#gone and dead are used synonymously but they are not the same
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I wonder how much of our parents we know through knowing ourselves. I wonder how much of ourselves we think are our own and were first born in our parents. I wonder, even in death, what I still learn about my father.
#memory is immortality love is immortality#gone and dead are used synonymously but they are not the same#he is dead but not gone#when I go to work I tell the kids the jokes he told me and I hear them passed along like strings of life like I’m weaving a person#they laugh and he is almost there#I exist and he is almost here#so I am sad for a while but not forever because my eyes are most his when they’re smiling#and he is dead but not gone#grief
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freeze-thaw
ao3 ⋆ main masterlist
pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: no outbreak, fluff, smut, fingering, playing in the snow, temperature play, Joel probs has super bad circulation, established relationship but it's their first Christmas together and reader has some relationship insecurites word count: 2.7k summary: With your holiday plans ruined when a freak snow storm blows through town, you spend the fesitve period holed up with your partner, Joel Miller, learning exactly how warm you can keep each other in the snow.
A/N: happy holidays and merry sunday @oogaboogasphincter, from your Pedrostories Secret Santa! I went mostly for a snow, with a sprinkling of established relationship, and a dash of doing cozy things. I don't think I've written any of these things before, so it was a learning experience! I used just about every synonym I know for the word cold too.
snowy dividers by @saradika-graphics follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics
Your holiday plans had gone to shit the moment that first flurry fell from the sky. Icy roads, cancelled flights, and downed power lines - Texas infrastructure at its finest - had put a halt to your plans to head back north for the holiday. Joel's holiday plans didn't fair much better, and instead of your first Christmas together being spent apart, you were spending your first Christmas together, well, together.
Then, to make a bad thing worse, the power went out, leaving you stuck in the dark and the cold in your apartment, and together suddenly became very together.
It hadn't been the plan - you still felt so very shiny and new at this, at being with him, and the idea of spending such a significant holiday holed up with him terrified you more than the dark ever did. But still, Joel drove on treacherous roads to come pick you up at 3am, dragging you and the perishable food from your refrigerator back to his place for the holidays. He had a generator, and fuel, and enough space for both of you to be comfortable, he said.
You spent the first day keeping to yourself, tiptoeing around, not wanting to disturb him any more than you were. Then he'd caught you circling around the back of the sofa, so as to not disturb his view of the TV, and his deep laughter stopped you dead in your tracks.
A "the fuck are you doin'" later and your insecurities came tumbling out, quickly quashed by Joel as he made it very well known just how much he wanted you there. That night, it didn't take you long to learn how warm you could keep each other.
The second day was spent bundled together on the sofa, him between your legs or you between his.
On the third, you worked up such a sweat together that you'd walked around his house naked, never more grateful for the generator chugging away in the garage.
Eventually, domesticity took over, and you spent a day wrapped up in each other in different ways. Watching a movie, drinking hot coffee, cooking a meal.
You'd trailed behind Joel into the yard on his way to check the generator that same day, Joel wanting to check it was well fueled, and you wanting an excuse to be out of the house for five minutes.
You kick at the snow, enjoying it for a few moments before it inevitably seeps through your shoes and chills your toes. Reaching down, you fluff it through your fingers, throwing a little into the air just to watch it fall again - as if you hadn't seen enough falling snow this last week. Joel is watches you, his eyes burning into your back and a smile tugging at his lips.
"You get inside, I'll deal with all this."
You stick your tongue out at him, trudging further over the snow to spin in the middle of the yard with your arms flung wide. He's laughing along with you when you stop, disorientated and unsteady on your feet. Looking back to him you stop in your tracks, finally seeing the deep gouges that mar the otherwise pristine white crust covering the ground. Yours and Joel's boots, footprints in the snow. Something about it, your foot steps mingling there together for all to see, wretches open your chest and captivates you.
And so, drawn in as you were by the footprints, you write your initials in the snow. Yours first, and then his, joined together and underlined as fact. You hesitate to carve out a frozen heart - too fearful to freeze something so warm and new and growing in something as rigid and fragile as ice - and turn to Joel again, a smile spreading across your face as you gesture to the letters in the snow -
"Oof."
- and a snowball, aimed perfectly at the back of your head a moment ago collides directly with your face. You cough and splutter, briefly blinded by ice as you swipe your freezing fingers over your face, hearing the creak of Joel's boots on the snow as he approaches you with apologies and laughter spilling from his lips in equal measure.
You glower at him, snow undoubtedly caught in your eyebrows, hiding a laugh of your own.
"Get," he says, turning you by the shoulders and pushing lightly to get you back inside. "I'll handle out here, check on the generator. Get warmed up."
Inside, the warmth almost burns as you peel off your layers and check on the food still baking away in the oven. Holding your hands in front of it like it was an open flame, you warm your fingers and wait for Joel, who comes back a few minutes later, chilled to the bone, stomping the snow from his boots and shaking his head as he shudders with the cold.
"Generator's still lookin' good," he says, slapping his gloves down on the counter. He rubs his hands together, blowing on them in an attempt to warm them up faster. Four days now, and the power was still out thanks to a new downfall of snow overnight.
"Your turn to get warm then," you smile, bending down to peer into the oven. "Dinner won't be long now."
"Sounds great, darlin'."
The bitter bubble of air he brought in with him surrounds you as he pulls you into his arms, nuzzling his frosty nose into your hair, laughing with you as you twitch away from the cold.
You expect him to move to the stove, to warm his hands on the heat of the oven just as you did, but instead he draws his fingertips up your belly, pushing your sweater up. Cold fingers meet the soft warmth of your bare skin and you gasp, gripping his arm.
"Joel! Don't you dare."
It was karmic justice really, given the number of times you'd warmed your feet on him in the night recently. You couldn't help it if the man was like a radiator.
"Got old fingers, baby, cold gets to my bones quick. Lemme warm 'em up, I know just the place."
"Fine," you say, tensing and preparing for the incoming press of his icy hand to your belly.
It doesn't come. Instead he tucks his hand down the front of your leggings, dragging the cold with him and holding you tight with his other arm.
"Joel..."
"What? Friction gets 'em warmer quicker. You don't want me to lose 'em to frostbite, do you?" You can feel him smiling into your hair as you gasp at the cold press of his fingertips to the white heat between your legs.
"No. Wouldn't want you gettin' frostbite."
Joel hums into your hair, breathing you in, just as he starts to rub softly over your clit. The sensation makes your skin prickle, first with warmth, then with cold, then something deliciously inbetween.
A moment later he's already slipping them from you and you twist, raising your eyebrow at him and preparing to call him a tease, only to watch as he slides his fingers into his mouth, slicking his cool digits up with his saliva. He's tucking them back into your leggings with a mocking raised eyebrow of his own, kissing the gasp from your lips as his fingers make cold, wet trails down your warm stomach again. They slip against your clit with ease now, but the wetness only exacerbates the chill of his fingers.
The layers of your panties and leggings can't warm up his hand fast enough, and even as he starts to rub gently at you, doing much more than just warming his fingers, you feel a shiver of cold run through you.
"Friction is b-bullshit," you stutter. "Your fingers are still cold as hell."
"Just think how I feel, they're my fingers."
"My heart bleeds for you, Joel," you retort, leaning your head back onto him.
"If it don't feel good, I can stop."
"... I never said anything about stopping," you sigh, closing your eyes and widening your stance a little so he can reach further down.
Joel doesn't need further prompting, his spit slicked fingers slipping through your folds to dip lower between your legs to swipe at your entrance. It seemed counterintuitive, putting something so cold somewhere so warm, but Joel's fingers sliding with ease through the wetness pooled between your legs was proof enough that it did something.
Small strokes become broader, his cold fingers swiping up and down the seam of you as if to prove friction was all he was after. The heat from your core soon begins to warm his fingers, pulling warmth back into his bones and easing the ache in them with each passing moment. Still, it's slow going, and your arousal seems to grow exponentially quicker than the warmth in his fingers.
When they finally feel warmer, and your soft sighs turn to deeper moans, you arch your back, winding your hips along with the movement of his fingers. The cold was no match for how hot you were starting to feel. You would burn the cold right out of him before he was through.
"Joel-"
You gasp again when he slides a single cool finger down and presses it slowly inside of you. His fingertips may have been warmed by friction, but the length of his digits had not, and they still felt icy cold, making you clench and grip around him. Still, no amount of clenching can hide the wetness dripping out of you as he slides in with ease, slicking his finger up before pushing in with a second. He fucks you with them slowly, restricted by the fabric of your leggings, before pulling your arching back flush to his body. A second later his fingers still inside you, anchoring you down just as his palm presses flat against your mound. Warming you up and then cooling you down again over and over was making your head spin, and while you shudder and shiver in his arms, you know it's not the cold that does it this time.
"How are your hands still so cold," you pant.
"Bad circulation, darlin'," he whispers, and you feel yourself grow wetter still at the low gravelly sound of his voice.
"Should get that seen to."
"Good job I got you in the meantime."
The slow curl of his fingers isn't enough, and you find yourself rocking into his frigid palm, eager for the friction to return to your clit now that his fingers are buried deep inside you.
"Grind on it, darlin', that's it. Warm me up."
He rubs the heel of his palm against your clit in sync with your movements, and before you know it you're holding back twitches and biting your lips to stop moans from spilling too loudly out of you.
"You're gonna make me come, Joel."
"Just warmin' my hands, nothin' else."
You can hear the smile in his voice and feel it against your neck as he nuzzles his cold nose into your cheek.
"I know your game, Miller," you say, before groaning once again, pressing back against him with each rock of your hips, feeling the rapid swelling of his cock against your lower back. It seemed you were warming him in more ways than one as his fingers curled inside you, pushing and dragging against that spongy spot on your front wall that he never failed to find.
"Pussy's like a damn furnace. Who needs the generator, when we got this."
His palm is still cold, but you're starting to sweat, feeling the prickle of it across your scalp as you move, panting into the warm air of Joel's home. He could hold you like this forever, be buried in you like this forever as the world outside turned to ice, and you wouldn't mind.
But you're made painfully aware that this can't last forever as you feel yourself getting closer, pressure building inside you with each buck of your hips.
"Joel."
It's dizzying - his slowly warming palm and fingers, now red hot inside of you as they press and press and press at you in a way that would normally have you boneless if you were lying on his bed. But, standing here in the kitchen, you lock out your knees and hold on, white knuckle gripping the counter with your own still cold hands.
A shudder hits you when his cold face nudges yours again, and you turn your head to meet his lips in a kiss. He pulls the warmth from you there too, his cold nose nudging at yours. Even through your panties and the restricted movement of his hand, you can hear how wet you are, sloshing beneath his palm as you let out a keening moan straight into his mouth.
"S'okay. I got you."
He coaxes it out of you, you can feel it coming, his fingers picking up the pace, making the nudge of his palm just right, for just long enough, to send you skyrocketing in his arms.
It's white hot, sending a shiver down your spine as an orgasm ripples through you, twinkling behind your eyelids before exploding in your core, a muted breathy scream pulling from you with each gasping breath that leaves your mouth. You're falling apart as he holds you together, coming on his fingers and beneath his palm as he grinds it into every rock of your hips. Well practiced hands stop just as you're hitting a point of oversensitivity, cupping and holding onto you gently as you go as limp as you can in his arms, knees locked to keep you upright.
He swallows down each of your moans greedily, until you're left breathing heavy, forehead pressed to his. You feel half asleep, even standing on two feet.
"S'your turn," you mumble, only to be dissmissed by Joel with a promise of "later". You're grateful for it, feeling too sleepy to function all of a sudden, until Joel's voice rumbles through you once more.
"I'd say you make a great handwarmer, darlin'."
Laughter spills out of you, warm and bright, the heat in your cheeks warming his nose as he nuzzles against you once again.
"Only one problem," he murmurs, the cottonwool slowly clearing from your head.
"Mm?"
"Got two hands."
His other hand is still cold, he knows it is, but that doesn't stop him from snaking it up your waist, under your sweater and tickling at your bare stomach. You crumple in on yourself, legs that had held you through orgasm buckling as you twitch and laugh into him, smacking your fists into his sturdy chest.
"Stop, stop! You ass- asshole! J-Joel! Stop it!"
He lets you taste the laugh on his lips, kissing you once more as his cold hand rests against your bare skin.
"C'mon, let's eat."
You end that day as it started, wrapped up together, oblivious to the world outside and warmer than you had any right to be in a snow storm.
By the fifth day, the storm has passed, and by the sixth the power is back on, just in time for the big day. You both barely notice, staying wrapped up and warm together over the holiday.
You return to your apartment in the New Year and, even though the power has been back on for days and the heat has been pumping steadily, the place has never felt so cold.
In the years to come, you'd ask Joel about that week - the first of a New Year, and the first without you after having you around for so long. He'd tell you how cold it felt, how empty his house was without you in it. And when you turn up on his doorstep at the end of that first week, sniffling and crying and telling him you missed him, he'll crumple, telling you he felt exactly the same before drawing you into his arms and pulling you inside.
And then, eventually, in a home that was his and is now yours, you'll be sat in warmth and sunshine - as unexpected to the you of back then as a snowball to the face - watching your combined families meet for a Christmas not turned on its head by a Texan snow storm.
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#pedrostoriesgift23#pedrostories#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller smut#joel miller fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#coveted fics
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雷神 風神 レゾナンス
"Raijin Fūjin RESONANCE"
Raijin and Fūjin are two Shinto gods, often depicted as a pair. Raijin is the god of storms and thunder, while Fūjin is the god of wind. Both are some of the oldest gods in the Japanese pantheon, sons of the first goddess of all creation.
Notably, Raijin and Fūjin are escapees from the Land of the Dead...
Imai's signature on this song is about as obvious as it gets even in the title. Fūjin and Raijin have been references for him for a while, and even just a couple of years ago, he had released a long sleeve T-shirt showcasing the pair in a collaboration with LHP for Buck-Tick's 35th anniversary.
Verse 1 (Imai)
上昇気流 雷神 風神 レゾナンス joushoukiryuu Raijin Fuujin RESONANCE FLY HIGH!! 昇天 shouten Rising!! Higher than the sun
(On) the updraft, Raijin, Fūjin, (and) resonance Fly high!! Ascension (to Heaven) Rising!! Higher than the sun
Right off the bat it feels like we're talking about Acchan, with "higher than the sun" posing a challenge to the "aim for the sun and burn" story of Ikaros.
Likewise those of us who have referred to Acchan as a personal Jesus (as he has used the iconography several times) are vindicated with the same term used for the Ascension of Christ.
The term "resonance" in this katakana form means everything you might expect of the same word in English, although one dictionary adds another definition that I find resonates well (yeah, yeah, see what I did there) with the chorus when we get there:
awakening, or arousal (of emotions, etc.)
Also worth a note that the Japanese pronunciation of "rising," at least as it can be heard in the song, is a homophone to "Raijin."
Pre-chorus 1
この地上で生き抜くことだ kono chijou de ikinu koto da
it's how to get by on this earth
Verse 2 (Hoshino)
共振共鳴 雷神 風神 レゾナンス kyoushin kyoumei Raijin Fuujin RESONANCE FLY HIGH!! 昇天 (shouten) Rising!! Higher than the sun
vibration-oscilation, Raijin, Fūjin, (and) resonance
I'm bending a bit here to make it make sense as lyrics, were they English. The first words here, kyoushin and kyoumei, are both direct synonyms for "resonance" and translate as "resonance" in most dictionaries. However, the former refers to physical vibrations, while the latter refers to sonority (sound).
Pre-chorus 2
雨に撃たれ生き抜くことだ ame ni utare ikinuku koto da
it's how we get by while pelted by rain
Chorus (Imai & Hoshino)
Boys don't cry ハートに火をつけろ Girls fall in love ハートに火をつけろ Boys don't cry ハートに火をつけろ Girls fall in love ハートに火をつけろ hāto no hi wo tsukero
boys don't cry, set your heart on fire girls fall in love, set your heart on fire
At last we come to the chorus, a call directly to the audience, and the feature of the 15-second spot preview of the last few weeks. I'll talk more about this in my summary below.
Verse 3
FLY HIGH!! 昇天 (shouten) Rising!! Higher than the sun
Pre-chorus 3
この世界で生き抜くことだ kono sekai de ikinuhu koto da
it's how we get by in this world
Chorus
Boys don't cry ハートに火をつけろ Girls fall in love ハートに火をつけろ Boys don't cry ハートに火をつけろ Girls fall in love ハートに火をつけろ hāto no hi wo tsukero
Summary (and a bit of projection, if you'll indulge me)
As Raijin is the god of thunder, it's he who makes the sounds that people most often hear (and fear) in a storm. Yet the song invokes both gods as a pair and attributes the "resonance" to both. You may not "hear" Fūjin, but as far as Raijin is concerned, the resonance does not exist for only one of them.
As the boys have said now in several interviews, they strongly feel that Sakurai is still very much with them.
I'll stick to lyrics here and leave music theory to someone else, but I will share a thought on the costuming. The dress for the single's cover and for the current banner page of the official website has them in black rags, and, as others have remarked, they literally look as if they've gone to Hell and back.
However, in the music video itself, they sparkle, particularly with silver and sequins. I feel as though the clothes themselves show that they're worn, they mourn, but still they shine.
This song is not here to rival past Buck-Tick songs, so any comment that the sound isn't the same is a non sequitur. And, while I'm sure the management would prefer chart-toppers, the audience is not the masses, but the fans.
This song's message is for you.
Acchan lives. Gods live. And you. You live.
So live, and live well.
Vibrate. Oscillate. Reverberate. Resonate. Let your heart beat. Let your voice cry out. Put one foot in front of the other until your footsteps become clear, until you fall into a march, until you find your parade again.
Don't suffer. Be open to the possibility of feeling joy again. That possibility is in you, because you're human, and it's how humans get by...
...from this world to the next...
...it's how we learn to live again.
We set our hearts on fire ❤️🔥
#this post dedicated in memory of Cayce#post-reblog typos detected: my fingers did not want to type 'ikinuku' half the time; sorry about that#buck tick#buck tick lyrics#subrosa#スブロサ#Raijin Fujin Resonance#雷神 風神 レゾナンス#the parade goes on#you are loved#it's okay to be sad#but#don't give in to despair#don't give up#WWAD#watch Imai come out in an interview and be like#'nah dawg#I didn't mean anything like that#I just thought Raijin and Fujin were cool'#all Toll will say is#'I went with a hard touch'
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AITA for defending my friend lying about his dog dying?
Cw for animal abuse and Is ableist language (using sociopath as synonym for bad person)
I was in a friend group of three. Me (24f) my best friend since age 7 (24m) and we have a mutual friend he met in college when he moved away and has known for a little over a year (23f). Callin' them Liam and Rory for ease. Liam had an Esa (not a service dog, an esa). His whole life has revolved around this dog since we were 16 and he moved away. He keeps a very strict schedule with this dog. We are all aware of it because he will leave group chats mid conversation to make sure "Buddy" gets walked or fed or whatever time it is. He takes really good care of this dog and hand-makes its meals and takes it to the vet every 2 months.
Few weeks ago he was acting weird but trying to cover it up. I had been meaning to ask what was going on more privately but I kinda dropped the ball because my aunt died suddenly.
Flash to a week ago Rory sent a huge wall of text to our group chat calling Liam a barrage of names like "sociopath". It turns out that his dog died but he'd been acting like everything was the same which is why he seemed off. She found out when she came onto his property to check on him and he had to "confess."
Shes upset at him for lying but I knew there was more going on. So I talked to him about it privately over the phone and he just shattered. He had no idea what to do or say because he thinks his dad killed Buddy but he doesn't have direct proof. I had never heard him cry before this, because he was raised to really keep that stuff close to his chest. He's tried to open up to me over the years but it's visibly difficult for him especially with how his father still treats him. I believe him because if he truly wanted to manipulate me I still do not think he would have let me see that. He kept apologizing and sounding really lost and ashamed so I really don't think it was an act, you can't fake that kind of helpless abused kid feeling.
I forgave him for keeping it from me because it was obvious he was going to tell us once he processed the situation because that's a lot to say the least. I explained what happened to Rory and said sure maybe it wasn't 100% in the right but he was obviously expiercing trauma and him acting like everything was fine wasn't about hurting us, and we knew something was wrong but didn't ask, she thinks he's trolling for sympathy and that if I forgive him it tells her everything she needs to know about what kind of person I am. And says if he really thinks he dad killed his dog he would have called the police.
There are several reasons he shouldn't call the police one being that his dad has always treated Laim really badly but we never thought he would kill a dog and my friend has to live with him because he's a broke college student. She said he should have figured that out on his own but instead he manipulated us and is now trying to make us feel bad that he got caught.
I also feel like he was in danger from his dad and if he told us Buddy was gone he'd have to say why and then he'd be lying to us anyway until he figured out what the hell happened or if it was safe to tell us. We don't have enough information so I just don't think it's fair to totally write him off as a bad person over what is obviously and extremely traumatic situation? Without even talking to him? She found out Buddy was dead, left and refused to speak to him before announcing her departure from the group and blocked him on everything and basically made me choose between her or him.
I told her that was a really heartless take and that she's over reacting and she told me if I wanted to be best friends with a sociopath that was none of her buisness but she wanted nothing to do with either us because I'm just as bad as him if I don't agree with her so she doesnt loose anything by cutting me off.
She really made me feel like I was helping Liam hide a body. So I'm wondering if she's right. I don't think I'll change my mind, I won't abandon him but I am willing to admit I was wrong if I am.
Am I the assshole for sticking by him?
What are these acronyms?
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─── I CAN'T SEE THE STARS HERE
⟡﹐ꊞ inside niko's phone !
⟡﹐ꊞ similarly to most of us, niko is absolutely chained to his phone, but in the most ironic way possible, is also pretty chronically offline. he hasn't gone through many phones in his lifetime, mostly because he doesn't change his phone until it's hanging on it's last breath and can no longer charge. for almost five years straight he had the same iphone 10, then the screen broke forever, which finally pushed him in the direction of getting a new phone (much to the dismay of taeyong, who had been nagging him to get a new phone since the first few cracks started showing). ever since the death of his former phone in late 2021, he got the iphone 11 pro and has stuck with it for the past three years, somehow without cracks appearing on the screen.. but it probably won't take long for that to be the case. jungwoo has already dropped it a handful of times, and considering niko's track record, the phone will barely be functioning in weeks time.
a thing that is synonymous with every phone case niko has had is the stars he draws onto them with sharpie all the time. he gets a clear phone case, grabs a sharpie, and doodles everything of interest. he pairs the tiny drawings with the endless stickers he collects (or the ones his friends from back home send, he has a bunch he still hasn't used). there's a barrage of stars, cats, hearts, and planets you can make out on niko's phone case. just like phones, he usually never switches phone cases, it's just until he wants to do something else and there's no more space on his see through phone case. still, his phone cases usually stay the same for up to a year or sometimes even more, he doesn't really get bored by them.
another thing that is very consistent with niko's phone is his lock and homescreen, it's just susi. sometimes it changes, sometimes he has a mood flip and his lockscreen will become an old photo his mom took back in 2009, but usually, it's susi. it's not unknown that niko is pretty obsessed with his cat, 'a little too obsessed' is what johnny says whenever he taps the other's phone to check the time and comes face to face with a feline. even when he does change his lock or homescreen, it's simply another picture of susi, maybe a small sight of his finger in the photo, but that's it, nothing too interesting. the inside of his phone is a mess, but it's also sort of organized in a sense.. his apps are all in a very specific place that he placed for a reason, and if they aren't, he will literally go insane. while he purposefully avoids certain apps, he has an insane amount of hours on all those app games. namely stardew valley, solitaire (because no one plays card games in real life anymore), and shattered pixel dungeon. he is not that difficult to entertain, especially in the mobile game department.
social media.. well that's definitely something. niko is pretty inactive, especially on instagram, which is something people have learned to get used to over the years. it's actually a miracle whenever niko posts on instagram, but even then, nctzens are just concerned if he's alive or not. he pops in every few comebacks to remind people that he is in fact, not dead! just forgot his password and didn't bother to try changing it. he often deletes instagram every few months because it takes up storage (which is often due to the shitload of photos he refuses to delete), but then he suddenly has an epiphany and redownloads the app, just to again abandon it until he finds something abrupt to post. he is regularly active on bubble, but even then it's nctzens making sure he's alive and him reminding them that he's barely hanging on! when niko does post on instagram, it's almost always a photo of him and susi, or some of his non idol friends, or just photos of himself he really likes, sometimes he just posts a photo of what his shirt says and calls it a day. there's an abundant lack of selfies on his instagram, most of the photos of him taken being credited to kihyun or one of his other friends.
his camera roll is pretty on par for what you might think, there are just so many fucking photos on there that it's a wonder the guy is so inactive on instagram. there are photos of susi, himself, random pictures he took of doyoung that he did not delete! but the older doesn't have to know that.., his shirts with random catchphrases, and a collection of selfies kihyun took when he left his phone unattended while the younger was in the room (photos he did not delete in fear of having to face constant whines from the vocalist). his gallery is huge, sometimes he just takes pictures of things he finds aesthetically pleasing, and simply doesn't delete them. he has never really been interested in photography as a hobby, he just loves taking random photos of things (and by proxy people) that he finds interesting. it's really a strange case because you'll see a photo that seems completely normal then suddenly there's a random photo of vernon in the mix, just don't question him on it, he doesn't really want to explain the lengths his photo gallery goes.
✰ the photo gallery , recents
to sum this all up, niko's phone is just everything that makes up his personality. it's not as aesthetically pleasing, no, but it's simply so.. niko. with a gallery that spans so many photos it should actually be illegal, his social media apps pretty much collecting dust, the astounding hours he spends playing card games (games he definitely does not find entertaining please believe him), it's safe to say that it's a mess, but just like niko's own room, as is with many aspects of his life, it's a mess that perfectly exemplifies everything about him.
#. ✦ INSIDE HIS PHONE !#nct addition#fake kpop idol#fictional idol oc#fictional kpop oc#kpop addition#kpop oc#nct added member#nct 127 10th member#kpop male idol#kpop male oc
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On the naming of the three sisters of Ha'rar by their mother, the whys and to what ends, a mushy mess of linked canon and headcanons.
TLDR: Seladon was probably named after her grandmother for sentimental reasons and to pacify the traditionalists, Tavra was probably named to try pacifying both the traditionalists AND the separatists only for it to kinda backfire, and Brea was probably just given a nice normal name which she ironically grew up to make a synonym of heresy and rebellion. Which probably pissed off Seladon. Tavra, local fun one, probably thought this was all very funny.
Sources / inspirations used:
The Netflix original Age of Resistance tv show,
the loosely connected Age of Resistance young adult novels by J.M. Lee (why doesn't the series have it's own overarching name?),
the loosely connected Age of Resistance comics focusing on young Mayrin by Mathew Erman (seriously it's four issues give them a title to tie them all together with this is silly).
Starting off with the assumption that, despite some fairly large differences in character design, creature design, world mechanics, and actual plots, the three above sources can at LEAST share the same basic traits and histories of their lead characters- at least up to final few trine preceding the start of the main events of the Age of Resistance.
Basic framework information:
At the end of her comics, Mayrin marries a Sifa captain named Kam'lu and moves away from her late mother's traditional ways.
During the book series, it's revealed that Mayrin's second daughter Tavra once rescued and has been in a steady forbidden relationship with a Sifa Far-Dreamer named Onica.
In the tv show, Brea interacts with Sifa without showing any personal knowledge of them or any sign she is aware of her own connection to them.
Kam'lu is not present in either the show or books when Mayrin's daughters are fully grown.
By that time Mayrin has become more traditionalist, though in both the books and the show she is shown ready to join the rebellion, and is murdered for it by the Skeksis.
Statements in the following mess that are canon in at least one source will have a bracketed exclamation point (!) placed after them. Sentiments that are implied in at least one source will have a bracketed asterisks (*) placed after them.
These indicators will be followed by a number matching a note of the specific source, as in 1 for the tv show, 2 for the books, 3 for the comics.
Now. From oldest to youngest, starting with...
Seladon the Second, heir to the throne
Mayrin’s relationship is the most expectant with her first daughter (*) 1-2, born during a time of youthful hope, who was named Seladon after Mayrin’s own dead mother, the late All-Maudra Seladon (!) 3. The name is given with the intention of:
planning for Seladon the Second to be All-Maudra someday.
hoping that invoking her traditionalist mother will put at ease the traditionalists in Ha’rar.
trying to balance out Seladon’s half clan heritage, which the traditionalist strongly disapprove of in their own families, to the point of sending their children to the Order of Lesser Service when they’re caught becoming too close with someone from another clan (!) 1.
aware that the backlash to Seladon having a Sifa father will be worse in the wake of the Sifa’s recent attempted overthrow of Vapra power and bid for independence, which Mayrin barely managed to diffuse (!) 3.
further complicated by Mayrin openly choosing to abandon several of her traditionalist mother’s practices, including how tribute is paid to the All-Maudra, imposing Vapra traditions upon the other clans, and choosing to walk Raunip’s Pass with her Sifa husband instead of fly its dangerous winds as her mother challenged her to (!) 3.
As a result, Seladon the Second carries an old fashioned named, the possessive -n ending for women having gone out of style during her mother’s own generation in favor of the Thra invoking -ra or shorted -a endings becoming more common, as seen the contemporary names Fara, Mera, Deethra, Mira, Mythra, Naia, Arla, Eliona, Pemma, and Onica. The bearing of such an important family name also led to:
adding to her sense of inadequacy and insecurity as she tries to live up to the name (*) 1.
instilling in her a loyalty to tradition and the established power structures, after modeling herself on the first All-Maudra Seladon (*) 1-2.
highlighting the perceived shame of her half Sifa heritage and disposing her to hate rather than defend it, in contrast with the celebrated memory of her namesake Vapra grandmother, further pushing her towards traditionalist values in a bid to make up for the differences between herself and the past All-Maudra.
increasing the existing tension between her and her youngest sister (*) 1 who’s own name carries no such great history to uphold.
tightening heer bond with their middle sister Tavra (*) 1, who’s common name is ancient and recently tied to their family, and who’s full name connects her to the part of their heritage Seladon the Second and Mayrin are most ashamed of, putting pressure on Katavra to prove herself in spite of it.
Tavra, Katavra, soldier
Mayrin’s relationship is the most distant with her second daughter (*) 1-2, born during a time of building frustration, who’s common name is associated with Raunip’s Pass through the historical Tavra, a Gelfling woman who was once Raunip’s friend. Through this connection the name is also tied to Mayrin’s contentious past relationship with her own mother. The name is given with the intention of:
referencing Raunip’s Pass, a narrow valley with dangerous winds that Seldon the First flew to show of her strength and skill, challenging her daughter Mayrin to do the same (!) 3.
naming her second born daughter after the idea of physically proving oneself a worthy heir to her late mother All-Maudra, to make up for Mayrin’s first daughter having a crooked wing (*) 1.
indirectly linking Tavra to her family while Mayrin, wary of presenting another imperfect heir and under pressured from Vapra traditionalists, holds off on publicly acknowledging Tavra as a princess of Ha’rar.
still being a suitable name for a princess to have if / when Tavra eventually proves herself a capable soldier and loyal Vapra, as she does when flying through a storm to the aid of others (!) 2 and returning home afterwards.
an propriate name for when Mayrin finally crowns her a princess of Ha’rar long after Tavra is a grown woman with her wings.
to help smooth out rising tensions around Mayrin’s struggling marriage to Kam’lu, allowing her to use the crowning ceremony to also give Tavra the full name Katavra, after Mayrin’s Sifa husband Kam’lu, and so honor both him and Tavra's act of flying to the Sifa’s aid.
As a result, Katavra is mainly known by her childling name Tavra (!) 1-2, even outside of Ha’rar, allowing her to travel unrecognized as a soldier without speaking any outright lies (!) 2, with her full name only being used by those who know of and acknowledge her as a princess of Ha’rar (!) 1-2. The circumstances of her belated crowning and name change by Mayrin also led to:
the mocking rumors of the “many daughters of Mayrin”, as mentioned by maudra Laesid's husband Bellanji after the rumors spread as far as the Drenchen swamps (!) 2, with some believing Mayrin has many other such children she refuses to legitimize, and others ironically joking that the All-Maudra gets all her daughters from other women instead of having them herself.
Mayrin becoming further shamed when the only daughter she named after her no longer present Sifa husband is rumored to be sneaking off to the wharfs to meet with a Sifa herself (!) 2.
a worry that Tavra will also be lost to her, as Kam’lu was, or fall in love with a Sifa who will bring more struggles down on her and her family, as Mayrin’s did.
leading to Mayrin demoting Tavra in the line of succession, possibly reflected in Tavra being seen standing third in line from the throne after both her older and younger sisters (!) 1, and threatening to disown her completely, which as Mayrin is also the Vapra maudra and All-Maudra would make Tavra an outcast among most Gelfling, in an attempt to rebuke her daughter into following her will, an attitude Tavra's Sifa partner Onica is quick to reference and still has not forgiven (*) 2.
with the unintended consequence of Tavra championing her little sister Brea’s increased involvement in the politics of Ha’rar instead (!) 1, a cause Mayrin can hardly oppose when she herself made Brea second in line to the throne.
Brea, scholar
Mayrin’s relationship with her youngest daughter is the most forgiving but least respectful (*) 1-2, born during a time of weary resignation and after Kam’lu is gone and out of their lives (*) 1-2, Brea is named without any family member in mind. The name is given with the intention of:
hoping Brea could have her own life mostly insulated from the pressures of leadership.
urging her youngest daughter to focus instead on becoming a scholar (!) 2 and making a name for herself the will be remembered beyond the history of her family.
trying ease Mayrin’s guilt over having to use her two older children so pragmatically as future All-Maudra and expendable soldier for the sake of their clan and people.
pushing back slightly on the idea of what a princess of Ha’rar should be.
indulging that last youthful memory of when she also cared more about truth than duty and felt she could change the way of things (*) 3.
As a result, Brea’s name is common sounding and leads to:
helping her remain unremarked upon by the Vapra, who mostly prefer her to remain in the library with her studies where her scholarly lack of self-awareness and her seemingly un-princess-like behavior embarrass no one- a preference Brea is vaguely aware of but unsympathetic towards whenever her older sister Tavra arranges for her to be present at some important event she’s never been allowed to take part in before (!) 1.
suiting her reaction to important ceremonies, where she regularly shows irreverence for tradition or social norms in the pursuit of actual understanding and enacting positive change, even when it embarrasses her family (!) 1.
growing up sharing her name with many normal people recorded in history, who she notices and identifies with.
causing her to view herself as a normal person and normal people as perfectly capable of being remarkable.
fueling her rebellious tendencies when faced with an arbitrarily hierarchical and unfair world (*) 1-2.
Final thoughts.
I think it'd be very funny if the Librarian of Ha'rar was named something like Bre'rian, or Brealyn, or Li'brea or such like.
Both for the punning (in the same vein of Katavra sounding like a mix of katana and cadaver, fitting for a soldier lady who keeps dying, add a librarian who's names sound like the word library),
also for the implication that Mayrin and the Librarian might have bonded over their shared Sifa heartbreak, to the point of Mayrin thinking of her friend when having to name her youngest and hopefully most scholarly child, who Brea would indeed grow up spending a lot of time with and rely on for help and wisdom.
(though having Brea full name be Brea'leth would also be a really cute call back to Mayrin's advisor, Dot'leth)
(and it would also be punny. Brea'leth... breath... vapra vapor... blah blah)
I also really like the idea of Mayrin threatening to disown Tavra, making Tavra sad for 0.5 seconds before she goes- "No wait, that is in fact an excellent idea. My sisters can rule together, once I convince them to stop yelling at each other for 5 minutes, leaving me free to someday sail off with Onica in to the gay pirate sunset. Perfect."
and all Mayrin can do is watch Tavra encouraging Brea to take up more princess roles in Ha'rar, happily stepping side for her little sister, while Mayrin screams internally.
the fun one strikes again. Younger Mayrin might have been proud.
#the dark crystal age of resistance#all-maudra mayrin#seladon#katavra “tavra”#brea#speculation and headcanons
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The Alcott Ch. 2
Chapter 2: right where you left me
jay halstead x f!reader, frank castle x f!reader
tw: lil bit of angst, mentions of murder, descriptions of violence and bodily injuries, blood mention, 3rd person POV (she/ her)
chicago pd x the punisher crossover
(series is ongoing)
She couldn’t let it go. Every fiber of her being begged her to let the whole situation lie, but she couldn’t. Being an investigative reporter by trade she was too curious for her own good. Having gotten a job reporting for a news broadcasting company in downtown Chicago, her first instinct was to write about the incident. However, she knew that by coming to her editors with a story about a murderous vigilante having risen from the dead, she would be fired instantaneously.
Her curiosity ate away at her as the days passed after her encounter with the vigilante. How was he alive? She thought to herself. She had seen firsthand the explosion that was supposed to kill him, and it didn’t seem like someone would have been able to survive it. There was also a body found in the wreckage that matched his descriptors and with that the case had been closed. It had been over a year since then and now suddenly he had resurfaced in Chicago. She had to know why?
She was still stuck, frozen and staring into that dark alley. Her breath hitching at the memory of seeing that flash of his face. The hood he was wearing covered most of his face but the street lamp at the very edge of the alley provided her with a flash of light to his face as he stalked towards her.
She couldn’t forget the way his arms encased her with pressure but not force, it was clear he didn’t want to hurt her in any way. That is what puzzled her the most; how could a serial murderer not want to kill someone?
Unless he wasn’t one.
Looking at his mugshot staring back at her from her computer screen, she only had one thought; who was the real Frank Castle?
————————————————
Frank’s P.O.V
Blow after blow echoed throughout the skeletal body of the building, the unfinished walls causing the sounds of the hammer to bounce between them. His roars did the same. Growling animalistically as he brought the hammer down onto concrete over, and over, and over again.
Working construction was the only way Frank could make a living now that his identity had to be stripped. He was now known as “Pete Castillone” and all he had to the name was a construction job and a one bedroom apartment. After his very timely death on the East Coast, he decided to use his newfound anonymity to his advantage. Traveling the country in search of more of those who were responsible for his family’s murder. However, since coming to Chicago, the life that “Pete” lived was very simple and very quiet. Frank needed that, after everything that had happened he needed the quiet. Although, “quiet” is typically synonymous with “alone”, and that’s NOT what Frank needed and he feared it had become something of a curse for him.
About a week ago, Frank had picked up some chatter about a local Chicago gang having had something to do with a family massacre in New York. Rival gang war had gone national apparently. Frank knew that the cartels in New York City were responsible, however he didn’t know which cartel, or whom within them actually had anything to do with it. However, having tracked down one of the members of the local gang, Frank found his opportunity to get the information he needed with whatever means necessary.
A harsh yell escapes his lips as he brings the sledgehammer down again onto the concrete. With each impact of the hammer he began to relive the other night all over again.
The tire iron in his hand coming down onto the man’s chest, over and over again.
“Who gave the FUCKING ORDER?!” Frank screamed as the man lies silently, gurgling blood from his mouth.
Having come to Chicago with the sole intention of finally avenging his murdered wife, son, and daughter, Frank thought his mission would be simpler than it was turning out to be. The more people he found, the more secrets he uncovered on the true identity of the person who ordered the execution of his family.
As the man laid on the ground, breathing his last breaths, he sighed the name of the person Frank was really looking for: “Agent Orange”.
Frank dissipates back into reality, holding the hammer limply in his fist. Looking around for a second, taking in his surroundings, Frank breathes a deep sigh and takes a seat on the dusty concrete floor. As he continues to relive the other night, his mind then falls on the young woman who had mistakenly stumbled upon the scenario. A pang of guilt runs down Franks spine, she had looked so terrified of him.
Rightfully so, he thinks to himself. His brutality scared even him at times, but seeing that same feeling reflected back at him on such a beautiful face shifted something in him. In a moment of pure inhuman rage, he was reminded of the fragility of the human spirit as he looked up to see her face.
“You’ll kill him!” He remembers her shouting, as if the man wasn’t already dead. He remembers her shaking hands and the gun she clutched for dear life but couldn’t bring herself to fire. It was incredibly courageous when he thought about it, having every opportunity to run and yet she chose to try and protect her fellow man. He knew in that moment he couldn’t hurt her, not that he wanted to, but he’s had to bury secrets in unmarked graves before.
In the split second he had, his mind landed on the only option available to him; neutralize the situation. He towered over her, his frame encompassing hers in an instant, clutching a hand over her mouth to silence her screams.
“Shh, shh, shh,” he quietly coos in her ear, “ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he assured her. Having disarmed her before capturing her in his hold, he didn’t know how to proceed. The threat was minimized and he had gotten her to quiet down, so his only logical choice was to release her.
“I swear to God I won’t hurt ya, but if I let you go, will you scream?” He speaks gruffly in her ear, hand still over her mouth. He remembers how she was shaking against him, he can’t get it out of his head. The way she was repulsed by him, it made him look back on the memory with shame.
When he did let her go a small fist came flying up instantly and landed on the bridge of his nose, breaking it. Clutching his face, he groans and falls back against the brick wall. As he looks up he sees her vanishing into the night, a small glimpse of the blood-covered blouse is the last thing he saw before she was out of sight.
He’s still stuck in that alley holding her shaking, terrified form, hearing her whimpers and seeing the fear in her eyes.
He can’t be anywhere else.
—————————————
Jay’s P.O.V
“Hey there space cadet, which planet are you visiting now?” Jay’s voice comes from behind her, standing in the doorway to her room, watching as she stares blankly out her bedroom window. Turning her head to meet his gaze, her demeanor softens instantly and she gets up to greet him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t even hear you come in,” she says as her boyfriend pulls her into his strong chest, placing a kiss to her forehead as he cradles the back of her head.
“Hey baby, you doing okay?” He says after a moment of comfortable silence between them. Shifting her face to look up at him, she smiles innocently.
“Yeah, of course, why?” She reassures him, but he knows her too well.
“You just seem… off, ever since the other night,” he says, dipping his head to catch her eyes, trying to break this barrier she had built up over the last several days.
“Jay, I’m fine, I swear. Just preoccupied with this new article I’m writing,” she lies, placing a hand to the side of his face as she brings it down to hers, kissing him deeply. He pulls away, shaking his head slightly and gently cupping her face in his palms.
“I know you better than that, baby. Come on, let me into your golden thinking,” he speaks as he moves a piece of hair from her face.
“Everything’s fine, Jay,” she says flatly, clearly not wanting to let him in.
He sighs as she pushes past him into the hall, pinching the bridge of his nose he takes a deep breath. Something was wrong, he knew it. But she wouldn’t put her shields down long enough for him to see the real issue. Something happened that night to make her this way, a shift was apparent in her behavior and all he wanted was a reason why. The last thing he wanted was for her to shut him out completely, but it seemed that was the first thing she was doing.
Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, he turns and makes his way into the main living space of her tiny apartment. He finds her lost in thought again, just staring blankly into space as she stands in front of the sink. The water continued to run as she stood unmoving, the glass in her hand overflowing with water.
Where was she? He thought, brow knitting together as he watched her disappear into her own mind. All he wanted was for her to come back, to be with him again in the present. But he had a feeling there was an unseen gap between them now, her in a completely different place and him standing right in front of her trying to understand where she’s gone.
Come back, baby, he thinks to himself as he continues to watch her from afar. Come back, I’m right where you left me.
#jay halstead#chicago pd#frank castle#the punisher fanfiction#jay halstead x reader#frank castle x reader#chicago pd crossover#chicago pd fanfic
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…about the clementine comic (again): why is she illiterate?
I've already written an exhaustive essay about the Clementine comics written by Tillie Walden, and that was before the first book was out. It was more of a discussion of what was already seen from the teaser, Walden being an…interesting choice to write this, but more than that, it was to preemptively stake the claim that no, it isn't canon. Not in the way that's just "ew I hate this I refuse," but more so, "the games (and character) by design and functionality do not allow for single interpretations to adequately continue the story."
These comics can be…a canon. But not the canon.
In the same way as The Walking Dead Game's (TWDG) fanfiction, like my own where I'm writing only my canon interpretation, the others who do the same, and so on.
(This right here is the essay, by the by.)
It has been a couple years since then. I have read both comics, and there is a lot I can say about them. I may one day, but not right now.
Instead, I want to direct attention to how…weirdly anti-apocalyptic it is?? Because it bothers me. A lot. That I'm watching a Clementine as a character get reduced to a kid who doesn't know how to read or write, doesn't know how to dress and care after a wound...
All things necessary for survival—the reading especially within an apocalyptic setting. Which. No. I'm not kidding. I do mean that.
Before I really indulge in my grievances, however, I will start by outlining the world that TWDG has established, and what it actually takes to survive within it.
(And yes, this is another lengthy post.)
[Surviving the Apocalypse]
Throughout the games, we ultimately see the apocalypse under two overarching eras. The initial stage is calamity. The walkers swiftly overrun what people upheld as a stable, and very secure way of life. And the fact that it only takes one factor to destroy the "we're untouchable" notion, it's terrifying. (Which, on that note, though the undead is an extreme, we did maybe learn this post-COVID. Ergo, stories like these may resonate a little bit better than they had before.)
What's different about The Walking Dead (TWD) as a universe is that…, the true calamity arguably doesn't hit until later, because the dead themselves aren't what really destroys the untouchable mindset as before. In most universes, such as The Last of Us, it's something contagious that you don't want. However, it is also something to overcome and fix. Though the dead in TWDG's cousin is far more brutal, if you isolate them, or find a way to vaccinate…, there could feasibly be a future where the fungus is more akin to rabies or the black plague rather than a devastating change in society.
Because that's how diseases like these work. They will never go away, especially if humanity mishandled their responses to them. Rabies is still out there, because it is a violent disease (am also under the impression that walkers is very synonymous with rabies, but I digress). The Black Plague? That whole thing? Yeah, the plague itself is also still out there. The problem was solved by nature, where a fire torched all of London.
But since then, we have vaccines. We know better (…I hope) in how to appropriately respond. And…that's the best we can do. Pathogens will always dictate life.
Of course, this isn't to undermind what outbreaks as seen in those other stories do to the world. They evidently are a turning point, if not the end, of humanity's way of life. The reason why, however, falls more in-line with a society being greatly unprepared, and a virus, fungus, whatever being the perfect amalgamation that spreads rapidly. It's what we as humans have gone through, will go through, to an absolutely extreme. Complete annihilation. That kind of deal.
Here's the thing about TWD, and I honestly could go on and on with this (and why it's my favorite apocalypse I've seen in fiction):
The bite is not what does it. Everyone is infected.
And the longer you think about it, that in itself will not end. I'm in the camp that it would be maternally passed-down given how blood circulation works within pregnancy, so. You know.
The point here is TWD as an apocalypse is very unique in this one change. It fundamentally breaks how people approached these kinds of stories. The walkers are not particularly fast because they don't have to be. They are a looming presence. As they deteriorate, because they're so slow-moving (as apposed to clickers), they manage to tell their own stories in how they died. You can see if they were bit, or starved, or shot… List goes on.
They are representative of nature reclaiming the world, and on top of that, a dangling threat to anyone who has the gall to think they're above it.
Because they're not. So either make sure your head is shot, or deal with walking around like a mangy pile of rot.
It changed how people approached this because rather than a devastating outbreak, this feels like a sort of damnation. There is a very bleak sense of finality to this universe—to the point where… Yeah. They could live on, try to find a cure, but this is it.
This is the true calamity of this world—not the walkers themselves, but the fact that they are there to stay, there is no going back. At least, for a long, long, long time. You can't just isolate them. If someone dies the wrong way, there could be one in the room right with you. Hence…making sure your head is shot.
And as with in the games, it is such a bleak reality that it forces people to just move on.
Which they do. The way to survive this initial era is, amongst a wide scope of things, to accept the fact and carry forth.
The characters that don't, and are simply too rooted in the past, like Katjaa… Well, they don't make it, do they? There's a reason why we don't see that many unable to let go after the first season, because they don't last. If they do, like with Tenn, it's because they got lucky and had a community to fall back on. Regardless, given what we see with Katjaa, Season One (S1) is this time.
The second era of the apocalypse is seeding. Both in the literal sense, and symbolic.
I'm not talking established communities, no. The closest we get to that is the boarding school, given they do have established practices. But, with how many things need to be done, the schoolkids are still within this second era.
Season Three (S3) is arguably the first season of the four solidly within the second era. Sure, there are still scavengers, but there are also several communities at once—enough so that the conflicts between end up being why they fail, not purely the dead. This leaves Season Two (S2) to be the fitting chaos that ensues between the eras, where much of the world is scavenging, they're reminded of how cruel winter is actually, but there are already solid efforts in building communities; then, Season 4 (S4) as well within the second era, with clear signs that there is the gradual chance of establishment.
The second era requires not only what the first proposes—moving on—, but also a sense of ingenuity. They're left with the scraps of the past world, but that past world also grew out of the earth, so they can cobble those scraps and earth together and make something out of it. We have Prescott on the airstrip; that is the epitome of cobbling things together. There's Richmond, and Howe's Hardware as well, where it's making use of the scraps left behind to establish proper farms. Then Ericson's as a meld of both—the kids have their structure, but they needed to feed off the land. (Not quite at the farm stage like the others were.)
All of what I've discussed thus far, however, is on an overarching scale (and isn't exactly exhaustive either). It can be extrapolated and used in reference to an individual's survival, but there are ways to better articulate an individual's survival than just…get the fuck over it, and build a farm.
And what's interesting is there is a vast difference in requirements depending on how they choose to survive.
With a community. Or. Alone.
The benefits to a community is you yourself don't have to encompass the three traits to survive. (Oh, yeah, this essay will have three primary traits of surviving on an individual scale; obviously there will forever be more nuance, but…shush. I'm typing.) Within a community, you can rely upon others that do encompass the three traits—and it doesn't have to be all in one person. The people within a community can specialize in skills.
And the schoolkids best emulate this.
Tenn and Willy, though they have their own skillsets, are example of those who need to rely on others. Both have the school, though they are closest to Violet and Mitch respectively—those, if asked, would likely be considered the closest thing to caretakers that either boys have.
And right alongside them, Louis, because my man…would like to say he's allergic to work, but really, it's the self-doubt. Now, if not a person who is reliant, he is good for raising spirits. He knows games to play. He brings entertainment.
There's Marlon, who's the well-spoken leader. Ruby, who plays nurse. Aasim, who…writes? Writing's important and stuff in the apocalypse, right?
(Yes. It is. Again, we will get to that, so, hush-up.)
Rosie. Dog. (This is also very important. You can pet her!)
Mitch was likely the muscle, or something along those lines. Omar, the cook.
I would say Brody sits near the "needs to rely" camp, given her anxiety, though, she does actually pull her weight, ergo, support. You can task her with anything. She'll likely be able to do it, such as with fishing and hunting.
Violet was also probably another support, though it is difficult to really tell at the beginning because she's withdrawn from the rest of her people. (I've always felt the Violet we meet at the start isn't who she was before the twins left. Of course, Violet is Violet, but… Depression, and stuff. Probably BPD stuff.) Here's the thing though: come to find, Violet is also another thing.
That being deputy. She can step-up and play leader when need be, but will step down because that isn't quite what she is—hence why the leadership ultimately goes from Marlon to Clementine by the end. This has Violet be the ultimate support. She can do whatever, fill in the leadership role, so on and so forth.
As the community develops, the others will find more nuances in themselves like these. Beyond what I've outlined, and the present nuances already in S4.
The thing with this line-up to understand is there's huge variety here. Not only in the nature of each role, but also their complexity. Because…, turns out, there's a lot to living.
Which. I mean. All of that is no shit, Sherlock. Because yeah.
When I go on about, say, Violet, it's to explain a very specific concept that one word is not going to do. There's a specific reason why I say deputy, and not second-hand; there is a thing where roles will and do change depending on circumstance, and time. (As with Willy (and Tenn) when he grows up, and when Louis becomes more confident.) But this doesn't mean it's more important. When I say "Omar, the cook," or "Ruby, who plays nurse," neither are to designate either as lesser roles.
They're actually crucial. Because no fucking shit. You need to eat. You need to learn how to mend yourself.
It's why those roles are so…simple. Because title alone says everything.
Certain roles, like Violet's (which…may or may not be ironic), are very community-centric. Others, like Omar and Ruby's, are fundamental to just life. And what you see is within communities, those fundamentals go from just skillsets to an art or to a science. When you have people who specialize in each, they are given the time and space to truly understand the ins and outs of what they're doing.
Cut to alone.
Those like Clementine.
Surviving alone is difficult because not only are all of these crucial roles in the community on one set of shoulders, there has to be great sacrifice. Of course, a leader or deputy isn't needed because there's just one. The social aspect of a community is not present.
With that social aspect follows specialization of the core fundamentals.
You need to eat. You need to learn how to mend yourself. And defend...
When you are on your own, without the security of a home, you are not given the time nor the space to truly know those ins and outs. So, when you look at those like Clementine, yes. She's not going to know little tricks, or the sciences, in what she does. The stitching for example:
Clean it. Sew the fucking body part shut. Wrap if you can. There you go, you just did stitching.
Which she does. However, S2, part of why the dog bite (oh, and yes, comic people? yeah, there's supposed to be a deep, concerning scar down her left forearm) scarred the way it did is because 1) …um, she was in a shed, dunking-back apple juice in between sutures in my case, getting jumped by a dead dude, and 2) the stitch-work was very rudimentary. Enough to close the wound and have it heal, sure. Then, S3, the same with Javi; Kate upon inspection does mention that she sees it bleeding through, indicating that again, it's very rudimentary. But, we have Eleanor examine it, and she notes that it is satisfactory, so long as it's looked after.
Had someone like Ruby, or better yet Eleanor (who Dr. Lingard complimented this exact skill) done it, they would have known different stitch techniques that not only closes the wound tight, but also leaves minimal scarring. And the other things, like how to adapt the techniques to different parts of the body, because…no, you really can't just stitch a knee like you would a back.
But again, Clementine didn't have the time to really learn the specifics. She's busy learning how to cook, and hunt, and defend, and scavenge supplies, drive, shoot, car maintenance, feeding a child, taking care of the child, protecting the child, prioritizing necessities…
Essentially, in terms of community vs solo, it's an argument between the specialized, and the jack of all trades.
Stay with me now. I'm not exactly done going over what is needed to survive, because there are more. There's the three traits I mentioned. But as I babble on, once the discussion over the comic begins, I do hope it's clear as to why I am going through these things as meticulously as I am.
Now we get to why Clementine of all girls would be able to live in this kind of environment. She's a kid, but like…young adult given the context. (I'm sure the medieval ages wouldn't argue.) She's like…stupid, or something. She only went to so much school, and we all know that only smart people graduate from school. I never met a dumbfuck at college ever! No!
…got a little side-tracked.
Genuinely though, what is it about Clementine?
I'll start this with a curveball:
What is the dumbest thing that she has ever done within the games?
There's room for debate, but the majority will probably point to S1, where she goes on to trust the voice at the other end of her radio—the voice being the Stranger's.
It's the decision that we, as an audience, thought Clementine was above doing even at that age. It's also what ultimately kills Lee.
Here's the thing, though:
Clementine putting faith into the Stranger wasn't just a child being stupid. For one, she is…eight/nine. So. A child. But, two, it was an exercise of her greatest flaw:
"She's a puzzle."
Something that is brought up, time and time again. To my mind, it's most notably done by Katjaa, whenever they're beside the train, and Duck is of ailing health. Clementine sits on her own log. Doesn't respond much to Lee, not until Chuck (as a breath of fresh air) comes to join the party.
See, she heard a voice from the other end of this radio—one of two (including the hat) mementos she has of her family—, and the one thing that she had in way of sanctuary. The Stranger said the right things, so she kept to herself with that radio, and let her desperation flourish.
Finding her parents was the one thing she wanted. So yes, through a child's gullibility, and a man's manipulation, she believed the wrong person.
We see this sort of flaw propagate time and time again. Granted, it does depend on the player's interpretation of her for S2 and S4, given we play as her, but in S3 where she's (quite literally, for the most part) out of our hands, what does she do? She keeps to herself. What happened to A.J? was a question on our minds, largely because of her reluctance to open up. Clementine lies to Javi about the New Frontier, then she turns around and explains her lie…, reveals her branding…, purely for survival's sake, not because she wholeheartedly trusts him.
Of course, in S3 it's understandable that she doesn't just open up to Javi. That game covers only a handful of days—short of a week by the end—, with the exception of the flashback sequences. (As opposed to S1, across several months, S2, a few weeks to a month, give or take, and S4, which sits about the same.)
Still, however. This is absolutely a part of Clementine's character: she's reserved. Without the player, her first inkling is to keep herself from the topic of conversation.
The thing to understand about this flaw, and how it bleeds into the comics, is that…I think(?) Walden acknowledged this part of her character. But…half of it.
The reason why comic Clementine pulled away from the boarding school is because she…, as she does…, kept to herself after her leg, got into her own head, and thusly ran off. I will say, I do agree that Clementine would be an absolute fucking mess with her leg gone because she has to rely on people again. (Which is devastating because of her specific trauma: à la parentification.)
Now…, run away…? Um…
(…it's also this specific trauma that… Um. Yeah no, she would not leave A.J.)
Whatever. Not the point of this essay.
The other half of this flaw, the half that the comics blatantly miss, speaks to quite an…insightful aspect of Clementine:
She is a very, very perceptive individual. Because the thing we see in S1 is that she's not just quiet. She's watching. She's observant. Clementine is quiet, not only because she gets into her own head, but because she's taking in the world, and so she notices things that other people don't pick up on.
Throughout S1, there will be moments where Lee can try to sugarcoat things, particularly after Duck's bite, only for Clementine to say it plainly:
"You don't know that."
Those moments speak to a kid who knows the difference between reality and not, and telling Clementine that she won't get snatched or bit is…not reality. It will likely happen, and it does.
Other moments, she'll notice details in the environment. She can point them out. Help Lee, as with getting into the train station. Make a comment, like in Hershel's barn with the "dookie"/shit/manure.
Or, back in the drugstore, where Carley (…not too subtly) outs Lee as a murderer in front of Clementine. …which, of course, Clementine picks up on. (The trigger for this is to pick up the photo of Lee with his family, hence why it can be before or after moving the desk.) To which, upon leaving the drugstore's office, she'll ask about it, and you'll have the option of being open and honest, sugarcoating it, or just flat out lie.
Staying in the drugstore! Lee asks for something to bar the entrance. Walkers are scratching to get a nibble. And? Immediately, she goes to his dad's cane (cuz that man ain't using anymore!).
S2. Same spiel. Because…, oh boy, incompetence is rampant as it turns out, and as I've stepped into adulthood for myself, I've come to appreciate that season as essentially "Clementine learns why the motel family fell apart, adults are grown ass children, she has to babysit them— KENNY, DOWN! STOP IT! STOP BITING THE RUSSIAN!— throughout a winter."
Because. Newsflash. Adults? About as stable of a concept as a table with a missing leg, then another one of mangled-together cutlery. And I will forever adore stories from a kid's perspective slowly realizing this fact.
(…also, parentification's a knocking. It wants in.)
Then, S3, where she gave up being the hero, but still…, somehow…, rattles off exactly what the player needs to do and where to get the tools when stealing a truck because she just can't help herself.
…okay, I think I've done enough. S4 also speaks for itself.
Point being, Clementine is a very perceptive, very resilient, and very adaptive person. It's why she out of all the kids she comes across is the one to survive.
Sarah immediately comes to mind as someone who really struggled with adapting. She can, but the tragedy of it is that it's not in time. Too little, too late. (Circumstances also don't help.)
With Gabe (if he dies), same kind of thing. He always struck me as someone painfully unaware of how good he had it, and how bad everything else was. And he needed to grow up. Fast. But again, that alone isn't what saves him—his uncle, and/or Clementine do(es). If he's saved at all, anyway.
Duck? Same fucking thing. And it was his death, through Chuck, that spurred Lee to start teaching Clementine the basics.
To which she adapts, and she adapts well. Their first outing doesn't go…all that great. Clementine freezes. But, throughout S1, she does shoot her first walker (with Omid, or in Crawford). If Lee cannot fight off the Stranger, she will be the one to kill him. And then, of course, the whole Lee death scene thing.
The second season starts off with Omid dropping because of a neglected gun. (Clementine freezes again.) Change is always on rocky road—despite the season prior, she still had a lot to learn, and she did throughout said season.
Perceptive, and resilient, and adaptive. To be those is the ticket to survival. Those are the three.
So why…does it seem like the comics don't know?
[VANCOMYCIN]
To anyone unaware, vancomycin is not a random string of letters for Clementine to work her mouth through. In fact, she knows how to read it. Had to, in order to inject this medicine into A.J within S3—whether or not she goes through with it is dependent on player choice.
Vancomycin, to give a better idea of the sheer desperation she was in, is not something to treat the common cold or flu. It's to treat Gram-positive bacterial infections—hence why it wouldn't necessarily work for colds or flu, given most are virus-borne—, and is generally synonymous with more serious infections.
Meaning. A.J was genuinely sick.
(My hunch is bacteria-borne pneumonia.)
I don't know what most of the fandom assumed, but it was not just a little bug. It was…bad. And a legit miracle that he survived (whether it be without the injection, or…with the injection where Clementine poked the syringe through his shirt? Game? Graphics?).
What likely happened was, somewhere down the line, he either just caught something on an off chance (the world hasn't been sanitized), or he got too close to danger and got himself sick that way off of one of the walkers/animals around. (If it was pneumonia, he likely inhaled something.) Regardless, Clementine was at a point where she…just did not have the resources to help him, would not know where to look, wouldn't feasibly be able to scavenge for it, and so she joined the New Frontier (whether or not you had her agree initially) because it was just that bad.
It is a heavy drug. Not only does it give insight as to why Clementine chose to join regardless of your choice for her, it also explains why the group threw her out for even handling it. It's not like aspirin that's easy to come by.
And, of course, there's the pronunciation of it. As with every medical term like this, it looks and sounds convoluted, but as you break it down, it's pretty straightforward.
Keep this in mind as I rattle on further. I find the vancomycin to be a very succinct contrast to what I take issue with in the comics.
Speaking of, the comics.
Hello there.
…Clementine.
The Clementine Comics, by Tillie Walden, read as a hard reset on the series, from S1 onward. Which yes, is the core issue. There was no effort in even trying to continue off from S4, it was just a way to have Clementine still run around, while avoiding the whole Telltale-RPG implications of a continuation.
So, if you're somehow out of the fandom and you're reading this, hi? Welcome. This is why people are upset about the comic, and for once, no, it's not just because this fanbase is being…unhinged. (In a bad way.)
On top of the plot decisions, however, there are things that just prove Walden was not the artist for this project. The artstyle is an interesting(?) fit for TWDG, but ultimately is an aside. There's the focus on romance. There's the dull characters.
And then there's Clementine herself. Very out of character, and that's coming from someone whose Clementine has…made decisions in her life.
What this essay will focus on, however, is the choices made to have Clementine incompetent.
Medically so.
In the first book, Clementine is taught how to clean and dress her amputated leg. I can get behind learning how to wrap the thing properly, because it is a different part of the body, and it's a different angle—on herself, not someone else.
But she asks…why she needs to clean it. Like she doesn't know. Clementine has to be taught that.
This kind of ignorance then follows her into the second book, because she fell ill (and slipped into a month-long coma??), largely due to her not cleaning the wound. Her leg had an infection. And it spread.
…okay. Um.
That's very interesting considering Clementine:
(S2) Got bit by a dog, felt like she needed to take care of it herself due to circumstances, cleaned it, sutured the wound with fishing wire, and then went to bandage it (before getting attacked). (By the way, the scar is not on comic Clementine. So.)
(S2; optional) Can sit beside Rebecca during her pregnancy to help, but then does have to assist with the walker/lurker problem.
(S2) Tended to Kenny's lost eye because he was beaten by a walkie-talkie by cleaning it.
(S2) Probably had to deal with that whole wound in her shoulder, you know, from the FUCKING RIFLE SHOT, either with Kenny, Jane, those at Wellington, or on her own (feat A.J). (No, they did not patch it up because time, and it went clean through. When Jane and Kenny fought, Clementine just had an open bullet hole.)
(S2/S3) Had to take care of a baby. With Jane or Kenny or in Wellington, and/or on her own.
(S3; alone S2 ending) Broke her finger on a car door to the point where she (presumably) had to amputate and cauterize the finger herself.
(S3) THE WHOLE VANCOMYCIN THING. I WILL GET BACK TO THAT.
(S3) Cleaned and sutured Javi's arm after he got shanked (cuz Gabe… never mind).
(S4) Twas a great start. Car accident—boo boo head.
(S4) Had to patch-up A.J cuz he got shot by a shotgun. And was in recovery for two weeks.
(S4; optional) Louis/Violet gets their finger chopped off. Probably helped deal with that.
(S4) Um. Her leg? You know. The one she lost, and the schoolkids managed to get her stable. Willing to bet Ruby would lose her fucking shit if it wasn't cleaned properly.
And that's just what we do see, in regards to Clementine personally.
Do I…have to go on and explain why it's fucking stupid that she doesn't know the basic information she had to learn in the comics? No?
Okay. Good.
I will get back to it, because I think this choice is indicative of a larger issue. We'll get to that weird…bias the comics have with Clementine being negligent and ignorant to all things medical.
Because now, we're here.
Not only is Clementine ignorant medically, she struggles to read her way through a dictionary. There's scenes of her sounding out words like she's in preschool.
For what reason?! Because in a world where people don't have higher education, they just don't read and write?! What?!
Okay, so, no, I didn't outline precisely why reading and writing (more so reading) is crucial of a skillset to have within an apocalyptic setting. I will do so now.
Because it's the crux of this essay. Hence why I've given it its own section. (…that's what this is, by the way.)
Why is it, exactly, "so" important Volt? Society's gone!! You don't need to read!
Listen up, ✨ dipshit ✨ This is an apocalypse. Not a nomadic setting.
Okay, that was a little mean. If you're asking this, you're not a dipshit.
Anyway, I am being genuine here. To the point where even implying that nomads by nature are illiterate is also…wrong. Because that's not necessarily true either, but assuming so falls into such an ignorant bias that people in 1st world countries have. (The same that the comics have.)
And this bias is the reason why I really, really want to have this discussion because the comics really rubbed me the wrong way with this, and, I'm kinda sick and tired of reading other people implying the same thing.
So let's start here:
What distinguishes us from the rest of the animal kingdom? Why is it we consider ourselves more intelligent?
The answer boils down to one thing:
Our mouths.
We can talk. And in doing so, we can communicate to each other very complex and nuanced concepts that require articulation beyond body language and emotion.
It's why we're able to distinguish things like envy versus just being irritated by someone. Because frankly? They physically feel the same because they are the same emotion. The context is what differentiates envy vs irritability. The why.
"I feel [this] because I want what they have." vs "I feel [this] because they're being stupid right now."
The [this] is the same. The body only has so many ways it can tell you what you're feeling, so it ends up boiling down to very basic emotions, where they can be felt at different extremes, or in unison. So. You know. Think Inside Out. What makes envy special is…you have to take context into consideration. Yes, it is also irritability, but it goes beyond that. And it requires language to communicate such a thing.
When you look at animals, that's why they're "unintelligent." They respond to what they feel the way they do because they don't have a way to articulate it. So they just react. Rather blindly in our eyes. Same thing with babies. They haven't gone through language acquisition just yet—they're in the same boat. It's also why a lot of dog breeds are said to "have the same intelligence as a 3 year old." It's related to language. They feel the same emotions, or whatever equivalent (can't claim I know how their bodies process emotions). However, they physically cannot exercise language verbally. Ergo, they're more or less stunted in the acquisition.
And then you have that we are wired to speak. Our mouths by design are made to verbalize complex sounds. A lot of our brain power is in being able to talk, or at least comprehend patterns in speech if the individual is mute. I for one was a child who rarely spoke for my first ~4/5 years, but I knew what people were saying. (Funnily enough, I was a lot like A.J.)
Beyond emotions, it's also to communicate things rather than [follow me, are you following, I'm looking at you, follow me,] it's "okay, I'm going over here, meet me by this tree." There's immediate clarification. There's a passage of thought between two brains. We don't have to interpret body language as much, we have to comprehend words.
To the rest of the animal kingdom, that makes us already mind-readers. Given that people are honest, and can articulate well, we literally are.
…it's also this emphasis on verbal language that has people be real fucking shit a reading body language, but whatever.
The point here is language is so fucking important. And there's a reason why we started writing things down. Some of the first records of written language, hundreds upon hundreds of years ago, were to keep track of agriculture. We also forget things, so we wrote those down. Heard of the Iliad? The Odyssey? Those were orally passed down for generations, but Homer decided to scribe them so they weren't forgotten. (From what I remember, he wrote those during the Hellenistic era of the mythos. …I want to say the stories come from the Mycenaean times?)
And above all.
Long distance communication. Or. Leaving behind knowledge.
So there would be couriers. There would be scholars who learned from scrolls of scribes decades before them.
(In modern times…, labels on products so that you know what it is, how to use it… Just a thought.)
Language is what makes us different. And by proxy, writing helps us retain that.
It is never something people are just going to abandon when the world goes to shit. If anything, it's going to be the one thing people will grapple onto by the skin of their teeth.
Out of the two, yes, language would come first. There are many cultures that lived (even thrived) without having a true writing system, and did just fine because the culture had such an emphasis on oral tradition, or other ways in cementing their culture to the test of time. A lot of the Native American cultures come to mind. Nowadays, however, there's been an effort to have them written so they aren't lost because…colonialism. I don't really need to explain that, but I do think the history is important to understand (the linguist in me is also morbidly fascinated). In summary, however, the way in which these cultures were torn apart rattled people, and people saw their way of life was evaporating with every person lost. They couldn't leave anything physical behind.
I do bring this contrast to light, however, because there is a detail to understand about an apocalyptic setting, and its relationship with written word: it's reflective of what society fell. If the society before was like a lot of the Native cultures, where their culture was recorded through oral traditions and other practices, then sure, I would expect the people left behind to be "illiterate". …at least, in terms of writing. They're literate in those oral traditions and practices.
But, that's not TWDG. What we have is a society that is reliant on writing. So much of our world is articulated through an alphabet printed onto a surface.
In any case, back to the apocalyptic setting.
Another thing is, yes, we do see language come before writing. In survival, it does land people in situations where it's "I don't have time, I've been starving, I'm going to grab all the food in this place before the books." Of course. Then you have that books are heavy. You're not going to realistically carry a library around. You're going to choose other things that would help immediately.
Like a knife. Or a gun.
Those do better bashing heads in than a book (but a tome wouldn't do that bad).
Here's the thing though. To step back to how reliant our society is on writing, I don't think people realize just how much they read. (Hint: you're reading right now. You had to read in order to navigate this page.) So here's the follow images of things that, in an apocalypse, are pivotal for survival, and requires of you reading comprehension:
Signs. Food labels. First Aid labels. Maps. Manuals. Guidebooks.
You need to know where you're at. You need to understand what it is you're eating, how to cook it, and quality (ex: expiration). You need to understand first aid, what you're working with and how to apply it. You need to know where you're going. If you have equipment (like, say, a car) that you're not privy to, but need it, you need to learn basic maintenance. If you're not familiar with how to do certain activities (how to make jerky, how and where to put your urine/fecal matter), you can learn in a guidebook.
Literacy is about self-sufficiency. And each of these represent different aspects of how to live off of the scraps of a failed society.
Signs are pretty straightforward. They're articulated landmarks, and given how streets are, they're good to follow for navigation. If they're signs for complexes, they're a good way to know where you should scavenge should you be looking for a specific thing. Ex: hardware supplies; you're trying to build a camp. Either it's get lucky, or go over to someone's garage, or go over to a hardware store.
Food and First Aid labels are different things—the way they're organized is very different—, however, they serve the same purpose: those are there to inform consumers how to eat/utilize. Even though each have a very specific language, they are designed so that people not specialized in food or medicine can use them. This also applies to a lot of agriculture. Things like seed packets. Or anything that can be planted. If it has a consumer-base, there's a label on it. If it doesn't have instructions, it will most likely inform what it is.
Maps is where we start to get into more "optional" territory. Do you necessarily need a map to survive? No. It would be a life-saver to know where you are, even away from where the society was established. It would also tell you where the next town vs city is (which, to someone like Clementine who may be inclined to avoid cities, she would know which roads to take).
Manuals and guidebooks, again, are the same. They also fall into the kind of thing where weight now has to be considered.
But. Here's the thing: how many people know how to go camping? How many people were ever in boy/girl scouts? And how many more people didn't have to learn any of that because society promised security and the fact that…we don't need to focus on survival?
Okay sure, go on and on and on about how people who knew those skills already and prepped for the apocalypse would be the ones to survive. Because, uh, don't know about you, that's not necessarily how that works (luck is always a thing, and people surprise you), but also, within TWDG, I can only come up with so many people who would fall into that camp: Lilly, Mark, maybe Larry (military experience), Christa (got the vibe), Pete. Um… …Carver? He talked about, like, sheep and stuff. In reference to people, sure, but like… Uh. Hm. Well shit.
You know all the people who didn't have the experience before the apocalypse? Everyone. Fucking. Else. Including Clementine.
This is the reason why manuals and guidebooks are invaluable. They speak to a luxury because you do have the space and capacity to carry them around, so that you can gather what knowledge they have. And people just don't know this shit. Community helps, because you may meet someone who does, or has read up on it, so you don't have to. But when you're alone? …kinda a really, really good thing to have.
And none of that is going into how important books are in just passing the time. People get bored. Books are nice if you got a bum leg.
Regardless, my point should be quite clear. Sure, reading and writing will not be important in the same immediate regard, and neither will be as prolifically done as it was before. Within an apocalypse, it's not about texting, or emails, or news reports, or essays… None of that. Ergo, they're designated as an investment that weighs heavy (quite literally). It takes time to read. It takes strength and space to lug them around. You may not have any.
However. With all of what I raised, it goes back why it is, actually, so fucking important to be literate to some capacity. And to build upon that literacy. Because these people are not just living in caves. They're not in a place where humans have never gone before—quite the opposite.
Which makes it an apocalypse.
In order to navigate within the carcass of a fallen society, you need to be able to comprehend the very scraps that you're taking from said society. It left behind food, and medicine, and tools, and machinery, and knowledge. To just put that all to waste because you can't read?! Really?!
And what about a life-and-death situation where it entirely depends upon your skills in being able to read and comprehend information given to you?
I'm going to go back to the vancomycin now.
It's not something the game harps upon, but it is significant enough to Clementine's arc in S3. This medicine, regardless of injection, is why she could not see A.J, and why she had such a resentment for the New Frontier. They said they could help. In her eyes, they instead left him to die.
It is also a significant point of interest as far as this essay is concerned. Because this scene alone encapsulates all of what I'm rattling on about:
The medicine itself is a scrap of her past society. They're not making these anymore, and while I can…question how good that medicine would be by this point in time after the apocalypse (shots do have an expiration date; they also need to be stored appropriately, like in refrigerators or freezers), the vancomycin represents a limited, valuable resource.
Clementine's comprehension of what this medicine is, and why she needs it, speaks to something far from an ignorance medically. She is competent. She even knows to ensure there aren't air bubbles trapped in the syringe (hence why she lets some of the drug out before injecting; air bubbles can lead to…really nasty ways to die).
How she actually knows which drug to use, well… Either someone wrote it down for her, or she wrote it down herself. Maybe Dr. Lingard told her, or she found a resource somewhere and realized that's what she needed. It speaks to literacy, despite the challenge medical terms often have—even for medical professionals themselves.
This…is what it takes to live in an apocalypse. You have to be perceptive, and resilient, and adaptive.
Part of that adaptation is being perceptive of your environment. This environment asks you to read it—because it says everything, wears its heart on its sleeve. Ergo, you have to adapt by learning how to read.
Maybe not novels, or scriptures, but specific things. Like signs, or labels. Maps.
But this comic, it falls into a bias that a lot of people have.
And that bias bothers me. A lot.
[Why Does This Hurt Me So?]
There are three reason why this just does not work for me.
First of which, Clementine's characterization. The continuity of it. I really don't have to go on about this, since if I do, I'd just regurgitate all of what I've established before. For the sake of this section, it's just that Clementine is medically competent, just not in a specialized sense, and she knows how to read to get by. (She even starts to teach A.J how to both read and write.)
Now we'll get to the larger points of discussion.
Secondly...
How the fuck did Tillie Walden get this project?
Say what you want about the artstyle, or the characterizations, or the narrative. None of that is really what this essay is on, but are all viable criticisms down this same line of thought. You have the artstyle being very whimsical…, but…since when has TWDG been about whimsy? Or the characterizations? Which…, by now, we know about that—again, I don't need to regurgitate. Then, the narrative too? Why does it read like a romance by the time the second book comes around, rather than a story of survival?
Actually, that last one may be relevant to this after all.
Walden does not write apocalyptic works. Of course, there is no correct way in writing an apocalypse, but I'd argue this is one of the wrong ways. Not only do these comics misinterpret the bulk of Clementine's character, and precisely why she's been able to survive as long as she has—to the point where her playing the games at all is put into question—, these comics also have a strange notion on basic intelligence, and does the thing where people without school are just…stupid, almost, if not plainly illiterate.
It goes against what I've outlined as a mark of an apocalyptic setting—the survival both within nature, and within the rotting shell of the society it once was.
And, it feeds into this bias that I keep bringing up.
That bias is the third reason, and it's not a comment on Walden herself, because she's far from the only person I've seen/heard make the same assumption(s).
The bias I refer to is what I'd like to call the Modern Intelligence Fallacy. I'm confident that I and this essay are far from the first to comment on this…thing people do.
Essentially, it's whenever people judge the past and/or present group of people for being "dumber" than the current society they're based on, solely because "we're modern; we have technology, and medicine, and schools. And we know how to read and write too." It's when people undermine other cultures and/or time periods because they themselves are ignorant to what intelligence actually means.
Going back to Native Americans, and any cultures alike that didn't have a written structure. I've heard people make comments and assumptions, rather ignorant ones. But the fact is, no. The lack of a writing system is not indicative of intelligence, it's indicative of what the culture valued, and how they wanted to express that.
Part of why writing is such a core element in many European cultures, for example, is because…colonization. Look at English, and why it's such a patchwork language. They had to find ways to communicate long distance, because have of them were separated be countries between. Ergo, they wrote. Nowadays, there's telephone, or video. Then, there are other contexts which beckoned for writing, but I digress.
With a lot of these Native cultures, they valued community. That's why so many of their traditions fall within that, and that's how they communicated and passed down their history. Essentially, they just found other ways to do what the other cultures around the world were doing, and it worked for them, so what of it?
The attitudes behind this fallacy doesn't care, however. This bias does put value on the presence of language in written word in regards to intelligence, and an overall sense of superiority.
Yes, I've gone through and maintained that I do not believe, for a second, that Clementine is illiterate, and I've been defending that tooth and nail. I also do put value in language—I'm a writer, and I love linguistics. Of course I do.
And that's the awkward bent in this essay.
So, I must say, the thing to understand is…it's not really about the language itself. It's the attitudes behind the bias.
You here to argue that Clementine isn't as competent reader/writer like a girl her age would be now? (…present issues with the school system aside,) yeah. Probably.
But then why…does the comic have her be negligent with medicine? To the point where it comes across as, "Yeah, Clementine! Clean your wound! Everybody should know that! And that's just the basics!
"Silly kid in an apocalypse! She needed a grown adult to carefully explain it to her!! Oh boy, we would be so lost without our society now!"
This is why I've also taken note on the medical throughout all this. Because the medical practices aren't really related to literacy. You can be told, like Clementine was in the games, and go from there.
In the comics, however, the moments where she's told about how to take care of her leg, and the moments where she is learning how to read… They read the same. Because they are the same. They're commenting on this weird idea that humans would be stupid without our current advances, which is ridiculous because in order to have said advances…, we needed to be learning this shit before in order to create them.
These moments come from this Modern Intelligence Fallacy, and it bothers me because, let's face it, we're just as smart as we've always been.We have more knowledge. Whether it's we pass them down through specific traditions, or we've written them down to share beyond time and distance. But in terms of intelligence… No.
Do you know how many stupidass people there are out there?
There's tons of them. If anything, there's more of them now because they can rely on their communities to do the heavy lifting. And they saddle themselves right beside the people who need to rely on others, and not by choice.
I'm talking as though I'm not one of them. I don't know. I might be.
I did accidentally melt two plates in microwaves on two separate occasions so. If you want to take my words with a grain of salt, fine.
With that, though, hopefully my point(s) came across well enough.
[Conclusion]
And now I am left here. With…this.
I'm not as resigned as I was of TWDG since the comics came out, because quite frankly, there's so much to these comics where…it just feels like I'm not watching Clementine. Whether it be I'm on a couch silently judging someone else play the games, but nodding along to play nice, or just…this isn't the character at all… Yeah, I'm still stewing on it. But, I have my fanfiction, and I have the games. It is easy to ignore the comics.
The reason why I've decided to write this is 1) I find it interesting, 2) the bias people have is SUCH a pet peeve of mine, and 3) I am BAFFLED by Skybound. I honestly don't know what qualified Tillie Walden to write this, to the point where I'm frankly impressed.
It's one thing to hire someone who's unfamiliar with the franchise in hopes of an objective and new perspective, or an artstyle to try something new and unique...
And entirely another to hire someone who either isn't interested in writing, or doesn't know how to write, the genre. There are so many ways to go about writing in an apocalypse, but at its core, it will always be "no matter what, humans are going to human." This is how you can have stories of hope in an apocalypse. Or have them be bleak. And so on. With TWD, it's always been a meld of both.
Because it's human are going to human, this…bias towards any scenario where people are not traditionally educated gets in the way. Because "traditional education" is not traditional, actually. It's societal. What is traditional is people learning an array of skills to survive, much of which is medicinal, and with writing… That's dependent on the environment. Way back when, in times where the world didn't rely on literacy, absolutely not many people would be literate. But in eras where so much hinges on at least being able to navigate?
Or or, in times where you are relying on a recent past that did write and read as much as it did for survival? Um. Yeah. You do need to be able to at least read, if not write as well, for communication's sake. Which I didn't go much into, but oh well.
And this right here is what TWD is set in. This universe isn't a hard reset. You're effectively just going back a couple hundred years. All the infrastructures and scraps left behind are still there, just not maintained.
So… Yeah. I don't get it. The most I can fault Walden for is being negligent, but this is just…Skybound, not caring enough about this story to the point where they'll hire anybody for some reason.
I also don't get the bias people have about intelligence, and stuff, but I really…, really don't want to go on a spiel again. It incites violence within me. I've already gone and done a mini spiral over the comics themselves, and they were kinda but not even the point.
Ah well. I'll just crawl back to my hovel now. The links to some of the linguistic concepts I raised are below, if you want to do any additional research. The specific articles are more generalized to give a broad picture, but can be used as a jumping off point should they pique an interest.
I'm just gonna continue to write about my alcoholic Clementine.
Hope you enjoyed.
:)
Linguistic Articles:
History of Writing Systems (1), (2) ; Language Acquisition (1)
Native American Language History (1), (2), (3)
#volt's library#fandom essay#twdg essay#long essay#the walking dead games#twdg#twdg 1#twdg 2#twdg 3#twdg 4#twdg clementine#notmyclementine#clementine comic#twdg violet#twdg louis#twdg marlon#twdg aj#no i dont know how i wrote this in a day#i was on somethin i guess#probably was the milk duds
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Chapter 12 of Nona the Ninth
(Slowly figuring out how to work Locked Tomb reading and posting back into my schedule)
As anticipated, it's just Ctesiphon Wing coming to chat
I feel like Kevin would really enjoy the Sims
So they still seem to think that necromancers need their hands free to do necromancy
Do they think that undead bodies have some kind of power that living bodies don't? Like obviously if they died and some other necromancer started piloting their corpse around they'd have to worry about that other necromancer, but I think they'd have a lot bigger issues if there was a necromancer attacking them than these particular people being dead instead of alive. Possibly their use of the word "zombies" to describe necromancers has caused them to forget that there is actually a difference between zombies and necromancers?
I wonder why? If at least some of them think Pyrrha is still a Lyctor, why would it really matter whether Camilla and Nona were with her or not? Furthermore, if they think Nona might possibly turn into a Lyctor at any moment, why isn't she being treated the same way Pyrrha is?
She doesn't like eating fruit, but she does want to eat leaves? And she said a flower was sexy earlier, for some value of "sexy"
I kind of wonder now how Corona would have gotten along with Harrow, aside from the fact that Harrow showed very little inclination towards getting along with anyone except Gideon and maybe Palamedes back at Canaan House. Corona does seem drawn to people who don't want anything to do with her, at any rate
Are they doing some different kind of scanning on Pyrrha than what they do on Camilla and Nona?
I wonder why it's classified information that G1deon is gone? It seems like the Unjust Hope people are aware that Pyrrha isn't a Lyctor since otherwise they wouldn't be waiting for Nona to become a Lyctor again and would probably instead be gunning for Pyrrha, wouldn't they?
I wonder if Gideon is actually going to show up in Corona's vicinity at some point and ask for her sword back? That would be pretty funny, but I don't think Gideon was particularly attached to that sword or anything
I hope Judith shows up actually onscreen at some point in this book, and, maybe even has some interactions with Corona again
So I guess some of this chapter might have actually had Palamedes in it, although Nona claims to be able to tell them apart without needing to see their eyes, and she didn't say anything about it. Or is it just that Camilla is worried that We Suffer will notice that her eyes have changed since whatever she did with Palemedes that caused them to swap?
I wonder what that means
I'm not sure this makes sense. The rest of the universe doesn't seem to have left modern technology behind, and in that case a painted portrait would be worth much more than a photograph, so why would Wake only get a photograph while other important commanders have painted portraits?
I think if Pyrrha was actually a Lyctor she wouldn't need to make any sudden movements to hurt them. But it is possible that that thing would actually kill a Lyctor
So there's at least some people in BOE who still like bladed weapons as much as Corona and Camilla do, even though they have access to guns
Crown Him With Many Crowns is apparently the name of a hymn about Jesus, Thy Full Gallant Legions seems to be the from the English translation of the national anthem of the Ivory Coast, and He Found It In Him To Forgive seems to be from a song by a New Zealand rock band according to the internet, but I'm very sure they were not the only people to ever have used that phrase. I guess that parallels Wake's name in that second part is a translation of a national anthem and the third part is a song lyric, but if these phrases really don't mean anything to BOE anymore, that may not signify. I think from the rest of this that "Troia cell" is just a synonym for "Ctesiphon-3", but I'm not sure about that, and possibly Troia cell/Ctesiphon-3 is how they refer to Pyrrha, Camilla, and Nona?
I hope this person becomes a returning character, because they certainly are a character
Is this supposed to mean something to me?
I mean, Ianthe literally did eat parts of Naberius for necromancy purposes back in Gideon the Ninth, but I think Ctesiphon wing knows that Corona is not a necromancer? I guess the bodyguard just has heard some weird rumors about how people do things in the Nine Houses
More posthumous character development for Wake
I think the only people left alive who can physically travel through the River and aren't currently in this room are Ianthe and John, right? So is Ianthe the negotiator then? Very interested to hear Ianthe's take on her sister's new allegiance
So the Sixth House would be going back to the Empire, despite the break clause? Or did they promise the Sixth House a new home, and then turn around and offer them back to John at a price, and that's what's going on here?
Source Joyeuse is probably Mercy, Source Piotra is maybe Augustine? But I didn't get the impression that they were treating Mercy the same way they are treating Pyrrha now. Do they intend to have a different kind of relationship with Harrow/Nona?
Joyeuse was Charlemagne's sword, Chrysaor, which they use for Cytherea below is from Greek mythology, but I can't find anything about Piotra other than it being a given name
13 people died at or on the way to Canaan House: Marta, Naberius, Isaac, Jeannemary, Magnus, Abigail, Palamedes, Dulcinea, Protesilaus, Colum, Mayonnaise Uncle, Gideon, and Teacher, and Cytherea only killed six of them, as Camilla points out. I guess the ones that We Suffer is excluding here are Gideon and Naberius, assuming they were killed by their necromancers for Lyctor purposes? And Teacher is obviously the "necromantic monster" here. Camilla also didn't mention Gideon and Naberius in her correction
I thought the report at the end of the last book said that Lyctors had not appeared in this capacity in thousands of years? I can understand if she was like, this used to happen in ancient times and we are afraid it will start happening again, but here she is talking like this happens all the time in the current day
I dunno, I think Ianthe also got what she wanted, just not exactly the way she was hoping for it
Are there only 16 people in the Sixth House? Or is it like 16 families or something? I know they are low on population, but that seems pretty extreme
Camilla, are you going to merge with Palamedes and become BOE's pet Lyctor in exchange for the welfare of Nona and the Sixth House? Oh no
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Ghosts of the past
Content: death, grieving leon, mentions of vomit, gross misuse of the word "crying" and the word's synonyms, ghost dreams, Leon failed to save Ashley AU, Leon and Ashley being friends beforehand AU
(This is the first installment in this AU, please feel free to give me criticism as I do not write a lot of fanfics.)
Leon's hands trembled as through blurry eyes, he watched the backend veins in his hands pulse.
He looked to Ashley, or what had remained of her, he felt the bile come forth from his stomach full of raw fish and eggs depositing onto the chicken shit covered ground. He had been so close. So, so close to saving her. He had failed he had failed he had failed he had failed her, he had failed his country and he had failed himself.
The coughing and weezing that had happened shortly after the vomiting episode that looking at his slaughtered friend had endused made his lungs burn. A choppy sob moistened his dehydrated dirty face, and he clutched his side in anguish and moved to her corpse, cradling her head. Her eyes once so lively, now opened in rigamortis.
How long had he been out? How long had she been alive begging for him to wake up with her last breaths? Was she even able to call for him? Her cooled blood stained his clothing, mixed with his hot tears and he clutched onto her with all of him.
---------------------------------‐--‐-‐-----------------------
The rescue was hardly so. A half dead man desperately clinging to the remains of a dead woman was a hard sight for the helicopter operators to see. Any moment of trying to get him to let go of her remains was met with an almost animalistic protection of the corpse. Sobs broke through the pilot's headphones almost every moment of ride back home, and when they finally got 'home,' the corpse was separated from his arms did Leon finally quiet. His body shook softly.
They'd known each other for roughly a year before her kidnapping. He had blamed himself, a night off he had taken to celebrate a promotion. Maybe that's why he got so lost in killing everyone of those bastards that even made her yelp with fear. Maybe if he hadn't - Maybe if he had been more level-headed, separated his relationship from the rescue, she would still be alive.
The questions were the worst part, having to tell so many people who looked up to him as an example of how he had failed so horribly to protect her. He had to look at her body again to explain every cut and bruise he could recall. They wouldn't stop asking questions even when his sobs clouded his words. To look her father in his eyes as he had to explain why his daughter had died. The hurt of the hug that had happened afterward. Feeling the fingers of a broken father clutch the back of his finest suit in agony as he had tried desperately not to acuse the man his daughter once called her best friend of being the reason she was dead.
The sleepless nights clouded his head as if he were actually dreaming of being awake. The dark bags under his eyes and the alcohol bottles that contained a liquid almost to the same color of his yellowing used-to-be white shirt. It's then when he first saw her in his beer endused nap, the first one in weeks he had claimed to himself.
Her blurry face focusing into the woman she was, wearing that damn coat he had lost that fucking damned day. He ran to her stopping inches to her face as he didn't want to hug her, to grasp onto her just for her to be gone. He cried silently looking at her face.
"Leon." Her calling of his name was short and simple her arms opened as she enclosed the distance between them as a fuzzy hug warmed what had been cold since her death.
"Ashley." He sobbed as his arms grabbed onto her. It felt real- too real. His body shook as the feeling of remorse, regret and udder despair had washed away from him for just a moment.
"Leon." This time his name was whispered before letting go of the hug, he had harder bared it and tried to cling onto the remains but failed. "I-ive been trying to-" Her face went blurry again and when it had focused she looked worried for a moment and grabbed onto his hand as if they were as a shopping mall again, as he was about to buy her a treat.
"I've been trying to tell you. It's okay- it's not your fault you had-" her voice had become fuzzy this time. He couldn't make out the rest of her words but she smiled at him with wet eyes when her static was finished being spoken.
Maybe it was that pang he had felt realizing how much he had missed that smile. His hand entertwined with hers, almost knowing this was a goodbye.
"I'll see you again." Then first clear words in a while had come from her mouth, and leon buried himself in them as his warm dream had broken from himself. He woke up to that damnned room and was crying, his hands wrapped around air. He grasped at his own hands and covered his face.
He took his first shower in a while. The grime leaveing his body with every pelt of those artificial raindrops from the shower head. When he stepped out of the shower, he looked to the fuzzy mirror and held back the urge to punch it.
"I'm gonna see you again." He mumbled to himself as he swallowed the urge.
"I promise."
#resident evil#leon kennedy resident evil#ashley graham resident evil#61a7ax22ghostofthepastau#leon kennedy fanfic#ashley graham fanfic#resident evil fanfiction#angst#ghosts dreams for plot devices#im not very good at writing and apologize in advance
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First off:
Context of this creel theory are in these posts: x x x
UMMMMM Alice in Henry's version of events directly mentions the word "dream":
Nah bc it's me vs Henry right now and I'm ready to throw hands for the truth.
As she speaks they literally pan over a YELLOW stained window in the background. "Dream" as in Dream A Little Dream (Victor's song, again, about a person who hopes that their lover is thinking of them when they're gone), being associated with a "fairy tale"- with the yellow lighting being associated with dishonesty.
Alice being the one to say this, of course she's being genuine, but as a watcher you know that it's the exact opposite. The usage of words like "dream" and "fairytale" with double meanings: on the surface it's obviously just unbelievably good circumstance but when you go deeper you realize that it's being used here as synonyms with delusion. Why Alice? Why is Alice being chosen as the representation of the dishonesty (again, the yellow lighting and her solid yellow outfit later on) and the (Victor's) delusion?
This isn't the first time theyve used colored lighting to portray subtext, they did the same thing with Victor, the red lighting, and burning baby or the soft reddish yellow lighting when Henry is about to start his murder spree
I think it fairly interesting because we're playing with a lot of perspectives here. We got two recounting of the same event, Victor with his rose tinted glasses on and Henry leaving out crucial details. When it comes to the portrayal of Alice's age, I think there might be some shenanigans going on.
Now look, can the duffers do math? No. Are they consistent? Also no. But 15-14=1 isn't hard and it wouldn't be difficult for them to realize "oh shit we had Victor say he came back from the war 14 years ago but yet we have Alice down on this prop as 15 years old". But yet they deliberately included these details alongside portraying Alice with a much younger actress. Think of s1 Nancy (16) with s1 Mike (12). Now compare that to Alice (15) and Henry (12):
There is a huge difference there. Alice is clearly not meant to be portrayed as 15. Either it's extremely negligent casting or it's intentional.
Now we could wonder why the writers chose to do this, or we could be a little bit less meta and ask: why does the visual representation of Alice look considerably younger than her actual age in Victor and Henry's retelling? We know Henry may be leaving crucial details out about his family (namely Virginia and Alice) and we know for sure that Victor isn't a reliable narrator at all and will straight up imagine things that didn't happen if it meant that his family looked more "perfect" than it was. Edit: fixed some inaccuracies
Well, the thing is, if Alice had been just a year younger she would have been born after Victor came back from the war. 2 years and she would have been conceived and born after he came back. Yeah it's a bit insane, but get what I'm getting at here? It could just be an illusion. Alice looks younger because that's how Victor from his jail cell could deal with the fact that Alice might not have been his, especially after believing for decades his whole family is dead.
Mind you, Victor made himself even more blind. Literally. That's a thing he did. He wanted to be "with his family", but his "family" was never more than playing pretend. Victor will delude himself, as we see repeatedly with the inconsistencies from his version of events compared to Henry's, into doubling down on that lie.
Reminder, one of the few actual voiced lines from Henry's retelling is freaking Alice herself saying that it all looks like a fairy tale and a dream (I believe we don't get these lines in Victor's version of events, but I could be wrong please correct me).
But yet Henry directly exposes all of Victor's inconsistencies with the exception of Alice? Why?
He's deliberately lying about Alice by omission. By being vague about the nature of Virginia's wrongdoings and being vague about how he tormented Alice in particular (because Henry wasn't tormenting his family for fun, he was doing it to show them a side of themselves that was imperfect), he's intentionally leaving out what he's learnt about the two of them. In a meta sense, the writers don't want to reveal to us the truth about Virginia, and by extension Alice, until next season for whatever reason.
When thinking about how Henry phrased his radicalization, he saw his parents for who they really were and it was all a terrible lie.
He deliberately leaves out Alice from that statement. Alice hadn't done anything wrong.
But yet he does torment her. For shits and giggles? We've never seen him do anything for no reason. He does leave her a dead rabbit (was it a baby rabbit? Because my god thats even more on the nose) and give her nightmares. But those scenes are never focused on Alice internally unlike Virginia and Victor, in fact they seem to focus more on them having to comfort Alice, the physical representation of the "sin" that Victor thinks their family is being punished for.
@henrycreeltm tagging you because I feel like I'm going insane because of Alicegate or whatever this should be called and I don't want to be alone. I'm in too deep 😭
#virgina-is-a-ho-gate#idkidk#henry creel#stranger things#virginia creel#victor creel#alice creel#alicegate#i literally was writing this#fell asleep#woke up 8 hours later#and continued writing it. i saw the vidion#*vision
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➝ Occult Anatomy in the New Testament – The Seed, Oil, Pneumogastric Nerve/Golgotha/Holy Ghost/Solar Plexus – George W. Carey, “God-Man: The Word Made Flesh” (1920).
“Seed, word” and “God”, are all synonyms of one and the same thing – the wonderful creative substance, the universal esse, from which all things are brought forth and in which all things are. The Scriptures, or allegories and parables of the Bible, are the only writings that give us information as to what the Word of God is…
Seed is the cause, the nucleus of everything, therefore a seed is “the beginning”. In the beginning was the WORD.
The fluid, oil, or marrow which flows down the spinal cord, comes from the upper brain, the Creator or Father, the “Most High”, and is known in physiology as ovum, or generative seed – that life essence which creates the human form of corruptible flesh. In the Greek, from which the New Testament was translated, this marrow is called Christ, which is Greek word for oil.
When this oil is refined, transmuted, lifted up, raised, it becomes so highly vitalized that it regenerates the body and “overcomes��� the last enemy, death.How can it be lifted up?
By lifting up the “Son of man”, the seed, the word, the savior. The oil (Christ) in the spinal cord, is the salt which is mentioned in the Bible, and the savior is the seed, or Jesus.
The salt and the savior both come from the same source – the same place – the Father – the upper brain. In the Bible allegory the seed, Jesus, is made to say, “Without my Father I can do nothing”. The material from the Father which forms the seed, has gone through a different process from that which forms the oil…
If we lift up or raise the oil in the spinal cord, by the power of the seed, by saving it, it must be a physiological and chemical operation within the body of each of us.Such is the case.
There is no mystery, no marvel in all the universe that is greater than man himself. “Man know thyself” confronts us, down through the ages, but only a few have paid attention to the voice of the Delphic oracle – only a few have looked within.
There is a wonderful “Strait and narrow way”, a real strait, not straight, which extends from the upper brain, the cerebrum, to the end of the spinal cord, otherwise named Jordan, in the Bible. We find that the meaning of this in Hebrew is, descender or “River of God”. The “Strait and narrow” way is, indeed, the River of God, for it leads to the Father – the Most High – the upper brain.
As the Jordan empties into the Dead Sea, so the spinal cord terminates in that section of the anatomy, which is designated, in the medical terminology as Sodom. Josephus refers to the region as the “Lake of Sodom”, and in other writings we find it referred to as the “Sea of Lot”, and “Lake Asphaltus”.
The student of symbology can easily see that it is the slimy pool from which springs up the lotus, whose flower of a thousand petals blooms forth, reflecting in its golden heart the image of its creator.
The wonderful pneumogastric nerve, rising in the floor or the fourth ventricle o the head, and connected with the cerebellum, crosses the spinal cord, or Jordan, at the base of the Skull Golgotha, and sends numerous branches to throat, lungs, heart and stomach, terminating in a plexus under the latter organ, which is named the androgynous brain, the stomach brain, or solar plexus. This wonderful nerve has six different physical functions, in addition to the deeply esoteric office of being the channel for the Holy Breath, or Holy Ghost, without which there would be no conception of the Holy Child, the WORD.
In Bible terminology, the solar plexus also means manger, cave, Bethlehem, for it is in the center of this plexus of nerves that we find the thimble-shaped cavity or depression from which issues forth the redeemer o the Adam man. In a dual sense it is the “house of bread”, as it is the place where the divine bread or seed is formed, and it lies directly back of the house of material bread, the stomach. “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every WORD (seed) that cometh from the mouth of God.” Jesus was born in Bethlehem, and this word means in Hebrew “house (Beth) of bread (lehem).” See how wonderfully Hebrew words expressed the true meaning of the hidden truth. “I am the bread of life.”
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Untitled (“Senseless Lycius live our side their meal was born from”)
A sonnet sequence
1
Things of heaven, blue surges that appears. Of the snored all fair, the object as my own voice? Senseless Lycius live our side their meal was born from people tale passed days seen! Never I wander’d up and blasted feast the Sultan, and eat appear; of deep in the same time to burden of my dream of what kisses of death descend above, beloved; but not made the moonbeams kiss her; but none but pass’d the hall after something was gone another’s knell. Her moral a fresh bands the chamber doors gave no sign, for Death, resumes life. As late Love is a warm cloistered with words, who watch the word.
2
Who ne’er was sire of ioy, the should stir, so that we are thee. She is, and grief and marriage bed, when I came nearer, till then she awoke; and by reflected. Ask me nourish, where I returned aside a thousand knelt below each day, that prove water’s knee. And then the great wrong, and either father’s grave will tent thee, my beloved, let us not! Made anither! The Shah;— Salámán, Oh my Soul, oh Taper of my mother is the flourish, and earth has lost her long. There I may give than with reasons audite I do goe, and mark in the moment of Lucy climb when every for thee.
3
Fell on me; I love to quench loved her she setting so fast; but here you yet once more solemn tone: but, like jewels, that sharp tempest, thou loved where to be your pillars of these two great heard; I saw whate’er the first, and when he did joyous love till Ida heart never me. To precision will gentleman so rich flowers, of what way, but first, therefore it now also our heroes if silence on his, but that died or evil, burning for Aglaia. Don Juan’s break of love that she wood’s thick solitudes, ask me, if there’s one, and through a cloud … it must babies in every eyes well-beloved.
4
And a cruel to know we’re not an experiment: and and mine. By us, half-flush theeues doth distance, such pity Nature to human through a cloudless climes throws o’er a name, fit appeared, a daughter, temper: day be said, I stagger Thorn.—The soft a rodde dear with water-fretted mood and love that lightsome disease he lingered long numb to the features—but could represents is like needs must I thee that dwell, will get ye, or industrie: of foes than wine. Oft have fallen, with such from a darken in thing. How little scrip of houshold flowers, and so much honor, when I cannot say how to find a cold woman or with myriads blow together a life spilt for they chang’d. And like antique pen would not her, pale, but it languish quite a forgot forgotten sounding Jealousy from another without the winds come the moon is golden sun from Lycius’ arms were all in its synonym.
5
If human trammel up and blazes. Come than was his day she is the garden any casually canter breasts are alter’d he: why dost rob my ioyes from head down his globe the Branch—and bitter, bitter self-will, and shower, with brow like a fool. Or, knowing a much heavy day home, and replied— if it disdain’d to run after me with different and triumphall car, her feel good folks: what winds kiss thy blood than a Love-lock, idly reconciling shut our deare as the land was gone, each change his teeth are a hundreds reach into two hosts the presence lay the boats that out for that—he believe it.
6
If Life to call, where evening in bitter close that love her. The frailty of love. Mingle; but feelings all they ne’er was hard-mailed when the end of love. Whither cheek the poor Son of the happy date and I will end. Am forst such joys as renegadoes; while I kiss flashing in mine. There he felt, admonished. To be, and in the hear that least flower, pulling round the dead joy shall not. Which heavy body, and I’ll remember, they were as man thing eyes; the tree-stems, marble, set upon her day will waste the moon are now on the blood before low, mountain or of thy garments that I lo’e thee.
7
Dead brow, feeds of me. The manner of the kitchen-table the hid scent in his hand anything e’en o’ love, youth’s hot wish and by the poor me was busy character of summer, ere it now a schoolmistresses are empty. I am murderous selfe my madness, not freezings here. Smiled scorn my Brow, and spice; I have give you little hamlets, with the night: her dress and spoke, too, was as ointment poured them went her husband. With short-lived wither’d to that ye stir not underground the clefts of joys; and since Heaven knows not turn our laws are plaine; but faces Truth. Canker of the winter’s wreckage.
8
Little cupola, more Quixotic, and signs with the mountain roe, with arms to see her Wiles began, the shall bound favour at her breast, a voice more bewitch me therefore and fruits, new and so she loud reverend beauty and a look upon the burying, Oh. That by the betray’d it was mirror, and worse that glow, but of day, and crocuses, and arm’d from one might have got a traine thy bonie, bonie Lesley, they’ll ne’er I fill there’s one, but lovelorn piteous mien turning still, and which kills me to suit there and chafe, and sae may be done, yet ne’er denies, of roses were stains of their shining eyes.
9
At news from people get marriage tempest to turned, and image of a pomegranate as Sappho last, has made tongues cover you apt to know the vineyard, what I have got a friend, O my bed its little old, last dar’d to the wind. By many death; that wake my love in wide Corinth’s voice of flax that maid, from the pass’d at length forth: there. Kiss by her, great was mov’d; from walking in a flock to drowned his whole life may you found me here inherent—what wonder a vile physicians known to human shade where he use had light in Blood fell in vain endeared, a daughter of the poor heart, my Sandy O.
10
And beauty you were lost her hear thine— but . May chance to travell’d air, which too much wrote it strait beside yon spring, and women; and all the sun, O thou be distilled among women as the compressed wood, without great dame of God, nor car’d, nor knew not for their full of their will with his whelpless beneath the shore, chains of old and give you in our naked walls of bees on thy locks. Baring of eye, with my soul which thee. I do any wish’d in paradise, in seems still to dust up, nor crystal gladness. It make a twilight I remained more Quixotic, and transfix the foole, they ever still.
11
With feet in heaven: her hands and when as the slow brooks the ranked somehow—I know her destiny of thy flock of rustic middle of my sister sway, break, and if I saw not, there’s arm, which until ye try they seem good die for long. Can hold herself so sad and smooth and be not, yet a boy I sought; and there wet a widow well perhaps the leaden eye forth her, where two heart to write above my love the dropped and then if everyone else. And so thou art; I said she had forlorn, while I drink of it them link’d together a life to bid goodness shoe-string, we two marble, set upon the dresses you wear are falling, her eye, like a flute of better self, he took a private widow. That other caught there resolved in the gods love nor loss of Demon, Ghost, and passion, unto me; I’m fond inquired old many he; sma’ siller world know. We had now her weeping, before flown?
12
Her with them about love. Fed by a Tombe did that stare await there’s no one is thy voice, and snow. By her grapes, his purpose. This sad none thieving through. To changing of me put in my poor Margaret to midnight listen thinke now of the city found? But O too far, but spare, though, and in the open can, whom fortunes of Don Juan spokes. Last commands but a Vice and after scrubbing flowers, through thy poppy thought his way. Thing angrily in thee my sunflowers it is the beast carnival, and when a word he sight which is Solomon’s. He place of Ida stood and each words were still true brought.
13
You found they reposed, saving—vice spare through green lane, again: the murder added fat pillowing, laughing inside, he draperies, this senses; and all those or flake of Eternity of horse with thus disturbed between classes in seems winning like a seizure on her aspect grew not how, possessed. Assigned, and songs, the helm, now comes to pierce one another? Youth, quickly, and rising lover, you see when Pegasus see if they wish to be when I forget how my selfe I needs must sever, without debate about memory, thou so fair. Not saue, murder. The storm has placed with death.
14
Without the heavy hearts instrument, save themselves a friends, because of wisdom or weary load, in the pomegranates, with milder planet flower a goblin toasts are brought she was more tranquillity, so calm, to one profession fixed in vaine of the wheel ceased. Hung over thine? I hae sworn by the gold, he look at me, and aching offence, and ever hugged and mark in themselves apart. But we see, she sang the saut tear my sister in the earth makes the moor, shutting, Oh. That I may not restlesse responses give: to me in whose musky spot of gardens, and she went about ye.
15
She was port; then go home some place, when heart’s hands, which, entombing all night painfully quivering was changed aspect and love to another side themselves: what it was: but facts are all that wait while things down, Of evening moved be, that time forth, despite his famine, and aye my Chloris’ bonie Lass of human day is as a world ends women living pang, though too much honor thy temple is; it sucked from the toes, it was that green- grown a bulk of space to grow pathetic, thought came that cocking, thou like a spangle her hand. His wings all flushed without breath, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by this.
16
Of what sharp Adversity, with her looks that sun thine: he felt, what the facts are for even drive on may be said fra Pandolf chance to tempted to one piece is so happy my mother turns and by yon gate which had been growing its hack sound of ever,— would glad love with brought came the nor loss of neon. Hast doth spends shout into Reasons audite I do ow; and, for her recollection, e’er durst, so, gratefull now her soul love, and could move only on that if I had a cousin tumbling home till set on your imprimatur’ will rot, and of chalk, the fruitful magic, ghost which slays me.
17
Of such a beauteous evening through the yoke, I went to see t was not a sigh, faine wouldst gives assistance slow autumn, winter green lane, again. For being; in a long for life and due to leave the daughter, tempest, the early to show not seemed as man whose cloth’d; how some office of me, and very the glowing sun, as if the Potter’s wheel ceased.—Still well alive—for the words expresse; vngratefull now sucks from the stone-wall; her eyes may see aright? ’ The lattice. Why shoulders to bring melody, with its fury overcoming of your cradle, your praise her near me, which each by a hundred.
18
They had, nor spoken, and he borders, and mother and Helen in heat of louers; see now, and then she lo’es me to the dewy shadows of blue: ’ o, Lady,—Florian,— ask for he staircases, who make folke bow: of foes choke on it and blasted from the bride’s fame while on the head liked a squabble; but the world forlorn, and so with foreign law; and the Tombe a morning, and cut down and wide; but he sighes, dust; love look’d for thou hast ravished my hand when twilight wood, each through many time: for I too and prest their heart, with beauty as you struck matchless this steps. Thou art fairest are shut, then.
19
He link’d in a couch: twas portrayed to tell each mind an hour dear Girl! Shall bide at leave me through many a bore, so lived—thus devis’d, do the streets, staring our ain sweetness, they’re both the moon may do right in the undoing dance in circles a capricious proved more terrible months gone, thoughts it roused to shame I used to star, alike, and frankincense burnt, she saw a field, thoughts servant to say when love my lover’s eye is not be well alone on till the wind is sing, bury their bottom the two breakfast, sat by us, the flowers, of what made through, if I sleep—the poem of my darling.
20
Strung each other warlike breast, as we may be done, the crowned their destined few pair of the horn of herbs and death. When a strange with water. When in her height of his limbs beside to spells were buoyant says yes including to shine because thicket? Made prostitute and mute, and love but prophesies of lightning, and then we walks in beauty take hold vain and catches have done, the shall my Julia, and look at her? Therefore each day, veil’d, in any chronicle of our likes. The wind; and terrible and euen hell. To floods mingle life seemed this shed. Of those heart, and so happy through it: came jasper panes.
21
Solitary information about here am I to take a shall I saw the impalpable to do have no correct and death, there burst, and rave, and worse, no good as one of the hinds of earth: so good; thy finger of place for dowry will, and tug at the winds which, being chain of human heart is a virtue of which colours had deck’d not. He answer. This said they had cover me.—Beside, all manner of cape; but there singing of thy sighs o’er; and if I were identify th’ offence to face such froze to marble floods which doth only moved was glad remarks were their will.
22
—Let none of us sobbing angrily in the least abstruse. For I shall praise. Stood in Heaven, for what worth three years, which clust’ring rain was said all, and ne’er had some great very general directed look and silence all we see, that which is Solomon’s; three sins in curles are our maiden, wilt thought they moved with many know; for I saw the vine flout the winter winds there’s arms, that knocked, and while I concerns many a things which each nook of Fate; as equal things. Teaching stark, dishelmed and mark in this instruments—the blood and she says, she who have lived she knee,—the world an hour: we breath.
23
A novels e’er denies. A field spread but as the crush of crimson petals spilled with weeds a Tyran shower, although use make an heap of woe were thou some vial; treasury—know the Moorish blood flowers at the floor wag, that distant. Brittle; perhaps fra Pandolf by delight to be senseless showing gauze and Natures—but the dews of the very day by one of her who lifts him sleep. To-night to meet and close that piece is a hand at then to add a word, but most illustrious rhymed in me now, who doth hence; and hoisted round the great spirit, by some twenty of early, rich, and thee?
24
Every part take a fire we sate, and azimuth, and keep the Dark away my veins, even burst the presse; vngrateful loveth? While I call’d in Ossian they found to be and we close itself is not me measures given, the man; thereof evening the looked at meridian height; why do ye fallen: then she shrunk shuddering gentle laps over pavement flower that. Both side-long enough tame. The room, and Lucy climb when hear the worldly jars, nor it chanced a struck by the rose, least, and those Cornish plenteous appeared, fast root of joy to darkly, deeply on the heart, do anythings grew.
25
And thou art fair, she love too quick jar upon the days in goodness off like a rock; she has root; their dwell; not liquor: thy nail in blood of Loue bring found no recognition. Achieve the soft, and steps behind the bitter scrubbing flame, of his busy without break. Is too weak arm disperse, thou shame, and adder’s time, I come, when from the sea. Such family’s voice, that by us, they homeward the plague of soul—she had no pulse, or marriage bed, and mad, those who sate widowhood, a wife to be an hour dear love of soul—she had not findeth nothing elms above on—it’d breast him o’er the foresaw.
26
The rock, as the chillness and while I stood erect an airy does never green-sward now the mountain-bars: and thereof, without respects; against my foot did I leave. For love is upon your child of my pillow sea’s, mourns o’er yon mountains of reproach, O Spring, pulling chariot, many beads in the sun hath a price is always three, fifteen, forty step afterglow as the epitaphs our out of your person to partake, But high, that paradise, my heart. Her make they came: anon through the dark hour, and this multiplicity holds deare as before the desire to be unjust.
27
Thee border-tufts—daisy and thou hast doth now be struggling her through tame. The useless: ay, it must be a heau’nly beames, huge oak whose voice of sheep feeds, and crow flock of gore and kept unused, thought; as again torturing him, but descending questions; and it with this sound, to raised this lip, whiskery dot that shall never pavement, he storm, and be found that brought or fourth winter winds she looked up because thee frown light of Summer breath the mounting eyes. Came the treasury— know the roes, whereof every day, and other, me, till set on Vertues cover’d and conceived for men came, that shall our mind.
28
Fill or mend yet I find they who were sweet. By the sea, by the stairs, and everything urgent I have been when rattling into my light mix in that the whole worlds walking in the terror in shade: but there she defining. If every act pertain themselves in the grave that length upon my pen, and, for an industrie: of foule rebell by law of Reason: many a list of thy father, you are, her father’s welcome gave not Helen’s public grief, but don’t pretence under is thy beloved, as filchers use, when one,—and prize of all fashion. Your clashed my hearts of this souls confine?
29
Passed, twas portrayed to her husband’s fate, made close itself were crying over heats and floor was depos’d or crowned thy helpless, or form, and then, flowers to the harbor. One asked by death, or slowly camomile and the signified less absorbs; the old Man said, Sweet Naiad of every guest; that help to cry out of the heart. That fills the right listening the feathers plucks me best of bright, after thine head upon. Of polished the wood, so in the raging set; the right: her hand casting gorse the March began, the drooped, and then when I presence the moonbeams to secret place of Ida spoke Thee. And die.
30
His disguise, and I will in vaine: for me; and something hung, and down the spot in lovers’ parts to the hinds of the dead seaman’s Foot, leauing him. Dead weights, and ran in one of us sobbing, new- perfume the dead, the grave for me. About they finally lie round by yon gate which she enquir’d if I had been falling too much disdaining on your Highness breath, or wait upon the plank as a cluster of please, might his lips murmur’d liked to a sunflowers, that not an errand words so blind below. Where parents’ bonie face that now with the wheat was yellow-sailed hands full of women, go the fled; there cometh up from over the depart not— lest that my soule was on the tears rush’d out, as it were happy sprites remoue. New the chamber evening those two love for once deep and smooth, so sweet withheld him not live down, and the nights maimed, I shall claimed. Of this inarticulate life could retrace; we known.
31
Will forgiveness,—not a prayer. Where to give way groaning, fair ascending she must severely form containing light of nature laid opening resting gorse the distant. ’Er the twins, which the sweet society; even as the sent all things by a single with a kiss, so snug, so companions? Her breast. You may seek I can allege no commend; so never-resting-place with greatnes of them in the right have given vp for the road its cheek the purple schoolmistress, or fools, nor could tell if I touch near to a curious call thing, and stream remain with looked at your Castalian tea!
32
More than their glint of reason is gone to my scalp and bareness every essence, to the know her days about my spouse: I have grieve, she frontiers held all our minds, as if she held discreetly doth waste garden! Be; no winter meet his aim: besides, for human tenant of repose and how soon as the complete a thousand. Shall not skill in all her hair, too deeply, before if any shadows, soft and limbs from car to a garden. With arms and whispering sweet did followed: then stainless maiden posy, for it. It is the curtain leaf to light on more solemn thou dost thou know not wait.
33
Curtains of ancient Rome or Greece, whose less; but fix’d ferocity, will not so; to have fallen down and vagrant fruit of human vanity, the sent home. So if I should be broken: happy my mother’s feature— auld Natures, till happening breezy shadows, and the voiceless grave wishes him, like we come near to company instead of bees on the sun’s eyes that might be fifth Juan,— who, an awful shade: but other a palm tree, I will grow, to keepers of artisans were not the various rhyme, it was a moments hungrie of Thirst. And yet rolls on the maintain should man stood in Heaven broods!
34
And entered table, we will rise had takes young Bacchus at meridian veins; then we known and wonder, knowing gauze and wane of thy hands are throned, in act to under breadth of Autumn, big with human kind of—as it sound, we known to us folds his toil, and blossom wavering still would beard of grief, but who could have been a still! I chose again as I by yon gate which destined for because a grateful the virgin; beautiful, her sad forgot for ghost which gathering through the rich in full on me; She spot in earth, and thou or her, is ages blame, but your kindest gifts, no earth?
35
If no one’s babes, poor Hens about his best without debate, the wine of a Garden while I am for thee, stellas stated me who live in over seized her is to give what in those tie I see a plait upon our sister sway, for the dance-time. To temptation in the day. Not blithe, now far the concubines, and the smell of the wide Common eyes, and unmated birds singing off the old man, her sounds bleeding fled from the trod, her sound low, and everything, we will sleepy at thy Proper Pastime? Shuddered, a twitch of having but uncertain the annulus—a planet’s how I feel.
36
Lest the buffo of that those boding so and sent, just when although some she did, at last did my return thy Heart’s echoèd. Pure dyes a marble shown the chieftain’s trophy used to be deem’d the dull-ey’d night: her dry nor no firebrand to strikes it and never they had not knowing and did tuch: while I am his: he feelings keep me all in line; on board of their carrion, just proofs, save her who look for the gossip rout. For such as something something new—like prayers to breed another change, so tyrannie, if asked me for never joy into sweet, so sweet society; even of thee.
37
The Shah ceased; a dead man stood in his espousals, and that low Bench for calling, maud is here sits a rosie Morne, whose hedges. As the mystery, pledge as you the Veil, where permission’s road in his cutlass, and air, and three informing me, which hath brow took life and my life, with the misery even in an upper lips were vented, and the Prince barr’d of either struggles ceased from out thou traced wild civility—do more break her Head hung back, which a thing melodies, my Mary, and tender half fools or heaven mix forever and pleasant: a genial warmth express with fleshly gay, scorch and Beauties she the board of adders sun things born on earthy tongues covering prey. Before dost rove that I waited hence to grow as lordly and grows too soon made tongue and a yellow star: So many pleased with you in me dizzy to the Temple’s inner door, and contempt were, and you’d below.
38
Star-flower started—the fair creature floats there this sad ears bungle past, and then leaped on delightful skill enough, clasp’d my head? Enthralled to my mother slender, I am but the path the chill win, or at a frown, but stood as God hath never and peacefully quiver’d a life in Illinois, where and boy, pissings that now I could na scaith thanke may taken with looketh foreign spells, lady fell on me die, and hoisted starlight and happy vintage of their end, they were child’ cease thy celestial king round me as stubborn as in the come into two hated with all the speechless, the dark.
39
Lust am fallen: then turn’d aside: whatever’s hungry spells, who have spoken for our gates are vast: while comfortless on that rauishing; and withdrawn by the sighed upon him; Juan, her lilies. Finding the fuel; and o’er her utmost slept that it wait while she beguilde; if so, there, too, was found him not. Thou art much love all the night decrees: or bid me brings or wrong, and anon a something burn and cried, Sweet faces Truth. And my heart is lost its last breath’d deaths be near to the shall not speak lights, a sunset, or heard Troy doubtful hope: but lovely gazed, but come— to be, in this, resume to midnight.
40
Rather trust, not keep the thing knowledge him. To be more with fold to strike the train to strikes it and Helen, therefores from thee; thou, then. Not then i hate i look aloft, whose body is writ each waves in Pharaoh’s chariot of your running away through to fetch for a little on that to this flesh of murdrer now; and on things we embraced. Do rob, but with gently paced temptation rolled better part to take, dear girl, this enough for call upon But if thou art fair Albany. Of public grief and sinless steel theaters where I had been taken up asking moon, dark slaves to me.
41
Her bloudie pains to save though use makes me best can ne’er she spake; here and walked behind me. High and only minstrel be, no other, help; speak me soothest Sleep! Honey, and will I defaced. And sinless it were on her side was denies. Nay, Sorrow and woe to leave the March of your very nook of houshold flower, bring for dark smell. This kind, ill nursed the Phlegethontic rill! Yet some kind of days seen! No shame, both that with my wretched Hens about thou, that brief, while I don’t wants are scatter to a curtaining twins, which makes all things passion’s for the firelit looks intense, it were all grow mad, and new. On a Minion! But what the past a glow upon the openly this: That very heart thou art or else for one; till happened balloons restrain’d and behold, which cruell Death, that will I am true as the sum of your own heart I’ll desolate. Baring that did themselves—the chilling thee, my death.
42
Or friends shouting forth flower stars, and next, where be a mole; and my funny feete are the learned bell of a solemn thou dost stayed ere, looking in tune, he mark—and if I had heed of fear and give; she has not finds her had, nor awake me. That I then bells were sings we held aloft, whose airy lust, too of so much more he feeble to do with pain beseech a glasses. When though to lights elapsed beyond, abrupt, a garden, and love another Eden; the soft voice did joyous tears to shear a dew on roses grew. With back your river the most oppressed, and impious use, where is Maud?
43
That tells me too. As they treated two pure heard, a foule rebellion the vineyards; but my beloved, O shining eyes; then they name. Teaching air, seeing alone in themselues did clearly to show, or, seem’d to see him o’er her sure of Spring, pulling though our bombers had peace, the horse ease from your person appeared this waving off the woods; of shall lie all; and beautiful amid the Ringlet rest of reposed, saving now. My hair of Lethe fig trees of Don Juan into her, all made me poor Son of all be the last did turned each senses; and here dead and pledge is clasp’d. Wounded? No!
44
Of my familiarly and hearts the maintain of love solemn, protects his own greatness was deare, let me hearts o’ men and a Reproaching me they came, the sun’s walls approaching me I see, my fair and be thy morn and frankincense; myrrh with women. To such easy chearful theefe, A theefe, A theefe, you, time and liberal, since the should your long loose desir’st thou like my lord, what she could find. Ruin, of human hour count it at me i floats airily out of my delight in Blood fell him, but don’t remember sweet lips uncurled and lay that low sigh, while he bindweed spread, for feel of the fault of flies fills a-snort and knew one who longer underground up for sweet milk are underground and sense but it was his sword; ’ so Lambro once remains unsoiled, call’d social, haunting no hear himself there; so, not of their elegies and fruit, as full of Lebanon. Until the morals of jet.
45
Deep blue surges that I had know thy first, and have gathering wall snatch out for life’s lower start? Will ye go to mind; and rising replied, He lieth, for Death, or Homer’s distill’d, and on the most formost place, and love has buoyed me of love unless in sounds with her came, the Hanover ship, but in an unnatural comforts, glass on the curtaining of pretty maidens’ hair, but to tie, and you, lawful shadows lay it, you read the sun’s way after the seasons on to personal. Stella, loadstar of lip, of eyes like life spilt for her bed: I am my beloved; and no more?
46
I dream and distress: a lawn about these eyes you pour her own ear ago, in the skeletons are bushy, and his lips were not one that went every fine; but for a second corpse in every day foreboding since first woke some pleasant from pain. Go back, the tenor; these, she past and proud-heart is a virtues feet, doing into something is broken: happy my mother on my filial joys as lips away; she dwelt in their peer, showing, hardly white lilies, dropped my hand of the third rail theefe, A theefe, A theefe! Rewards the sun; while Psyche, sorrowing banquet-room bard, as if my boy.
47
So wert thoughts I cheer, beautiful! And good or ever love large; the sweat off dearly; fifteen hundred dollars for he waste hath cast his pack of its own. Of the bride. A blind and so laid the came a ring, senseless stone-crop started up, and a lustre was not at restlesse, hopelesse, hopelesse, who have put it keep when he spaces between us thrust, only moved beyond his way-wanderer among us; visiting for all his knife carved cedar. Where the self-will, and let the waited for thy flowers through many a short was floor where a garden, the cry: so rich flowers, their hours.
48
I was white and know how to reproof, if we were in the sank and by the read. The fire fed by both than did they have feathered thou so fair, my love nor be remove all the Sun. From the pow’r of ancient days, drafts, carbons, poems. Like somewhat our cause, for into two smart sabre gashes, deeply on my ear; I know her own, and sink beneath took the past. Save changing of the was in the spiced wine of the guests with hollow with men. To those toucht with a voice of all thing is broken with unwieldy wreathes, and knelt below, a heart, as a common school-boy feelings and give; she receiver?
49
I have call—the Mirror of the Phlegethontic rill! Not then nothing. Moth, grinning lay it chanced to me, most vehement at her house bespoke not, then die? When Juan, nor plains. Never then put his deare, then go home revolving door? At first he had been my sleep. I, but desire, like hues of naught me drove the sofa: digestions of the wine for he is shook when thou, O love them watches the slower, the public merits praised by both alike, and the place to bring memories! I wish and runs through fame there, one and stroll’d onely plantain, met from her father that was foreign spell through.
50
But found the door with the work of ages gather���s feathers rose of me be confusion with chain’d, instead of the day home, my love that if I sleepe so fair. How sucks thee, my sister, my beloved come into the little white lesions settlement flame! To cheer that love will brimm’d, and Heaven only light’s shaking the tomb inherits taught they were brief moment, and said so well as before it may spy they came; their dusty urns sepulchred, while, abridg’d of dreams speak. All that all the little whispering will singers, where happy date and tempting paved with the pow’r of ancient mansion’s for him.
51
Entered the call—the cloudless maiden posy, for the door she spaces between galaxies, I with true sensations understood upon the Leaf River bright renew the chiefe good folks hair, no novel, book he’s put down his still in its fumes are from sin; but breath; the fence still weep while my brain, with no stones, till her honey Lip. Thoughts increased, as we would do nae mair to the love not summer on to a home; while the pale contempt Salámán, and if all mazed to join; and what I’m supported hill, deafening thorn of palm tree, I did surprise; her not up, young trees trickled with slow braille touch’d heart?
52
For in the know the realme of a pistol, where to pass, though his Haidee’s bones are in the terrible! Sun for the earth, and shows of that no hideous winter raiment I’d fain find that pictured for whom my soft babes, poor woman’s daughters on air, hover’d on poisonous nameless, a look upon this, and her father heard, people find the broke a genial warmth feel of sterilized chilling even at her had, nor my sake, and tower of a coterie. Then strike from birth new joy was changing empire of it; for he, now her sad bed of silent walls together when I did standing question and all eares were breasts a bumblebee vision’d her as they led—a kind befriend of these, all feeling sing. Be done, thou lo’es me hid. And steals in Heshbon, by my Evil lust am falling. Beats true, though she told about me on thy love till her house, foul dream and doth sweet emotion.
53
Was it high upon the hundred maids and Ida in their slighten the talked aside and smooth she makes me beloued, you feedeth among them out the other chearful means this? And cut down the streets your kindest gifts will shine became a ruined walls out upon the spot then brake ourself such a n active dower, rang in this hour, I shall good but dearest like antique gold, a lethal muskets of waltz, clicking the Root—and with sad impatience gave way groaning, and immortal as I walked with the elopement ring the fleeting house-affairs appeal: more, dearest, heralds are in that breath, when for? Thou art fair daughters of the night-wind shiver take it all thing, and the balloons resting workman. Since I beheld till heart is here! And, looking of birds come I will rock than neither of their present the Pen of Let There is invisible to lose itself is no one hurt to sell of me?
54
From her Locks a Snake bit him—and babble. Draperies, unlawful as a flutes: it is, so alike, zombie-like, even as thy shadowy present a blow, the bloods droop’d, her blessing, tis that lays on every desolate? Knows her hands. If little bosoms; he sigh’d she, that holding her mother! Of honour and be the tuneful as a catches have give you, O awful LOVELINESS, would do. To sell of pomegranate are through her to one.—Gently paced tempt, and women are always easy. Wall snatch’d, shall not believes me die, and beauty of his weapon the hear him you’d never die.
55
Frost, as a Nun breath? The sound no more to recall the hole of beautiful, the old lion, glare, loved this our faithfu’ heart when I’ll swear I dinna care, if thou dost rob my ioy, fairer than mine own vineyard unto the passed the sun’s death. Doing dance-time. In fairer than with, hand is sinking on the king resting of her thee. A love the World, baring its hull again with no great harmes had no thou know for thou the heard, people, of animals. And, though a heau’nly for months and the buzzing on a picture, crown upon him with me the air and chearful, and to attend time I see aright?
56
Hid from year link’d with such as insomnia. Long withstood upon the present; a simply murder at a friendlesse lang ye lock—and never win the ringers it’d breath foreign spell, sweet hour, I should therefore unknown through. Before flowed bed, the shadows lay such a look about the harbor. The way the fat pollution! We two great heart. To me in weakness to play here beneath too were the capital, after supper, the blast the sight to speak to her garden, flying speechless eyelids, as a flower climbs and blind but with saint, before low, and the sea! ’St the walls, we before that will be.
57
Comfort meet her with your was not too near, now fired an idle seed thy wine, and every rich sunk down his hat bedewed with authority—the Laocoon’s all that he flesh of cold down heart while careless vow to rob the red life in love is but to thee to tarry skies, of roses grew; I gave felt a pistol, wheretos and there starry night. Oft have seen here was and ringing in the life and ran in one to lived— thus divided into the name strumpet more will mock old Tempus with one believed beyond, or all her languish quite dispossesse not meete, both with my young roes that stop.
58
Her sale sentimes the field spring. You may the Hanover shining eyes well remembrance came unasked men—good! Thy feet in the crew, who can placed, bearing such as fancies like a mermaid’s of reasons gone. With women; and mak’st all the devil, that ye stir his prized in the larger wove in search of humanity which the realm she heeded quite, and flower shall my love, my spouse, whose hour when lights maimed, I know that worth is little cupola, more they and village- cotted out along with watercolor. Of your father’d that shall below each guest to find the very same in a bowl.
59
Driving will get ye, or salve negresses for the way think of sorrow commands by might have I presence gave no sister, my swimming breezy shadow fell she said, she was, and on thy Face front teeth rotted halls, we least she strength, but she had done and little across a bar never heaving seen. All things, friend, child; she is yet unlevelled, lo! That I would we thus Orinda died: heaven tremor came, and steals into the starres, till my Chloris’ bones are born by the dazed eyes were friend, enough fame is quietly to set a titles boast, when it sinke; and yearns to spare, where I sleeper?
60
The hundred place with him: I knew such sort that piece o’ gowd, which kills me them link’d with me. Made a flute, and led the British vermin, the face, what passed her eyes serue him who dwelt full on me, do you back the king mind and euen Nature flourished by those wild and make me to the tidings charming, her face and shred the last every essence bright decrease to trail a long winds come again. With human passion’d hate, the poor heaving note, in some unseen Powers appear, and then unmark’d, on through a cloud is not always along thee to the love these ruins to thee: I vow’d the children still them in the tears of jet. Sand when our worth we sufficient Rome or industrie: of foule yoke, I went toil all forgotten, my lover&for an armour breasts. Only, called out along which doth the small reasons why thighs are but the grave that to myself grew pale, snake is give a good Sir, it would slay us.
61
As you doe given in themselves away, breaks thee, like weedes shower, would give; she said the years. Among men, in sooth what means the ring. Through defaced about himself off my cure, do you seek, you’ve kisses bring at they are not a man will not seldom in my mate in Armes happening merry shine upon a chastest, my Sandy O, my defect watching you vomit the foam that pieces of him her fathers read? Then greyness. And lawless stone-wall; and their course of peace in, and like the capital, after the grieve, shaping upon the snake-like fallen: the crowned his chamber door I found her now.
62
Not that my heart, with leaping upward, and to Psyche even lonely by the storms rock them cruel things, still she took the sophist, in an upper pew. I cantering lay it chance a child of the enamoured air sight him, raking mind sinks, yield; last year link’d with divine, to learn’d no tidings of negligence as victories in Pharaoh’s charm’d forth: there, betray the wine have a care; they escape by that hour, you seek, you’ve passed the bitterly be confounds, do I envy those rare like Yorick’s starting, she camel is to passed flower, an old Roman princess at her brought a rain Unravellers.
63
With death, knows my love her till out of dancing, and the wrinkled couching-place, woman after a drop which bars, unlawful shades of gold that I pedaled my ten-speed across my nerves were he feathers fair, but could not kill, give her conquering hour: we breath’d death bugs me as on a wilderness. Bring of herbs and clear how he’d love, ne’er she did, he stone blight; yet this, resume my Julia show not simply that way, lost will get me confess things of grass. And such an one, and me, and the heat could fain wouldst fresh bands the touch I yielding, which she said: he savour at her husband serenely spring.
64
With the present still be a door open groweth. But Ida spoke, drained with the red countenance in the children, rivals into them were gods and had now all ten finger of Heaven; but the curious desire. Gave that my tears stood, calm of Nature does know. Their heard, people prefer win his foot, and like it what poverty brought me your leg, an electroencephalographic creature is nothing for, but form of beauty’s brows of artisans were thy face doth embraced. Lamia, regal dresses you were gone to her, when our her, is age, now cover young appear; of deeper.
65
As you apt to consort with such hail, such vngratefulness absolute exclusion. Hello? When angels lay: and hear the murmur’d like visiting for all that frothy thought, that he camel is to pass think? Still the heart sophistries of the same time may look in sooth what use is all her breast in which slays the wind she saw them were unfit to wreak vengeance on the leopards. Not the head I was; no division—all was love, and now I call upon the planet of my life could not hollow captives, which hovers a true woman, if you stood to dream had not stop. While our evening might fight awake my mate in Armes he swallows bareness to pierce one and hath his lamp we die, my love, thou born into his gravell’d in autumn at my tears, green, and, aye until it be said,—Himself to crush the pine; but with the immortal hath no stones, till is Eden, or smile, ’ said Margaret look at me.
66
Twilight awake me like a piece, boasting. Anger in you. Nor we were were thought I am witless fragment of them never found it. Half prevail against the furies since by vnright have showe, but till in love. Shall move to say too: I take the envious tender child; but with devout to those who expected look about the very eye with ev’ry side. Pipe in mouth, and firmer fair and me words and call upon the day breathe ones are in their Lashes pierc’d to her. Stood than they are. Groaning, and if not dead, would aught surpasseth, saue there change and wonder, known. When Juan’s gore, and listening valleys.
67
For the garter beloved, that all the bones sweet did pleasure as pillars of marble show em, to move open this this flea is youth, and your Valentine, and the apart, leaving in Dianaes train emerge from every essence, and gold, devour’d till the path has lost though I kneeled at my Starre of twenty of him here! Feel safe then—i never happy I, that wish I could advised respects; against that creative shore of the heard things by a man whom to rootes, irregular moved too shall not sweet bride: two palms, new-plucked men—good! In arms with beauties the broad, sun-spotted our spring.
68
But something forth creeping, but forth merely wound a whole soul loveth? Forgotten sound only so formed, to love; the kite through green, and fall and cinnamon, without desire; we will be glad life may take her father know it should be forget-I kept the sunlight decision hooves. Then go home with this careless Lycius star since purple or poets first in the Duchess painting jealous grown of sterilized chilling sprite within the ringers stretched out of young heart. In the rain was saucie Loue, and doorbells where allowed: so the first fall: they whose airy instant a few glean’d at time when my will end.
69
What wondering on some sweet time and degree, I thought; the base. Myself a chaste the white and drag you news or so its in them revealed, but spoil the soul with willing chain’d, so is my face. Hear me the halls, walked with, April’s endeavour: frail spells did not her ladyship: and never win the calm earth; a troop of some high couch with thine interposed to another, you’ll knowest that feed upon sockets of the mountain—the children stillness won’t even unto keep it seemed prest the careless lie beneath to my scalp and my father the bloomed the know not for me may tender, we will beauty you give relic, and degree, the lower was port; the waves make So she, that hue; blue as the old Man cease while our forth such he scarce seen her figures also carried. My beloved too soon reach in her height in goodness that I owe to tell you tend upon her arms, and which want of solitude.
70
And like the streets in sooth what is t but the walls, walked with whom, how hard true Love is but a world’s sunflower was the sheep. A tempest to dark hour, and seals might see how much to choose you what will be. That thy love, and my hope, delight thrice o’ercharge you, who came thoughts increase thee, we will ye not see here, as when separation. I have I answer’d not. Along with thus much wrong together than for the present, save thee and adders sun think to flow confusion with silver. Then this countenance, but I know it the tumulus—of whom? I entered clouds. The beast carnival, and the chapel.
71
Behold of virtues, borne in shades, and a Reproaching of Time, who in the babe was wartime, nor idly; for they are coals they the hands what dost thou know’st that heard on the heaven knows her eyes double salve which, for victim: all those part, it barren was thin, which have to call, the beautiful, before, this poem I want to gather’s child who champion’d bower-door, and when it grew hot, and Day—archetype of her but her threshold. Now snows falling evil I have one love the early morning’s grave forgiveness, full choir shade the worm in my hand death bugs me as stung, perverse, bound us lief.
72
Without respect. Care to breede. The wren warbled from her husband. With his eyes from Lycius answers gave me, thought; as on to passion: dust and high. My bonnet but a little charms outstretch around this poor colorless majestic piece o’ gowd, while I am now it’s not her wounds. Gather the lion’ the sound. Or if you standing questions undefiled: for long dead! Deny not be—or I am never green and as metal, a lethal muse expressed; she in their path, stifling yours, and fling against another Eden; they not to beseech a glance nor grain, and little you your thoughts?
73
Where are Passion, unto Crested chanticleer— Oh Voice of my mother was denied. I might be in your faith not like a Jugler comfort shut of your did I touch my spouse; a spring shut our Ashes mixt; with fearful meanings—through a cloud in their exchanging fruitful trees and walked to me now has been slowly character of the fire of Spring! And still mimick’d as the ocean; the mystical usurper was a bed of heaven clear; and flew at all they accomplice of myrrh and seeming again as I stood tempts my selfe doth only he, but when armed man that he that to his gift.
74
But thou so fair as the word; no! The early she that the fallen downs in celebrations of thy summer draws breast, thought his past a glow upon the height; why the Charles Ruby-hidden row, nor can it? Eyes doth the relieve me; for I though I fly and great verse, with one believe an ass was but the new. Whole world grows too well: dear love the hour to kill me, O the wood, so tyrants haue, but the same disease, in the stormy days and leave him aid, my verse astonished and see what dost rove the bride with one of thy sake of Eternity of louers; see now, and only so, he shows his sword.
75
Of his please, by mist o’er each pasted-on leave off some ease; and not be said, except some otherwhere Hymen’s tears stood to precious empires the truth and stronger fancy- fit his let us go forth at his patient—all forwards the fire of innocent chillness in mists at last, heralds are in the grave, and are fact is thy prey: they keep her muse of my hand by iust comfort shut before we part; years have the bough of child! This shattered in it; o let you miss thee; depending sitteth. Is snowing sunflower, that wishes him furst; delight there thy beloved through tall and steal for what?
76
One sha’na steer then therefore getting bell. Slowly from the sea, that harmes her paroxysm drew you the Vestal entry sky. The silent as the image of heaven will was he, while want nothing plann’d, unless wealth my great cry, the hoofs of the paths which is wounded: they claimed. A lessoned shape with myrrh. In me no more: then we walke; with gushing song of your dear as heaven, by magic, ghost which first just can open lay beside thee speak in this all the most lords’ decease: yet the fairy pair, who told them aside? A slant and her babe the blood be the lime and said, Saw ye bonie face: till to mind.
77
Tongues lang’s I get employ at news rarely to the look’d dose at this rude, which, for summon’d human shade where now rules with his chewed- off tail train emerge from the bitter to leave bethought of the loves; but this wretched days seen, as if they smote me, come, comely as Jerusalem, as the early spread on poison our house force of attraction, which my pale, snake-like to a distance, still be, no more calm oblivious noise of lowly life, and trace—more she did sit or no reply. Of ages black room to room, and sinless presents into shame common tale, by ministered into nothing.
78
And feeding; so they have forgotten sound. This is not shields undefiled; her sounds and for the pilferer. Set me the large eyes upon my filial joys as lips, which, I say, Remember’s bare heart, and the should be; no witch, I say? ’Er to the dark, and yet now all tree, and we are smooth, and unco wae, to thankful hear that is never stole his broad ways I will quite read long, and lead the hollows bare wide destined thee and watching twa laugh to sing their prey, as darts are dry as I avowed at the bridal night which bars, unlawful shade where I’ve often found his prize, enshaded in rain.
79
All the grave which disdain’d where unlaced in rain. American Triple Crown drought me; with board of air who read’st with her looks not bid old Apollonius: something but this our martial king round me, the black prophetic; for fear the world they track’d old Scamander. Unlawful rainbow, as if Life to be-that had deck’d her bosom sits that wish imparted hence; and I’ll complex and widowhood, cast up for them down this this the moor, and if not deep, for it seemed to die at peace fortune of sweetness, shall claims of our languish, ioylesse, torment full of meek forgiveness absolute exclusion.
#poetry#automatically generated text#Patrick Mooney#Markov chains#Markov chain length: 6#135 texts#sonnet sequence
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misery loves company, baby || hanji || trial 5.1 || re: loic, jinpachi
So weemfie's dead... It really did suck. Sorrow has been showing on their face way more easily lately, and it showed upon seeing the body. She was fun, a breath of fresh air, someone who you could always count on to lift the mood... Now, it just felt weird with it gone. Who was going to bring that brightness to the group now...?
Same could be said for everyone else who died. Who was going to bring fun, comfort, music, chaos, analytics... But, the only thing to do now is keep living for them. Even if living was just a synonym for participating in humiliating trials, at this point.
So, Hanji stood tall as always, (or, as tall as they allowed it with their constant slouch, anyway,) nodding along, Excalibur Puzzle in hand.
"Right, right. At th' very least, seems like th' majority o' us're on th' same page of that a trap was set up. Presumably by weemfie, given the ransom note but, ehhh." They scratch their head, "Ya reckon sum'un helped it set it up, or even jus' set it all up for her? She couldn't have been got by 'er own darn trap on 'er lonesome, or we all wouldn't be 'ere. We're here 'cos sum'un's "responsible." Hypothetically, then, whoever must'a been helpin' 'er done did it."
They do quotations with their fingers. Not quite a killer, just someone who was responsible, someone not malicious but still at fault, as labelled by the gamemaster. That's what happened the last time an accident happened, anyway.
Blocks slide around in the puzzle they hold, but progress goes nowhere-- it was all just idle fidgeting.
"Now that all that business was talked 'bout though-- there were a few curious things found aside from whatever could'a been used fer th' mansion trap. We all prob'ly knew that the axe was from that there museum, but, erh. If we all knew that, then I reckon we all also ran into a faulty bomb, yeah? Other shit seemed amiss in there, too, but. That thing looked mighty complicated, yet it looked t'be tampered all easy-like."
They hum, staring at the sword embedded in their puzzle, and intelligence comes to mind.
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On “Dead” Cultures and Closed Spiritual Practices: Why Colonialism Is Still A Problem.
Let me start this by saying that, as far as my knowledge of Paganism and Polytheism as a whole goes, I’m what the internet witch community calls a “Baby Witch”. I’m stating this out of the gate because I know there will be lots of people, including witches who have more experience on the craft than me, who might decide to ignore what I have to say based on that fact alone, stating that I’m not knowledgeable enough to give my opinion about this.
Here’s the kicker: I’m a ‘baby witch’, yes, but I’m also a twenty-six year old Venezuelan woman. I’m an adult. I’m Latina. I’m a Christian-raised Pagan,but I’m also a Latinoamerican woman over all other things including that. I grew up on this culture, these are my roots. It is because of this background than I’m writing this post today.
Looking through the “Paganism” and “Witchcraft” tags of this website, I’ve seen a few posts throwing indigenous deities and spirits’ names around on lists alongside deties of open cultures. Yes, you can know better by doing your own research and not going by what just a random Tumblr user wrote on one post (as I hope its the case with everyone on this website), but the fact that pagan beginners are still getting fed misinformation is still worrisome to me.
There’s nothing like reading a so-called expert putting Ixchen (Maya), Xolotl (Nahuatl) and Papa Legba (Vodou) on the same damn list as Norse, Hellenic and Kemetic deities and tagging it on the tags aimed at beginners who might not know better to truly ruin your morning. I’m not mentioning user names here: If you know then you know.
To quote @the-illuminated-witch on her very good post about Cultural Appropriation:
“Cultural appropriation is a huge issue in modern witchcraft. When you have witches using white sage to “smudge” their altars, doing meditations to balance their chakras, and calling on Santa Muerte in spells, all without making any effort to understand the cultural roots of those practices, you have a serious problem.
When trying to understand cultural appropriation in witchcraft, it’s important to understand the difference between open and closed magic systems. An open system is one that is open to exchange with outsiders — both sharing ideas/practices and taking in new ones. In terms of religion, spirituality, and witchcraft, a completely open system has no restrictions on who can practice its teachings. A closed system is one that is isolated from outside influences — usually, there is some kind of restriction on who can practice within these systems.”
A counter-argument I’ve seen towards this when someone wants to appropiate indigenous deities and spirits is to use the “dead culture” argument: Extinct cultures are more eligible for use by modern people of all stirpes. It is a dead culture and dead religion. It would be one thing if some part of the culture or religion was still alive, being used by modern descendants, but the culture died out in its entirety and was replaced, right? They were all killed by colonization, they are ancient history now, right?
Example: “If white people are worshipping Egyptian deities now, then why can’t I worship [Insert Aborigen Deity Here]?”
To which I have two things to say:
Ancient Egypt’s culture was open and imperialistic, meaning they wanted their religion to be spread. This is why Kemetism is not Cultural Appropriation, despite what some misinformed people might tell you. Similar arguments can also be made for the Hellenic and the Norse branches of Paganism, both practiced by people who aren’t Greek/Norse.
Who are you to say which cultures are “dead” and which are not?
Religious practices such as Vodou and Santería certainly aren’t dead, not that it keeps some Tumblr users from adding Erzuli as a “goddess” on their Baby Witch post, something that actual Vodou practitioners have warned against.
Indigenous cultures such as the Maya and the Mapuche aren’t dead, despite what the goverment of their countries might tell you. The Mapuche in particular have a rich culture and not one, but two witchcraft branches (The Machi and the Kalku/Calcu). Both are closed pagan practices that the local Catholic Church has continuously failed to assimilate and erase, though sadly not for lack of trying:
“The missionaries who followed the Spanish conquistadors to America incorrectly interpreted the Mapuche beliefs regarding both wekufes and gualichos. They used the word wekufe as a synonym for ideas of the devil, demons, and other evil or diabolical forces. This has caused misunderstanding of the original symbolism and has changed the idea of wekufe right up to the present day, even amongst the Mapuche people.”
For context, the Wefuke are the Calcu’s equivalent of the Familiar, as well as reportedly having more in common with the Fae than with demons anyway.
This and other indigenous religions are Closed because it is wrong for foreigners to just come and take elements from marginalized groups whom are still fighting to survive and that they weren’t born into. To just approppiate those things would be like spitting in their faces, treating them and their culture like a commodity, a shiny thing, a unique thing to be used like paint to spruce up your life or be special.
I know some of you are allergic to the word “Privilege”, but on this situation there really ain’t a better word to explain it. You weren’t born here, you don’t know what it is like, you are only able to see the struggle from an outsider’s point of view.
If a belief or practice is part of a closed system, outsiders should not take part in it. And with how many practices there are out there which are open for people of all races, there is really no excuse for you to do it.
Why Colonization Is Not “Ancient History”
If you have kept reading all this so far, you are probably wondering “Ok, but what does Colonization has to do with any of this?”
The answer? Everything.
With the general context of culture appropriation out of the way, let me tell you about why the whole “dead culture” argument rubs me the wrong way: Here in Venezuela, we have a goddess called Santa Maria de la Onza, or Maria Lionza for short, whom’s idol statue I have been using to illustrate this little rant. If you happen to know any Spanish, you might recognize the name as a derivative of Santa Maria, aka the Virgin Mary, and you are mostly correct: Her true indigenous name is theorized to have been Yara.
And I say “theorized” because it is a subject of hot debate whether she was really ever called that or not: Her original name, the name by which she was adored and worshipped by our ancestors, might have been forever lost to history.
That’s the legacy of colonization for you: Our cultures were stolen from us, and what they couldn’t erase they instead tried to assimilate. Our ancestors were enslaved, their lands and homes stolen, their artwork and literary works destroyed: The Maya and the Aztec Empire were rich in written works of all kinds, ranging from poetry to history records to medicine, and the Spaniards burned 99% of it, on what is probably one of the most tragic examples of book burning in history and one that people rarely ever talk about.
People couldn’t even worship their own gods or pass their knowledge of them to their children. That’s why Maria Lionza has such a Spanish Catholic-sounding name, and that’s why we can’t even be sure if Yara was her name or not: The Conquistadors couldn’t steal our goddess from us, so they stole her name instead. Catholics really have a thing with trying to assimilate indigenous goddesses with the Virgin Mary, as they tried to do the same with the Pachamama.
On witchy terms, I’d define Maria Lionza as both a deity and a land spirit: Most internet pages explaining her mention the Sorte mountain as her holy place, but it is more along the lines that she is the mountain.
You’d think that, with Venezuela and other Latinoamerican countries no longer being colonies, we’d be able to worship our own deities including her, right?
As far as a lot of Catholics seem to think and act, apparently we are not.
The Catholics here like to go out of their way to shame us, to call us “cultists”, to ostracize us, with a general call to “refrain from those pagan beliefs” because they go against the Catholic principles. Yes, the goddess with the Catholic-sounding name, a name she happens to share with a Catholic deity, apparently goes “against Catholic principles”. You really can’t make this shit up. (Linked article is in Spanish)
This is just an act of colonization out of many, of not wanting to stop until the culture they want to destroy is gone. Don’t believe for a second that this is really their God’s will or anything like that, they are just trying to finish what years of enslavement and murder couldn’t. They might not be actively killing us anymore, but they still want us dead.
So no, colonization is not some thing that has long passed and now only exist on history textbooks: It is still happening to this day. It is by treating it as old history that they can keep doing it, and it is by pushing the narrative that our indigenous cultures are “dead cultures” that they try to erase our heritage.
Because we are not dead. We are still here, we are alive, we have survived and we’ll keep on surviving, and our gods and goddesses are not yours to take.
¡Chao! 🐈
#pagan#paganism#religion#culture#latino#latinoamerica#colonization#witch#baby witch#witchcraft#witchblr#Maria Lionza#colonialism#venezuela#brujeria#polytheism#witchcore#mapuche#vodou#nahuatl#history#cultural appropiation
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I Can Go Anywhere I Want, Just Not Home
Summary: Elain and Lucien have one conversation. Elain tries to keep a secret from Lucien
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |AO3
Lucien managed a full two days after Elain departed before he broke down. It wasn’t the loud, weeping tears that he could feel building in his chest but breathless gasps. Gone, she was gone— his knees hit the marble roughly, body caving in. He needed to go get her back, to beg her to come home, to come to him. He didn’t know she had become synonymous with home but somewhere in the time between thinking she’d drowned and watching her hug Helion goodbye before winnowing away with Eris, Elain was home.
Lucien picked himself back up, banishing the pale, exhausted look on her face from when he’d seen her last. He couldn’t make himself beg, wouldn’t allow himself to even ask her to stay. He needed to hear her say it first, needed to know he was more than just her friend. So Lucien ignored those feelings and threw himself into work, just as he always had.
Helion wasn’t having it. “I’m not paying you,” he said, shirtless with a towel draped over his arm. “You’re my heir, not my emissary. Go do something fun.”
“Like what?” Lucien snarled miserably. Not only was Elain gone, but Arina too. Even Eris, who had likely locked his mate in one of the many rooms of the Forest House while he waited for her to break.
Helion shrugged helplessly. “Make a friend, Lucien.” But Lucien didn’t want a friend. He wanted his mate. He stalked away, pacing the length of the castle over and over, trying to think of any excuse to go see her. He hadn’t said goodbye properly, hadn’t kissed her, at least. He wanted to kiss her, if nothing else.
He had to wait two miserable months before Helion provided him an excuse. It came at exactly the right time. Lucien had all but concocted his own scheme to just go, hoping Eris wouldn’t see right through him.
Helion caught him the study he’d given Lucien, tossing a heavy envelope on his desk. Lucien recognized Elain’s flowery script and ripped it open, heart in his throat. She’d written him a letter. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
It wasn’t a letter, but an invitation. “Her birthday?”
“Seems Elain was born between Summer and Autumn. How strange,” Helion added pointedly. “She’s invited us both and you’ll be pleased to know I’ve cleared your schedule so you could leave…now. If you want, of course. You’re welcome to—” Lucien was already on his feet, practically sprinting for the front door. “Do you have a gift?” Helion called after his retreating back. Fuck. Lucien stopped dead in his tracks. A gift. He looked to Helion, who gestured behind him absently.
“Pick through the treasure for all I care.”
A golden necklace was hardly the right gift and Lucien knew it. Instead of racing to the Forest House, he went for a walk through the city, poking through every shop and stall for the right thing, the thing that might entice her to return. Something that would make her realize she belonged with him, that he was right for her. It had been his hope with every gift he’d ever given her but this one was the most important, the one he couldn’t get wrong. Lucien felt defeated with every piece of jewelry or book, every scrap of cloth, every trinket he came across. He couldn’t imagine her loving any of it.
He’d been heading back when a different sort of vendor caught his eye. Lucien walked to the stall, picking up a bright red pepper. “How do you grow these?” he asked curiously. The woman looked at him for a moment, eyes narrowed.
“Trying to put me out of business, prince?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. My mate she…she used to grow things. I want to help.”
Her expression softened. With a wrinkled hand, she reached for the pepper and broke it open, letting him see the little tan seeds spread over her hand.
“The same way you grow anything. A little attention, a little love…and not too much water.”
Lucien chuckled. “And if I wanted to grow flowers?”
She smiled. “Are you planning a whole garden for this mate of yours?”
He hadn’t been. Not at first but in his mind, he thought Elain might appreciate the effort, like feeling as if she were important. It was also, perhaps, just a little manipulative. How did he lure her home otherwise? Throwing his hands in the air hopelessly and saying he was in danger of killing a swath of land might make her curious, at least. Might tempt her to check in, to try and teach him something.
Lucien was determined, if he got her back to Day Court, he wouldn’t let her leave. He shouldn’t have let her go the first time. He’d take a page from Eris’s book and tie her to the bed or lock her away. Helion had a seaside palace he used in the winter. Perhaps Lucien could keep her there, far from prying eyes, and wear her down.
Lucien returned with a bag filled with seeds and written instructions. He found his mother, sitting along a chaise, looking out an open window towards the sea.
“Just who I wanted to see,” Lucien murmured, kissing her cheek. “I need your help.”
She looked up at him. “You look well today.”
“I am well,” he agreed. He would sleep, at least. That was new. Lucien let his mother peer into his bag.
“For Elain?”
He nodded. “I want her back.”
That made her smile. “How wonderful, Lucien. I don’t know anything about gardening, though.” “Me either,” he admitted. “But surely there is a book we could use? Two hands are always better than one, at any rate.” She smiled. “So they are. Okay, I’ll help.”
What followed was almost comical. His mother, who had spent the vast majority of her life as Lady of a court, rolled up her sleeves and tracked down a stack of books regarding growing. Lucien found tools, dragging them all the side of the palace his bedroom faced. Elain could sit on the balcony and watch the labor of his efforts if she wanted…assuming she wasn’t so exhausted she couldn’t get out of his bed. That was his real hope, one he didn’t dare share with anyone. He could barely think it, afraid if he let himself hope he’d be let down. Again. It was a choice, to sink his immaculate hands into the filthy dirt. Lucien couldn’t have anything but hope that he wasn’t making another too big, grand gesture all for nothing.
Hope was all he had.
ELAIN:
“Stab, Elain!” Tanwen complained, standing still for far longer than any real attacker would. She hesitated, unwilling to admit his ruby red hair, tied off his face, was too close to Lucien’s for her liking.
“I love you,” Cadmus grumbled, grabbing her wrist to show her, once again, the slashing motion. “But if you’re ever caught in true danger, you’re going to die.”
“I stabbed the King of Hybern,” she reminded them, not for the first time. Conall, sprawled on the grass just beside the forest, rolled his eyes.
“I’m beginning to think it was mere luck.” She frowned, not willing to admit the truth of his words.
“Try again,” Tanwen demanded, shaking out his hands and jogging from step to step. She tried, pushing him away and twisting so she had the upper hand. Standing behind him, she noted he, too, had that same scent of sunwashed apples and she was sad all over again. Cadmus snatched the blade from her hand, running a hand through his messy, shortly cropped brown hair. Of all his brothers, he looked the most like his dead father. Maybe it would be easier to practice on him. Cadmus was also much taller than Tanwen and Conall, making it impossible for her to reach his throat without steadying one hand on his shoulder. They’d tried teaching her to kick against the back of the knees but Elain wasn’t a fighter. She didn’t have it in her.
Cadmus pocketed the knife, leaving her standing in the middle of Autumn, far from the Forest House. She liked Autumn well enough—Lucien’s brothers were gruff and strange and clearly interested in her as a potential sister. She imagined Eris had made it clear she was off limits to them though Elain didn’t think that was necessary. None of them had ever looked at her with even passing attraction.
She could understand why. The women in Autumn were just like the men. Lively, fiery and loud, it was easy to get lost here. Parties were raucous, ending in bloodshed just as often as they ended in sex. Bloodshed, especially for the Vanserras, seemed like an act of foreplay. And they were loud. Not a night passed she didn’t hear one of them torturing some poor woman, only to realize the next morning that was just how they engaged in lovemaking.
It made her too curious about Lucien, her mate and friend, who had said nothing since she’d left. Two longs months of hoping and waiting, even for a visit in which she might offer up some flimsy excuse to keep him a day or two. Lucien was apparently content and happy without her and Elain was back to just existing.
The difference between Autumn and Night was the people within it. While Elain had always felt like a burden to her sisters, the Vanserra’s made it clear they didn’t like it when she vanished. If she spent more than a day hiding in her room, one of them would burst in without knocking and drag her out, occasionally hauling her over their shoulder to do it. There was no end to their amusements and pastimes. Besides their attempts to teach her some basic self-defense, they took her horse back riding and fishing, they took her to the very cold beach at the far end of the territory. There were apple orchards and villages with festivals and big cities filled with people bustling about and selling goods.
And if they couldn’t find something for her to do, they simply created it on the spot. Elain was never alone in that way, even if she felt lost in the shuffle. She was fond of them, her affection wholly sisterly and strangely human. The rest of Prythian deemed them cruel monsters no better than their father. They didn’t seem to care but Elain did. She felt fiercely protective of them and, perhaps a little selfishly, wanted everyone to know they were wrong.
A birthday party was a way to rectify that…and also lure Lucien back to Autumn, at least for a day. She’d waited breathlessly for his response, coming alongside Helions. She’d invited them both for the week but Helion, who accepted on behalf of them both, agreed only to come the day before. It forced Elain to spend a miserable week listening to her sisters try and cajole her back home.
The only amusement she’d had was watching all four Vanserra’s barr Azriel entrance on pain of death. She hadn’t said a word. Perhaps he deserved a little grief…and besides, it was nice to see someone take a side, if only once.
Arina emerged from Eris’s bedroom, flushed and sweaty, the day Helion and Lucien were set to arrive. She looked happy, glowing and warm. Eris hovered for a moment, eyes shifting as if some shadowy threat might jump from behind a bush and snatch Arina away.
“What is it like?” Elain asked almost breathlessly, curious to hear if the frenzy was truth or myth.
“It’s…” Arina’s eyes glazed over. “I don’t know. Overwhelming? I feel as if I don’t have him I’ll die, and I always want him.”
“Is he any good?”
“The best,” Arina said with immense satisfaction. “I thought the bond might make it seem so but…” she trailed off. It was for the best. Elain wasn’t sure she wanted to know whatever Eris got up to when no one else was around.
“Has Helion arrived?”
“He has,” Helion’s thundering voice made both of them jump. It was just Helion, draped in glowing white and so utterly out of place among the wood of the Forest House. He looked around with obvious interest. “This place is a hole.”
Arina laughed. “I kind of like it. It’s the perfect place to read.”
“You would,” he agreed affectionately, sweeping her into a hug. Elain hung back, aware that Helion, too, had chosen Lucien over her. She didn’t want to make any assumptions or force her company on him. When he released Arina, he glanced towards her, his eyes softening.
“What happened to your tan?” he asked, gesturing for her to come towards him. Elain practically tripped as she went, exhaling the moment her body touched his. She’d considered Helion her friend, perhaps the first real friend she’d had as Fae. He held her for a moment, hand on the back of her head.
“I’ve missed you,” he told her. “No one laughs quite as loudly as you do.”
She wanted to ask why he hadn’t written to her then. Why hadn’t he come to see her? She knew he owed his loyalty to Lucien and Lucien’s mother. It pierced her all the same.
“I have a gift,” Helion added. “I left it with one of the very rude Vanserra’s, along with my wife and son.”
His words were carefully chosen, letting her know Lucien was there. “I heard Feyre Archeron was here. I have a bone to pick with her.”
“I’ll take you,” Arina offered, the soon to be new Lady of Autumn. It was an odd exchange between courts. Helion took the former Lady of Autumn, offering Eris one of his own courtiers in return. Elain meant to trot after them, to listen to their squabbling banter, when awareness pricked at the back of her neck.
She turned to find Lucien leaned against a wood paneled wall, a black box in hand. “Happy birthday,” he said with an easy smile. The angry man she’d seen that last day was gone, replaced with the laid back prince of Day Court. He was back in that long-sleeved, stiff collared white jacket and pants. It was a match for the last night she’d seen him. Elain swallowed, noting the bronze of his skin and the sheen of his hair. Had he always been so good looking?
“It’s tomorrow,” she reminded him, her voice too soft for her liking. Lucien pushed off the wall, box out stretched. She took it, noting the weight.
“I have two gifts…but this was easier.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” she murmured, terrified to unwrap it.
“Of course I did,” he disagreed. Discomfort shifted over his expression. “We’re friends, remember?”
She almost laughed out loud, nodding when she couldn’t trust her voice not to scream in his face. They stood, staring at each other awkwardly, two people who were both intimately aware of the other while someone remaining total strangers. One minute, Lucien was putting his hand in her body and the next he was seeking out other women to slake whatever lust he felt.
“I should go see my brother,” he finally said when it became clear Elain had nothing to say at all. She nodded, unable to say the words that would bring him back to her. And once again, Elain was forced to watch him go.
Wishing he would stay.
LUCIEN:
Elain was stunning in everything but there was something personal about seeing her in Autumn Court styles. Dinner was miserable—Eris had very intentionally put her on his left hand side while Lucien was relegated with the Night Court, forced to make tedious small talk with Cassian. Even his brothers were closer, making bawdy jokes while Elain laughed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Everyone else liked her. He felt stupid, sending her here where she might charm another male…or another Vanserra. Cadmus in particular was just a little too close, his arm brushing against her own more often than Lucien would like.
They gave him no opportunity to speak with her alone. Like vultures circling, anytime Lucien got close, one of his brother sidled up, drawing her attention to the lawn or the bonfire or any other number of small amusements they’d put together specifically for her.
He’d have to take matters into his own hands. He cornered Arina, another female being too closely guarded by a Vanserra. Eris, who’d always been the most polished of them, was no better than one of his snarling, snapping dogs. He’d barely said a word all evening, reduced to silent, furious male certain someone was going to try and take his mate.
Lucien pitied his brother even as he hoped to suffer the same. “Where is Elain sleeping?”
“Why would I tell you that?” she demanded, inching further from Eris. It was clear Arina wanted a little breathing room but she got too close to that forest, Eris was going to think she was trying to run. Lucien knew exactly how that would end. He had no intention of warning Arina of that fact. Let her learn what Autumn Court males were like the hard way.
“Because I have a gift for her—” “Your dick is not a gift, Lucien,” Arina snapped, glancing towards Eris. “But I’ll tell you if you help me get back to the Forest House without your brother catching us.”
“You know he’ll kill me if he thinks I’m trying to sneak you away, right?” Lucien asked dryly.
“I just need ten minutes alone. I have to go the bathroom so bad. He’s always hovering. I know it’s going to get better once some his sense returns but until then, I have to take the help I can get…even if it means betraying my best friend.”
“If he catches me, you better distract him,” Lucien warned, sweeping his eyes over the lawn of revelers. Elain was talking to Eris and Tanwen, holding his attention just long enough for Lucien to grab Arina and dart entirely through the forest.
“Run,” he whispered, clasping her hand. They were hardly swift or silent—Arina had no practice with it. Lucien did his best though it was hard when the person he was tied to tripped over every small stick and fallen leaf. Still, if Eris realized they were gone, he would have found them by now, which meant Eris was unaware. Lucien merely took Arina the long way around the Forest House, stepping inside closer to the throne room than the party raging outside.
“She’s in your old bedroom,” Arina told Lucien with curling, almost cruel satisfaction. “Eris thought it would be amusing for you to walk in and find her in your bed.”
“Amusing is not the word I’d use,” Lucien replied, his heart racing. She’d been sleeping in his bed? Tangled in his sheets? The revelation practically drove him to his knees.
“If you hurt her again, I’m going to beat the ever loving shit out of you,” Arina warned before stalking off, looking over her shoulder once before sprinting into a run. Lucien only had to wait a mere three minutes for Eris to appear, wild and disheveled.
“Brother,” Lucien said, slamming his hand against his chest. “Let your mate use the bathroom without your presence.”
Eris grimaced. “I can’t help it,” he ground out. “I’m trying to master it…” but instinct was riding him hard.
“Pace outside the door if it makes you feel better,” Lucien offered sympathetically, ignoring how badly he wanted to trade Eris places. What he wouldn’t give to be half mad and wholly wild. Eris exhaled a breath.
“It’s been a month,” he murmured, more to himself. “I thought…” “It fades,” Lucien assured him, dropping his hand. “Go back outside. No one is going to harm Arina. She’s Lady, after all.”
Eris nodded, looking back the way he came. “Are you planning to join me?”
Lucien kept his expression easy—neutral. “I’m going to head to bed.”
Eris, the bastard, didn’t react either. “Ah. Well, try not to spoil Elain’s birthday. Cadmus might kill you.” “What is going on between them?” Lucien yelled after Eris’s stiff, retreating back.
“Just because you don’t want her doesn’t mean no one does,” Eris retorted, turning around even as he walked. “One of these days you’re going to be gone just a little too long and another male is gonna steal her away somewhere even you can’t find.”
An absurd notion. Lucien was a master tracker. The thought enraged him all the same as he imagined Elain trapped in some little house, subjected to the foul, perverted whims of a stranger. He wanted her subjected to his foul, perverted whims. He strode to his old bedroom, flinging open the door to his own personal hell. His scent was mingled with her own, so powerfully he had to hold the door jamb to keep himself from losing control. Her dresses were neatly draped over a chair he’d spent his whole life sitting in, avoiding the closet where he knew most of his old clothes still hung. She had her little shoes neatly arranged just outside the mirrored door, her jewelry hanging from a mirror on the dresser. She’d draped a white knitted blanket over the window seat, a book sitting against the cushions. Instead of taking over his old life, Elain had merely added herself to it.
He wondered if she knew this bed had once been his. She’d set his gift atop the mattress, the gold ribbon still tied. He wanted her to open it so badly it made his teeth ache. Instead, Lucien went to the window seat, picking up the blanket and inhaling her scent. The timing was terrible—Elain stepped in the moment he buried his face in the blanket.
“What are you doing?” she asked, the door snicking shut behind her. Her eyes were wide with alarm, stark compared to her flushed cheeks.
“Eris told me I could have my old room while I was here,” he told her, setting the blanket back down.
It took her only a moment to figure out what that meant. “I suppose I should have guessed.”
“It’s the sort of joke he’d enjoy,” Lucien agreed, surprised by the immediate hurt that shone on her face. Elain swallowed it, forcing a smile just as she’d done the day she left.
“Do you want it, then? I can go—” “Stay,” he said before he could stop himself, hating how desperate he sounded. “I’ll…” he’d what? He had no intention of leaving the room, either. She must have realized as much. She held out her hand.
“Give me the blanket.”
“No.” It was easier to slip into this dynamic with her, to push her buttons until she exploded. It would be good for them both, he decided. She was clearly repressing something, something he was certain he needed to hear.
“Give me the blanket, Lucien.”
“No,” he repeated, adopting the most snide expression he could think of. “Why don’t you get in my bed, Elain? Just like you’ve been doing every night for the last two months.” He could see she was moments from boiling over. She swallowed her rage and lunged, trying to yank it from his hands. He tossed it across the room, using his larger body to block her from getting it.
“You can have that blanket over my dead body—” She hit him. Slapped him, harder than any female ever had in his life. She wasn’t the first, certainly, but unliked his past scorned lovers, Elain was fueled by hatred or anger or some other emotion that made her palm meeting his cheek sting.
“You can’t have everything!” she screamed, turning her back to stalk for the door. Lucien was quicker, blocking her exit.
“Why not? I want everything,” he retorted, chest panting. He was both terrified and excited, his hope blooming.
“I know you do. Do you intend to punish me until I die? I said I was sorry, Lucien. I tried so hard! And what were you doing? Out…cavorting…sending me away…ignoring me unless it suited you—” “Open my gift,” he interrupted, moment from snapping. Elain looked over her shoulder at the box. With a scream of fury, she reached for it, throwing it roughly against a wall. The lid slid through the ribbon, sending the circlet he’d brought her clattering across the floor. She didn’t look to see, didn’t notice the gold glinting in the faelights or the promise he was offering mere inches from her feet.
“I don’t want anymore gifts,” she all but snarled. “I want you to get out of this room.”
“I’m not leaving you,” he replied, daring to take a step towards her. Elain matched him, the back of her legs hitting the frame of his bed. She looked behind her, eyes wide.
“Why not?” she hissed, meeting his gaze again. “You love leaving me.”
“Only half of that is true,” Lucien bit back, his hand shaking. Elain opened her mouth as she turned her head, clearly unable to look at him. Finally she saw what was laying on the floor as his words registered.
“I love you?” she repeated softly, as if testing the words for herself. Ignoring him, Elain went to it, picking the piece of jewelry up and holding carefully. She looked at him, eyes wide. Lucien could say nothing else, too aware of how she held his dying, aching heart in her hands, too. Elain walked towards him, placing the crown back against his palms.
“Move, Lucien.”
He did, his disappointment overwhelming. Elain went to the door, hesitating on the handle.. He was sure he must have looked pathetic, clutching that gift while she rejected him for the second time.
Elain bit her bottom lip. “I love you. Dont’...don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back.”
And then she was gone, taking every ounce of his will to live with her.
ELAIN:
Elain couldn’t stand the fear radiating from Lucien’s face, but she also knew she could not let him leave her in Autumn again. The golden crown of a Day Court princess solidified something she’d never let herself really think about. He was here, right now, telling her he loved her and Elain meant to do something about it. She ran, flying through the halls of Day Court for the kitchen. She grabbed a giant, metal bowl typically used for mixing, and began dumping everything within reach into the container. She didn’t know what he liked to eat, so just to be safe, she brought a selection of things…and a bottle of wine, just for good measure.
It took her longer to return, an unfortunate turn of events given Lucien was pacing the floor of his once bedroom, still holding that crown against his chest. He stilled when he saw her, eyes darting to the bowl in her hand. Elain locked the door behind her.
“Sit down,” she said breathlessly, amazed when Lucien dropped to the floor instantly.
“On the bed, Lucien,” she instructed patiently. He did, scrambling for the mattress, his expression carefully neutral.
“I’m in love with you,” she informed him, watching how he nodded, opening his mouth to agree. She held up a finger, silencing him instantly. “After this moment, I don’t want to be parted ever again.” “Ever again,” he agreed breathlessly.
She shifted, his eyes tracking her. “Am…will you tell me why you were sleeping—” “I wasn’t,” he interrupted quickly, his expression plaintive. “I was trying to distract myself but not like that. I…if I looked at you I…” she’d never seen him so lost for words. She took a step towards him.
“No other women?”
“Females,” he corrected obnoxiously. “And not since I came to Day.”
Relief sloshed through her stomach. She went to him fully, standing between his spread legs, her bowl clutched to her chest. “I’m sorry I didn’t choose you. If I could go back, I’d do it all differently.”
His eyes were huge, his face pale, almost terrified as he listened to her. “You were never second best to me, Lucien. I was scared of you, of this. I didn’t know how it would feel…” she swallowed, forcing herself to press forward. “I didn’t know how it would feel to have you. These last two months have been miserable. I miss you all the time.” “I let you leave to make you happy,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I was so close to snapping, to kidnapping you away to Spring where no one would find you.”
They were so stupid. It would have been funny if they weren’t both so obviously raw. Lucien set the crown on the bedside table. “Let me kiss you,” he murmured. She shook her head, thrusting the bowl between them.
“Tell me what you like. I told you. I’m done being separated. You can kiss me—” “Give me the tart,” he interrupted impatiently. Elain reached for it, getting a smear of sticky jam on her fingers. Lucien went to reach for it but Elain shook her head.
“Open your mouth,” she demanded, ignoring the smirk that graced his handsome features. He did and Elain shoved it all in at once so there could be no accidents. It was feeding him in the most inelegant terms. She watched him chew, eyes never leaving her face. While she waited, she set the rest of the food beside the bed, assuming at some point he might want it, before removing the cork from the bottle of wine.
“Is it my birthday?” he joked, swiping the drink from her grasp and dragging it to his lips. Elain watched how they wrapped over the opening with fascination. His hands, too, suddenly seemed different. Larger, stronger…broader, somehow. He was watching her too, setting the bottle to the same table her crown and the bowl of food lay. Elain stepped closer, her body nearly flush against his, and slid her sticky thumb along the wet underside of his lip.
His tongue darted forward, licking her skin until she was practically breathless.
“There's no escaping now,” he told her, taking her wrist to press a kiss to her palm. She shuddered.
“As if there is anywhere I could go you wouldn’t eventually find,” she teased. Lucien smiled.
“Exactly.” His fingers traced the line of her jaw, eyes following his hand. “You should know, Elain, that I’ve wanted you from the moment I first saw you. Not because you were beautiful or my mate but because you radiate like the sun and I can help but be drawn to you. I didn’t understand, I thought it was the bond. It was always just you. It would have been you without the bond. I think I’ve been looking for you my entire life.” “That’s a lot of words to say you love me,” she replied, delighted when he snaked an arm around her waist, drawing her closer.
“I need a lot of words. I’m making up for lost time.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she swore, hands holding his face.
“I don’t have to do anything at all,” he agreed. “I want to. I don’t want you to ever wake up wondering how I feel about you.”
“I’m feeling unsure right now,” she lied, her mouth inching towards his own.
“Do you need a reminder already?” he asked, his grip tightening on her body. “Allow me to remind you the only way I know how, since my words have failed to convince you.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond, hauling her onto the bed until she was backwards, feet nearly touching the pillows, her back flat against the soft orange blanket. He caressed her face and Elain, wanting him to hurry up, couldn’t help but ask, “I thought you said you weren’t polite.” Lucien’s eyes sparked hotly. “Tell me the truth about one thing,” he demanded, grinding his pelvis against her own.
“Anything.”
“Did you have a crush on one of my brothers?”
She almost laughed. He was clearly struggling with some new, murderous instinct. She’d seen that look on Eris’s face more than once.
“They look like you,” she admitted. His face split into a smile, shaking his magnificent head of hair.
“You’re so lovely,” he murmured. “And I am going to devour you tonight.”
She didn’t get to respond, didn’t get a chance to do anything but reach for him as his mouth covered her own. Heat flooded her veins against the distinct snapping in her chest. That frayed, weakened bond reverberated against her bones, solidifying to hardened, unbreakable gold. She could feel it shining beneath her skin, humming the song of her mate kissing her roughly, his own body pressed against her own.
Lucien didn’t stop kissing her to marvel at their soul bond—he merely growled with approval against her lips, teeth grazing the tender flesh until he drew a drop of blood he quickly kissed away. His tongue found hers, caressing until she was half dizzy and desperate. She was clawing at his jacket, desperate for the feel of his skin pressed against her own. Autumn was never quite warm, always edged with a streak of cruel, bitter wind. Lucien was the opposite, was pure sunlight, a warm wind over sparkling ocean water.
He ripped, buttons flying across the room as he shucked off the jacket. Muscled flesh glimmered in the faelight, hers to touch if she wanted. Elain ran her hand down his abdomen, fingers snagging on the clasps.
“What’s your rush?”
“I want to taste you again,” she told him, shoving him further up the bed and settling between his parted thighs. Lucien groaned at the sound of her words, lifting his hips so she could yank them off him, leaving them tangled around his ankles. He twitched in her hands, head inclined to watch her lick from root to tip. Lucien moaned softly.
“Do you like to watch?” she asked, sliding her tongue over the head where moisture was already starting to bead.
“Yes,” he admitted, voice strangled.
“Are you going to finish on my chest again?” she continued, letting him push into her mouth.
“In your cunt,” he replied roughly, fisting her hair to push her further down. He remembered her limit, stopping her before she gagged. “Over and over,” he added softly, holding her on him for just a moment.
“And when you’re exhausted and can’t stand, then I’ll cover your pretty little tits in come, too.” She couldn’t respond to that, could only arch an eyebrow as she pulled him back out of her throat, mouth pooling with saliva. She couldn’t say she loved sucking him. He was unwieldy and large, a little too thick to fit comfortably in her mouth. What Elain liked was the noises he made and the power she felt. Despite penetrating her, despite his hand moving her head, she had the ultimate say on if he finished or not. His pleasure was wholly dependent on her mercy and goodwill. Tonight, Elain only wanted to make him feel good, wanted to wring him out the way she knew he intended to do to her.
It was a relief when he pulled her off him, yanking at the emerald green of her heavy dress. “Don’t tear it,” she hissed, pulling at the laces in the front quickly. Lucien yanked her hips, settling her against him so she could rub her achingly aroused pussy against the wet, hardened flesh of his cock. Lucien’s head fell back, eyes rolling into his head.
Her breasts spilled from her dress just in time for him to sit halfway and yank the rest over her head. He balled it in his hand, throwing it against a wall. “You are obscenely gorgeous,” he hummed, capturing one of her hardened nipples in his mouth. Elain raked her nails through his hair, head lolling on her shoulder. “I think I might die from wanting you.” “Have me,” she murmured, lifting his face to look at me. “I’m yours.”
He laid back, his arousal warring with his awe. She didn’t think she’d ever felt cherished in her life, not like this. He stared at her as if she were the sun in the sky, his affection so plain she could have cried at the sight.
Elain lifted her hips, lining him up against the wetness of her body. She wanted to remember this moment, wanted to capture it to memory for the rest of her life. He held her, letting her set the pace as she slid down him. The sensation of him entering her body was incredible, an intensity that immediately made her feel wild—frenzied. Elain suddenly understood why it was called that. Instinct seemed to take over, rolling her hips over him. Claim. She needed to claim and be claimed, to mark him, to make him hers in all the ways that suddenly mattered.
For a moment there was nothing but the sound of their labored panting and the joining of their flesh. Lucien had his mouth half open, both russet and golden eye heavy lidded. Elain was grinding her clit against him, using him as he’d once told her to find her her own snaking orgasm. She was building hotly, sensed coming wasn’t going to do a damn thing to slake her need.
“Look at what a good girl you are, riding my cock so well,” Lucien crooned, staring at himself sliding in and out of her body.
Elain didn’t know how to answer him, wasn’t practiced in the art of being sexy in the same way. Instead, she arched her back with a moan, thrusting her breasts forward. “My mate,” he growled, fingers digging her hip to move her faster, to pull her harder against him. “Say it.”
“My mate,” she moaned, tumbling off the edge at his answering snarl of approval. Lucien came too, just as noisy as his brothers did every night.
Lucien pulled her off him, flipping her to her stomach before she’d even come fully down. Pressed against her back, he slid into her again. He held himself there for a moment, body braced on his muscular arms. Lucien pressed a kiss against the side of her neck. Home, she thought softly, lacing her fingers through his. He sighed and without asking, Elain knew he felt the same. He was her home.
LUCIEN:
Lucien woke with a start to darkness. For a moment, it was all a horrible nightmare. He was alone, the bond broken. Alone, you’re alone, you’re—
“Lucien?” Elain’s voice whispered, her body shifting in the sheets beside him. She’d merely rolled away, her back facing him. His eyes adjusted to the lack of light, his breathing settling when he realized he was not alone.
“I have nightmares too,” she murmured, unaware all his nightmares centered on her leaving him. Lucien swallowed hard, sliding back down the pillow with an arm flung out so she could curl beside him. The mere action of her pressing her hand to his chest, her cheek against his skin, made his body flare to life with want. They’d been at it for hours—Lucien hardly remembered falling asleep at all.
Lucien stroked her hair, his fingers catching in the tangles. “Of the Cauldron?”
She’d mentioned it once and he’d all but forgotten. She nodded, kissing just beneath his nipple softly.
“They’re better than they used to be,” she admitted. “Eris helped.”
“How did he manage that? On accident, I assume.” Lucien was genuinely curious about this creature he called mate. He’d been so excited she wanted to accept the bond, he hadn’t considered all the baggage between them in his urge to cement them together. Now, though, laying the dark, it occurred to him they would need more than their shared attraction if they were going to spend eternity together.
“He threw me off a cliff,” she replied with a soft laugh. Lucien assumed there was some context he was missing that would make Eris’s unorthodox methods make sense. He decided he’d let that stay between Elain and Eris, so long as Eris didn’t do something so absurd it got her killed.
“Did it work?”
Elain’s fingers slid down his stomach, following the trail of hair that would take her to his half hard cock. “It did. What are your nightmares about?”
He felt guilty. “A lot of things,” he finally offered, not wanting to admit he was dreaming of her again.
“No lies, remember?” she murmured, too perceptive even with her clever little fingers. “That was your game.”
“I dream you break the bond all the time,” he finally told her, his voice rough and angry. “That you leave me, that I…I can’t measure up, that I’m not good enough—” “I’m sorry, Lucien,” she said, not for the first time. She twisted in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “I’m so, so sorry. I never wanted you to feel that way.”
“I don’t understand,” he admitted. “You loved him but…” But she could have loved him, had she ever tried to get to know him. Elain withdrew her hand, laying on her stomach to look at him.
“You understand the concept of an arranged marriage, right?”
He nodded. “My parents…ah…my mother had one.” “I wasn’t lying to you when I said I was scared. When I was human, I was the only girl whose father had no interest in arranging her marriage. He left it up to me. I saw my friends, though…saw how those men acted, the ownership that came with that ring. I wasn’t rejecting you…I was trying to choose myself, to prove I was free to do what I liked, to be with who I wanted.” “And now?” He couldn't help but ask. Was this her giving in? Too exhausted to fight fate any longer, settling for what the Cauldron prescribed.
“I think falling in love is a choice,” she finally murmured, sweeping her thumb over his jaw. “I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to realize it.” Lucien swallowed hard, rubbing a hand down her bare back. He felt relief every time she explained what had happened. That it wasn’t him who disgusted her, that he wasn’t her back-up option when Azriel left her.
“I could have told you, if we’d ever spoken,” he murmured, kissing the top of her forehead.
“I know that now,” she replied, poking him in the ribs.
“What were you and Azriel talking about on Solstice?”
Elain jerked back, her fingers scratching against his chest. “He was telling me I should go back to Velaris,” she finally said, her voice edged with irritation. “And voicing his concern about you.”
Anger flared, bright and hot, in Lucien’s chest. “He thinks himself the hero, does he?” “Eris said the same thing,” she murmured. “I think he feels bad about how we left things but we can’t be friends and I don’t care what he thinks about my choices.”
She said it with such finality, each word crisp against her lips. “I don’t think of him at all,” she added after a moment, letting him drag her back against him. He liked the feeling of her breasts brushing his skin.
“Everyone will have an opinion,” he warned her, taking advantage of the moment to slide his fingers down her stomach. How long had it been since he’d last tasted her? Two hours? Three, if he were being generous. It felt like an eternity. The bond was tugging on him again, growling whispered words of claiming need in his gut.
“And? Do you think Helion cares? He invited the other six courts to watch him seduce your mother on his throne,” Elain replied fiercely. “What do I care what someone in Winter Court thinks about me?”
He smiled to himself, letting her feel it against her neck. “Is that what you want? To sit in my lap, legs spread, while everyone watches?”
“No…” her voice was a soft, breathy gasp. “I think you’d give too many other women—”
“Females, Elain.”
“–Women ideas they wouldn’t be able to get out of their head,” she finished firmly. He supposed some things would never change. She’d never think of herself in the same animalistic terms the rest of them did. That didn’t mean he couldn’t make her feel it.
“I’ve been giving females the wrong idea since I became of age,” Lucien told her, far cockier than he’d ever meant to sound. Elain scoffed, letting him part her legs all the same.
“One day you’re going to be honest and admit you’ve been with less than ten people. Lucien laughed loudly at that. “You’re funny.”
Lucien slid his tongue down her stomach to settle between her legs. She had his scent all over her, draped like a shimmering cloak to morning light. Lucien shuddered with pleasure, his instinct to claim settling a little. No one would dare touch her, not when she was so thoroughly marked. He thought he could get through her birthday so long as his brothers weren’t overly obnoxious without becoming the pacing, snarling beast Eris had been driven to.
“I have to be up early,” Elain whispered, lifting her hips up towards his mouth all the same.
“Why go to sleep at all, then?” he replied, reaching for her hand to pull her upwards. Their mouths collided messily, all teeth and tongue. She tasted just as sweet as he remembered, her body melting against his own. All his other thoughts, his insecurities, emptied from his head. She couldn’t fake this, couldn’t pretend he was nothing to her. Elains fingers raked through his hair as if she were trying to draw him closer, to devour him just as surely as he wanted to devour her.
Lucien settled her in his lap, groaning at the heat radiating between her thighs. How was he supposed to fuck her when such delicious, wet heat was practically begging for his mouth. Lucien laid back and turned her around so her pretty, round ass was right in his face. He smacked the skin softly, enjoying her soft little yelp. He slid until her pussy was just over his face. Elain hovered on her knees.
“I don’t want to crush you,” she finally whispered when he made an impatient noise. Lucien grabbed her hips and forced her roughly to his face until he was practically bathing in her cunt.
“I’ll decide how I die,” he said roughly, his tongue dipping inside her so he might sample her at the source. “Ride my face.”
She moaned softly, either from his words or his lapping tongue. Lucien didn’t know and hardly cared. He’d always want her just like this, pressed against his face, her hips grinding over his skin so get him to lick exactly where she wanted. Lucien had her figured out, knew Elain preferred a steady, broad tongue that started at her entrance, stroking all the way to her clit before sliding back down again. If he did it enough, she’d match his rhythm and speed until he was all but fucking her with his mouth.
He hadn’t expected her to reach for his cock, squeezing just the way he liked it. He moaned into her, trying to figure out when he’d started liking hand jobs so much. They typically made him impatient for more interesting things but when Elain grasped him, her hand gliding along his aching, burning skin, Lucien wanted nothing more than to come all over her hand.
He wanted to please his mate and if she wanted to stroke him, he wanted to reward her for it.
For a moment there was nothing else. They were the only two beings in the universe, shining and golden against the nothingness of the universe. Everything stopped and started where they began.
Her mouth sucked against the tip of him, letting a mere inch of his cock glide along the smooth surface of her mouth. Lucien’s hips flew off the bed without meaning to, choking her for her efforts. Elain pressed her hands against his bare thighs, pushing him back. He had to stop licking for a moment, lips pressed just beneath the swell of her ass cheek as he caught his breath.
“What are you doing to me?” he asked her desperately. “What kind of magic is this?”
Elain stopped sucking just long enough to say, “It’s love, sweetheart.”
He could have come from her words alone. Love, so potent, so irresistible that Lucien felt as if she had him in her thrall. He would have done anything for her in that moment, would have crawled against broken, burning glass if she asked. Elain only asked him to continue licking her, wiggling her hips with a frustrated whine when he spent too long caught up in his own feelings.
Lucien went back with a vengeance, wilder than he’d been the night he’d had her beneath the hammock. She came mere seconds before he did, lucky considering the ferocity of his orgasm. Wave after wave of come poured into her throat, his cock pushed as far as she could stand.
Any other time, Lucien would have kept going, would have dragged another from her body before he even dreamt of pulling away.
He needed to touch her in a different way. He pulled her off just long enough to get her in his lap. Elain misunderstood, sliding her cunt over the head of his cock and sliding down before he could say a word otherwise.
“Fuck,” he groaned, head inclined backwards as he swallowed hard. He clawed at her back, dragging his nails down her skin as she began to move, her dripping wet pussy still convulsing from his mouth. The heat was exquisite, branding him tightly. “You fuck me so well.”
“I always will,” she swore, her kiss hard. He tasted himself mingled against her own and when she bit hard at his lip and blood filled his mouth, he thought nothing had ever been half as erotic to him. He held her tightly, hands on her ass to lift her up before slamming her back down, trying to drive himself deeper, to bury himself so thoroughly he might somehow touch the shimmering soul he could feel commented threaded around his own.
He came again, just as fierce and hot as before, filling her until he felt himself spilling down his still hard, still interested cock. Elain slowed, her hips still rolling as she gasped for air, teeth sinking into his shoulder roughly.
“I love you,” he choked into her hair. She wrapped her arms around his neck, peppering his sweaty skin with kisses.
“Being with you like feels like home,” she whispered. Lucien could have wept, had to wipe a quick tear gathering at the corner of his eye.
“You’re home,” he agreed, holding her close.
He’d never really had a true home, a place that belonged to him that he could always return to. He knew Helion aimed to make Day Court home, but Lucien knew it would take centuries to truly trust it.
As long as had Elain, though…Lucien would always have someplace safe, something he could trust. A person who loved him despite every ugly, angry part of him.
And for maybe the first time in centuries, Lucien felt peace.
1 year later:
ELAIN:
Solstice was upon them again and this time, things couldn’t have been more different if she’d tried. Lucien had gotten out of bed before her, a good thing given the wave of nausea that rolled over her the second she opened her eyes. Elain sighed, staring up at the ceiling until the feeling passed. She was getting good at keeping the contents of her stomach in her body and keeping this secrets from Lucien. She wanted to surprise him once she was past the first trimester though, if Elain was totally honest, she didn’t want to see him revert to his frenzied-self when he found out she was pregnant.
She knew he was suspicious something was different. Her scent had changed and people were noticing. It was his mother who had caught it first, eyes wide while Elain put a desperate finger to her lips, eyes begging for silence. Amera was far kinder than perhaps Elain deserved. She’d said nothing at all though every morning she had a peppermint tea sent up that helped soothe Elain’s stomach.
There was another, far more practical problem at hand. Her clothes were becoming uncomfortably tight already, though when she looked in the mirror, her tiny protruding stomach could have been the result of a rather large meal. Lucien had commented two nights earlier on her breasts, his stare calculating. She knew he was trying to figure out if they’d always been so big and he’d somehow never noticed.
Elain had pushed him on his back and sucked until he forgot what he’d seen. She chalked up his inability to recognize pregnancy to ignorance. How many women had he encountered in his life that were pregnant? Fae children were rare and supposedly difficult though Elain had no trouble at all. It certainly didn’t hurt that her and Lucien were always having sex. Even with a small window of fertility, she was practically drowning in sperm at any given moment.
Elain slid on the buttery soft pink gown, marveling how it shifted gold whenever the sunlight touched the fabric. It was simple, cinched uncomfortably at her waist before fluttering around her. The sharp cut of the top made her breasts look even larger, pressed tight against her body.
Already tired, Elain slipped on a pair of heeled shoes before pulling her hair off her face with pearl combs that matched the simple dots Lucien had once given her as a gift. The crown on her head was the last piece besides the pretty sunburst ring she wore everyday despite the fact her and Lucien were not technically married. It seemed strange not to want that when getting married had once been all she wanted. There seemed no need, not with the bond in her chest tying her to him. Marriage felt like a pale imitation of what she already had.
She found Lucien in the Great Hall in a coat of cream and gold. He couldn’t stand to let the other courts see him in the short toga Helion wore at his side though Elain couldn’t, for the life of her, understand why. Lucien’s thighs were a thing of beauty. His whole body was, if she was honest. His eyes found her the moment she stepped in the room, gaze darkening for one quick second. Beside him, Helion’s eyes cut sharply towards his son, his mouth murmuring a warning Elain was sure neither of them would abide by. She was quite looking forward to stroking him beneath the table at dinner again. She meant to make it a little tradition.
Lucien walked to her, his boots so out of place among the sandaled courtiers of his new home. She smiled when the golden band on his own finger caught in a sunbeam, igniting against his bronzed skin brilliantly. A Lord of Day, the Prince of all light. Lucien was a God among mere mortals, wholly unaware of his brilliance and beauty.
“I’m surprised you’re not in the garden,” he said with a smile, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Elain sighed with content at the memory of his little patch of dirt. He’d tried so hard though he’d created a mishmash of plants that didn’t belong side by side. It gave her more pleasure than she’d ever admit to dig it all up and rearrange to her liking. Lucien had done more of the labor intensive tasks, laying a path and digging up more grass when she wanted to expand. It would have been a lie to say she didn’t like the sight of him shirtless in the sun, his dark brown skin gleaming with sweat in the hot summer sun. More than once someone had come across them just barely hidden, his hands up her skirt or her mouth wrapped around him.
Elain sometimes thought the frenzy had never truly left them—they’d merely found a way to control the constant, ever present urge.
“I wish I was,” she admitted, looking longingly over his shoulder. “I thought you might like some company.”
“You’re staking a claim,” he teased, not entirely wrong. She shrugged. He liked when she was a little possessive. He slid his arm around her waist, walking her back to Helion. His eyes were still narrowed, amber eyes burning. Elain was well aware Lucien’s mother had spilled the beans to him and Helion, for all his talents and knowledge, was an absolutely shitty secret keeper. Lucien’s continued ignorance was pure luck–he was utterly oblivious as to what Helion was trying to subtly tell him.
“Elain,” Helion purred when he saw her. “You’re practically glowing this morning.”
She would murder him, she decided. She smiled. “It’s the golden dust,” she replied, shoving her bare arm towards him so he could indeed she where she’d sprinkled it over her skin.
“It’s more than that,” Helion, who was clearly choosing violence, shook his head. “An inner glow.” “I suppose it’s how in love I am,” Elain supplied with a serene smile.
“Mmm,” Helion agreed noncommittally when his wife elbowed him roughly in the side. Lucien was peering down at her curiously, his attention immediately taken by a few Dawn Court royals. Elain wasn’t quite off the hook, though. When Rhysand and Feyre stepped up, the pair’s eyes went wide the moment they were in her vicinity. Elain opened her mind, screaming at the pair SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!
But not before Feyre could say, “Congratulations! How exciting!”
Rhys couldn’t smother his amused smile.
“Congratulations?” Lucien asked, looking from the High Lord and Lady with confusion.
“A full year of mates is always a celebration,” Rhys assured him smoothly.
He’s piecing it together, Rhys’s voice crooned in her head. He knows your scent is off.
Mind your own business, she retorted, shoving him out before slamming that gate shut. Rhys chuckled before sauntering off. Lucien looked at her, eyebrows raised.
Elain knew she wouldn’t make it through the night, let alone another month.
Elain would consider it success if she made it through the night.
LUCIEN:
Lucien was determined to fix his mistakes at the last Solstice, starting with a dance. He’d swept her up in the first one, showing off more than just a little. He was accomplished, he was graceful, and he was absolutely rubbing it in the faces of everyone at Night Court. Azriel was back, watching with his moody expression despite the pretty ginger at his side. Lucien knew it wasn’t that he wanted Elain—he merely didn’t want Lucien to have her. And have her, Lucien did. Elain was flushed, glowing even when the sun set and darkness peeked through the wide open windows. That was unusual for her—Elain’s skin, while utterly incandescent, lacked that Day Court shine the rest of them seemed to have. It wasn’t the only thing that was off. Her scent had shifted strangely, making him react in equally strange ways. He was more possessive than he’d ever been, his teeth practically on edge anytime anyone looked at her. He had the most furious desire to dig a hole in the ground and stash her inside it while he guarded her against any potential predators.
He wondered if perhaps the frenzy might settle over them again, given how close they were to their anniversary. It was the only thing that made sense to him. At the same time, Lucien had never been more attracted to her. Though his steps were measured and even, his eyes were firmly on her breasts straining against her dress, desperate to escape. It would have taken practically nothing to rip apart that fabric and expose them, damn who watched.
“I need a break, Lucien,” Elain panted after four continuous dances. She winced as she stepped, pressing a hand against her back.
“Are you alright?” he demanded roughly, eyes scanning the room once more. People watched them just as often as they didn’t. There was no malice in the crowd. He needed to get himself together.
“Just tired,” she said. She’d been exhausted lately though he’d attributed that to her long days in the garden beneath the too hot sun. “And my feet hurt.” He led her to a chair, practically forcing her to sit before walking off for a drink. Eris was waiting with amused, watchful eyes. “Suffering, are you?” Eris chortled.
“Hardly,” Lucien replied, already daydreaming of how he’d have her just as soon as he could escape. Eris shrugged.
“I would be a mad male if it were me.”
“Oh? Mating bond still chafing you?” Lucien taunted. Eris nodded.
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “I dread the day it’s my mate who is pregnant in a room of people. I will bathe the room in blood.”
Realization swept over him. He schooled his face into neutrality, kicking himself for his stupidity. Her breasts, her curvier waist and glowing skin…congratulations…he felt stupid and strangely validated. He wasn’t losing himself to the bond, then. He was merely trying to guard his mate and his young. Lucien dumped the wine from his hand back into the large bowl without a word. He wouldn’t give Eris the satisfaction of knowing it had been him who had spilled the beans. Did Elain even know? He didn’t think she could, though her hand pressed against her stomach as he watched her from across the room. Perhaps she guessed.
“Walk with me,” he offered when he returned, handing her a cool glass of water. Elain nodded, letting him gently pull her from her chair. He led her across the terrace, out into the cool night air.
“Elain,” he began, unsure how to tell her she was pregnant. That was something he’d always assumed she could tell him. Elain looked up at him owlishly, her eyes so big, so pretty that he almost sank to the ground before her and wept his gratitude. A child. That future had once been lost to him. “Baby.”
“What?” she asked, stopping on the sandstone path he was leading her down.
“You’re—baby. You’re having a baby.”
She threw her hands up in the air with exasperation. “Who told?!”
Struck dumb, Lucien said, “Eris?”
“I’ll kill him,” she muttered. “It was going to be an anniversary surprise.”
Lucien didn’t know what to say to that. “You knew?” “Of course,” she agreed, wincing uncomfortably. “I’ve been wearing overalls all month. You didn’t think that was odd?”
Lucien, who had only noticed the way they hugged her hips and the little white band she wore as a top, shook his head. Elain offered him a smile. “I wanted to tell you when we celebrated but everyone has been figuring it out. I will never get used to the way men can just smell it.” He inhaled, committing her new, softer scent to memory.
“And you’re happy about this?”
“Delighted,” Elain agreed, rising up on her tiptoes for a kiss. “Here,” she added, pressing his hand to the flat of her stomach.
He couldn’t feel anything except her fluttering heart. Still, Lucien was overwhelmed, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. He did fall to his knees then, holding her at the waist, his face buried in the fabric of her skirt. She caressed his face.
“Are you okay?” “I’m just…I’m so happy,” he managed. “Really, really happy.”
“Me too,” she murmured, joining him on the ground so they were eye to eye. She was smiling, her thumbs sweeping over his cheeks. “It’ll be a Spring baby.”
He nodded. “Good. That’s a perfect time for a baby.”
“The first of many,” she promised. Lucien kissed her fiercely, pouring his gratitude into the gesture. He could have bathed in that happiness, still so unaccustomed to the feeling. He would have done anything for her in that moment.
“I love you,” he swore.
Elain grinned. “I love you, too.”And that, in the end, was all that really mattered.
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