Thresh idling on the porch, he happily rests on his side. Currently in his human form, Thresh’s tall form lies parallel to the porch. One leg rests partially on top of the other. Supporting himself with his arm, his other arm rests in front of him.

The demon of obsession in front of him, Yone lightly bends his knees. Adopting a stance, he waits for any possible movement from Thresh. Eyes drawn to Thresh’s moving hand, he stares as it lowers into a plate of... food? Double checking, Yone’s body wracks with new information as he properly takes in Thresh.

Thresh is fat.

The demon of obsession, so feared amongst nearly every inhabitant of the spirit realm, is fat.

A well defined torso with a six pack and riblets is no more. Instead, a sizable belly replaces it; the creamy, doughy flesh pools out, Thresh’s stomach resting on the floor. The small open white coat meant to highlight Thresh’s powerful frame, the coat ending at his bellybutton, now, it highlights his girth. More width to cover now, the coat even ends a tad bit higher, one end resting on the curvature of Thresh’s tummy while the other ends up squashed under Thresh’s stomach. The violet collar, trimmed with gold, no longer draws attention to the powerful chest that lies under it or the bits of his collarbone not hidden under his coat. The collar, now rather snug on the extra tuft of fat on his neck along with the slightly budding second chin, instead brings focus to Thresh’s plush chest. A small helping of fat adorning what used to be a broad chest, Thresh’s chest splays out similarly, the ovular moobs resting on the floor. The half-belt half-tassel adornment is gone, Thresh keeping his pants. The flaring out skirt-like material hides the heft of his legs, the meaty muscular legs now adorned with plush fat like the rest of his body. The voluminous front of hair sweeps down from his position, the bangs cascading to partially cover his face. Long hair messily kept in a flowing ponytail, the bundles of hair rest behind Thresh; the hair pools onto the floor behind him. The long sides of his hair trickle down his collarbone, bits of his flabby chest obstructed by his hair. Atop the mass of violet hair, softer, lighter purple horns rest on opposite ends of the crown of his head. His two slightly curved horns point up into the air, his right horn being half as tall as his other horn.

Yone’s eyes are still drawn to Thresh’s chunky figure. The will to close his eyes is almost enough for him to close them in embarrassment, but since the cause for his embarrassment is Thresh, he keeps his eyes open, unwilling to let his guard down. A huff of noise sounding, Yone shifts his attention, not without a lasting glance at Thresh’s small grabbable love handle. His eyes make contact with Thresh, Thresh huffing once more as the tip of his purple tongue lulls out. Thresh gives his stomach a contented little pat. Yone notes the bit of firmness to it, the stomach a tad bit too circular to be empty, and the plates of food next to Thresh all cleaned out.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” The booming voice sounding out, the echoes of it seem to crawl into Yone’s mind, ringing in his brain. Shifting around, Thresh pushes himself up. His flabby stomach pooling to the side, it swings and shifts as he sits up. It sags a bit down as it slots itself in-between his thighs. His long violet hair drapes around his chunky face, the strands of it landing atop his meaty chest and giving even more sense of dimension to it. His lengthy ponytail pools onto the floor.

Yone refuses to break his composure. He keeps his eyes directed at Thresh’s.

“A helpless little soul wandering my area, I had to draw you in before...” Thresh grins, his fangs plainly visible as he lets out a small laugh. “Before anything unsavory were to happen to you, Yone,” Thresh notes Yone’s lack of usual composure, chuckling to himself. Placing a hand on his side, Thresh grabs a love handle. He nearly howls as Yone attempts to not stare as Thresh holds his own roll in his hand.

“I am far from the helpless being you consider me to be,” Drawing his swords, Yone remains still.

“Now now, no need to be so hostile,” Thresh’s voice no longer the booming echoes that seemed to wish to devour Yone whole, his grip on his swords loosen a fraction. Thresh leans a bit forward, resting his elbows on his legs as he rests his chin on his hand. The extra squish from his chin distracts Yone for a second. “You’ll find me quite agreeable actually,” Thresh snarls. Teeth bared, he tilts his head, his eyes dilating. “Until you provoke me,” The final addition amplified, Yone grits his teeth as Thresh’s voice attempts to worm its way inside him, the reverberating voice coming from all directions despite Thresh sitting in front of him.

“If I may be so inclined to ask a question,” Yone keeps his voice level; the furrow in his eyes allows him to do so. “Why did you bring me here?”

Thresh merely shrugs, as if the question wasn’t laced with annoyance and frustration. “A whim,” His simple statement being the truth, collecting precious spirits is still his priority. Although, a little mix up would be harmless. Harmless to himself.

“A whim?” Yone repeats. His eyes locked onto Thresh’s chubby face, he ignores the sort of cuteness it offers him, instead looking for some kind of tell. Thresh never one to do things simply on a ‘whim’.

“I do love some entertainment every now and then,” Thresh grins as Yone’s frustration simmers a bit more, the bubbles of his frustration rising to his face. “And your expressions were a modicum reprieve,” Thresh snaps his fingers with a smile, his gaze transfixed on Yone’s.

Swords raised in an instant, Yone remains prepared. Thresh suddenly gone, his lack of a presence is more haunting than coming face to face with him. The sounds of the very earth shifting catches his attention. Yone risks a quick glance, finding the path he walked has returned, spirits lining it once more. Offering a look where Thresh once sat, the spot remains vacant. A quick sweep of the area produces the same result. He sighs as he heads back. The spirits guiding him again, Yone remains ever vigilant. Thresh nowhere to be found, the surprisingly docile demon was far from the tales he had heard. His current path the only one, Yone keeps a brisk pace. Walking over the bridge once more, the dreaded forest returns to his vision for only a brief moment, a few steps leading him out of it; the spirits rush back towards what Yone assumes is the shrine the instant he steps out.

Mind racing just as fast as his beating heart, Yone curses himself before cursing Thresh, the accursed demon letting him go. Whether it was an act of benevolence or arrogance, Yone can’t decipher for sure. Neither can he piece his emotions upon spotting the extra heft on Thresh’s form. Shoving that thought further down than the first, Yone sighs. Keeping his pace, he figures that ignoring the whole strange situation would be for the best.

Rejuvenated, unaware of Thresh’s sanctuary providing said energy, Yone returns to his task at hand. Regardless of how long it’ll take, time inconsequential in the Spirit Realm, he devotes himself to speaking to his brother.

Wandering around, the lively Spirit Realm greets him to all sorts of views and discoveries. New sights seemingly found every day, the vivid recollection of each one lasts for only a few years, not that Yone could ever tell time in such a place. Only a few manage to leave lasting imprints: the clearing he had found Yasuo in where numerous waterfalls convened to, the small frozen tundra which few laid claim to, and that haunted demonic forest. Yone reminds himself that the last one has nothing to do with said owner of the forest.

Distracted in his own thoughts, Yone overlooks the commotion of spirits some ways off as he follows the trail into the forest. The atmosphere suddenly becomes much darker. Yone glances up; the same warped trees peer down at him. Each one a near replica of the last, their looming figures continue to blend into one another. The trail behind him suddenly gone, replaced with more trees now, Yone sighs as he treks onward. More annoyance than any sense of caution or worry, his survival instincts still remain ever present as he retains his stance in fear of an ambush.

Nothing of the sort comes his way as the path shifts again and again despite the scenery being exactly the same regardless of the meandering path. Walking upon the bridge once more, the trek upwards is at least a straightforward one. A quarter of the way there, Yone freezes as a sigh echoes throughout the area. Said voice fills him with eager curiosity rather than fear. Yone shoves that thought far away just like the others with a grunt and a shake of his head. Reaching Thresh’s sanctuary, the gates have no effect this time, all of it revealed to Yone already.

Thresh is nowhere to be found. Yone finds the door to his sanctuary closed. Another sigh sounding out, the voice still assaults Yone’s ears from all around. Yet, Yone finds himself tracing the voice to behind the sanctuary. Walking around the perimeter, the humidity suddenly rises as he draws closer to the back. Turning, he finds hot springs to be the reason for said heat and humidity.

A multitude of them litter the entire back area, each placed in some random location rather than any sort of actual planning. Yet, the one that catches Yone’s eyes is the one currently occupied.

Thresh currently relaxing, he leans back as the warm water washes away any sort of fatigue. Sensing his guest, he opens his eyes, a grin adorning his face as he spots his guest.

“So, you’ve returned,”

“As if I had a choice in the matter,” Yone keeps his distance, still a few feet away from Thresh.

“Let’s not get caught up in all the intricacies. It has been a thousand years since we last talked,” Thresh smiles.

Yone remains unemotional at the time frame, unsurprised for such a long span to have passed by so quickly. Instead, his eyes remain focused on Thresh’s face for any sort of slight trick. Yet, his eyes only find the extra heft of Thresh’s cheeks cute, the now actual double chin a welcome addition. His mind comes to the conclusion of Thresh having gained even more weight.

“Well, I’m sure you’d prefer a chat under the comfort of a roof,” Without a pause, Thresh lifts a meaty hand above water.

Yone loses his impassiveness; the extra girth of Thresh’s arms and the draping fat is his main focus as he struggles and fails to hide the blush adorning his face. Thresh’s big arms are twice the width of his own arms. Yone internally screams as he wonders what it must feel like to be embraced in such large arms.

Thresh nearly laughs at the blushing Yone. Slowly stepping out of the hot spring, his eyes remain transfixed on Yone’s face as his blush grows even redder, the red hue enveloping his entire face and ears alike, a wonderful contrast against his snow-white hair.

Yone’s eyes shift slightly to the left as Thresh reveals more of his engorged body. Collarbone having lost all definition, it too looks as squishable and huggable as the rest of Thresh. His chest rising out of the water, the beginning glance at it is a disservice, the meaty pillow like chest continuing as Thresh rises even further. Each breast comparable to the size of Thresh’s head, the pale creamy chest sags and splays out. The sagging moobs are their very own shelf as they rest on the shelf of Thresh’s stomach. His stomach revealing itself, the circular mass of flab seems to have a mind of its own as it jiggles with every step Thresh takes. The soft curves lining the sides shift and bounce just as the center does. His stomach is divided into two with an extra roll formed from the extra fat, the lower half seemingly begging Yone to grab and fondle it. His stomach still wet, the rivulets of water drip down his stomach, each droplet caressing every curve of Thresh’s stomach. The bottom of his stomach sagging, the edges sag down just a bit further, Thresh’s stomach having a slight upside U-shape to his belly as it drapes down to his thighs. Thresh’s thighs alone are larger than Yone’s waistline. The large upper thighs squish together behind the mass of Thresh’s stomach. They rub past one another as Thresh takes a step, the heft of his stomach pressing down on his thighs as he lifts them. Even as he steps out of the hotspring, his meaty thighs shift to walk, the extra fat giving Thresh a decent waddle to his fat frame. His body sways back and forth, his corpulent stomach wobbling as if attempting to walk as well. His breasts jiggle, the walking producing enough shaking to make it seem as if Thresh were running. Thresh positively enjoying the attention, his chubby face grins from Yone’s staring. His violet hair wet from the dip, the overflowing strands of hair stick to Thresh’s back, even reaching down to his ass. Yone staring, his vision being occupied on inspecting every inch of Thresh fails to notice Thresh waddling towards him.

“Well, shall we take this inside?”

Thresh suddenly in front of him, Yone glances slightly up, Thresh somewhat taller than him. Coughing into his hand, he sighs, hoping the heat from his face can be brushed off as from the hot springs alone. Thresh right in front of him, his extra heft seems ripe for grabbing. Thresh’s frame is at least twice as wide as his own. Yone finds a bit of glee from that fact.

“Yes,” Responding without a trace of hesitation, Yone’s brain screams at him, the simple act of responding to Thresh a near insurmountable problem. Another portion of his brain yells at him to get out, Thresh far from trustworthy. He ignores that part of his brain. Another side of him reasons that Thresh would have attacked last time, his weary state from nonstop traveling an easier target than now. Yet, his brain counters arguing that Thresh is merely luring him- Yone stops that back and forth train of thought with a deep breath. He ceases all his thoughts on the situation, instead focusing on Thresh and his girth, those thoughts far more appealing. Like kneading all of Thresh’s fat or feeling the entirety of his weight on top of him.

Thresh raises a brow at Yone’s behavior but offers no response. Instead, he simply tells Yone to follow him with a wag of his finger before turning around.

Yone nearly chokes on his own saliva as he stares at Thresh’s ass. Thresh’s ass clearly as affected by his weight as the rest of his porcine body, the two hefty mounds of fat jut out. Each individual cheek larger than Yone’s head, the pile of pudge for Thresh’s ass sags. The upper heft of his ass retains its spherical shape, the upper curvature swaying as he leads the way. The bottom portion has somewhat less definition, the flab coalescing into a squarish shape from the sagging, bundled fat. His wide, plush back lined with rolls, the cascading flab frames the entirety of his back, his wide arms squishing against the sides with each waddle of his. Plump love handles adorning his sides, they jiggle from the movement that must be rare for Thresh these days.

Yet Yone still keeps a slower pace than Thresh’s already slow waddle, transfixed on committing the outlines of the rolls adorning Thresh’s back and the circular yet squarish ass to memory.

Thresh leads the way, eventually following some sort of normality by having Yone wait in a room while he prepares himself. Sitting on the floor seiza style, Yone keeps his posture rigid. Taking cooling breaths, his chest rises and falls with each inhale and exhale. Waiting for Thresh, any sort of fear is vanished, the images of Thresh’s body replaying in his head. Creaking sounding Thresh’s arrival, Yone regains some composure as he stares stoically as ever.

Thresh coming out with nothing but black leggings on, Yone’s impassiveness fails him again. Having already seen the corpulent Thresh nude, the minimal addition changes nothing. The leggings simply give the appearance of Thresh being even heftier, the tight fabric bunching up and squishing all his fat. His hill of a belly protruding out just as it sags down, the leggings helping outline his gut and the way it folds down, the downward curvature of his gut just as prominent as the outwards heft of his love handles.

Yone’s eyes attempt to stare at the wall instead.

Thresh’s breasts splayed on his chest, the two widened areolas seem to gaze into Yone’s entire soul; he closes his eyes upon spotting Thresh’s nipples again. The entirety of Thresh’s ass unable to securely fit in the leggings, a sliver of his ass protrudes, Yone able to spot the creamy flesh swaying behind Thresh.

“I find it best to forego my usual attire when I’m to feast,” Thresh joins Yone on the floor; he simply splays out his feet as he sits on his rump. Thresh rests a hand on his gut meticulously rubbing and hefting it. His fat quivers as he lifts up any portions of his body, the fat overflowing Thresh’s hand. Yone is treated to an audible slap and visible wobbling as Thresh lets go. With a snap of his fingers, spirits come into the room, each carrying plates lined with food.

“Help yourself,” Thresh picks up a dumpling and plops it into his mouth. “Before I finish it all,” Thresh holds the plate in his hand as he plucks a dumpling one by one. Dumping one into his mouth, he chews it a few times before swallowing. Sighing with relief, Thresh licks his teeth, as if biding his time, before plopping another dumpling in his mouth, a rhythm clearly developed from experience. Thresh goes through the plate in minutes, his eating still faster than normal despite his pauses. “I’ve already eaten, but it’s so hard not to be hungry,”

Yone clenches his fists; Thresh clearly attempting to get a rise out of him, any sort of malice from Thresh seems replaced with trickery. Glancing at Thresh’s face, he’s in the middle of eating noodles. Dangling them above his head, his long purple tongue dangles out as he drops them into his mouth.

Mid chew, Thresh returns his attention to Yone as he stands up. Slurping the rest of his bowl, his expectation of Yone leaving is denied as Yone seats himself right in front of him.

With zero hesitation, as he is used to whenever Thresh isn’t involved, Yone presses a slender hand against the dome of Thresh’s gut. Resting it, the soft tender flesh warms his hand, the warmth crawling up the entirety of his body. Yone presses down, testing the give and heft of it. His hand finds a mixture, the pile of flab sinking under the pressure while still retaining some form from all the food. “Hard to believe one such as yourself could ever go hungry with so much already packed away,” Yone comments, more to himself than to Thresh, his eyes still fixated on the creamy pile of flesh right in front of him even as Thresh grunts and whines with each little push.

The usual overbearing grin no longer plastered on Thresh’s face, he grimaces as Yone continues assaulting his body, one hand turning into two as Yone pokes him as if his girth was a mere illusion. A heavy breakfast followed by an even heavier lunch, that was later followed by a feast of a meal left him full. The contents of a veritable feast contained in his gut, his cramped stomach gurgles as its relaxation is disturbed. Eating again to fluster Yone, Thresh’s stomach is working overtime. His stomach was willing to handle all the extra food without a complaint, but the case is no longer the same with all the movement caused by Yone.

“Watch it,” Thresh lightly threatens. His ears downturned, his downcast eyes don’t bother with making any eye contact, his churning stomach taking all his focus just as it takes Yone’s. Hands suddenly losing contact with his gut, Thresh sighs. He offers a glance towards the next plate, a large heaping of tonkatsu. The crispy smell of the deep fried pork, deep fried food always a favorite of Thresh’s, wafts to his nose. Thresh holds back a whine in the back of his throat.

Still beside Thresh, Yone stares at Thresh’s internal debate. A hint of a frown mars Thresh’s cherubic face, the pout exaggerating the heft of his puffed-out cheeks ever so slightly as he stares forlornly at the plate of food. A menacing demon brought down so pathetically from the mere act of messing with his overburdened gut. Yone finds the differing sight just as adorable. He grabs the plate, skewering a few pieces of the cutlet with the fork and brings it to Thresh’s face. Mouth clamped shut, Thresh glares at Yone.

“Is this not what you wanted? To engorge yourself?” Yone shows his small grin, staring directly at Thresh, the demon now staring back at him with an anger far surpassing Yone’s jovialness.

“Enough,” His voice comes from all directions once more, the swirling tendrils of his voice echoing. His command stated calmly, the finality in it is apparent. “I am not-”

Thresh whimpers as Yone presses a hand into Thresh’s stomach. This one aimed lower, his fingers digging into the swell of fat under Thresh’s deep belly button, the chunk of food seems to kick at Thresh’s stomach from its disturbance. His mouth open a sliver, the opening is all Yone needs, the forkful of fried pork shoved in Thresh’s mouth. The crispy, juicy, pork in his mouth, Thresh voluntarily chews it. His ears perk up as he swallows. A hand placed on his stomach, Thresh holds back his flinch. Yone’s hand rubbing the mass of fat, his hand wanders a bit, caressing the side of the expanse to reach a love handle. He begins to “play” with Thresh’s form; raking his nails over the expanse of Thresh’s thighs that aren’t covered by his gut, patting the side of his arms, or cupping his breasts in his hands. Another forkful brought to him, Thresh opens his mouth. Chomping down on the meat, the resulting explosion of flavor has him opening his mouth again despite the protests of his stomach. The instant the dish is entirely devoured, Yone reaches for another one.

“I shall allow it,” Thresh huffs out, his face flushed as Yone already has another fork in front of his face, this one a croquette, ready for him. “Despite your ridiculous speed,” Thresh places his hands on the crest of his stomach, the fat from his arms squishing into the fat of his sides. “There’s no savoring the food, no-”

Responding to the complaint, Yone shoves the croquette in Thresh’s mouth. He punctuates his response with a choice light jab, Thresh reduced to a whine as he obediently chews. Muffedly breathing through his nose, Thresh continues to huff with each additional fork brought to his face, unable to catch a break from Yone’s insistence. Each fork, each bite, each chew adds to the growing pit of discomfort in his stomach. So used to feasting on whatever, the rapid, insistent pace feels too taxing of a task, Thresh rubbing the surface of his stomach as Yone refuses to relent.

Remaining in his seated spot, Thresh obediently opens his mouth for whatever forkful of food Yone offers him. Eyes lidded, the ever-growing mountain of food in his stomach is beginning to catch up to him, even as his gut is no longer being abused by Yone’s brutal pushing. Finding his breath far more labored than it was at the beginning, Thresh takes a bit of extra time to catch it after being forced to swallow a piece of beef without proper time to savor it. He whimpers as Yone places a hand on his gut, Yone simply resting it there while staring at Thresh. Thresh opens his mouth, holding back a whine as Yone caresses his face and brings another piece of beef to his mouth.

“Last one,” Yone eventually calls out after Thresh eats the last piece of beef, the entire meal lasting what feels like a millennia. His hand cups Thresh’s bloated face. He rubs his thumb against the swell of Thresh’s cheek, Thresh groaning as he catches some respite. But the respite lasts for only a few seconds before Yone holds a manju in front of Thresh’s mouth. “Open wide,” Yone taunts, staring down at Thresh.

Some clarity returns to Thresh, the thought of being finished eating bringing him out of his stupor. With lidded eyes, Thresh glances at the manju. The red bean paste dessert taunts him just like Yone’s soothing voice. Thresh opens his mouth. His hands on his stomach, the gurgling mass seems to angrily react at the thought of more food by increasing the churning. Before Thresh can fully open his mouth, Yone places the treat to his lips, cramming it inside Thresh’s mouth. The manju stays in his mouth for a while, Thresh feeling far too bloated to eat anything else.

“Shall I help you?” Yone rests a hand on the top of Thresh’s dome of a stomach. Thresh keeps his tired expression on his plastered face, slowly willing himself to chew. Testing Thresh, Yone simply adds a bit of pressure with the tip of his fingers alone.

“No…” Thresh drawls out, his voice muffled from food in his mouth. He chews the snack, willing his mouth to go along despite his stuffed state.

“Good,” Yone pats Thresh’s head, moving a tuft of hair out of Thresh's eyes. “Two more to go,”

“You said-” Thresh interrupts himself with a sudden burp, the contents of today’s food sloshing inside his stomach with a vengeance. “You said that was the last one,” Yone’s hand on his horns offers little consolation despite the way he rubs them, no one having ever touched his horns in any sense of intimacy or ever in general. Thresh’s eyes are downcast, refusing to look at Yone’s gleeful expression.

“I meant the last plate. C’mon,” Yone coos, as if Thresh were a dog he was trying to hurry. Though Yone finds the comparison somewhat apt, Thresh nearly reduced to whining like an abandoned pup. Patting Thresh’s cheek, Yone swiftly shoves the second manju inside his mouth. He smiles as Thresh promptly chews. Rather lazily, but Yone finds it acceptable, rubbing the sides of Thresh’s stuffed stomach in meticulous, slow circles.

Thresh exhausted, he sighs with each chew, his overtaxed stomach rising and falling with each breath he struggles to get in. His lips smack with each bite, his sharp fangs getting some of the paste and the dough stuck to his teeth in the process. Swallowing, his suddenly parched throat struggles to keep the dessert down, Thresh grimacing as he stares down at his full gut. Yone already has the last one pressed against his lips.

“N-no more,” Thresh begs, feeling positively mocked and pathetic, unable to even bother to lift his head and glare.

Not bothering to respond to Thresh’s plea, Yone plops the treat in Thresh’s mouth. Waiting, the treat simply remains inside Thresh’s mouth, Thresh unwilling to chew. Lifting up Thresh’s head by his horns, Yone ignores the small prickle of tears at the edge of Thresh’s eyes. Thresh's double chin smushes against the palm of Yone’s hand as he cups Thresh’s chin; his other hand remains on Thresh's head. Yone pulls Thresh's jaw down, Thresh simply unwilling to fight, and pushes his jaw up. Nearly babbling as Yone physically forces him to chew, Thresh tiredly stares at Yone's grinning face, his lips slightly upturned.

"Swallow," Yone commands.

With a sharp intake of breath, Thresh nods. Closing his eyes in painful anticipation, Thresh does as he's told. The manju goes down his throat like molasses, Thresh dreading adding even more food to his gut.

The final dish now in his gut like the rest of his feast, Thresh tries not to think about how four entire meals are resting in his burdened stomach, his tongue lulls out in relief. Huffing, his cheeks puff out as he attempts in regaining some sort of breath. His ears downturned, they gain a bit of flush just as the rest of his face does. Eyes lidded, he glares at Yone. Yone suddenly out of his sight, his eyes widen as a pair of hands grab his shoulders. Before he can swing his hefty arms, the act a lot harder than it used to be with the cumbersome weight adorning them, Thresh finds himself staring at his ceiling, his back on the floor as his hair pools around him. He lets out a pathetic moan, his stomach furious with him for the movement. His stomach kicks and screams at him, Thresh whimpering as he tries to helplessly soothe it.

Yone popping into view, he mirthfully grins at Thresh, as much as his usual stoic face allows him at the least.

“You've finally devoured everything,” The remnant of Thresh’s eating apparent only in the emptied plates left in his wake, the contents of most of his meal is a mystery to him with the rushed eating, each plate cleaned dry.

Unable to retort, Thresh focuses his gaze on the ceiling. Desperately reaching for his stomach, his hands barely reach the upper portion of his stuffed, taut gut. The crammed, overworked, mound of fat churns and groans as it struggles to digest the vast entirety of the day’s meal with another meal having just joined it.

A pair of hands resting on the apex of his gut, Thresh shuts his eyes, expecting the worst. He keeps them closed with a contented sigh as they begin to caress the heft of fat, rubbing his stomach in giant circular motions. Yone keeps his eyes closed as well, simply humming to himself as his hands wander and soothe the aching stomach.

“You did so well today,” Yone praises, his hands never leaving the expanse of Thresh’s stomach. Rubbing the overstuffed gut, he carefully maneuvers his hands. The firm mass of fat lightly quivers under his gentle touch. Only giving the slightest of occasional pushes to help ease it, Yone remains dedicated to his task.

Thresh grunts in response, though his face turns even brighter upon focusing on hearing Yone mention today as if tomorrow will entail the same thing. Thresh finds himself looking forward to it as Yone rubs his love handle, another rubbing his horns while peppering his gut with a kiss.

[eat0crow]

Maribat prompt - Bruce adopts Marinette please? (Sorry if I misunderstood and this is what you did Not want. If that's the case just ignore this, sorry)

Nope, you didn’t misunderstand at all Anon! I hope you don’t mind a bit of humor, I had a really shitty night-so many customers decided to yell at me it’s not even funny. I needed something lighthearted.

Beta read by some lovely people on the Maribat Discord server.

Who Needs Paperwork?

Bruce is done. So painfully done, that the only one who can’t see just how thin a line he’s walking is the source of his annoyance. Hal Jordan, the very man who makes homicide look more appealing every day. Did Bruce really need a moral code?

It just seemed to get in the way.

From behind him doors slam, people scatter, and yet Hal won’t catch the hint. “All I’m saying is that, isn’t it time you guys settled down, and had a whole flock of little birdies?”

Bruce has never, not once in his life, desired friends. He hadn’t wanted a relationship either, yet here he is, six months into a decades in the making relationship with Clark Kent. If Bruce had known that the League would take his relationship as a sign of him getting soft, he would have sworn Clark to secrecy.

“I’m going to the training room.” Which should have roughly translated to 'follow me, and I’ll use you for target practice'. Several people within hearing distance shudder at the implication. Bruce is darkly satisfied; he hasn’t seen this much fear directed at him in months. Hal Jordan, well Bruce has theories on how green lantern cores affect intelligence.

None of them are particularly positive.

“It’s never too early to start working on your ninja kid army,” Hal says lightly, as if he’s talking about the weather, and not something as morally bankrupt as child soldiers. Sure he trained Robin young, but it’s not like Bruce had a choice. Dick would have been fighting mob bosses with or without his consent. Training had been the only thing keeping him out of even more danger. “Who’s going to carry on your terrifying legacy?”

“I already have Robin.” And because Bruce can see Hal’s next sentence before he even says it— “And Clark has Conner. Aside from procreation being wholly unnecessary, it’s also physically impossible. You are aware that it requires a woman to produce off-spring, right?”

“Yeah, tell that to LexCorp,” Hal mumbles under his breath. Bruce would be lying if he said he hadn’t ever wondered about that. Sure Conner’s a clone, but he’s also the most stable clone Bruce had ever seen. He wouldn’t put it past Luthor to have spliced in a secondary set of DNA. “Just think about it Spooky. Combine your brains with Clark’s powers and bam! You’ve got the one person on earth who could defeat Doomsday without breaking a sweat. Isn’t that a better tomorrow?”

Bruce stops, because things make a lot more sense now. Doomsday had been terrifying, he opened up a whole world of possibilities. Of threats too strong for the League to deal with, just waiting. There’s no escaping this conversation. Even if he tunes it out now, Hal will just bring it up again and again, until Clark finally catches on. That will make the man pout.

Bruce really doesn’t like it when Clark pouts.

He might not have the patience to deal with Hal’s solution to apocalypse inducing threats now, but he’ll have even less later when Barry no doubt joins Hal’s crusade. One idiot is bad enough. Bruce is not willing to explain to Dick why he killed his best friend's uncle.

“That’s why the Young Justice League was formed,” Bruce points out slowly, his voice careful, like he’s explaining the concept to a toddler. Hal probably has an I.Q that stalled around the fifth grade, so same difference. “Their role is to carry on our legacies in protecting earth after we’re unable.”

“That’s not what I mean! Sure, by the time they graduate out of the little leagues they’ll be ready to take over, but that’s just it. They’re a miniature Justice League. They’ll have the exact same blind spots as us. I’m talking about combining skill sets here.”

Bruce actually hadn’t thought of that, and as much as the words choke him to admit, Hal is right. They would be subject to the exact same failings as the current League. They’re a group trained to take over specific positions. They’ve been trained for years and no one, not even Robin, would be able to break close to half a decades worth of habits.

They make it to the training room, and a flash of vivid, bright red catches his eye. The newest member, Ladybug is talking to Clark. Bruce hadn’t been aware that he would be joining him for this training session, but it all works out nicely.

Ladybug looks worn, and Bruce doesn’t doubt she is. The girl is Diana’s apprentice, not sidekick. They've both been adamant about that. No one, not even Diana, knows her identity. Bruce could respect a healthy dose of secrecy, but she’s only around Dick’s age. The information on her is scarce, and Diana is tight-lipped. Partially out of ignorance and partially out of some vague magical pact her mother made.

A combined skillset.

Ladybug doesn't have years of habits to break. If her own admissions are anything to go by, she doesn’t have any formal training outside of noncombatant magic. She’s dangerously smart too. Bruce has seen her improvise enough times. Sure, she might not have as much super-strength as Clark, but Bruce has seen her lift far more than her frame should allow. Maybe strength proportional to a ladybug’s? Her skin is certainly reinforced by what has to be the tensile strength of an exoskeleton.

Which is glossing over her ability to create solid matter through pure will—maybe he'll have Hal train her a bit, her powers are similar enough to a Green Lanterns’.

“You have a point, Lantern.”

There’s a suspicious pause. “I do?”

Bruce offers him his most deadpan expression. So even Hal knows that ninety percent of what leaves his mouth is garbage, good to know. “The League will be comprised of individuals with the same failings as current Leaguers. In the event of world-ending threats, we can not afford these failings. So I will be taking your advice.”

“Oh, that’s...good.” Hal looks perplexed, like he hadn’t expected his argument to land him anywhere but in a body cast.

“However,” Bruce continues, walking over toward Clark and Ladybug. “I have no interest in experimental science that’s no doubt illegal in numerous countries. So, we’ll be adopting.”

“We will!” Clark shrieks from his left.

Everyone else in the room gasps. Bruce ignores them, reaching out instead to grab Ladybug. “She’ll be the perfect candidate.”

"Bruce," Clark whines. "That's not how adoption works. You've skipped so many steps."

Bruce sends him a pointed look, the one that says play along or you're sleeping on the couch. Clearly, Clark gets the message because he shuts up. The look on his face also implies that Bruce is going to be out in the dog house for this stunt, but he chooses to ignore it anyway.

So what if Alfred likes Clark more. Bruce still owns the house.

Ladybug, to her credit, only blinks.

Wide blue eyes stare at him, she looks eerily similar to Dick and Conner. They all share the same coloring: black hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. She has Dick’s delicate bone structure, Bruce could probably pass the two of them off as twins.

Dick is going to be roped into teaching her some actual acrobatics as soon as possible. Would a grappling hook be an appropriate ‘welcome to the family’ gift? Bruce doesn't trust her yo-yo.

A beat passes. “I already have parents.”

“Not superhero parents.”

[a-lil-perspective]

Remember Me/Holding On (For Dear Life)

A/N: The Bad Batch X Reader. Playing around with a scenario where the Bad Batch removed their inhibitor chips with Echo, thus forfeiting executing Order: 66, and they go incognito in faking their deaths thereafter. Reader doesn’t know so it’s full of angst? All-around switching up my writing a bit with this one. Feedback is always appreciated. Technically is a Reader insert but I also switched up the pronouns a bit. [Warnings: Mourning over death of loved ones, subliminal implication of suicidal thought] @shadow-hyder @starflyer-104 @thegoodbatch @kriffingunlucky @karpasia @obiorbenkenobi @everyonehasanindividuality (Tag List is open.:))

{~***~}

Clone Force 99. The Bad Batch.

A Clone Force To Be Reckoned With.

A whirlwind of gray plastoid and flashing crimson accents. A brewing swirl of personalities and a tempest of skill, bleeding together seamlessly. Much like their bond. Brothers by blood, and brothers in arms. A camaraderie unprecedented, a stellar example of unorthodoxy. Their story begging, no—demanding to be told.

I’m not the right person to do so. You’d do well hearing it from the four warriors themselves.

But they aren’t here. They’re gone.

Not gone... I must correct. Merely marching far away.

No, marching is too straightforward and monotonous for them, too regulated and predictable; a disgrace and offense to their overall prowess—those insufferable, lovable di’kuts.

Not marching: Clone Force 99 is ‘charging-headfirst-into-no-doubt-a-suicidal-battle-comprised-of-an-equally-crazy-strategy’ far away.

Yeah. That’s more like it.

Accelerated aging. The untrained eye would’ve been none the wiser. The span of a decade accompanying, yet their demeanors depicted a thousand lifetimes. Fine lines etched into coarse and defined features, each one a new resolve for each man to fight for more than just existing.

They constantly challenged me to find a new angle. Something I couldn’t find solely through the scope of Crosshair’s rifle. They cut through and canceled stereotypes, combatant through even the thick resistance of daunt and demoralization: a resilience stronger than even the sharpest cut of Sergeant Hunter’s knife. Their oddities and wonderfully endearing peculiarities: fully embraced and secured in a grip stronger than even Wrecker’s large endow of muscle. The four men: definitively and unknowingly hacking into and through even the most incredulous beings by way of their efficiency and bond—an impressive capability that gave even the ingenious Tech a run for his credits.

Their aura of commandeering and confidence incited fear, evoked jealousy, or channeled respect. I’d like to point out from personal experience that it was absolutely possible to acknowledge the manifestation of all three reactions simultaneously. The Bad Batch had a peculiar way of affecting people; almost comical, when I think about it. Enough to nearly bring a smile to my face.

They say a person never leaves you. Maker, I’m hoping that might be true. What started so perfect was over too fast.

They boasted a ferocity, but a tenderness. Each member carried their armor a little differently, a little heavier than the other. When you unlatched and peeled away the protective encasing, therein was a raw vulnerability: humanity. A vulnerability, not a weakness. A strength. One of many the unique quartet possessed.

At their core: living, breathing, feeling, humans; ideal candidates concerning the way war tried to brutally strip them of that very individuality. But they protected as fiercely as they fought. They loved as passionately as they clung to their varieties of honed adeptness. Their loyalty and liberty was as explosive as the colorful destruction left incessantly imprinted throughout battlefields.

It’s borderline treasonous to say, that the Republic could’ve majorly benefitted from some propaganda courtesy of those four. Oh, how many times I tried to convince their stubborn and surprisingly bashful selves of the prospect—seriously, wouldn’t four handsome Commandos inspire you?

They seemed to think otherwise. Kriff. From the outside looking in, I would’ve enlisted in the militia the minute I saw those dark clad figures, shrouded in enigma and purpose, handsomely poised just above the text of some patriotic slogan that would’ve captivated me in a state of naivety and infatuation. Yes please. Sign me the hell up.

Not exactly how our first encounter went, but, not that far off, actually. The Sergeant of Clone Force 99 can could recall the story in great detail.

It hurts. I want to lift the pen and stop. But I press on.

On a more lighthearted notation: what you probably also didn’t know is that the boys kept a running bet. Gotta keep things lively when awaiting their next set of intel, right? Though more often than not, the four men each managed to singlehandedly work up the energy of a wild Loth-Cat, and of their own accord, impatiently and prematurely sprung into action; innately preferring to take charge whenever opportunities present. The indefinite cardholders, if you will: you play on their terms, or not at all—a subtle implication towards their fastidious and absolutely brilliant battle plans. Part of their aesthetic and reputation, you could say. I say with all affection: pure mischief, that bunch.

To their enemies: may you experience reverence and/or embarrassment in the 250+ fluent ways the Bad Batch could (or did) utterly kick your ass. In which case: may you rest in peace thereafter. Take that, shabuir.

Anyway, I digress; though not before the brief accredit of my improved fluency in the Mando’a dialect directed to the tutelage of Clone Force 99. Their methods define as unparalleled and most certainly, never present with redundancy.

Betting was limitless to the four, especially along the seemingly most insignificant points of interest: Who can find the best hiding spot for Hunter’s thieved bandana? Toss some credits in. How long will Tech go without sleep this time? Credits in the betting pool. How soon will Crosshair run out of his next batch of toothpicks? Bet.

As for me? I would’ve bet on us. We were untouchable. I always told them it’d take a whole damn army to drag me away.

Ironically, it took a half-dozen Clone Troopers to drag me away from the gravely man bearing news of their tragic fate.

I lost a part of me I’ll never find. But as sure as it is my obligation and desire to consistently—always— remember those men in everyday passing, it is more my duty to make certain their legacy is not lost. It’s my priority, the dedication of time and breath, to depict the breadth of their influence.

You should remember the skilled men donning a palette of gray and red. The men adorning variants of a skull insignia and two matching digits: 99. Distinct characteristics, delineate biographies demanding to not be cast aside nor torn from the pages of history.

Ramikadyc—a Commando state of mind. An adjective of the Bad Batch. An inherence that extended beyond their overt classification, one that outreached towards others, an absolute; an honorable invitation bridging the gap and instilling unification between fellow Clone brethren.

A minuscule sampling scratched within this piece as a broken illustration, of the life of the greatest Commando unit to ever exist, and of incredible men.

This is not the end. It’s just the beginning.

Be’Bes’Bavar Ashnar Olaror.

The Cavalry Has Arrived.

{~***~}

Her swollen wrists flexed to knot the crimson accessory around the piece of flimsiplast at last; a seal. It never got any easier to re-read her hastily scribbled Aurebesh requiem. It folds in on itself, the material crinkles, informing the woman that her hands are trembling as she performs the simple task involving dexterity. A dark splotch newly materialized on the worn fabric of bandana vaguely registers to her, of the salty tears now welling in her eyes. She inhales sharply and awkwardly bends to lay the rolled note to rest in the garden of stone and corpses. And with it, the remnants of her already fragmented composure.

Her throat was tight again. She struggled in swallowing deep anguish amidst the sharp winds that chapped at her soft facial features and stung against the dry sclera of her red-rimmed eyes. The buzz of the cold did little to counteract the hot flush rising in her cheeks. Time hung in stasis, yet the throb of her ankles indicated a semblance of how long she’d actually stood motionless at the foot of the weathering graves.

Or maybe the ache was from the extra weight carried purposefully around her newly swollen abdomen; she could no longer tell which. The deep pang in her chest robbed her of a breath, and she felt as empty as the four corpses now six feet under the stars. The thud of a heartbeat—now two—felt cruel and indignant within the graveyard and for a millisecond, a sickly enticing one, the DC series cinched at her hip was, obscurely, the most alluring décor amid the melancholy earth.

She startled at the fleeting thought; gone as quick as it began, giving way to the flood of despair. Agony was quickly sinking it’s teeth, despondency was bearing it’s full weight on her shoulders, and respite has abandoned her. A strangled cry scraped from her dry throat, a familiar sound she’s produced a dozen times in the wake of his disappearance. Six months.

It felt like a lifetime.

She remembers in total recollection the last night she saw him. It replays like a broken holorecord every time her eyelids shut. A moment that robbed her of more time; a cruelty.

His dark eyes harbored solemnity. She gazed up in anticipation at him, a nauseating knot twisting deep in her belly. At the time, she didn’t register the feeling of dread. He told her not to worry, that everything will be alright. She should’ve been more intuitive, should’ve known those words were accursed in their own right; a distinct diction almost always bestowing a finality or goodbye.

But he was gentle and soothing with his words, albeit deliberate in presentation. In the quietude, she associates him with serenity. The man’s adoration for her transcended. His fingers curled around her own in emphasis as he pushed the newly gifted DC blaster pistol to her chest.

“From me to you.” A raised hand quickly cuts off her stubborn reiteration of her full capability and independence without the weapon in tow. “It’ll make me feel better for you to have this. Never know when you’ll need it.”

Times are changing. He desperately wanted to tell her, about everything.

“I just need you.” Her declaration is faint. The spindly man briefly clamps his tongue in quelling his own dire reciprocation threatening to spew. The faint ticking of a chronometer in the corner warns him not to break down and unravel here, it’s not the time. Not right now. Not yet.

Only when he departs.

“What you need is to be strong. For me. Okay?”

For the baby. She quickly extinguishes her pained cries. Her hand splays reflexively across her midsection in stoked remembrance, and the calloused pads of her fingers rub soothing circles in the stirring, where there was now pressure from the child‘s restlessness. Mando’a serenaded habitually from between her lips, along with a promise.

“Ner cyare ad’ika... I promise that you will know all about your family. Your Buir. Your wild Bavodu’e.” A strained chuckle unbridles, leaving a bitter taste, short and succinct before disappearing. A forlornly glance to the headstones. Her voice cadences. “They would’ve loved you. Someday, you’ll be able to feel them.”

“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.”

Not gone, merely marching far away.

Something hopeful and inspiriting flits deep in her soul. Her lashes flutter upward and the stars are in a particular array of brilliance. It zips across the expanse of sky, like a ship jumping to hyperspace nearby.

“Ret’urcye mhi, ner cyare.”

Somewhere not so far beyond, she can feel his warmth; the tangibility of his deft fingertips resting assuringly at her shoulders, the wind now encasing her in a mimicry of his lanky but sturdy arms. She holds tight in his absence, and the wind resonates vivid echoes of his sultry voice just past the shell of her ear and bristles the stray strands matted to her tear streaked face.

He’s not here.

The sun remains persistent in rising and combating the dark, so she wills herself to stand amidst the devastation. An abrupt halt to her story—their story—left without a full narrative or plot to flesh out, now leaves her dubious over the already shrouded future.

A fond realization, no longer destined to be a memory—for memories are manifested from events already taken place—nevertheless flickers to the surface. The fondness remains just as palpable.

A memory never allowed to transpire, aggrievedly reminding her, a memory simply not meant to be. But she wills the strength to dream, anyway. She decidedly reaches for an alternate cover to write a new story in. It starts as a rough draft, but the growing bump of her abdomen is living proof of new beginnings, of continuing legacies and a beautiful piece that wholesomely envelops and accounts for the aching, missing one.

Not a memory; no. An assurance, a promising devotion to his origins inscribed on the delicate surface of her heart, and one day, sewed and etched into her child’s. Their child.

“Little Ram’ser: a sniper, just like your Buir.”

[writergirl2011]

Cersei Lannister: Textbook Narcissist

A while back, someone pointed me to an article which diagnosed with Cersei with Borderline Personality Disorder while at the same time diagnosing Jaime with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, which--WTF??  I would like to know which version of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) that person was reading, because if anything, Cersei has a classic case of NPD.  I posted this on Discord a while back and decided to bring it over to here:

First, to address why I don't think Cersei has BPD. So much of BPD is centered around a person who deeply fears abandonment and will do whatever it takes to keep that from happening. A well-known example is the person whose counselor suggests that instead of having weekly sessions, they start coming bi-weekly. A person with BPD perceives this as the counselor wanting to end the relationship and responds by sabotaging the progress they've made to this point.

People with BPD are often impulsive and self-destructive. They have difficulty controlling their tempers, and when they've calmed down, they often feel shame for how they've behaved. I don't feel that describes Cersei entirely.  Yes, she can be impulsive and she definitely has a temper.  However, she doesn’t feel shame for anything--or if she does, it is very fleeting.

People with BPD are able to empathize with others to a point.  Cersei doesn’t know how to do that.

She's not suicidal, or perhaps I should say consistently suicidal. The only two times she references choosing her own death are during Blackwater, when she says that she'll have Ilyn Payne kill her before Stannis can get to her, and when Qyburn reminds her that the likelihood of Jaime winning a Trial by Combat is very slim. People with BPD tend to experience more suicidal ideation and make multiple attempts.

People with BPD often have an unstable self-image. This is definitely not Cersei. It's abundantly clear that she sees herself as beautiful, clever, and smart enough to rule the realm in her own right. She doesn't waver in this belief.

Of the nine criteria that comprise a possible diagnosis of BPD, Cersei meets, at most, one--inappropriate, intense anger that she has difficulty controlling.

~*~*

So moving on to Narcissistic Personality Disorder...there are nine possible criteria.  To be diagnosed with NPD, a minimum of five must be present.

One: grandiose sense of self-importance, characterized by an overestimation of one's abilities and devaluation of others' abilities. Check. Cersei thinks herself Tywin's true heir and believes herself to be smart and cunning enough to rule better than he did.

Two: preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited power. Check. Think back to the chapter when Cersei’s inner monologue talks about what she’s had to endure over the years, all at the hands of men (Robert’s drunken groping, Jaime’s jealousy, Varys, Ned, etc). She’s been waiting for this time to come, and now it’s here. Even in her childhood she was obsessed with power—she wanted to marry Rhaegar, and when the Rebellion ended, she willingly married Robert.

Three: heightened sense of superiority with an equal expectation that others will recognize their worth. Ehhh...I'm not sure I can give this one a full check. You could argue that all the Lannisters suffer from this to varying degrees. You could also make the argument that Cersei recognizes that people aren't going to give her her due because she's a woman, which continues to fuel her ambition.

Four: requires excessive admiration, fishes for compliments, wants others to be envious of what they have and are surprised when they aren't. Needs to be the center of attention. Yeah, I'd say that's pretty accurate here. Check.

Five: sense of entitlement, characterized by an expectation of favored treatment (and reactions of fury and/or confusion when they don't get it). Check, although again, how much of this is innate in Cersei and how much of it was bred into her by virtue of being a Lannister?

Six: taking advantage of others to achieve their own needs/goals. CHECK. See Lannister, Jaime; Lannister, Lancel; Kettleblack, Osmund; and Moonboy for all we know.

Seven: lacking in empathy and unwilling to recognize the feelings and needs of others. CHECK CHECK CHECK. Cersei will talk about her concerns and needs ad nauseam while dismissing the concerns and needs of others with contempt. Perfect example is the way she treats Tommen during the vigil for Tywin when he gets sick. Her attitude is, "I can stand it, so you should, too." She refuses to understand that Tommen is a) not her and b) is a child.

Eight: believes that others are jealous of them and/or are jealous of others. Check. Sure, the "younger more beautiful" part of the Valonqar prophesy didn't help here, but I somehow doubt that Cersei was ever going to be happy with the idea of being replaced by a younger, prettier girl as queen.

And finally nine: shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes. Another somewhat reluctant check, because I think that's as much Cersei being a Lannister as Cersei being Cersei.

This results in six definite checkmarks, with the other three being present but possibly mitigated by virtue of being a Lannister.  Cersei definitely meets the criteria for Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

Here's the interesting thing about people with NPD: when faced with criticism or defeat, they often react with disdain, rage, or defiant counterattack. Think about when Jaime rejects Cersei in the White Sword Tower. What does she do? She lashes out by mocking his love for Tyrion (because Jaime refuses to avenge Joffrey), his disability, and his manhood. She continues to mock him whenever he criticizes her, even to the point of throwing wine glasses and slapping him.

And now the scary thing about people with NPD when facing defeat: they will often retreat into an appearance of humility that may mask and protect their grandiosity. I think of it as lulling people into a false sense of security before they strike. Cersei, at the end of ADWD, appears to Kevan as though she's been humbled and defeated. Do we honestly think she's down for the count? Noooooo. I don't know that it'll go as far as the show went, where she blows up the sept in revenge, but she's definitely plotting something.

TL;DR—Cersei doesn’t have Borderline Personality Disorder.  She’s a textbook narcissist.  Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[spacecrone]

Sorry, Cassandra.

So, it's definite then

It's written in the stars, darlings

Everything must come to an end - Susanne Sundfør

I first learned about the climate crisis in 2008, as an undergrad at Hunter College, in a class called The History and Science of Climate Change. For the next decade I would struggle with how to process and act on the scientific paradigm shift climate change required: that human activity could disrupt the climate system and create a planetary ecosystem shift making Earth uninhabitable to human life. I became a climate justice activist and attempted to work directly on The Problem which was actually, as philosopher Timothy Morton writes, a hyperobject, something so systemic and enormous in size and scope as to be almost unintelligible to human awareness. I’ve cycled through probably every single response a person could have to this knowledge, despair, ecstasy, rage, hope. I’ve landed somewhere close to what I might call engaged bewilderment. For me, his particular locale has a soundtrack, and it’s Susanne Sundfør’s cinematic dance dystopia Ten Love Songs, an album that tells a story of love and loss in the Anthropocene. Sundfør is a sonic death doula for the Neoliberal project, with a uniquely Scandinavian version of bleak optimism. To truly grapple with this time of escalating transition, we need to really face what is, not what we hope or fear will be, but what is actually happening. A throbbing beat with shimmering synths around which to orient your dancing mortal envelope can’t hurt.

Susanne Sundfør’s Ten Love Songs was released a few days after Valentine’s Day in February of 2015, six months after I had been organizing Buddhists and meditators for the Peoples Climate March.  I was already a fan, having first heard her voice as part of her collaboration with dreamy synth-pop outfit m83 on the Oblivion soundtrack. Oblivion was visually striking but felt like a long music video. The soaring synths and Sundfør’s powerful voice drove the plot more than the acting, though I loved how Andrea Riseborough played the tragic character Vika, whose story could have been more central to the plot but was sidelined for a traditional Tom Cruise romantic centerpiece. But since the movie was almost proud of its style over investment in substance, the music stood out. The soundscapes were as expansive as the green-screened vistas of 2077  in the movie. It was just nostalgic enough while also feeling totally new, a paradox encapsulated in the name of m83’s similarly wistful and sweeping Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming.  I am not exempt from taking comfort in style that signifies a previous era, and I am also not alone in it. It’s a huge industry, and while the MAGA-style yearning for a previous era is one manifestation, maybe there are ways to acknowledge culture as cyclical in a way that doesn’t sacrifice traditional knowledge to some imagined myth of perpetual progress.

When Ten Love Songs came out the following year, I listened to it on repeat for days.  Sundfør seemed to have absorbed the music-driven sci-fi into a concept album, with m83 providing her with a whole new panopoly of sounds at her disposal. Like Oblivion,  Ten Love Songs told the story of a future dystopia with high speed chases, nihilistic pleasure-seeking and operatic decadence against a backdrop of technocratic inequality. It mixed electro-pop with chamber music and I listened to it on a Greyhound ride to Atlantic City in the middle of snowy February. I hadn’t felt like this since high school, that a full album was a sort of soundtrack to my own life, which I could experience as cinematic in some way while the music was playing. This situated me in my own story, of studying climate change as an undergrad and graduating into a financial collapse, working as a personal assistant to an author writing about ecological collapse and ritual use of psychedelics, to joining a Buddhist community and organizing spiritual activists around climate justice. 

Ten Love Songs is a breakup album, with lyrics telling of endings and running out of time. But it didn’t read to me as an album about a single human romantic relationship coming to an end. It felt like a series of vignettes about the planet and its ecosphere breaking up with us, all of us. People. Some songs like Accelerate, one of the album’s singles, throb in an anthem to nihilistic numbness and speeding up into a catastrophe that feels inevitable. Fade Away is a bit lighter, tonally and lyrically, (and if you listen, please note the exquisitely perfect placement of what sounds like a toaster “ding!”), but is still about fading away, falling apart. The way the songs seem to drive a narrative of anthropocenic collapse built on science fiction film scores, the combination of orchestra and techno-pop, absolutely draws on Sundfør’s experience collaborating with m83 for the Oblivion soundtrack, which itself combined Anthony Gonzalez’s love for the adult-scripted teen dramas of his own 80’s adolescence. In Ten Love Songs, Sundfør takes what she learned from this collaboration and scores not a movie but a life experience of living through ecological collapse and all of the heartbreak and desire that erupts in a time when everything seems so close to the knife’s edge.

I am reminded of another Scandinavian dance album that was extremely danceable yet harbored within it a sense of foreboding. The Visitors, ABBA’s eighth studio album, was considered their venture into more mature and complex music. The two couples who comprised the band had divorced the year before it was released, and the entire atmosphere of the album is paranoid, gloomy, and tense. The cover shows the four musicians, on opposite sides of a dark room, ignoring each other. Each song is melancholy and strange in its own way, unique for a pop ensemble like Abba. One song in particular showcases their ability to use an archetype of narrative tragedy and prophesy to tell the story of regret. Cassandra is sung from the perspective of those who didn’t heed the woman cursed by Zeus to foretell the future but never be believed. 

I have always considered myself a pretty big Abba fan, something my high school choir instructor thought was riotously funny. I was born in the 80’s and nobody in my family liked disco, so I seemed like something of an anachronism. But pop music, especially synth-oriented pop, has always felt like a brain massage to me. It could get my inner motor moving when I felt utterly collapsed in resignation to the scary chaos of my early life. But I only discovered the song Cassandra in 2017, while giving The Visitors a full listen. It felt like I had never heard the song before, though, as a fan I must have. But something about 2015 made the song stand out more. It starts with piano, soft tambourine, and the ambient sound of a harbor. It has a coastal Mediterranean vibe, as some Abba songs do, foreshadowing Cassandra’s removal from her home city, an event she foretold but could not get anyone to believe. It’s a farewell song of regret, echoing the regret the members of Abba felt about their own breakups. 

We feel so full of promise at the dawn of a new relationship. Only after the split can we look back and say we saw the fissures in the bond. The signs were there. Why did we ignore them? This happens on an individual level but the Cassandra paradox is an archetype that climate scientists and journalists are very familiar with. This particular Abba song, and the Visitors album overall, uses this archetype to tell the story of a breakup in retrospect. With climate change, the warnings have been there, even before science discovered the rising carbon in the atmosphere. Indigenous peoples have been warning of ecological collapse since colonization began. Because of white supremacy and an unwavering belief in “progress,” perpetual economic and technological development and growth, warnings from any source but especially marginalized sources have been noise to those who benefit from that perpetual growth model and from white supremacy itself. Is there a way to undo the Cassandra curse and render warnings signal BEFORE some major event turns us all into the chorus from Abba’s song, singing “some of us wanted- but none of us could--  listen to words of warning?” Composer Pauline Oliveros called listening a radical act. It is especially so when we listen actively to the sounds and signals of those we would otherwise overlook.

When I look back at my life in the time that Sundfør’s Ten Love Songs and m83’s movie music seems nostalgic for, the late 1980’s in New Jersey,  I was a child with deeply dissociative and escapist tendencies, which helped me survive unresolved grief, loss, and chaos. I recognize my love for Abba’s hypnotic synth music as a surrendering to the precise and driving rhythm of an all-encompassing sound experience. I also see how my early life prepared me to be sensitized to the story climate science was telling when I finally discovered it in 2008. I had already grown up with Save the Whales assemblies and poster-making contests, with a heavy emphasis on cutting six-pack rings so that sea life would not be strangled to death. I knew what it was like to see something terrible happening all around you and to feel powerless to stop it, because of the way my parents seemed incapable of and unsupported in their acting out their own traumatic dysregulation. Wounds, unable to heal, sucking other people into the abyss. I escaped through reading science fiction, listening to music like Abba and Aphex Twin loud enough to rattle my bones. I wanted to overwhelm my own dysregulated nervous system. I dreamed of solitude on other planets, sweeping grey vistas, being the  protagonist of my own story where nothing ever hurt because ice ran through my veins and the fjords around me. My home planet was dying, and nobody could hear those of us screaming into the wind about it.

Ten Love Songs woke up that lost cosmic child who had banished herself to another solar system. Songs of decadence, songs of endings, songs of loss. Though that album was not overtly about climate change, Sundfør did talk about ecological collapse in interviews for her radically different follow-up album Music For People In Trouble. After the success of Ten Love Songs, Sundfør chose to travel to places that she said “might not be around much longer” in order to chronicle the loss of the biosphere for her new album. It is more expressly and urgently about the current global political moment, but the seeds for those themes were present and in my opinion much more potent in the poppier album. But maybe that’s the escapist in me.

The old forms that brought us to this point are in need of end-of-life care. Capitalism, white supremacy, patriarchal theocratic nationalism, neoliberalism, they all need death doulas. Escapism makes sense in response to traumatic stimulus, and for many of us it may have helped us survive difficult circumstances. But if we are to face what it means to be alive on this planet at this moment, we might be here to be present to and help facilitate and ease the process of putting these systems to rest. And maybe this work is not at odds with a dance party. The ability to be visionary about shared alternatives to these dying systems is not inherently escapist, when we are willing to take the steps together to live into those new stories. What would happen if cursed Cassandras, instead of pleading with existing power structures to heed warnings that sound like noise to them, turned to each other to restore the civic body through listening, through bearing witness to each others unacknowledged and thwarted grief over losses unacknowledged by those same systems of coercive power?

Engaged bewilderment means my version of hope, informed by Rebecca Solnit’s work on the topic, comes from the acceptance that things will happen that I could never have imagined possible. Climate change is happening and there are certain scientific certainties built into that trajectory. Some of it is written in the stars. But as with any dynamic system change, we do not know exactly how it will all shake out. These unknowns can be sources of fear and despair, but there is also the possibility for agency, choice and experimentation. The trajectory of my individual life was always going to end in death. Does that make it a failure? Or does it render each choice and engagement of movement towards the unknown an ecstatic act? As the old forms collapse, no need to apologize to the oracles. At this point they are dancing, and hope you’ll join.

[kenpxchi]

The night air is cool, picking up in a light breeze throughout Inuzuri. The 78th District of North Rukon is the point of origin for many Shinigami, two of note being Renji Abarai and Rukia Kuchiki. Still, for every strong soul that manages to survive the poverty-stricken streets, hundreds more are doomed to wander the broken homes and dirty buildings until their deaths. It’s a sad state, and a stark reminder of the class divide between the residents of Soul Society. Buildings with roofs are considered a luxury. Buildings with doors are considered uncommon. Four walls is about the standard of living that many people get, and they live in crowded, uncomfortable hunger and thirst. Those who can’t fit in the buildings either sleep in the street or wander about.

It’s a sight that Kenpachi knows all too well as he wanders through the streets. He’s not wearing his normal attire tonight. The haori would make him stick out so much that no one would even think of coming near him, and even wearing shoes would single him out as an outsider. That’s why he’s wearing a loose array of rags and scarves, covering him from head to toe. Still, despite the wrappings covering the sword he carries and disguising him well, many of the people would still avoid him due to his height and build. To address that, he’s using a tactic from his early childhood, his scavenging days coming back to him. He drags his right leg behind him, keeping it unnaturally rigid, and he’s slouching so much that it looks like he has a hunchback. Others still give him space due to him looking like a diseased wanderer, but they don’t seem to fear him, only pitying him. If only they knew what walked among them.

A yelp pierces the darkness, and his head turns. Nostrils flare as he picks up the scent, even through the suffocating stink of the dirty rags. Blood is a long-familiar smell to him, and he starts moving quicker as he approaches. He hears the sounds of a struggle, the grunts and laughter of men and the whimpering of their victim. His eye narrows. He rises to his full height and walking pace, his gaze ice and his fingers twitching.

Turning a corner down into an alleyway, he sees three men surrounding a young boy. All three of them are kicking the child in the ribs as he writhes on the ground in pain. One of them giggles with glee as he holds up a small cloth sack, shaking it out of the boy’s reach. The jingle indicates the contents are money. As Kenpachi approaches, all three of them stop their attack, and after a moment where six eyes all widen, aggression fills their minds and they all adopt a defensive stance. No words need to be exchanged between them. Kenpachi can read their body language all too easily. However, when the one with the boy’s money, evidently the leader of the gang, starts to lower his foot onto the prone child’s throat, Kenpachi’s eye narrows.

“One more step, and I’ll-”

He never finishes his sentence, as a razor-thin line opens across his throat. Blood drips down his chin in red rivulets as a choked gurgle emanates from both his mouth and the hole in his neck. Terror and surprise comprise the last expression on the leader’s face as he stumbles backwards, grasping at his throat, before he realizes that the fingers on the hand he’s using are falling off one by one.

Even before his battle with Ichigo, Kenpachi’s reiatsu has exhibited rather interesting properties whenever raw killing intent enters his thoughts. Before, he was able to make opponents feel like they’d been stabbed by concentrating on them, and after unlocking his true potential during his fight with Unohana, he’s discovered that it can have far deadlier effects. Weaker souls like this man are helpless whenever Kenpachi decides to mark them for death, and as Kenpachi takes a step forwards, the gurgling attacker begins to split into bloody chunks, falling to the dirt below in a great number of pieces and soaking the ground with his gore.

The first of the remaining two is momentarily paralyzed with fear as his comrade takes off running. Seizing this advantage, the scrape of dented and chipped steel rings out as Nozarashi is drawn, raised, and lashes out in a vicious, nigh-instantaneous stab. Kenpachi may not be able to use Shunpo like so many of his fellows, but his leg strength and speed is able to keep up with even speedy fighters like Byakuya, as the man with the blade in his guts unfortunately realized a split second too late. Lifting the bastard into the air, the cloth-bound monstrosity looks him dead in the eyes, his jaw set in a scowl, still hidden behind his scarves. For a moment, one eye stares daggers into two before the impaled assailant is launched from the weapon with a flick of the wrist, sending him up and over Kenpachi before he lands on his head, his neck bending at an unnatural angle with a sickening crunch.

The last one’s already made it to the end of the alleyway, turning a corner and hightailing it down the street. Kenpachi snarls; he hates it when they run. It means he has to chase them down. The fleeing man ducks into another alleyway, leaps over a fence, and comes down in a small tree grove. The bare branches rustle in the breeze as the man pants, liquid terror running down his legs as his heart hammers in his chest. He’s safe, he got away, he escaped from that horrible, horrible thing...

At least, that’s what he believes, until Nozarashi swings down through the fence and the man leaning against it, neatly bisecting him vertically. The two halves twitch momentarily before they fall apart, slumping into another heap of gore at the base of the leafless apple tree. It was so easy to track him. There were far too many things that Kenpachi could use to track him: footprints, urine, sweat, the sound of his heartbeat and breath, the scent of the fear in his veins. Lifting his weapon and flicking the blood from its blade, he watches the fence collapse with a crash. He winces before making his way back to the alleyway.

The boy is frozen in fear and pain, blood running from his broken nose, tears pouring from his eyes. Kenpachi stands over him, still covered in bloody rags, still holding his weapon at his side. A whimper of terror comes from the child as he tries to scoot himself away. Kenpachi remains silent and still for a moment before he slowly returns his weapon to its sheath at his hip, then leans down slowly and retrieves the bag of bloody coins from the heap of limbs and organs that was the thieves’ leader. He tosses the bag to the ground at the boy’s feet and turns away, walking off into the night, returning to his hunch and his limp. He’s still got work to do.

[pierceson-mapes24]

Rhetoric as a Narrative

In this entry, I will examine the critical question(s): What is a narrative that is important to me or U.S. culture? What truths does it promote? What truths does it limit or ignore? What are the societal/ethical advantages and the disadvantages of this narrative?

To investigate these questions, I examined the article Slavery Gave America a Fear of Black People and a Taste for Violent Punishment. Both Still Define our Criminal-Justice system. As my rhetorical artifact. (Which is an excerpt from the 1619 Project) Stevenson uses a series of themes to present on counter-narrative to our public memory about slavery in order to illuminate that slavery did not end with the 13th amendment but that it evolved into a harmful criminal justice system. This is overall productive for society because it calls for the people of the United States to stop romanticizing the past and create a more equitable future.

Slavery Gave America a Fear of Black People and a Taste for Violent Punishment. Both Still Define our Criminal-Justice system. By Bryan Stevenson is an excerpt from Nikole Hannah-Jones “The 1619 Project” published by The New York Times in August 2019. Before I elaborate on Stevenson’s article, I feel the need to give a brief description of “The 1619 Project” as a hole. “The 1619 Project” was created with the intention to reframe American history placing Black American contributions and long-term effects of slavery at the center of the American narrative, illuminating truths that are so widely withheld from U.S. history curriculums. Following the central theme of “The 1619 Project” Bryan Stevenson shines light on the history of the criminal justice system, illuminating the ways our criminal “justice” system has historically preserved and evolved slavery since its “abolishment” in 1865. Stevenson begins his article with a narrative centered around his law offices fight for the release of a black man named Mathew, who was condemned to life in prison at age 16 for a nonhomicide charge. Stevenson stops his story to give a well-crafted history lesson on the mass incarceration of black people and the brutal nature of its history. After completion of his well-crafted look into some defining moments in U.S. history, he moves the story to more modern times, focusing on the inequality and systemic racism that still plagues our society today.

 Narratives or stories exist in every facet of life, from books to TV shows to Movies to Speeches to lectures to recounts of family, the point is narratives are everywhere. Narratives are spoken or written accounts of connected events or experiences, fictional or non-fictional, that embody events, lessons, information, ideology, and tradition ETC… Narratives are a way to connect and reflect on past events personal or public. Narratives are comprised of two differing types of memory, public and private. Public memory, which is described as “a particular type of collective memory that combines the memories of the dominant culture and fragments of marginalized groups, memories, and enables a public to make sense of the past, present, and future.” (Palczewski, Pg.120) Palczewski’s definition of public memory is key to understanding narratives that are central to U.S. history; looking deeper into this definition, dominant culture stands out, providing a face for the narratives narrator, as well as an assumed tone of events, based on dominant cultural traits and truths. G. Thomas Goodnight states “As an inventional resource, collective memory resides in an uneven, heterogeneous region where specific recollections are sometimes contiguous and sometimes fragmented.” (Goodnight, pg. 609), just as Palczewski noted, the shortcoming of public memory is public memory frames narratives from the eyes of the dominant group. This short coming allows for glorification of events and fragmented truths to be told.

One of the narrative evident in Slavery Gave America a Fear of Black People and a Taste for Violent Punishment. Both Still Define our Criminal-Justice system. Is that the U.S. criminal justice system gave slavery a new face, Stevenson frames the U.S. Criminal justice system as a means for slavery to take new form, justified through the creation of the black criminal ideology. In Stevenson history lesson he notions to the loophole within the 13th Amendment stating “After emancipation, black people, once seen as less than fully human ‘‘slaves,’’ were seen as less than fully human ‘‘criminals.’’(Stevenson) he includes this quote suggesting that after emancipation posed criminality took place of forced slavery, which can be seen as the first step in the evolution of slavery. Stevenson connects this shortcoming of the 13th amendment to the start of mass incarceration of black people, he states, “’Laws governing slavery were replaced with Black Codes governing free black people — making the criminal-justice system central to new strategies of racial control.” (Stevenson) Seemingly unsatisfied by merely suggesting that incarceration of black people was a legally justified version of slavery, Stevenson includes, “The imprisoned were then ‘‘leased’’ to businesses and farms, where they labored under brutal conditions.” (Stevenson). Traditionally when using the term leased it is in reference to property or things, once again black people have been reduced to things, showcasing the true intent behind black codes and the creation of black criminal ideology. The narrative that Stevenson shares is one often hidden from U.S. history curriculum; the true story of slavery is one of devious and malicious intent aimed at an already marginalized group. The 13th Amendment may have emancipated slaves, but it did not halt slavery. The notion of black people seen as less than fully human “slaves” before emancipation and after emancipation seen as less than fully human “criminals” can be assumed as a tactic to sustain the racial hierarchy that white men profited off for so long. Overall Stevenson’s narrative is productive, it shares truths about our harmful criminal justice system, countering the tradition narrative told by Americas dominant group.

Another narrative evident in Slavery Gave America a Fear of Black People and a Taste for Violent Punishment. Both Still Define our Criminal-Justice system. Is the history of normalized brutality of black people. Stevenson frames this normalization using public records describing laws allowing for brutal physical punishment of slaves, along with homicide justified by nothing more than race. Stevens states “By 1729, Maryland law authorized punishments of enslaved people including ‘‘to have the right hand cut off . . . the head severed from the body, the body divided into four quarters, and head and quarters set up in the most public places of the county.’’(Stevenson) the public display of quartered slaves is the first case of brutality offered in Stevenson’s counter-narrative, as well as the first step in normalization of brutality. If that wasn’t proof enough Stevenson states “An 1887 report in Mississippi found that six months after 204 prisoners were leased to a white man named McDonald, dozens were dead or dying, the prison hospital filled with men whose bodies bore ‘‘marks of the most inhuman and brutal treatment . . . so poor and emaciated that their bones almost come through the skin.’’” Stevenson’s inclusion of this quote in his narrative suggests in the eyes of the dominant culture (white men) black prisoners where still seen as slaves justifying the brutal treatment of incarcerated black people. While Stevenson did not address if McDonald was punished for his actions, it can be assumed that no actions were taken against McDonald; only furthering the collective memory of normalized brutality. Stevenson, driving his point home states “In 1904, in Mississippi, a black man was accused of shooting a white landowner who had attacked him. A white mob captured him and the woman with him, cut off their ears and fingers, drilled corkscrews into their flesh and then burned them alive — while hundreds of white spectators enjoyed deviled eggs and lemonade” (Stevenson). Stevenson’s use of the word accused suggests that the white mob did not hesitate to inflict brutal punishment on this black man and the woman he was with, inclusion of the refreshments enjoyed by white viewers suggests the aspect of a party or celebration. Overall, these quotes build Stevenson display of normalized brutality of black people, suggesting that the murder justified by race was widely practiced and celebrated. Such grotesque actions were made into events for public display. Stevenson narrative is productive, in that it points to historical actions that provide a footing for race-based violence in todays time.

This narrative is ultimately productive, the nature of this counter-narrative is one that focuses on truths commonly withheld from public memory. These truths are productive for fostering a better tomorrow, as George Santayana once said, those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it, without an impartial narrative about slavery and our harmful criminal justice system, it is easy to look over the truth that slavery has evolved. Overall, this narrative has no disadvantages, being that these truths are important to understanding unfiltered U.S. history.

In conclusion Stevenson use of counter-narrative displays grotesque truths about U.S. history, focused on shifting public memory from the dominant groups recollection to events seen from the marginalized groups point of view. Throughout his narrative Stevenson sheds light on the brutalization of black people, and the birth of ethical corruption in our criminal justice system fostered through the creation of the black-criminal ideology and black codes. Stevenson narrative is productive in that it brings truths widely withheld from U.S. history curriculum to light.  

 References:

“DISCOURSE 2: COLLECTIVE MEMORIES OF WAR AND RACE” Shared Power, Foreign Policy, And Haiti, By G. THOMAS GOODNIGHT AND KATHRYN M. OLSON, pp. 605-608.

LeBlanc, CJ, et al. “Angola Prisoners Say: ‘This Is a War – and We're in It.’” HARD CRACKERS, 21 Apr. 2020, hardcrackers.com/angola-prisoners-say-war/.

“Narratives .” Rhetoric in Civic Life, by Catherine Helen Palczewski et al., Strata Pub., State College, PA, 2012, pp. 117–141.

“Slavery Gave America a Fear of Black People and a Taste for Violent Punishment. Both Still Define our Criminal-Justice system” The 1619 project, by Bryan Stevenson, The New York Times Magazine,2019.