#how do you feed all those thousands of refugees

[flintandpyrite]

I finished reading 1632 this week and here’s my review: not enough logistics.

[pavel-chekov-appreciator]

Routine Vaccinations

I don’t usually cross-post my fics on here, but this one is short and sfw so I thought, why not! Read it on AO3 here.

Enjoy human!Q being a brat to hide the fact that everything is new and terrifying.

**********

Doctor Beverly Crusher was, on the whole, very used to unruly patients. The Enterprise was one of many ships which allowed crew to bring their immediate family on for the long voyages, and as a result, Beverly was just as comfortable conducting a pediatric checkup as she was treating a plasma burn. A wriggling, whining, petulant patient who doesn’t want a hypospray was nothing new to her.

Said patient being a grown adult who was recently an utter terror of an omnipotent being, however, was. And this one she can’t even bribe with candy.

Probably.

She hasn’t actually had the chance to try out that tactic yet, because as soon as she administered his first vaccination, Q hopped off the exam table and bolted for the door. Beverly instinctively chased after him, and quickly realized that, for some reason, he was headed in the direction of the Bridge. He heads her off in a turbolift, so she’s several minutes behind him when she finally catches up, and he’s well into the beginnings of a tirade directed at Picard. The Captain wears a long-suffering look, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Beverly mentally prepares herself to convince him to actually take a treatment for his stress headache instead of letting it linger.

“Your barbaric doctor is trying to torture me!”

“I’m sure she’s doing no such thing, Q.”

“Of course she is!” Q insists. He’s pacing back and forth, gesturing wildly with his arms. Beverly realizes that she doesn’t think she’s seen Q truly sit still since he was made a human. He fidgets constantly.

"There! She even brought her torture device!"

Q points dramatically at the hypospray still in Beverly's hand. Picard sighs again.

"This is a hypospray, Q," Beverly says, with all the patience she can muster. Treating the newly-human Q has been one massive exercise in patience, and she's not sure how much more she truly has. But she has a duty to him, the same way she has a duty to all living things under her care-regardless of how infuriating he is. "Which I told you before administering it."

"Call it what you like-it hurts!"

"Hyposprays don't hurt-at most they sting!"

Q crosses his arms dramatically. Beverly isn't sure Q has the ability to do anything without doing it dramatically.

"Same thing!"

"Q," Picard interjects. "Have you ever experienced pain before?"

Q manages to look exasperated by the question.

"Of course I have! I was curious about, oh...three or four thousand years ago. Zero out of ten, would not recommend. I don't know how you mortals stand it."

"For the foreseeable future, you are 'one of us mortals’,” Picard reminds him. Q groans.

“And considering the fact that your body didn't technically exist until a week ago and I have no idea what kind of immunities you have, if any, then you're going to have to let me administer your vaccinations sooner rather than later,” Beverly adds. “It's efficient, I promise-these are the rounds we give to refugees and recent first contacts. Just four more shots."

Q pouts, and Beverly is once again reminded of a child. She realizes she even held up four fingers to demonstrate, like she would with a pediatric patient, and feels a little ridiculous-if there's one thing Q does understand, to an unfathomable degree, it's math. He just doesn't understand how having a body works yet. That he needs vaccinations, how to feed himself correctly, how to shave his beard...

Well.

The point is, there's a massive disparity between his understanding of the world and his understanding of himself, which is probably frustrating him, which is making him lash out.

Beverly realizes with a dawning horror that Q is, in fact, not at all like a child right now.

He's like a teenager.

"Don't you people have all those hangups about 'bodily autonomy?' I can just refuse."

"You have every right to refuse medical treatment, yes," Picard agrees, and Q sticks his tongue out at Beverly, earning him a sharp look from the Captain that actually seems to cow him. "But," Picard continues,"we have every right to drop you off at the next starbase for it."

Q's eyes narrow.

"You wouldn't."

"Not only would I, I would be obligated to."

Q pouts again, crossing his arms.

"Barbarians, all of you."

"Get off my bridge, Q."

Q does, in fact, follow Beverly to the turbolift. Though he makes a point of calling out that "I'm doing this because I want to, not because you told me to!" as the doors slide shut.

[shazzaofdoom]

I am having Magnus Thoughts (tm) and I will once again make it everyone’s problem. (Spoilers ahead, mostly for Master of Prospero and Morningstar, but also just in general.)

The thing is, it makes me feral how Magnus the Red: Master of Prospero is basically an elaborate set-up for a Trolley Problem.

So, the trolley problem! I’m not going to explain it all here, but broadly it’s a thought experiment that asks: Is it better to take action to save many lives, even if your action makes you directly responsible for the death of a few? Or should you avoid actively causing death, even if through your inaction you allow the deaths of many? There are a few different versions with fun little twists, and it’s meant to make you reflect on the nature of moral reasoning. (Wikipedia it if you need more information.)

The Trolley Problem is not a comfortable choice. Sometimes there’s no clean distinction between good and bad: they come parcelled together, and you have to live with a stain on your conscience either way. On Morningstar, Magnus has to reckon with this discomfiting truth, and it is crucial to what he does after Master of Prospero, and so in turn how that feeds into his choices later in the Heresy. It also highlights aspects of his character that are often flattened together under the label of ‘arrogance’. So I am going to unpack this a bit, because when I woke up this morning my brain said I had to.

Master of Prospero touches on the discomfort Magnus feels about massacring innocent refugees from Morningstar so that they can’t spread across new planets and potentially destroy those as well:

‘There is one last dark deed before us.’ (p193) - Magnus knows it is not a noble act: though it is in the name of saving countless lives, it is not the act of a saviour.

‘I am sure,’ said Magnus. ‘Throne, I wish I was not.’ (p196) - Yes, he’s confident that this must be done, but he’s not comfortable with it: the lesser of the two evils is still evil. But it is still lesser as well, and a non-decision is also a decision.

‘I still hear the dead of Morningstar screaming’ (p199) - Bro :(

And the depth of his discomfort becomes starkly apparent in the audio drama Morningstar when it is revealed that Magnus has psychically altered the memories of his entire legion so they don’t remember being party to the Morningstar massacre. That’s, like, so incredibly messed up. But also incredibly interesting, because it shows the extent to which Magnus really can’t cope with the decision he made to turn around and kill thousands upon thousands of helpless people who were counting on him (among others) to save them. (I mean, fair. That's a big yikes.)

He says a couple of interesting things in this regard:

“I sought to spare all my sons the awful burden of that terrible necessity. But not a day goes by when I do not regret what we had to do to the people of that world” (14:18)

“For what father does not desire to spare his sons pain? I never told you because I knew how you would look upon me forever after, knowing what I had done” (14:47). 

First off, it’s pretty obvious that Magnus never really came to terms with the decision he made on Morningstar. He feels continued regret, and he’s really not proud of it. But on top of this, he didn't want to burden his legion with the ‘terrible necessity’ they were party to. So, his solution is to erase the memory of Morningstar from their minds (/facepalm). In doing so he can feel some relief: he suffers his own guilt for Morningstar, but not the guilt of burdening his legion with his decision - he is the only one who carries the weight of responsibility.

(Also, I will just point out though that it seems like Magnus has a general tendency to treat his legion like ducklings rather than, y’know, genetically engineered supersoldiers. I’m thinking specifically of p72 of Master of Prospero, where Magnus and the lads are trying to find survivors from a massive earthquake: “The Thousand Sons formed up on their primarch and Magnus did his best to shield them from the psychic horror and grief of the city’s people”. ) 

Anyway. This all illustrates what I think is a core dynamic of Magnus’ character. Of course, we have the old familiar flaw, trotted out for every character analysis: ~* arrogance *~ clapclapclap good job everyone we have summarised the large red man in one word, let’s all go home. Except this only goes halfway, and is missing the extent to which empathy or fellow-feeling or concern for others… something of that sort is often a significant motivator for Magnus. 

And before anyone accuses me of being a soppy apologist, I think this is important because it can be found at the root of a lot of his problems that he brings on himself (smh ilu, you disaster). It’s not a redeeming quality, because he tends to do a bad job of it. It’s the ol’ tragic flaw: too much of a good thing (caring) can be bad (whoops, accidentally sold my soul to Tzeentch). 

Oughhhh, ok, the Tzeentch thing is a pretty good illustration of this dangerous combination, even if it’s purposefully a bit vague in canon. It’s often pointed at as an illustration of arrogance, and fair enough: the big man thought he could outfox some kind of eldritch deity. The peak of hubris, sure. No arguments here. But, like. Remember why he did it. Remember that he wasn’t selling his eye/soul/whatever for ultimate power. It wasn’t for personal gain. He wanted the lads to stop exploding into tentacle monsters. That’s the Magnus contradiction right there: arrogant enough to think he can get away with saving people, and cares enough to massively overreach in his decision-making. (God, he’s so interesting, I want to crumple him into a ball and scream.)

His caring and his ego are two sides of the same disaster coin. Narratively, ‘care’ is often depicted as a weakness that can be exploited - not just in Warhammer, but in a lot of stories. What you care about is where you are vulnerable. Magnus is no exception - his desperation to save his legion made him vulnerable to temptation. But, it’s important to remember that the act of caring and power are also intimately linked: being cared for often correlates with vulnerability, and by implication it is likely that whoever has the power to care for you has power over you. (This is where we get problems with paternalism - and what is the Horus Heresy if not a series of dad-based problems?) In the end, it was the decision-making power that Magnus asserted over the fate of his legion that kind of, y’know. It didn’t go well. Arguably.

So, I do think that first and foremost, Magnus’ central problem is that he believes his own hype. Whoaa, the most psychic guy Prospero has ever seen!! Whoaaa, a Son of the Emperor!1! But flattening that out to simple ‘arrogance’ misses a crucial facet of this: yeah, he thinks he knows better than everyone else, but also he has read his Spiderman comics. He knows what comes with great power. Importantly, he also feels the weight of that great responsibility in an acutely personal manner. Not just as a leader who occupies a position of power that allows him to get things done, and not just as a representative of the Imperium, but as someone who can directly intervene to save people. 

(And like, as an aside, I know Master of Prospero is set up to kind of be this ‘oh, Magnus is more interested in excavating shit than saving the people’, but like. Damn, having that information sooner might have been useful. Work smarter, not harder. I’m an apologist about this very specific thing. Anyway, I always thought that was a bit weird, cos it does seem like Magnus is generally pretty into saving squishy little mortals, as we are about to see.)

Um, anyway, this is why Perturabo is a great foil to Magnus in this story. While Magnus is out doing his thing, Pert is in the fortress, saddled with doing all the maths and organising needed to get the Lux Ferem off the ground. When it goes wrong he stands there and goes ‘Well, fuck. Can’t do shit about that >:(’ (entirely reasonable, tbh, no criticisms here). Meanwhile Magnus has determined that he can do something about it (maybe) and is putting himself (and the lads) directly underneath a crashing starship (smh ilu, you disaster). 

Some important bits about saving the Lux Ferem:

On p132, Phosis T’Kar asks Magnus if they really can save the ship from crashing on the city, and he replies ‘I truly don’t know… But nor can I simply leave the tens of thousands of people aboard the Lux Ferem and in Calaena to their doom.’

Then after saving the Lux Ferem and being unconscious for a day and a half, Magnus says ‘I had to do something… I could not stand by and let so many die’ (p147). (Oh my god, I love narrative irony and I want to tear my face off). 

(He also says something similar on p150 of Fury of Magnus, after saving the civilians in the Observatory: ‘All I knew was that I couldn’t allow them to perish in the fire when I could save them’.)

Importantly, while he was going tearing underneath the belly of this whole-ass falling sky city, he’s thinking to himself on p133:

Had the Emperor ever dared so greatly? Perhaps, but He rarely spoke of the full extent of His reach. Would Magnus be the first of the primarchs to eclipse his father’s deeds?

Magnus tried to dismiss the thought as fleeting arrogance, but a thorn of it remained lodged in his heart. And who would blame him? What son did not aspire to be more than his father?

Which is the crux of his particular fucked up Molotov cocktail: The care says ‘you cannot stand by where you can intervene to prevent suffering’, and the ego says ‘you, and you are alone, are possessed of the unique genius to do this’. 

The thing is, if you genuinely believe you have the personal power to do (almost) anything, then (almost) everything feels like your personal responsibility, and I think Magnus feels that keenly. If he has the power to save the Lux Ferem, then he must. If he has the ability to save his legion from anguish, then he must. If it is within his grasp to project himself across space and head off a whole lot of nastiness, then… ok you get the picture. 

Magnus feels he is standing at the trolley lever, choosing to move it or not: if he chooses inaction when he could have acted, then the outcome is also his responsibility. He moves it when he believes the other track will be better, but the reality is, none of the tracks are really palatable. (And of course, the horrible flipside of this is when the Space Wolves hit Prospero and Magnus actually did try ‘not pulling the lever’.)

In the skies over Morningstar, Magnus the Red made a choice he couldn’t cope with, because not making the choice was even worse. And it’s so interesting.

[rosebud1985love]

Dear Family and Friends:                                                                                

How is your summer so far? We hope you have had a good restful warm summer and are enjoying your family.

We are doing well. Oksana is home with Emma most of the time, and I am busy doing ministry. Emma just turned eight months old one week ago. She is growing fast. 

Oksana is packing shoe box for soldier with goodies like energy bars. She writes a personal note to the recipient. We do not know who will receive a given box; it is like the Operation Christmas Child program. One of our leaders at the base started this movement, and many people have filled boxes (over 500 so far), which he will take to the soldiers beginning of September. 

It's been a busy summer for me. In June I helped host a team from Omaha, Nebraska. They helped with medical stuff and also with a remodel of a school that will be used to house 60 refugees from Eastern Ukraine. Those refugees have lost everything. I helped translate for the medical and construction teams. I really enjoyed translating for the medical team; I got to pray with them and heard so many stories of their efforts in helping broken people from this war. 

In our last newsletter I mentioned the warehouse that was hit in our city, Ternopil. I took the team from Omaha, Nebraska and showed them the warehouse that was hit by a rocket and told them that we use to get a lot of humanitarian aid from that building. It was sad to see this site – knowing what it used to be and what it is now. It is just horrible what people are going through and how this war has impacted thousands and thousands of people. Any war is just pure evil. People suffer emotionally and physically, and many innocent people die. 

During the past month, I went twice to Eastern Ukraine - to Mykolaiv, to Kherson Region, and to Chornobaivka. We delivered supplies like water pumps, drinking water filters, sheets, pillows and blankets, and other much-needed items. My first trip there was just fifteen days after the dam there was blown up by the Russians. That’s when we brought the water pumps and the drinking water filters. Most of the homes were destroyed. People were drying stuff out so they can live at home. We were able to help them some. It was so sad to see the devastation. Walls are damaged, windows are wet and rotting; they told us they are going to rebuild as there is no other place to go. During my second trip we brought clothes, toiletries, and bedding. People have lost everything, and they still want to stay and live in their homes and villages. It was awful to see all the damage. The smell was terrible, but people are living in those conditions. But there is help; USA body of Christ and churches in Ukraine are doing so much to raise and donate funds for rebuilding. 

As a schedule for our family, we live in uncertainty every day. We are living day to day right now with this war. We have air sirens sometimes 3-4 times a day, and we are also in a high-alert scenario with the threat of Zaporizhia nuclear plant being blown up by Russia. I will likely go again to Eastern Ukraine to Mykolaiv, Kherson Region, and Chornobaivka some time again this fall; dates are unknown yet. I will continue to help weekly with feeding the refugees Tuesdays and Thursdays, and we will help host medical and construction teams again Dec 1-10, 2023. Those teams will be composed of people from all over the USA. I am also helping with online Children At Risk school. The school is run one day of the beginning of each month for 9 months. 

We have some prayer requests. Please pray for these needs:

for my travels and my time in Mykolaiv, Kherson Region and Chornobaivka. For finances for my travels to Eastern Ukraine - to cover gas, hotel and food. This will become a once-a-month trip.

for more stable monthly support for our family and more financial support as we have a child now. Like clothes for Emma, diapers, formula and other stuff. Emma will be one year old on December 16, 2023.

for protection for our family as we are serving in a war country. 

If you can do that, please write checks to: YWAM Accounting and, on a separate note, please specify that the funds should be designated to: Rosen Klepel. The address for YWAM is: YWAM Accounting/PO Box 3000/Garden Valley, TX 75771. You may also make a donation at: https://www.ywamtyler.org/funddonation? uid=a7de3972-356d-415a-99ee-6b73a3eb1fa9. You can donate also through our website rosenandoksanaklepel.com. All donations are tax deductible.

Thank you for your prayers, support, love, and care.   

In Christ,                                                   

Rosen, Oksana and Emma

[cannoli-reader]

The Hunt being a trick to get rid of the poor people is incredibly stupid and bad world-building and suggests the writers don’t understand anything relevant to the story.  First of all, a lot of the Hunters for the Horn are nobles. The reason for this is, they are the only ones who could afford to do something like that.  Poor people can’t afford to equip themselves for a standard fantasy quest, or feed themselves along the way. ��That’s also why rich people and royalty were leading the IRL crusades, and the poor people half of the First Crusade was a disaster.  That’s how the Fourth Crusade ended up sacking Constantinople, because even the knights and nobles who joined up, didn’t have the money to complete the Crusade, so they had to accept funds from a wealthy Venetian with a grudge against the Byzantines, who then used his money as a lever to divert the Crusade for his own agenda. 

Which brings us around to the TV show’s Hunt.  If the Queen of Cairhien expects to actually get any poor people to go on this quest, she’s going to have to sponsor them! Funding and equipping armies was extremely expensive.  Anyone who read the books sees multiple instances of this, such as the ongoing problem the rebel Aes Sedai face, and Elayne’s own financial difficulties.  Robert Jordan was so committed to his version of realism that he provided a fortuitous windfall of mineral riches that would enable Elayne to raise the army and hire the mercenaries that she wanted, even though most people would never pick up on the problem or would assume that her estates, as the heir to the Throne and those of her family, which held the throne and was one of the ones empowered to vote for the monarch, would provide sufficient income to fund her military forces.  But Elayne was having to hock the palace’s treasures in order to meet her expenses, until she had the prospect of that alum income to offer as collateral.  That is how expensive equipping & feeding thousands of men gets.  And that’s roughly what the Queen would have to do to get enough poor people to go off on the quest for it to make a difference.  

Option A: Feed people daily & put on shows

Option B: Give people enough money to feed themselves for several months, buy weapons, armor and horses, and pay for lodgings along the way. 

Which one do you think is going to be cheaper?  

There is also the point that according to the expository person, she can’t cut off the dole, out of fear of revolution.  What monarch puts weapons in the hands of people they fear revolting?  

Then we get into the particulars for Cairhien, and why the situation the Queen wants to ameliorate has come to pass: the large population of unemployed refugees massing at the capital city, having abandoned their farmlands out of fear of the Aiel.  This was a really big deal for royals and nobles IRL, such as when the Black Death disrupted society in a similar manner.  This left the nobles without workers for their agricultural estates, which meant they were not getting their crops in, they were not collecting rents or taxes and because the rents and taxes between nobles and peasants were sent out in a contract, and the lords could not just raise them in order to cover their own expenses (like hiring replacement workers, at higher costs), this mass abandonment of the farmlands was a big problem.   The people who would be most likely to sign up for this quest to Hunt for the Horn would be able bodied adults in their prime.  The Queen would absolutely NOT want to genocide them or send them out of the country, she would be doing all she could to get them back onto the farms and back to work. 

Also, just to be nitpicky, Rand never taxes the rich.  He forces them to lower taxes, and he makes some of the High Lords fund a military famine relief expedition, but that was how the compact between rulers and nobles worked - when you don’t have advanced government organizations, as WoT does not seem to outside of Seanchan, the ruler farms out a lot of government functions to the nobles (especially military and border control), but putting them in charge of something, with the understanding that they will get a share of the rewards or be given lucrative offices or titles in gratitude.  That’s why the Tairen nobles expected to claim lands in Cairhien - that was the usual recompense for undertaking the mission Rand gave them.  Yes, Rand thwarted their wishes, but he was mostly protecting the claims of the Cairhienin nobles.  

The only time Rand thinks about collecting taxes is when he frames the Fifth collected by the Aiel as a tax. But that was just taken from the Stone of Tear, which the Aiel took.  Nobles would only have lost a chunk of the property they had with them in the Stone.  Not a single penny from any money they had in a bank, none of their land holdings or the goods on their estates were “taxed” in this manner.  

little and big things i loved about the First three episodes in no particular order:

how visibly pissed Rand becomes when they explain that the Hunt is just a trick to try and get rid of the poor people

very small book spoilers below

that's the face of a man who tax the rich and put some nobles' heads on spikes

[a-random-internet-user]

Hi. I saw your comment on a post about how one cannot argue with fascists, but must kill them instead. You said, "also applies to ruzzians." I would like you to consider that the Russian people do not all approve of Putin's invasion of Ukraine, and many have protested, facing the threat of 20 years of jail time. Many more would protest if they were not so coerced. I would like you to ask yourself what the act of assessing people's character solely by their country of origin or ethnicity makes you.

... Would you tell a jew not to hate germans during WW2?

I do not know who you are and where you are from, and I don't care. I was born and raised in Ukraine. I am here right now. Every day of my life since the start of the war I have lived in horror. I was scared even before 24 of February, after all it didn't start there. I still had hope that that damned country wouldn't attack mine, I hoped they wouldn't slaughter, rape, deport, steal, and starve our people like they did for hundreds of years. It was false hope.

I hate ruzzian people, the thirty thousand of soldiers that now feed our soil could do many thing. They could rebel, they could simply put down their arms, but they didn't do that. They marched on. And they did what they do best: They destroyed. I am sometimes still afraid of looking at the news and seeing another report of a toddler raped by russian soldiers.

The millions of russians in it that could do something, but didn't, they still don't. Over 70% of them support this. They bully and laugh at us for being angry and afraid on the internet, they demand we speak their shit language after centuries of erasing ours. They whine about not having a future while sponsoring the destruction of ours. And those that claim they don't still lash out at us and call us slurs when we don't buy their bullshit. Of course, hopefully, not all of them are like that, but at this point I'm tired of hoping.

Did putler do this himself? No. He wasn't there, unfortunately, if he was he might have gotten killed... Still, that wouldn't stop those people.

I hate him just like any sane person does, but he gave orders, he didn't execute them, the people you try to protect did.

Did putler himself deport the millions of Ukrainians that ruzzia admits they deported? No. The people did.

What do the ruzzians outside of that shithole do about this? They whine. And a lot of them support this genocide. Some even attack the refugees that cannot afford to stay in Ukraine, write disgusting messages on whatever their place of living is, and some even tell them to go back to their country and that no one wants them in whatever country they fled to... I wonder why they aren't living in their beloved ruzzia.

They claim that we have no culture, they dare to say this after destroying and stealing it for centuries. In the 20th century in Ukraine there could be a cultural renaissance, can you guess why it's called the "Shot down Renaissance"?

Are Ukrainians the only victims? Unfortunately no. Many other people had been erased by ruzzians.

My own father could die at any moment protecting his family and country. He isn't even in the military, he signed up for territorial defense.

You do not have the right to tell me, or any other Ukrainian, how to feel about those pieces of shit.

I preferred not post about the shithole's actions here because I use my Twitter for that. Fuck you for giving me a reason to write this.

[tabernacleheart]

As we celebrate the passion of Jesus Christ, we [must] remember that these are not some events relegated to the past. Rather, the paschal mystery invites us to contemplate and live these realities anew today. One need not look far to see pervasive examples of suffering and death in our families, churches, communities, and world. It is easy to lose hope or become overwhelmed by the magnitude of such distress. [Violence, fear, and acts of hatred against minority groups] are increasingly rampant. Children are gunned down in their schools. Refugees drown at the border. People starve while others dance in excess. Thousands die of COVID-19 every day while individuals cry for their freedoms and rights without understanding the importance of solidarity and interconnectedness. We know, however, that death never wins. Life is always victorious. This is the essence of the paschal mystery and our Christian identity in Christ. Even so, we cannot use this as an excuse to ignore suffering or perpetuate injustice. We are called to name these social sins and actively work against them.

When we think of Good Friday, we might immediately imagine the reading of John’s passion account or the unveiling, procession, and adoration of the cross. Both speak to the deeply relational nature of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection, and are fundamental parts of today’s liturgy. But there is a third significant component of our Good Friday prayer, [that also relates directly to the salvific work of Christ]. The Good Friday solemn intercessions contain specific prayers for the Holy Catholic Church, for the pope, for all orders and degrees of the faithful, for catechumens, for unity of Christians, for the Jewish people, for those who do not believe in Christ, for those who do not believe in God, for those in public office, and for those in tribulation. In 2020 the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops (USCCB) approved an additional prayer for an end to the pandemic. While we raise these prayers of intercession every time we pray, [on this solemn day] we name them in a special way. [As we acknowledge our global pain, our frequent helplessness against it, and our constant need for God's saving help, we pray to bring the hope of the Resurrection into every place and life haunted by suffering].

Pick one (or more) of [those] intercessions and find a way to live that prayer in your own life. As Pope Francis reminds us, “You pray for the hungry. Then you feed them. This is how prayer works.” Make a concrete plan to pray for that need and then work to do something about it [according to your unique situation and talents]. Commit to something that interests you, remembering that our liturgy shapes the way we live. As we encounter in every liturgy, but particularly remember today, God gives of Godself for others. We are called to do the same.

John T. Kyler

[rucbarthatbowtiesarecooldw]

Saturday Evening Session

Conducting: Dallin H. Oaks

Praise to the Lord

God Loved Us So He Sent His Son

M Russell Ballard

Story of the apostles being told by Christ to fish on the other side of the boat

“Lovest thou me more than these?”

More than the things of this world?

Who do you follow?

What really brings you joy and happiness?

Only HE can bring us true joy, happiness, and peace

Material items matter little when compared to loving the Savior

Think of what He has done for you – first of all He VOLUNTEERED to sacrifice Himself for each of us

Are you willing to let anything He needs you to do be more important than anything else?

Can you answer as peter did??

Sharon Eubank

Talking about service during the pandemic

How can we serve those in need continually through times of trial?

Help the refugees

Brent H Nielson

Story of the man with palsy

How does the Savior heal you?

He can heal our hearts

The object of our Faith must be Jesus Christ

His healing power might not work the way you need it to – might be mental instead of physical, might happen at a later time than you expected.

John 6 fed the five thousand

Arnulfo Valenzuala

Become engaged learners – immerse yourself in the scriptures

Do you savor the scriptures?

To feast is not just to taste but to savor

Do you delight in the words of Christ?

What is your plan to study the scriptures?

Currently one a day ahahahah

The scriptures feed and nurture us and our spirits

Guide Us O Thou Great Jehovah

Bradley R. Wilcox

Through it all He can transform us to become more like Him

Repentance is a continual process, and it may take time

Can’t reach your destination on one tank of gas – you need to refuel

Worthiness is not flawlessness. Worthiness is being honest and trying.

Never give up just because we slip up

Requires patience and persistence but not flawlessness.

“I’ll never be good enough – so what’s the use of even trying.”

God loves us as we are but He also loves us too much to leave us that way

God views weakness differently than He views rebellion – it is always with mercy

“Look how far you have come”

How do you find your divine help through the Atonement?

Get rid of all or nothing expectations with yourself – start with incremental growth

Start with creating new and wholesome habits

God and Christ are willing to help right here and now – they do not wait till after we repent, they want to help while we repent

His grace is not just a prize for the worthy – it is the divine assistance He gives to help us become worthy.

You are loved today, in 20 years and forever

Alfred Kyungu

Is Christ the model of your life?

Humility

Courage

God has given us the spirit of faith and power

Do I have the courage to accept God’s will?

Forgiveness

Required of us to become true disciples of Jesus Christ

Sacrifice

Markus B. Nash

Turning people to God is important

Who are you helping come unto Christ

In Christ is liberty proclaimed

Only in Christ are people given beauty from the ashes

Missionary work is about sharing light and love

Lord I Would Follow Thee

Henry B Eyring

What have you asked the Lord about this weekend?

He will answer according to your needs and spiritual preperation

The clearest answers come when we want what He wants, not what we want (thy will not mine)

Faith is the key to receiving revelations of truth and the key to having the confidence that we are receiving from Christ

If you cannot understand the answers it is because you did not ask a question

Where do you find the Lord?

Ask for direction and then go and do what He asks

The more we have the doctrine of Christ in our lives and hearts the more we have greater sympathy for those who do not have it.

It takes faith to serve others for Him

Are your feet on a rock that cannot be moved? Is its foundation based in Christ?

Behold The Wounds in Jesus Hands

[marithlizard]

First Impressions of RWBY v8e13, “Worthy”

"Worthy",  huh.    From Watts' impassioned rant.  So will this be Cinder's ultimate attack,  and fall?  

The tagline certainly suggests the plan is going to fail horribly; I just hope it doesn't  take the population with it...

Oh, we're skipping back in time a bit!  JNRE grappling with the problem of how to tell people to enter the portals.

Portal-space certainly looks cool.   It reminds me of jewelry,  the disks of the portals linked by golden strands, strewn across space.  Specifically, it reminds me  of the chain-jewelry that Ambrosius wears.  

Most of them going ahead to warn Vacuo, smart.    They're convinced the Academy there is "armed to the teeth" (how do they know, though?) ,  which helps explain why they chose it as a destination. And I'd thought about the major problem of feeding and housing X thousand refugees, but not the big honking wave of Grimm that will be coming their way with all the feelings.

Ren looks so proud of Nora there.   And yeah, she and Jaune are the right  choices to persuade crowds of people to walk into mysterious portals.

Emerald: oh my god,  it's like a mandatory corporate morale-boosting meeting with you people EVERY FIVE MINUTES.   Oscar:  Yes and you signed up for it, so look perky.

That was a very bossy little silent display for someone half Emerald's height,  Oscar.   Like a headmaster to a student.

Question that will probably never be answered;  how do they know where each of all those portals goes?  They aren't labeled or even color coded.

Atlesian prairie  dogs.  

Whoa,  and we're in Vacuo already! That was quick.  

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh crap.   I'll take "Obvious-in-hindsight things I did not see coming" for 200, Alex.

Can't they just have them wait inside portal space?  That's horribly dangerous, with the risk of falling off the edge, but probably better than a sandstorm.

OH NO.  No, no they can't.     When Ambrosius said "Do. Not. Fall."  I didn't think it was foreshadowing random civilians!

They left Penny alone with the staff????

"Your little friend Oscar was right" about what?   She's taunting them about having bugged all their scroll discussion,  presumably.    Which means she knows just about everything.  

I don't know what I'm more surprised by - the prospect of the lamp question being  used, or a sincere-sounding apology from Cinder.

Roman would've been tickled to know what his hat was being used for, I bet.

Watts looks more stunned by Jinn than anything else so far.

Jinn has to answer, but she doesn't seem at all happy about it.  No small talk from  her this time.

Cinder looks momentarily distressed at the sight of Emerald, but it's only a flicker.  

....Uh.  That's dark. I hope Bill called in sick today.

A happy Watts is not a good thing.  And I'm impressed by how Cinder has bounced back and changed her tactics to be more diplomatic.  Is any of it sincere?  Doubtful, but it does the job.

oh my god,  is Watts eating an apple as a deliberate reference to Death Note?   That's hilarious.   (Okay, it's not a potato chip. But  I can't be the only one who instantly made the connection, and eating apples *was* a thing in that anime...)

ohhh no, this is bad.  Shades of Beacon.

Kamikazebot. Elegant.

Annd Elm and Vine make a flying exit.  They're going to be surprised by the state of the world outside.

Oh, shut up Jacques.  Even Ironwood doesn't -  well, maybe he does deserve to be stuck with you, but what a punishment.

Watts really is clever.  I don't know what Ironwood will do, but it's reasonable to assume it'll be something awful.    Will he really sabotage the evacuation out of spite?  I know every time I've asked "but would he REALLY"  the answer has been "Yup!",  but this time.... this time I think we're approaching a classic Star Wars style atone-for-my-sins-with-my-heroic-death scene.  Will the writers roll with the cliche or surprise me again?

They just left his guns on the floor outside his cell?   I suppose they were in a tearing hurry and it seemed safe, but geez-

uh.  what.

what

I'm certainly surprised, writers. But not in a good way.   *cough* Moving on for now -

That's a very fetching disguise, Neo.  And a nice fire tornado.

ohshitohshitohshitohshit

YANG!!

You can't do that.  I mean, they can't do that.  Can they? No.

So volume 9 will be the rescue mission?

Penny, you're not staying on task. That's bad.   Get the effing relic to effing Vacuo.

Where *is* the staff?  She must've done something with it.

Harriet is as crazy as her boss.   Please don't let them join forces again.

Annnd all Watts has to do is autopilot the ship to the most damaging place possible. Which will be...I dunno.  The Mantle crater, with lots of people still in it?  

Winter, out of the loop.  That must be so terrifying.

...oh.  Now that's a showdown I hadn't expected.  I don't know that she can solo him.

What  on earth is the point of getting the staff now,  Ironwo-  oh nevermind.  Completely insane villains are boring. I liked him so much more when he had a logical but diametrically opposed perspective.

"Oh dear"?   I suppose Oz has been through too many catastrophes not to stay calm, but that seems excessive.  (Also Ozpin never actually volunteers any plans or ideas anymore.  He must’ve vowed to stay quiet and let Oscar handle everything, but also I suspect he’s lost all confidence in himself.  And possibly was never all that good at crisis plans in this incarnation.)

They did clearly say one-way.  I don't think this can be blamed on Ambrosius.

And here come the Grimm.     Flying monkeys, your moment has arrived at last!

Er.  ...Housing the refugees won't be nearly as big a problem if most of them are dead?  I'm still totally unclear on how many people were in Atlas and Mantle, never  mind how many have come through the portal vs. are in gatespace vs. are still back in the frozen north.   The sandstorm conveniently obscures everything, so we could be looking at  hundreds or thousands of casualties.   Not much of a survival rate unless the Vacuo cavalry is right around the corner.

Oh duh,  Watts is sending the bomb to the Vault.  Which no longer strategically matters with the staff gone, but Ironwood is there,  and who could resist the ultimate fuck-you of blowing him up with his own bomb?

Yep.  That there was some penultimate-episode doom.  It's going to take a bit for all this to sink in.

[realityhelixcreates]

Dance of the Spheres Chapter 3: Mercurian Merengue

Chapters: 3/?

Fandom:  Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG 13

Warnings: drugging, kidnapping, forced marriage

Characters: Loki(Marvel),

Additional Tags:  Loki Goes Overboard, But When Doesn’t Loki go Overboard, Mature Reader, Disabled Reader, Political Intrigue

Summary:  

Starlight

I will be chasing a starlight

For the rest of my life

I don’t know if it’s worth it anymore

Our hopes and expectations

Black holes and revalations

                                           Muse-Starlight

You awoke in tremendous pain. That wasn't actually too unusual; you'd run out of your pain medication recently, and hadn't had the money to refill your prescription. It was far worse today though, and you groaned. It felt as if you had been dragged backwards down a flight of stairs.

You were having a hard time moving, like you were trying to swim through thick mud. Limbs heavy, and bones feeling like plastic, you rolled onto your side.

You were still wearing your leg. Weird. You almost never fell asleep with that thing on anymore. You must have had one hell of a night. Where had you been?

That's right! Your spineless boss had fired you. Fuck. Had you gotten wasted or something?

No.

No, those G-men had nabbed you! They drugged you with something. No wonder you were so sore and groggy: You were wasted, and those assholes had probably handled you like a sack of potatoes. You were likely covered in bruises now.

You slowly pried your eyes open to be met with an unfamiliar, dimly lit room, mostly unfurnished and uniform. There were no windows, but two doors; one open and leading to what appeared to be a restroom, and one closed.

There was an end table next to you that looked to be made of stone, with shelves carved into it. A cup of water and a plate with apple slices rested atop it. You were suddenly overtaken with hunger and thirst, having no idea how long you'd been asleep. You snatched up a slice of apple and stuffed it in your mouth, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

The bed was also made of stone, though covered with a soft mattress and warm blankets. You didn't see your cane anywhere. The bastards probably left it in the alley. You leaned against the wall instead. It was also stone, as was the floor. Everything in the room, in fact, aside from the apple, water, mattress, pillow, and blankets, was made of stone blocks, flawlessly smooth and perfect. It was a creamy gray-white mostly, with a line of pale orange blocks at about hip level.

The light came from hidden fixtures, affixed into the walls near the ceiling, covered with what appeared to be carved panels of cloudy crystal. It was lovely, and very foreign.

Where were you? You shoved more apple in your mouth, and took a swig of the water.

How odd. The apple was truly delicious, better than any you'd ever had. The water tasted of absolutely nothing. The room also smelled of nothing, nor did the hospital gown you realized you were wearing. You had been changed while you slept. Distressing.

You sat back down on the bed and ate. The apple was gone all too soon, but you were still hungry. That was nothing new. In your life, sometimes it came down to medical expenses or food. At least you'd had an apple and a cup of water. In a situation as uncertain as this, you would be glad to have had it.

But why were you here? Those two men had kidnapped you, for sure, but to what end? What for? Because you were an agitator? You'd heard stories recently about community organizers being targeted, grabbed off the streets and tossed into vans, or yanked from their own homes in the middle of the night. You weren't important like that though. You didn't organize, you just marched. You had no power, no voice, no following. You just marched. You'd borne the brunt of police brutality along with thousands of your fellows across the country, but it wasn't as if anybody knew your name.

Why had they taken you? And so violently? So brazenly? What did they want from you?

There was a light knock at the door, and you jumped in surprise, toppling over with a curse. Two people rushed into the room, and to your side, expressing concern. You flailed at them, trying to bat them away until you realized they were attempting to help you. You allowed them to haul you to the bed and sat yourself down.

“Who are you?” You demanded. “What do you want from me?”

They were children, basically. A girl and boy, teenagers. The boy had a basket on his back.

“I'm Bjarkhilde. This is Andvarri. I am an apprentice healer, and he is an artificer.”

“I've come to measure your leg, my lady.” Andvarri said politely, setting his basket on the stone end table. “We intend to make you a new one. Lighter, more functional.”

“M-my leg? A new leg? Why?” This was baffling. Why kidnap you, just to send children to see to your medical needs? “No...No. Don't touch me. What do you actually want? Who do you work for?”

The teenagers glanced at each other in clear confusion.

“We work for...the healers? And the artificers?” Bjarkhilde said.

“And ultimately the Crown?”

“What crown? What do you want? I said don't touch me! Get away from me! I'm not giving you anything!” You snapped, slapping their hands away.

Bjarkhilde grabbed Andvarri and his basket.

“We should come back later.” She said, dragging him back out the door.

It was fine. You didn't trust them. They worked for whoever had kidnapped you. You didn't owe them the time of day.

You didn't even know the time of day.

The outburst had left you worn out, that and all the sudden movement, and whatever drug was left in your system. You sat back down on the bed, head swimming. Were there guards outside the door? It didn't seem to be locked. Maybe you could find a nurse and ask for help.

You hobbled to the door, out into the hallway. But the sudden brightness of the lights out there hit you like a punch in the head, and you stumbled.

Someone caught you before your face smashed on the stone floor.

“Careful love.” That someone said. You blinked, eyes dazzled. “You might not be in the right shape for exertion just yet.” The voice was low, and carried the echo of a growl, but no anger. Whoever it was lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and carried you back to the stone bed and the dim light.

“Oh, you've already eaten the whole thing.” He said. He must have meant the apple. “That was faster than I expected. I would have liked to feed it to you myself, but...Oh well. This will speed things along, though it might be more unpleasant than it would have been if you'd eaten it over the course of a few days.”

“What are you talking about?” You demanded. He had taken a seat on the stone block end table, a crow against the creamy walls. Or maybe a magpie, as he was pale about the face and hands, but black accented with green everywhere else.

“I've given you a gift.” he said with a little smile, but gave no other information.

You scooted to the opposite side of the bed.

“Where am I?”

He blinked, the smile fading. “You are in Asgard, of course.”

The words almost slid off of you, they were so ridiculous. Asgard? Asgard was a mystery. It barely existed. It was nothing more than a collection of cosmic refugees who had been granted land to rebuild by the U.N.-but no one seemed to know where. No one was reporting new neighbors building alien architecture. No extraterrestrials were walking into local coffee shops after a long day of work. No one even knew where they could be. Even the remotest islands could be contacted, even Antarctica could be seen on Google Maps. But the greater public had found nothing.

The Asgardians had a spaceship that came for supplies every now and then, but it seemed to have some kind of invisibility device, because as soon as it lifted above the clouds, it would disappear, undetectable by telescope or radar, to fly off to whatever secret stronghold they had been granted. No one was able to trace its movements back to its home.

It made sense, of course. If Asgard wasn't hidden, they would be plagued constantly, by curious humans, by horny humans, by worshipful humans, by hateful humans, by vengeful humans. Asgard was a source of great controversy. The people of the God-Hero Thor, greatly beloved and celebrated. But also the people of the Mad Conqueror Loki, loathed and feared. What if more of these Asgardians turned out to be like him? That was the great worry of most of Asgard's detractors. What if there were more Lokis? Even though Loki had been declared dead years ago, what if he had a following?

“Why am I in Asgard? Why did you kidnap me?”You demanded. What could Asgard possibly want with you? It made no sense at all.

The magpie's eyebrows were practically beetled now. “Kidnapped? You were kidnapped? By whom?”

“What do you mean 'by whom'? By you! Your goons!”

“I don't have goons! And I didn't authorize any kidnapping! I thought it was just some Earth custom!”

“Earth custom? Custom for what? Why could Asgard possibly want some drugged out woman? Wait, are you after human slaves?”

“No!”

“You are, aren't you? Well guess what, fucker; you got fleeced. Whatever you paid for me, it was too much! I'm completely worthless!” You yanked up the hem of your hospital gown. “Check that out, eh? No leg! And on top of that, I'm incredibly disagreeable! No friends! No cheery personality! Totally worthless. Good job, asshole! You're getting nothing outta me!”

“Don't say that.” He said, rounding the bed. You scooted back to the other side.

“Sucks to be robbed, doesn't it?” You taunted.

“No, don't say you're worthless. You're not worthless!” He insisted.

“You don't know that. You don't know anything about me.”

“I know you are strong and resilient. You walk on a leg that isn't there, like an Asgardian warrior. Are you in pain? Please, we can make medicine for you. Let me help you!”

“You just stay over there!” You pointed at him, as if to keep him at arm's length. It worked too; he came no closer than the end of your fingertip. “If I'm not a slave, then I've got rights. You owe me big time, buster! You owe me answers!”

“Anything you want.” He said, hands up in front of him in a placating gesture.

“Alright. We'll start with...Who are you?”

He gave you an absolutely dumbfounded look.

“You don't know? How can you not know? Did they tell you nothing?”

“I already said I was kidnapped! You think I had a nice conversation with them?”

He shook his head, disbelieving. “Something is very wrong. Please, will you tell me what happened? From your perspective.”

“My perspective? Hmph.” This guy was acting so clueless, it was almost insulting. “From my perspective, I went into work in the morning, and by noon, I'd been fired. My boss said it was because of my arrest record, but it wasn't.”

“Arrest record?” Now he sounded scandalized.

“It was bullshit. I was at a march a couple months ago, and one of the cops sent to break it up shoved past me and tripped on some garbage. Started shouting that I'd knocked him down. Me! He dropped me on my ass and started hitting me with my own cane. Right up until my leg came off, which I guess startled him, because he stopped doing it. His buddies still came over and arrested me. Against the law to get my own ass beat, I guess. They let me go the next day, because there were a thousand phones on them and the video was everywhere, from all angles. Still had to fight to get my leg and cane back. Damn cane was a little bent since then, but it's gone now.”

The man simply stared at you, expression of shocked outrage stretching his features.

“Your lawkeepers attacked you for no reason?”

“Oh no, there was absolutely a reason. To send a message. 'You aren't people, and we will hurt you to keep it that way'. They've been sending that message for decades, but they've really ramped it up over the past couple presidential administrations.”

“Unacceptable.”

“True. But it's a lie. That's not why I got fired, or else it would have happened after I was released. No, I was fired because two MIBs came in and said so.”

“MIBs?” The mans slowly growing confusion was reaching his voice now, driving it upward.

“Men in Black. Nameless, no I.D. government agents, meant to be secret and interchangeable. They came in about lunchtime and pressured my boss to fire me. And he caved fast.”

“The spineless wretch!”

“That's what I thought too! Lower and middle management are a bunch of wet noodles. Mouthpieces. So I grabbed my stuff and left. That bitch Betty smirking the whole way.”

“Betty?”

“Don't worry about her; her kids are all gonna leave and never talk to her again as soon as they turn eighteen. But those sleazy G-men stalked me, and dragged me into an alley, and drugged me. And then I woke up here. In...Asgard? You said Asgard, but why? Why would anyone in Asgard wanna kidnap me? I'm no one worth kidnapping. I'm not even worth selling, especially not to some fairy tale kingdom. Why am I here? Tell me why I'm here!”

The strange magpie man had slowly sunk down to sit on the opposite end of the bed-still at arms length-and picked at his palms, staring down at them like he was about to cry.

“This is terribly wrong.” He said quietly. “It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I don't understand. This was a clear attempt at reconciliation, a grand opportunity to form powerful links between our peoples. Why sabotage that? Why do this? You are not even related to your nation's ruler, are you?”

“We don't have a ruler!” You insisted. “We have a temporary leader who is supposed to be democratically elected! I don't care what that guy thinks, we are going to keep fighting his takeover at every turn! And no, I'm not related to that dictator wannabe, I think I'd die of shame!”

“I see...so it was a sham from the beginning. I have been duped by your shame leader. I, of all people. And what of you, my dear? Caught up in all this, without any choice of your own. But it's already done. I can't take it back now. What terrible situation have we put you in?”

“That's what I'd like to know.” You said. He sounded remorseful, but he still hadn't answered your questions. “Who are you, and what is all this about?”

“My dear. My poor, sweet dear. I am so sorry. I can't undo it now. Please, please, I know this may come as a shock, but please do not be afraid.”

“Way too late.”

“I know. I know. I'm sorry.” He stood, formal and imposing. “My name is Loki; I am the Crown Prince of Asgard. And I asked not for a slave, but for a bride.”

[secret-engima]

Axis, Shield of Nox Izunia, meets Axis, traitor Kingsglaive. Just, for once, it's not Nox/Noctis tripping across dimensions, it's Axis. But it's an Axis who's barely accepted that he doesn't want his idiot LC to disappear from his life entirely, never even to brush shadows, who's barely ADMITTED he has a LC. And then, meeting his canon counterpart, bitter, traitor. N!Axis: Where's Nox? MUST FIND PERSONAL IDIOT! C!Axis: Nyx is over there, but he's more of Libertus' personal idiot.

Oh.

Oh boy.

Ohhhhhh boy.

Angsttttttt. Prepare for angst and lots of rage and insults coming your way because Axis has a temper and this turned into a ficlet.

So this is non-canon, but would hypothetically take place pre-Axis learning Ardyn is an LC in the Nox verse and just a year or so before the Kingsglaive movie in Canon.

-It’s a very short meeting. No more than a day or so. Of course all the glaives are very weirded out when Axis accidentally cuts himself on a rock and the Solheim ruin they’re passing through glows at the touch of his blood before spitting out a very confused double dressed in Hunter garb rather than glaive garb. But after some shouting and wary staring, both sides conclude the other aren’t demons trying to steal any souls.

-That’s when Tredd notices that the new Axis is not just dressed in Hunter Garb he’s ... younger. Years younger. This Axis looks just on the border between teen and adult. Only a year or so out from the Burning. They ask and N!Axis confirms their suspicions, then looks around in agitation, as if expecting to find someone. They assume he’s looking for his Tredd and Luche. But some searching reveals no one but N!Axis and he ends up going with them through the ruins toward their outpost. Since he had no idea how to get back and they couldn’t just let him wander off and get hurt.

-N!Axis meets C!Axis and feels ... unease. There’s something about his counterpart he doesn’t like, something dark and bitter. And yes, N!Axis knows he’s bitter about a lot of things but this feels different. This feels ... poisonous.

-He notices with dread that C!Tredd and C!Luche feel the same way too.

-That evening in the outpost, the Glaives get to talking over (smuggled) drinks while N!Axis lurks and frets internally (Nox was in those ruins when he got pulled, had Nox come too? Or was he out there all alone, looking for Axis and getting into trouble without him? Did N!Axis really care? (Yes, yes he does, so badly it hurts and he refuses to think why) and then N!Axis tunes back into the chatter when Crowe angrily tells Tredd to “knock it off”. “It” being some astonishingly hateful diatribe against Insomnia and Insomnia nobles. It’s not slander against the royal family, not treason by the letter of the law, but ... the intent is there. The intent is there and N!Axis can see agreement in his counterpart’s eyes, burning and bitter and deadly as a snake and something inside him goes very, very cold.

-Nyx (who is male in this world, weird) tries to defuse the situation, but Tredd is drunk and on a roll now and N!Axis knows only Luche or C!Axis could stop him but they- won’t. They AREN’T. Tredd out and blurts something to the order of how “They” (possibly meaning Insomnia nobility in general but everyone knows he means the royal family) don’t have any clue what it’s like out here, that none of them can fight worth anything, none born of their blood have ever had a hard day in their lives-

-And N!Axis thinks of Nox. Of Nox who has so many scars. Of Nox who can’t remember when to eat or how to take care of himself. Of Nox who watches the world with inhumanly old, broken eyes sometimes that make him seem a hundred thousand years older than he really is. Of Nox who fights, who wades into Imperial Bases, alone save for when Axis finds him and tags along. Of Nox who has already lost so much (a blindspot the shape of a man, his innocence, his ability to care for himself, so many hints Axis tries not to notice but can’t help seeing anyway). Of Nox with a Niflheim Chancellor for an uncle who is just as much of a broken human disaster for all he doesn’t have the magic burning under his skin like his nephew.

-Of Nox who’s magic burns him. Carves him up so that all that’s left some days is a shell working on instinct, staring out at the world like it is a stranger while thunder and wrath and grief as deep as Leviathan’s tides press against mortal skin, trying to shatter him from the inside out and break free into the open air. Axis has seen it, the suffering that comes with magic, and while the Glaives hold only a portion, only enough to use without hurting, Nox is an LC of blood and soul and Axis has seen the toll that takes. The way he looks like some days he’s one step away from burning up and turning to dust in the wind unless he does something to bleed it off and out even when so many spells in a row leave him shaking from pain-.

-N!Axis is in the crowd of glaives, knuckles stained with blood and Tredd gaping at him from the floor before N!Axis is even aware of leaving his corner, “You take that back,” he growls and all the glaive take a collective step back because they have never heard Axis use that tone at a fellow Galahdian, a fellow Glaive. Let alone directed at Tredd. N!Axis breathes and can feel his blood pounding in his veins, a faint ringing in his ears from trying to suppress the red in his vision. Maybe it’s his Amicitia blood acting up, loyalty imprinted into his bones after generations of magic and oaths. Maybe he’s just stressed from being in this parallel world.

-Secretly he knows it’s neither. It’s all him. It’s all Axis Arra, the refugee and Hunter who stumbled across a Lucis Caelum teen outside a ruined Nif base and somehow can’t seem to let go of him not matter how much he tries not to be attached in the first place.

-In the astonished silence that follows his words, N!Axis bares his teeth, voice a near-Coeurl snarl that sends shivers down more than one spine (the wrath of an Arra is a rare thing, the wrath of an Arra given sound is an even rarer, more dangerous one), “You. Take. That. Back.” A breath, a flex of the fist with Tredd’s blood on it (he’s broken Tredd’s nose, he’s broken the nose of one of his oldest friends for Nox and he doesn’t regret it), “How dare you. How dare you pretend to know what it’s like. How dare you wish our fate on anyone, let alone the Chief who took you in. Maybe our conditions could be better, and maybe he doesn’t do enough but at least he tries. You hold his magic in your skin and you think that gives you the right to curse his entire Clan and say none of them ever suffered?”

-Tredd bristles on the floor, but lying there holding his broken nose he seems too afraid to speak up. C!Axis breaks the silence, stepping forward and moving to rest a hand on N!Axis’s shoulder, “All he means is-.”

-N!Axis swats the hand aside, looks into his counterparts eyes and sees the same venom, the same ignorance. And he knows- he knows in a heartbeat that Nox does not exist in this world. That he died before C!Axis could meet him, could know him, could learn because otherwise this counterpart would never agree with the poison coming out of Tredd’s mouth. “I know what he means,” snarls N!Axis, “and I know he’s full of pyre-ash. If you had any idea what it’s like to have been born with their full weight of magic, the full touch of the Draconian’s Blessing rather than the pittance you think makes you impressive-.”

-Tredd sits up, but still doesn’t dare stand, “What and you do?”

-N!Axis growls down at him, wordless and warning and Tredd stills in shock.

-Nyx and Libertus intervene, push their way between and Nyx starts nudging N!Axis away, “Ignore Tredd, he’s just drunk and trying to start something. We all need to take a minute and cool our heads, yeah?” N!Axis lets Nyx nudge him a few steps away, breathes past his rage and tries to let it go-.

-“Someday,” Tredd says as Luche finally helps him up, “someday you’re gonna think just like me. You might think he’s kind and just trying his best now, but give it a few years and you’ll know that he doesn’t care beyond making sure we’re good little soldiers.”

-“Tredd!” several glaives snap in horror, because now he’d definitely gone too far.

-N!Axis looks past Nyx’s arm to lock eyes with Tredd, his rage suddenly going from burning to freezing as something in his mind replaces King Regis for Nox in the “he” of Tredd’s words. He pushes Nyx’s arm very slowly down so that it isn’t in the way, looks Tredd, then Axis, then Luche all straight in their eyes before refocusing on Tredd-

-And spitting on the ground at his feet, “Storm-Father as my witness,” N!Axis intones with far more calm than he actually feels, “I’ll gut myself with my mother’s blades and feed my entrails to the Voretooths before I become a filthy little Pink-Tongue like you.”

-Tredd roars and lunges, because this time it’s N!Axis who has pushed too far, said too much, and while all the glaive freeze in astonished horror that any version of Axis would call his best friend a Pink-Tongue (not referring to the color of the mouth, but the colors of Galahd, of poison and betrayal. Liar, Axis has called him, Poisoner and Betrayer of Clans, because a tongue dyed in poison is a single step away from hands drenched in the colors of Kinslayers), N!Axis lunges to meet Tredd halfway. Tredd is bigger, more experienced, he’s been a glaive for years now. N!Axis can feel his lip split and his cheek get cut open by the force of the hits. But N!Axis has been traveling with Nox for months, fighting Nifs and keeping up with a wayward LC despite having no magic of his own. He fights hard and dirty and doesn’t flinch as he brings his knee up into Tredd’s groin, rides the screeching Glaive down as he falls and begins beating the redhead’s skull against the ground before he’s forced off and winded by Tredd’s brutal kick.

-The Glaives snap out of their shock and fall on the two en masse, pulling them apart, shouting and struggling to stop the two from going at each other’s throats and N!Axis thinks his own voice might be in the clamor, screaming at Tredd and Luche and his own counterpart, calling them Pink-Tongues and White-Wearers. Traitors to their Chief, blind to what they’ve been given and what that gift must cost.

-In the end, N!Axis has to be dragged to the far side of the outpost and kept under guard by Nyx and Libertus for the rest of the night, far away from the three he has just given full grounds to challenge him to a death match.

-He sits and broods the entire night, listening to the daemons scream far past the lights and contemplates his hurts (he refused to take the potion Libertus had stiffly offered, he picked that fight and they were soldiers, they would need it more than he did).

-He contemplates the fact that he just called the counterparts of himself and his two best friends the worst kinds of traitors.

-He ponders over the fact that he doesn’t regret a single word of it.

-The next morning, he’s woken from his doze by an alert going up from the watch. Someone is approaching the Outpost. A civilian kid by the look of it. He hears hubbub and chatter, confusion and disbelief and then suddenly Nox is there, right in front of him in all his tiny, scraggly glory, a gaggle of Glaives following behind and staring in confusion as he smiles at N!Axis, “Hey, Axis,” he says easily, as if they just ran into each other in the wilds like normal and aren’t in another dimension.

-He stares, sighs, stands up and he sees Nox eyes sharpen on his injuries, “What are you even doing here, idiot?” N!Axis grumbles because seriously, how.

-Nox is still staring at his injuries as he answers, “Called in a favor from a friend. We got an hour to get back, so we should start walking.” He pulls a potion out of his pocket and shoves it at N!Axis with a scowl, who would laugh at the hypocrisy of Nox fretting over injuries when he’s the one always halfway dead from fighting things too big for him to handle alone. Instead he takes it and uses it, feels his lip heal about halfway before stopping, it’s been hours since the injury was inflicted after all, potions lose potency the older the injury is. Nox’s eyes glitter red for a fraction of a second and then go back to blue as he starts leading N!Axis out of the base. The Glaives trail behind, whispering over the kid and a few calling out goodbyes to N!Axis even though he’s done the opposite of making friends.

-N!Axis hears angry footsteps behind him and a furious curse that is probably supposed to be his name and starts to turn, braced for a last-minute punch from the counterpart of Tredd.

-Instead Nox is suddenly there and the air is seething with magic, heavy like storm clouds and churning like waves. C!Tredd and all the other Glaives freeze at the sight of a ghostly blue-white armiger, rotating slowly in the air, all blades pointed directly at Tredd’s heart. “Are we going to have a problem?” Nox asks with a false sort of serenity, his voice rumbling with the faintest undertones of Other. Other voices, older voices, cold and cruel ones that Axis has only heard bleed into Nox’s voice once before.

-N!Axis rests a hand on Nox’s arm, “It’s fine. Let’s just go.” Nox accepts the dismissal, lets his armiger fade as he possessively grips N!Axis’s hand and resumes leading the way. A glance over his shoulder and N!Axis meets the eyes of his counterpart and his counterpart’s two best friends one last time.

-Mine, he knows his eyes say, and I will fight to keep it that way.

-Traitor, their eyes say back without words, bootlicker. Naive.

-N!Axis turns his head and resumes looking forward. He tries not to feel the yawning chasm between himself and the counterparts, uncrossable and deadly, that he leaves behind. They’re wrong. Wrong to think that, wrong to say and agree to what was said last night and Axis will not be moved from that stance. Perhaps if he’d never met Nox, their words would have seemed like the truth. Perhaps if he’d never seen Nox and all the things both great and terrible and eerie his magic could do and in turn did to its wielder, he would have believed their poison. But Nox is here, having crossed dimensions to find him and bring him home, Nox is here and ready to fight an entire outpost of Kingsglaive if they threaten Axis.

-And Axis knows he will not regret his own choice. His own opinion. His own loyalty.

-Nox leads them back to the ruins, there’s a flicker of magic like thunder and ozone, and when Axis opens his eyes, they’re back in their world where they belong.

-A few days later, Axis meets up with the others- with his glaives, and doesn’t breathe a word about what he saw and said. He just watches his Tredd and Luche and feels something tight in his chest unwind in relief when he sees no poison in their eyes or on their lips.

-Words echo in his memory, Someday ... someday you’re gonna think just like me. You might think he’s kind and just trying his best now, but give it a few years and you’ll know that he doesn’t care beyond making sure we’re good little soldiers.

-Leaning on the shoulder of his Tredd and listening to them laugh over something that happened in their training, Axis snorts. Maybe when the Rock of Ravatogh freezes over. But until then? He might not like King Regis that much, not when Axis’s father was the King’s Shield, but the way he saw it, Nox had to get his idiotic levels of compassion from somewhere and ... well.

-He hadn’t gotten it from his Izunia blood. That was certain.

[bodhimcbodeface]

Space pirate AU?

The cultivators flew in a well-known formation, one that had been drilled into Wei Wuxian a thousand times. There was nothing new to their ways— there never was— and it would be almost too easy to take them on. He watched the ships circle the perimeter one after another, generating an energy field that would repel those monsters dwelling in the blackness of space.

Most of them, anyway.

It was a huge convoy, and full of distinguished cultivators at that. Wei Wuxian could recognize a few of the ships from a distance: Sandu, flown in Jiang Cheng’s unmistakable zig-zagging orbit; Shoyue at the front, flying straight as an arrow. They must be headed to fight an especially powerful ether ghost. Or, more likely, to defend an especially well-funded station.

It didn’t take long for them to notice Wei Wuxian, even with his energy camouflaged by the black. A crackle of static came through Chenqing’s speakers, and her comms lit up in a soft glowing red. “Unidentified ship,” said a calm, measured voice through the static, “this is Shoyue, Sword Class A-31, of Gusu Station. Please identify yourself.”

“Zewu-Jun” Wei Wuxian answered, drawing out the syllables and baring his teeth. “Long time, no see! Could you spare a few credits for the Yiling refugees, da-gege? You know how much I’d hate to have to take them by force.”

He might have imagined it, but Wei Wuxian could have sworn he heard a sigh on the other end. “Master Wei, you have my sympathies,” said Zewu-Jun, “but the council is not able to provide aid at this time.”

Wei Wuxian couldn’t help but laugh at that, long and loud and terribly bitter. “Oh, believe me, Xichen-ge, I know.” His fingers clawed their way down to the control panel to form trembling fists. “The council wants nothing to do with us. We’re lucky you’re all too cowardly to come out to Yiling and kill us yourselves.”

“You’re lying!” shouted a new voice. “We all know you can’t live on Yiling. You’re just mocking us!” One of the ships, presumably the speaker’s, glowed a bright, pulsing gold as its cannons ignited. “Tell us where you’ve really built your base, Wei Ying, and maybe we’ll show a little mercy.”

“Now, Admiral,” came another voice, honey-sweet and soothing. “I think Master Wei might be telling the truth. People like you and me can’t live on Yiling because, as you know, it has a unique Gaia field, one that is fed from the ether rather than guarding against it. Our own energy cores are so different that the planet would reject us entirely. But we’ve all heard the rumors of the ones who have found...deviant sources of energy to power their cores.”

“You’re saying his core is made from ether?”

“I’m only suggesting the possibility. Now if Master Wei would only tell us—”

“Come see for yourself if you don’t believe me!” Wei Wuxian interrupted, cutting through their bullshit. “You all know my coordinates.” He laughed, sending a chill down the spine of every pilot who heard him. “Or are you all too afraid of the dark?”

Fed up with the chatter, he directed a torrent of energy into Chenqing’s control panel and flew her headlong into the fleet. He was met with a hail of fire that lit up the blackness in a rainbow of colors: the pale blue of Gusu Station’s thin, targeted beams; the rich violet of Yunmeng Station’s crackling cannonfire; the shimmering gold of Lanling Station’s waves of energy. He dodged them all effortlessly, flying circles around their formation until he made his way close enough to one of their ships to access its internal system. Pressing a few keys on Chenqing’s panel, he watched the ship’s cargo door slide open and release a few crates out into the vacuum. Sliding into their trajectory, he welcomed the cargo into his open hatch.

“Oh, I hope you’ve brought us something good this time!” he said. He did a few complicated loops, gleefully dodging their fire.

“They’re food rations,” came a new voice over the comm. “Take them.”

Wei Wuxian froze, nearly letting himself be obliterated by a burst of energy. It grazed the tip of Chenqing’s wing and sent him off into a dizzying loop. Fuck. What was he...fuck. He closed his eyes and breathed, surrendering himself to the ether, letting it close around his heart and guide him to a safe and steady course back home. He was satisfied with the cargo, now that he knew its contents and trusted their source. He was almost out of firing range. In fact, he was almost out of comms range, if he could trust himself not to speak…

“Lan Zhan, why the hell do you carry food rations?” he said.

Fuck.

He didn’t hear the response, only a surge of static. He had a guess, and the guess had to do with how close their formation was flying past Yiling, but that didn’t bear thinking about now. He couldn’t be thinking about that now, not when his belly ached with hunger and sparks were flying off his wing.

Bracing himself, Wei Wuxian shut his eyes and poured enough energy into Chenqing’s console to assess the damage. In his mind, he moved through the cold metal of her hull, letting her feed him data like sparks in the matrix of ether. He was shaking now from the cold and the rage, and a little afraid of the energy surrounding him, surging in him enough to make him shudder and cry out. But he focused on the sparks. If he could probe a little deeper, just another moment, just enough to get a read…

He tore away from the energy and collapsed with relief. He had enough to limp back home.

[wootensmith]

Shartan

(full fic fixed on AO3, all chapters in their proper places right now. Will post second new chapter tomorrow)

“Wait, don’t go up yet,” Varric said abruptly. “You do realize what we’ve just done, don’t you?” His voice echoed off the large pillars of stone that ringed the cavern. Cassandra paused halfway up the small slope back into Winterwatch Tower. She squinted back down into the dark at them. “Closed the rift, of course.” “Exactly. And?” Cassandra shook her head. Solas glanced up from the Herald’s hand. The anchor was stabilizing and she didn’t need his assistance as badly as he’d thought she would. “We took away a gift of their Maker,” said the Herald suddenly. “Yeah. Not really sure how they’re going to react to that. Might want to go up there together instead of one at a time,” said Varric. “The whole thing is blasphemous!” cried Cassandra. “What were we supposed to do, leave it to spew demons?” “Relax, Seeker. I’m not saying we were wrong, exactly. Just that— Chantry folk can get a little stabby on occasion.”

“The speaker at the gate seemed to want to be convinced that the rift was not divine,” offered Solas. “Perhaps we could appeal to her better judgment.”

Cassandra sighed and descended back into the large cave. “Maybe if the Herald hadn’t flatly denied that she—” “I told you I was uncomfortable,” said the Herald. Solas was surprised. She hadn’t shown much propensity to stand up to Cassandra to this point. “I agreed to join the Inquisition because we’re all in peril. And because you assured me that you wanted peace, Cassandra.” “I do—” “We know nothing about how the Breach came to be. Or how I survived the Conclave. Lying about it won’t help us find out the answers.” “They want to believe in something. You don’t have to lie. You said it yourself. You do not know how you came to be in the crater. Perhaps you really were sent by Andraste. What harm is there in allowing them to think so if it brings them comfort?” “Because if she did, she didn’t send me with any instructions. I’m lost, Cassandra. As lost as these people are. You can’t let them think I have all the answers. Especially if you value their faith. When I fail—” “If—” interjected Varric. She glanced at him. “If I fail, they’ll be shattered when we need them to be at their strongest. They don’t need another idol to replace the rift we closed. They need to go home. Be with their families. The fighting between the mages and the templars may be at a standstill now, but their villages are in ruins. Hiding here will not replant their crops or heal that boy’s mother.” Solas touched her shoulder to calm her. “What do you want to tell them lethallan?” he asked.

She looked at him, as if just now remembering he was with her. “I— cannot say.” She blushed. He was certain she knew exactly what she wished to tell them, but feared repercussions if she did so. Cassandra took it to mean that she didn’t have any good idea. “Then perhaps we say nothing and allow them to assume what they will?” she tried. The Herald started to shake her head, but Solas intervened. “Vindhru? Eshan tel’dhrua ma.” “I have to try,” she whispered. “To accomplish what, lethallan? You have a choice. If you tell them exactly how it happened, most of them will not believe you. Some will decide you are sent by their Maker anyway. Others will decide that you’ve played a trick. At best, they’ll stay here away from their families until starvation or cold takes them. At worst— they may strike at us. But if you say simply that the rift has closed, and allow them to draw their own conclusions, many will come to the truth on their own. The ones who do not may be— amenable to listening to your suggestions. If you tell them to go home and help their families or to help the refugees outside, some of them will do it out of awe and some will just see that the fear of the rift had driven them mad and what you’ve asked of them makes sense. What is your goal, Herald?” She always flinched when he called her that, just as she’d flinched when he’d called her a hero in Haven. It bothered him. She never so much as blinked when Cassandra or Varric called her “herald”. “Ar tel’vara,” he added.

“It’s not right,” she insisted. “No. It’s shitty,” said Varric. “But so is all the rest of it. Chuckles is right. We aren’t going to be able to talk sense to these people, their families have already tried over and over and they still ended up here. We’ve got to make the best of a bad hand. What’s more important? Whether or not these people believe you’re sent by the Maker or if they live to talk about it?” “But if I can’t close the Breach—” Varric shook his head. “I don’t think it’s going to matter much in that case. If we can’t close the Breach, nobody’s going to be around long enough to have theological arguments. You don’t have to like this— I don’t like this, but we have to tell them something.” She hesitated but then nodded. “All right. If it helps them, then my pride shouldn’t be what stops us.”

When they emerged from the cave several cultists knelt in their path. Solas willed her not to recoil. It seemed once she’d decided, however, that she did not leave herself room for doubt. She didn’t protest when Speaker Anais claimed she was a believer. And when the Speaker asked what the Herald of Andraste would have of the people in the tower, the Herald only gave simple instructions to help the refugees in the valley. He wasn’t the only one startled by the apparent ease she had playing the part. As soon as they cleared the tower, Varric let out a long gust of air, as if he’d been holding his breath. “Remind me never to play Wicked Grace with you, Herald. Your bluffing face is too good,” he said. It won him a laugh. Solas was pleased to hear her again at ease. “I’m afraid my skill doesn’t extend to cards, Varric,” she said, “You’d take whatever I had of worth within the hour.” “Ah, well, consider this a standing invitation, then, if we ever get back to the Singing Maiden before the sky collapses.”

The rest of the day was spent fairly pleasantly, hunting for resources to help feed and clothe the people still stuck in the crossroads, and Solas put the entire incident almost completely out of mind until that evening. The Herald waited until Cassandra had gone to write a report and Varric was playing cards with the scouts. She sat grinding embrium at the large stump the camp was using as an apothecary table. He sat on the other side of the stump studying a tracing of the veilfire rune they’d found, wondering who would have left such a thing in plain sight. “Solas,” she said. He looked up. “You said— you said you saw Shartan, in the Fade.” “Yes, I’ve seen memories of his deeds many times.” “Did he believe Andraste was divine?”

He put the tracing down, suddenly wary. “Alas, even the Fade cannot show all things. I have seen his deeds, but not his heart.” She turned back to the mortar and pestle for a moment. He thought the conversation had ended and began folding up his notes. “From his deeds then,” she asked without looking at him, “what do you think he believed?” It concerned him that she was so insistent on it. “I think,” he said slowly, “I think he believed she was a good strategist. And that throwing in his support was the last best chance his people had to win their freedom. But in the moment— no. I don’t think Shartan believed Andraste was anything more than a mortal woman. It’s highly unlikely she thought of herself as divine either.” She put down the pestle. Cleaned the debris from her hands. “Do you think— did he pretend he believed in more than her martial prowess to gain that freedom?” “Yes, lethallan. Or, at least— he used the belief of others to that end. When he led the charge of elves to her pyre, he knew they would not save her. A hundred against thousands? It was doomed from the start. But Shartan knew that while battles may be won with weapons, wars are won with symbols. If he had let her burn without trying to aid her, he and his people would have been lost to history. There would be no Dales and elves would still be enslaved across Thedas. When she was captured, the struggle could have been utterly lost. But already the common people whispered that Andraste was blessed. Shartan was no fool. His goal was not self-preservation, but the preservation of his people. That charge was his last attempt to give them what he otherwise could not. He used her martyrdom— and his, to save the People.” “Did he? If he used the belief in Andraste to give us the Dales, then at the same time he must have given over the rest of Thedas to worship of her. That— falsehood might be why the Chantry exists. And this war.”

Solas leaned forward, surprised. “And if he’d stood on the pyre and loudly proclaimed his faith in Elvhen gods? Do you think that would have stopped the Andrastians?” “No,” she admitted. “But if he’d lived instead— maybe she wouldn’t be seen as a martyr. Maybe it would have been little more than a cult like the people we helped today. Maybe he would have found another way.” “Maybe. But his goal was not to create a religion, it was to free the people he loved. Just as yours, I presume, is not to proselytize about Elgar’nan and Mythal, but to close the Breach, correct?” “Of course. But the way I close it should matter. We let them believe Andraste sent me to close the Breach. Afterward, once it’s gone and I remain, what will they believe in then?” Afterward it will not matter, Mouseling, he thought, but did not say so. “Those people were unharmed, lethallan. They will go on with their lives, provided the Breach does not swallow them, and largely forget about us. The few that don’t may tell their grandchildren a fairy story about the Herald of Andraste who healed the sky, but they will be few and far between. They will not even need to suppress a verse about us in the Chant. They will only remember that the Inquisition saved them, not us.” “That is worse,” she said, abruptly lowering her voice to a heated whisper. “I thought you didn’t want all this. That you’d rather go home to your clan—” “Yes, I would.”

“Then how is it worse that they forget about you? If you are forgotten, you’ll be allowed to lead your life as you see fit.” “It’s not my ego, it’s the Chantry.” She covered her ears for just an instant and then let her hands drop to the stump again. “Their god is already so loud. And ours have been… silent for so long. If I do this in Andraste’s name, maybe I’m only repeating Shartan’s charge. Maybe I’m helping them cover the whole world and drive us out. I don’t want to be hunted, Solas.” He touched her fingertips. “Your legacy, like Shartan’s will not be yours to control, lethallan. Despite our best efforts what people will remember is not always what we would wish. The story will get lost, bit by bit. I know. It’s happened to m— many in your situation,” he stumbled over himself, remembering that she did not know, could not know. Even if she knew, she wouldn’t understand, he reminded himself. “You must remember your goal. Do nothing that does not further them. Only time will determine the rest.” She shook her head and pulled her hand back from his. “I cannot promise that. I have a terrible feeling that whoever opened the Breach had the same idea. So many are left to suffer for the goals of people who have power. How can I do that?”

Her disappointment and shock confused him. She would be right, of course, if they could truly see their situation. The world would be a torture chamber if they really knew how stunted they were. Illusion. Play-acting, he told himself. Just a degraded recital of all the denigrations that came before. And yet— what harm is there in making their lives easier? Kinder? Even if it is only for a short time. He’d rest easier, in the end, if he could say he left them with some modicum of peace. “You are the only one with the ability to close the Breach, lethallan. You have power, whether you’d choose to wield it or not. And for us to even approach the people who might be allies, you must allow the stories around you to grow. You could not alter it even if you wished. Focus instead on the good you can do while you have that power. You sent those people back to their families. That is a tangible good, regardless of the tale they tell after. If you wish to help the Dalish, do so. Now. While you can. For nothing can guarantee what will happen afterward. Use the Chantry’s awe and ire to aid them. And the Inquisition. And any other you can.” “Even if it means being dishonest?” “I cannot say. That is for you to decide. What is more important? The task? Or the way you complete it? I do not think they will always align.” She had no answer for that. She bent over the mortar again.

Solas was frustrated with the sudden silence, frustrated by his own inability to say what he meant to her. Frustrated by her lack of understanding, though he knew that was unfair. “Do you think he would have regretted doing it if he could see what he had wrought so many years later?” she asked after a moment. “I think he had more than one reason to lead that charge. It would— complicate his feelings in the matter.” “Would you regret it? Had you been forced to make a similar decision?” “Vin. Bellanaris.” She looked at him, surprised at the sudden emotion in his voice. He looked away. “But even knowing that, I would do it anyway,” he added. “After all, what is one man’s guilt compared to his people’s freedom, limited though it ended up being?” He shook his head and gave her an uneasy smile. “But come, you need not take Shartan’s path. We need only convince the mages in Redcliffe to aid us and the Breach will close. There is no call for such somber talk. You’ll soon be on the road back to your clan, a hero.” The doubt in her face was plain to see. It sent a deep ripple of doubt through his mind, but Varric interrupted before they could speak longer and Solas tried to push the entire conversation from his memory.

[tsthrace]

What does a girl do when she realizes she needs to cut an entire chapter from her WIP because it doesn’t fit? She posts it to tumblr. 

So yeah, this starts to build a scary world that might look a little too close to our world. It might introduce you to this badass trauma surgeon, Dr. Griffin, who needs to make a quick escape. And then it might leave you hanging. Forever. 

Well, not exactly forever. This is now Clarke’s backstory for my WIP. She’ll resurface years later on a church-turned-farmstead. Guess who’s the priest of this church? So yeah...

Content warning: mention of rape (but no rape itself) and just general hits-too-close-to-home: you know—fascism, totalitarianism, misogyny, toxic masculinity. Oh, and Clarke swears a lot.

It’s angsty. That’s what I do.

3,260 words. No tagging for Clexa, because Lexa doesn’t come on the scene yet.

It’s also posted over on ao3 if you’d rather read it there.

---

We all thought it couldn’t happen here, even as it was happening here.

Clarke had been running for so long that she wasn’t sure if she was still being chased. She had spent the last six years wandering through parts of Washington she never knew existed. First to an abandoned sawmill a few miles east of Mansford in the mountains. It was a glorified barn, really, but a community of refugees from Seattle had been gathering there, doing their best to patch up the building’s roof and walls. Then, there was still enough gas to transport what they needed if they rationed properly. But they were all adjusting to life without electricity, without phones, without any sense of who they were without those things. 

She was there only three months when word came that a militia had materialized in Darrington and was registering children and looking for doctors and healers. Healers. That’s what they called women with Clarke’s skills. People who had gone to school for 13 years, who had prioritized their craft over their health, their family, their relationships for a grueling residency followed by an only slightly less grueling fellowship. They called men doctors, even if they were less educated, less skilled, and less practiced.

Fuck them. Clarke’s response had become reflexive. It was her internal response when the police came that first night of what some called the Resistance but what the police called the Riots. 

Unrest had been brewing for months, but It was when the President “temporarily” suspended the First Amendment right to assemble that all hell broke loose. Thousands of protestors became tens of thousands, even in small cities like Spokane and Tacoma. Police traded rubber bullets for real ones, patrol cars for tanks, pistols for AK-47s. Dozens of people landed in Clarke’s hospital, some gone before they were taken out of the ambulance, ripped apart by the people sworn to serve and protect them. 

That was the night two officers were trawling the halls of her ward, looking for “resistors” to arrest. 

“They’re unconscious,” Clark said slowly. “They’re sedated because they’re waiting to go into surgery.” She knew it was a bad idea to talk to them like they were kindergartners, but she couldn’t stop herself. What these men were doing was sick. Her patients were here because of them. Some of them filled with bullet holes, their lives barely clinging to them, others with collapsed lungs caused by broken ribs, others with simple fractures who would be out to fight another day. But Clarke wasn’t going to tell these guys that.

“Is there someone else we can talk to?” The officer said. His name badge said Blakely. “Maybe your boss?”

Clarke felt her fingernails digging into her palm. “Officer Blakely—”

“Corporal Blakely.”

Clarke went on as if she didn’t hear him. “I’m the person with the highest seniority here right now. If you’d like me to call the Chief of Surgery...”

Blakely pulled out a pad and pen. “What’s his name?”

“Her name is Dr. Marris.”

Blakely scoffed but wrote down the name.

“Is there a problem?” Clarke bent a little to catch his eye with her glare.

“Not at all.”

After that night, everything changed. The President sent in federal troops. There were tanks outside police precincts, and men in uniform carrying AK-47s stood at every corner in downtown and Capitol Hill. They rode the light rail, searching for enemies and booting out anyone who fell asleep on the trains. Curfews were instituted. Clarke had to have her ID and a letter from the hospital ready after every shift. The same soldiers (or were they cops?) stopped her every night, even after the sixth time when everyone knew everyone’s names. She had written theirs down. Because fuck them.

Two months later, the Seattle PD renamed themselves Washington’s 1st Militia when the President had encouraged all “patriots and protectors of freedom to band together, arm, and fight for American values.” Police departments across the country took this as a rallying call. They traded their police uniforms for military fatigues. They tore off their city badges and replaced them with a thin blue line. Bros before everything else, even democracy. 

They pulled her out of the OR as soon as she wrapped up a craniotomy. It was her third surgery of the day, and her hands were stiff, her scrubs covered in sweat. The two soldiers’ assault rifles startled her, but she’d seen enough gore in her time to know how to keep a straight face. Blakely was back, but this time he was dressed like he was serving in a desert war zone.

“Officer Blakely.” She remembered he was a corporal but fuck him.

The corner of Blakely’s mouth lifted in a sharp smirk. She watched as his eyes glided down her body. “Congratulations, Ms. Griffin, you’ve been recruited to Washington’s First. We are in need of fine healers like yourself.” 

Fuck you. The words raced through her mind, but she kept her mouth shut. She understood by now that those words aloud could do nothing but put her in danger. “How can I be of service?” she asked evenly, looking him straight in the eye. She had heard rumors that the militias were taking medical workers from their hospitals and clinics to set up their own facilities, but she thought they’d only take men for their specialists and surgeons.

“You need to come with us,” Blakely looked down at the sweat stains under her arms.

Clarke didn’t move. “What kind of healers are you looking for?” she asked in her most neutral tone. 

“A variety, ma’am.” Blakely’s jaw stiffened.

A small crowd of the floor’s staff had gathered at the nurses’ station, halfheartedly pretending to work while they watched the interaction.

“Like nurses? There are a lot of nurses here who are much better at their jobs than I would be.” Clarke laughed lightly and glanced at the nurses. “I’d make a terrible nurse.”

A few of the nurses nodded, their eyes smiling because smiling with their lips might bring trouble.

“We already have healers for that kind of work.” Blakely took in a breath and looked around the floor, frustrated. He knew he’d said too much. “Maybe we should go somewhere—”

“Then I can’t possibly think why you’d need me. I’m sure there are doctors who can meet your needs.”

“Ms. Griffin—”

“After all, there are two other trauma surgeons on staff here more suited to your, uh, preferences.” Clarke glanced down at Blakely’s groin.

“I was sent to find you, Ms. Griffin.”

The more he called her “Ms.,” the more her resolve solidified. “I just can’t imagine what anyone would want with little old me.” She covered her voice in maple syrup. “Dr. Lee and Dr. Bancroft are very fine surgeons, very respectable. Dr. Lee graduated top of his class from UW. I’m supervising his fellowship, and he’s very skilled.” Clarke let the words roll like waves along a beach on a calm day. “And Dr. Bancroft is who we call whenever we need a feeding tube done right the first time. His focus on fundamentals is exceptional—”

“They want you,” Blakely said more loudly than he intended.

Say it, she taunted him with a sharp look, though the words that came out were light. “I’ll call Dr. Lee. I’m sure he’d be more suitable to you—”

“Ms. Griffin—”

“You’d rather have Dr. Bancroft? Sorry. I thought you’d want the more skilled surgeon, but to be honest, we do perform a lot more feeding tube placements than major—”

“We know you’re the best.” Blakely growled, giving in. 

Clarke had won, but she still felt empty. “You can’t even call me a doctor.” 

“Protocol.” Blakely refused to look at her. “Come with us, ma’am.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You can appeal on grounds of pregnancy or motherhood.”

Clarke scoffed. “Of course.” She didn’t even try to hide her disdain, though she knew she had to play along. She looked down at her scrubs. “I need to change.”

“Of course,” Blakely said. His smile was sharp, an insult. “Though we’ll need to supervise.”

Clarke bit down hard. She had not joined the Resistance, but she’d been obsessively keeping track of their Instagram posts at @emeraldcityjustice. Militiamen never raped, she’d learned, especially if the woman was white and of marrying age. They didn’t call it rape, though, they called it “sexual theft.” They were not to spoil another man’s property (or potential property), and that meant no touching. This restriction forced men to get creative, find new ways of dominating without ruining the goods. Resisting, the posts said, meant speaking the militia’s language. 

“But I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.” Clarke had memorized some key verses, and she said this one loud enough for everyone around the nursing station to hear it. “Matthew 5:28. I think those are words in red. You know, Jesus. The son of God himself.” She would not let these fuckers anywhere near her. 

Blakely squinted and his face turned to stone.

“The locker room is on the second floor,” she said. “You two are welcome to wait outside the door, if you like.” Clarke strode towards the elevator. Blakely glared at her a few moments before nodding at his partner. They followed her into the elevator. Clarke looked at her watch. 10:15 p.m. Shift change. The locker room would be packed. 

“We need to sweep,” Blakely said as they stepped off the elevator and approached the locker room door.

Clarke sighed loudly. There was no use in arguing. Blakely nodded towards the key swipe. Clarke swiped her badge and a little red light on the handle turned green. Blakely opened the door then turned conspicuously so that his back was facing the opening.

“This is Corporal Blakely of Washington’s First Militia,” he shouted into the room. The volume of his voice made Clarke jump. “Private Cooks and I will be doing a sweep of this locker room in two minutes. Those who are not appropriately covered at that time will be taken into custody.” Blakely let the door close behind him and set a timer on his Apple watch.

Are you fucking kidding me? Clarke didn’t say out loud.

Five minutes later, Blakely and Cooks were back out in the hallway. Clarke knew they wouldn’t find anything. The locker room was a windowless space that was mostly concrete and tile. It had one exit, a fire hazard long ignored because that part of the hospital had been built 140 years ago. The only other door was a closet full of cleaning supplies.

Blakely nodded at Clarke to go inside. 

“You have five minutes,” he said, fiddling with his watch again.

“I’d like to shower.”

“Four minutes and fifty-seven seconds. If you don’t come out on time, we will come in.”

Clarke swallowed and pushed through the door. Dozens of annoyed eyes lifted as she walked in. She just shook her head as she walked past them. 

Because it was an old hospital, doctors—female doctors, even surgeons—shared the locker room with nurse supervisors, charge nurses and other medical staff who had seniority. (Male doctors, especially surgeons, did not share a locker room with anyone, of course.) It bothered Clarke on principle, but for the most part she liked being around the non-doctor staff, and it didn’t hurt to have a friendly relationship with the nurses when she was on the floors. 

The women’s eyes quickly went back to their tasks of leaving. Between the unrest and a new virus no one seemed to know anything about, the hospital, which was already under-resourced, had been over capacity for weeks now. Everyone was tired, stressed, and getting more and more afraid. They just wanted to get home as soon as possible. The later at night, the more aggressive the patrols got. 

Clarke walked to her locker and took a few deep breaths as she quickly spun the lock to its numbers and pulled it open. She took off her white coat and hung it on the hanger inside. She pulled out her backpack and checked that her phone charger was inside. She pulled her wallet out and stared at her driver’s license for a long moment, not sure if it would be a liability. She decided to bring it, along with her curfew papers, and a used copy of The Obelisk Gate she’d picked up from Horizon Books a few weeks ago but never opened. Next, she stuffed her street clothes inside along with two sets of clean scrubs (only later would she wonder why she took the scrubs). Finally, she grabbed the two boxes of protein bars and four bottles of Gatorade that she kept there to keep her energy up on long shifts.

Clarke almost laughed at how much could fit in her small backpack. 

She looked at her watch. Three minutes left. Shit. She almost forgot to switch watches. She pulled off the little cheap thing she used at the hospital and replaced it with her dad’s chunky but sleek metal piece. It was heavy on her wrist, but that’s what she liked about it. Somehow she felt safer with it on.

She swallowed. She needed to move, but to move meant everything would be different. She threw her shoulders back, lifted her hands in front of her, palms up as if making an offering, and took in a deep breath. It’s what she did whenever she was about to make a first cut. She closed her eyes, felt the ground solid under her feet, felt her heart slow to steady saunter. 

Clarke smiled to herself. It was a heavy smile, sad and defiant. Fuck them.

She grabbed her backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and walked to the broom closet.

“You alright, Dr. Griffin?” A voice rang out. Veró, the charge nurse from the post-op wing, looked up as Clarke was about to go inside. Her eyes were nervous.

“I will be,” Clarke replied as she closed the door. “Take good care of yourself, Veró. Be safe. You didn’t see me, okay?”

Veró nodded. “You stay safe, Clarke.” She closed her eyes for a long moment. Her smile was heavy with concern. “I didn’t see nothing.” 

Clarke held Veró’s eyes for a long moment, then nodded, stepped into the closet, and closed the door behind her. It was a small space, but large enough for two people to fit—a fact Clarke had exploited with Lu, a nurse from the Telemetry unit, several times. There was a small, dirty, pointless window at the top of the closet that she and Lu had covered with a tray from the cafeteria so that the janitors in their breakroom across the alley couldn’t watch them taking their break. During the day, thin streaks of light leaked in around the edges. Clarke was grateful it was so late and that the alley outside got so little light. The metal shelving served as the perfect ladder, sturdy and wide. She disrupted the toilet paper and big bottles of cleaner as she climbed, leaving hints of her escape, but there was nothing to be done about it. The top shelf was blessedly empty, too high up to be useful.

She pulled the tray out of the way to reveal a window that was smaller than she expected. She turned a small latch and pushed the window. It didn’t budge. She pushed it again, harder this time, though she didn’t have much leverage. Nothing happened. The shelf wobbled minutely under her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

It held steady as she gingerly pulled her full body onto the top shelf. She barely fit up there. She checked her watch. She maybe had a minute. Probably less. Clarke hit the base of the window with the flat of her palm. Nothing. She hit it again. Still nothing. She took a breath and closed her eyes. 

Please.

She hit it again and heard a tiny scrape. One more push, and the window swung open with an achy shriek. It might have been shut for decades. Clarke was lucky. The drop from the second floor window to the sidewalk was short. The alley swept upwards from 9th Ave., ending at the top with the fifth floor’s windows being at street level. 

She was out, and she had no idea what to do. By now, Blakely and Cooks would have noticed that she hadn’t come out. Maybe they’d give her another minute. She remembered the Apple watch. 

Her mind churned and tumbled. She had opened holes in skulls with drills and saws. She had cracked ribs to expose hearts that stopped beating in front of her eyes. But now, on this warm summer night on an empty sidewalk, she didn’t know what to do. So she ran. The hospital was a mess of old buildings connected by narrow alleys—easy to get lost. But Clarke had done her residency and fellowship here—spent nearly a quarter of her life here—and while she didn’t know the alleys, she knew the buildings, recognized the skyways above linking everything together. She slid from shadow to shadow in the direction of the interstate. It was an intuitive decision, the way she knew exactly where to find the bleeding in surgery. 

She kept moving, the rolling rumble of the highway getting closer. Finally, she found herself at the parking garage and knew exactly where to go. She walked calmly through the first level reserved for people going to the ED. She was careful to avoid the security booth where Mitch would be. He was a good guy, and Clarke didn’t want to bring him any trouble. She moved quickly towards an emergency exit which brought her to a fire escape facing the interstate. During her first year as resident, she and Dr. Salem used to meet there to smoke a joint after a 30-hour shift. 

She paused. Think. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. Her breath caught when she came across her mom’s contact. You could have called, she could already hear her saying. We would have figured it out. Even if there was enough time for her mom to get from Whidbey Island to the city—and there wasn’t—it wouldn’t be safe. Anyone she called could be implicated and punished. Unless she chose to crawl back into the hospital, she was now an RRL, a Resistor of the Rule of Law.

This is moment everything changes. The thought cracked across her mind like lightning and disappeared just as fast. The thunder would roll on for years and years.

She closed her contacts and opened Instagram instead. She went to the @emeraldcityjustice profile. Her grin was grim as she hit the Message button. How ridiculous this world had become.

“Canada or the mountains?”

“What?” Clarke shook herself out of a haze. The driver hadn’t spoken since he picked her up from a dark corner under the interstate where @emeraldcityjustice had told her to go. They immediately turned east over the lake to Bellevue.

“You’ll have to decide at the drop point in Everett,” the driver went on. “They can either get you on a ferry to Canada or you can head to a refugee community in the mountains.” He glanced over his shoulder to the back seat where she was lying down to avoid facial recognition cameras on the interstate. “Do you want to escape or do you want to fight?”

THE END. THAT’S IT. I’M SORRY.

[alexsmitposts]

In America, Privilege is Far More Fatal than COVID Yesterday, I received a report from Syria. It told of blistering heat and no electricity, of fuel lines, of food shortages and economic suffering by the Syrian people. This is an excerpt: “I wonder if people in EU, US and UK had to deal with the repercussions of their government sanctions on Syria, would they fight harder to get sanctions banned as a hybrid war, sadistic strategy. It is 41 degrees in Damascus, the cloud cover makes it heavy and oppressive. Electricity where I am is on for an hour, sometimes two before it cuts for three or four hours, just as the air conditioning makes your environment bearable. For some living close to me, they were without electricity for 14 hours in this sweltering heat. I wet my clothes to keep me cool while I am working, it is the only thing that helps. Mobile phones do not have time to charge. Food goes rotten because the fridge is off much of the time. Syrians traditionally store enough food in their freezer to last them two or three months. They are having to throw much of it away. At the same time, food prices are sky high. Nobody can afford to eat luxury items like chicken anymore. Lemons have become a luxury item, the price of one kilo has trebled in a few months. Parents do not know if they can feed their kids every day, they are living hand to mouth. All the roadside kiosks are seeing their livelihood go down the drain, literally, as everything in their freezer section melts or goes bad. The queues for fuel, while not as bad as before, are still a stressful scrum with cars lining up to take their ration. These are only a few of the effects of sanctions. Sanctions are designed to hurt, to deprive, to depress and, ultimately, to kill slowly and more painfully than the swift ending of life by a mortar or a bullet. Sanctions strip people of their dignity and leave them beggars in their own home.” Syria is but one nation targeted by the Trump regime, there are others and the stories like this are in the millions, told by those who still live. When Syria was attacked, it was not just starvation, it was terrorism as well with up to 400,000 dead and 5 million refugees. Iraq suffered a far worse fate, 2,000,000 dead. Both nations are still partially occupied by the United States, the nation that engineered this suffering. Now it is all coming home to roost, as here in the United States, what was done to Syria and Iraq, to Yemen and Iran, and to the best of Trump’s ability Venezuela’s people as well, is being deployed against the most vulnerable of Americans. We had another police killing yesterday, one we know of, there may well be others, in fact it is likely. This was in Los Angeles, another African American, his crime was riding a bicycle “improperly.” To understand how privilege applies, Dylan Roof, white mass murderer who killed 9 a the Emanuel AME Church was arrested with considerable care and, before being processed, was taken to the local Burger King for lunch by police as Dylan told them that murdering so many people “made him feel hungry.” As American humorist Jim W. Dean so often says; “You just can’t make this stuff up.” This is not unusual, this is the norm, this is how things work but you will not know unless you ask people, people who trust you with the truth. Problem there, the divide in America is so profound that the victims of insanity and brutality that started long before the current epidemic under Trump don’t want to talk to the media, such as it is and have no faith in political process. You see, political process in America reeks of corruption and privilege as well. Privilege, as with exceptionalism, is a form of corruption whether it is state sponsored apartheid as in Israel or the other version of apartheid, the American one, with walls and children in cages and bodies in the streets. Let us be clear about something else, while the media tries to smear the most well know victims like Beonna Taylor, every person of color in the United States is victimized unless “hand selected” like Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas, a despicable human being reviled for his love of all things fascist. We might take a moment to discuss Breonna Taylor as well. This is a young woman of color living in Louisville, Kentucky, employed as a paramedic/first responder. Police broke into her home and killed her based on a false warrant. This is someone who had never committed a crime of any kind, police simply kicked down her door and murdered her for being black skinned, there is no other explanation. Yesterday, according to reports in the Washington Post, local prosecutor Tom Wine, a Trump backer, offered freedom to a number of drug suspects, if they would falsely incriminate Beonna Taylor, in order to aid Donald Trump in his election chances. Sources tell us Wine would then be nominated as US Attorney by Trump appointee William Barr. This level of corruption is seen every single day, even reported every single day but as the victims are of color in a land of “white privilege,” those who protest being falsely imprisoned or murdered by police are “violent hooligans.” Again, “you just can’t make this stuff up.” To understand the violence that is sweeping America today one can easily look at the violence that has swept the world, not just after 9/11 but long before. There are two words that are one in the same, one personal, one far greater, both are fatal. They are privilege and exceptionalism. The nature of “privilege” is insidious. For those who do not have COVID, for instance, who are not on a respirator or mourning the hundreds of thousands now dead, the disease is “fake.” This is privilege, denialism of the suffering of others because they are “others.” An unreported fact, nearly 4,000,000 older Americans live in nursing homes or residential facilities. None have been visited by family for nearly 6 months. Over 150,000 have died of COVID but reports that are creeping in speak of malnutrition, bed sores and widespread abuse and there is no one to help as families are not allowed to see their forgotten elders. The result of this, of course, is that older Americans have now become defacto “people of color” and reside in defacto “cages” like little brown babies ripped away from their mothers to amuse Trump’s political “base.” The insidious nature of privilege is that it can infect anyone, whatever their race or ethnicity. Privilege has become a hallmark of some religions, such as Christian Evangelism, infecting 35,000,000 Americans who attend church, pray continually but bask in a belief system that feeds exceptionalism and hatred. Privilege and exceptionalism are most often driven by fear. For some inherited money drives the unearned feeling of superiority, though Trump has, to a large extent, destroyed this concept through his bumbling ineptitude. Even the drooling Baron Rothschild and his carriage drawn through London by a team of zebras was not able to do that. If you are poor and white in America, “at least you aren’t black.” Thus, those who are otherwise the most marginal and vulnerable, not in all cases but some, perhaps many, take solace in having someone beneath them. “The humbleness of a warrior is not the humbleness of the beggar. The warrior lowers his head to no one, but at the same time, he does not permit anyone to lower his head to him. The beggar, on the other hand, falls to his knees at the drop of a hat and scrapes the floor to anyone he deems to be higher; but at the same time, he demands that someone lower than him scrape the floor for him.” – Carlos Castaneda Turning to Castaneda, whose “Way of the Warrior” defined excellence for so many during the 60’s and 70’s, in a way defines the failures in America’s culture today. “The basic difference between an ordinary man and a warrior is that a warrior takes everything as a challenge, while an ordinary man takes everything as a blessing or a curse.” – Carlos Castaneda What can safely be generalized about how things really are in America? Yesterday I spent time with one of my friends, a painting contractor, American born Hispanic who speaks no Spanish, highly successful, and we discussed local police in my own affluent community. His experiences with the same police who are to me beyond polite and helpful, not so helpful mind you that I would ever depend on them for protection, are quite the opposite of mine. I now know there is a problem. Will I do or say nothing and if I find our community subject to disorder because of our collective indifference to the rights of all, will I be surprised? Am I privileged and exceptionalist? Were it not for time I spent as a police officer decades ago, a miserable job, his words would seem unreasonable but anyone who has worked in law enforcement knows that the greatest stress isn’t from the public, too often referred to as “potential suspects,” but rather from corrupt and ignorant coworkers. It does not take long to see that they are the real criminals. As a former police officer, one is typically never stopped by police or if one is, one is immediately not just released but usually engaged in friendly banter. To be clear, some departments are better than others, but none are perfect and some, like Kenosha, Wisconsin, are brutally incompetent and dangerous. What we have also seen at mass killing like Columbine or during the fear driven killings that are sending hundreds of thousands into the streets, many police are quite simply cowards with guns, a very dangerous combination. Many, however, are not. Many are competent, polite, professional and often end up sacrificing their lives for others. The problem there is that if you are one of these, working with the others is a nightmare. In many cases, “good police” are ostracized and threatened for failing to be corrupt, which is my own experience. This makes the job impossible and the victims are many, certainly good police suffer as they invariably are commanded by the most corrupt and incompetent but the communities they supposedly serve suffer as well. This is the case with Kenosha. There, the police department, as a whole, is generally seen by other police as very poor quality, highly corrupt, racially biased and a very bad place to work. For the community, if you are white, you won’t be arrested unless you do something exceptionally bad and if you are a powerful “insider,” you can never be arrested at all as police are likely to aid and abet in any criminal acts. In the post George Floyd world, however, it is the community that has allowed its police to degenerate into a “blue gang” that is suffering now, subjected to violent protests which are, quite frankly extremely well deserved. Each community has a choice, to stand for justice for all, which should be equal enforcement of the law and, if need be, strong but fair and legal crackdowns on criminal elements even if such elements are people of color. Police are there to investigate and take potential offenders into custody, based on reasonable procedures, where fair courts administer laws. The truth is everything, but this happens. Police administer punishment, too often based on hatred driven by misguided privilege and institutionalized corruption and extremism. As cohorts in “blue gang” violence, prosecutors and many judges throw law, justice and the constitution aside to the extent that any attorney representing a criminal defendant feels overwhelmed. Time and time again, trials are a mockery and lying police and fake evidence rule every process, all openly accepted not just by insiders but the media and the privileged and exceptionalist community as well. Worse still, in many cases those of color who manage to rise into “the system” become the worst of the worst, almost accepted by their white brethren, which is why we included the Castaneda quotes. The disease, as we define it is privilege. The byproduct is dehumanization and indifference. This is a disease so powerful that very few can stand up to it and fewer still can admit it exists or if they choose to do so, go to great lengths to misdefine it. We began by discussing Syria but what is happening there, engineered by “privileged exceptionalists” driven by extremism, is terrorism in its purist form. American policing may well be described as institutionalized terrorism as well. Every child in America can at some time be caged, certainly if of color or if one’s parents are of questionable ancestry. Every American can be murdered by police with impunity. In fact, the massive ownership of assault weapons by Americans is driven by a fear of police. Rural and suburban communities, where gun ownership is greatest, are not subject to even the rumor of “racial violence” that the media stokes with every word. Every spectrum of politics from right or left shares one thing with those of color, distrust of government and fear of assault not by armed criminals but by armed criminal police. The sad thing is that too many take solace in the fact that they will be the last to go, not the first. From Martin Niemoller: “First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out— because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.” And so it goes…

[mllemaenad]

(Chantry Asker) I don't defend the Chantry because I think is "has to be good", but part of what Dragon Age encourages us to do is consider the difficulty faced by well-intentioned factions. The Inquisition, for example, has problems, becoming vulnerable to infiltration, and depending on how you played the game, may have done worse. It's not easy to help people, but the Chantry TRIES. Many Thedosian groups don't even do that. If not the Chantry, then to whom do the downtrodden and hopeless turn?

But Anonymous person: this is exactly what I mean. Whence comes this desire to treat the Chantry like some kind of beleaguered, underfunded kindergarten teacher?

“She’s trying, okay? She’s trying.”

Do you feel the need to defend Mass Effect’s Cerberus, too? Sometimes an evil organisation is just an evil organisation.

Why on earth do you think the Chantry is ‘trying’? Again: absolutely no one is saying that a particular revered mother (or Chantry brother or sister) may not be a good person who attempts to help people. That’s not in question. But ‘the Chantry’ is a continent-wide political organisation with massive resources and influence. It is led by a divine and by grand clerics, and on the other side by lord and lady Seekers and by knight-commanders of the templars. It has shaped the world. That’s the scale we are working on here.

No one group in history has impacted life in Thedas more than the Chantry. The influence of this church of the Maker prevails across most of the continent’s kingdoms, and the bulk of humanity pays at least lip service to its tenets. Belief in the Maker has started wars and forced those outside the Chantry to the fringes of society.

– The World of Thedas Volume I

So that’s a good start.

"The Keepers, Shaperate, Qun, Augers, Seers, and Shamen don't help. Only the Chantry.”

That’s one of the first things you said to me. And it’s so confusing because ... it reads like you really don’t grasp that these people are not in Lothering because, largely, they have been driven to the margins by Orlais and its Chantry. They can’t be there. They would die. 

Just as an example – can you imagine what would happen to an augur who set up in some Chantry-dominated village? Started summoning his gods, offering guidance and assistance, suggesting spirit possession to help training young mages? The poor bastard wouldn’t live out the day. But that wouldn’t be his fault. His people aren’t the ones practising religious persecution.

How – how – does that demonstrate the virtue of the Chantry? You can’t give someone points for being the only game in town when they’ve killed all the other players.

The Chantry began and has continued to be a predominantly human organisation. Other races are seen to be further from the Maker. The elves have their false pantheon of idols. The dwarves worship themselves. The Qunari are the worst of all, actively crushing worship of the Maker and desecrating Chantry values in the name of the Qun.

–  The World of Thedas Volume I

They have built the racism right into their doctrine, so that’s nice. And the religious persecution. And just ... zero self-awareness in that they hate the Qunari for converting by force when they do the same thing.

But let’s think about your "downtrodden and hopeless”, shall we?

Why is it that most of the elves in Thedas live in abject poverty, and regardless of their skills are effectively barred from bettering their lot? Oh, that’s right. Because the Chantry invaded their homeland, stole it from them, and forced them to live in slums and convert to the Chantry faith.

But you already know that something went wrong. A small elven raiding party attacked the nearby human village of Red Crossing, an act of anger that prompted the Chantry to retaliate and, with their superior numbers, conquer the Dales.

We were not enslaved as we had been before, but our worship of the ancient gods was now forbidden. We were allowed to live among the humans only as second-class citizens who worshipped their Maker, forgetting once more the scraps of lore we had maintained through the centuries.

– The City Elves

Why is it that most mages are dependant on Chantry run Circles to house, feed and clothe them? Oh, that’s right. Because the Chantry kidnaps them as children, prevents them from inheriting their family titles and property, and steals their children in turn should they have any.

Chantry law requires those with significant magical ability to join the nearest Circle and live under its supervision. While Thedosians with extremely low levels of magical talent are generally permitted to go about their lives, they are still closely watched. In most nations, practising magic and not joining a Circle is to be branded an apostate and, thus, a danger to society. Those who survive capture are turned over to the Circle to become students or prisoners, depending on the circumstances.

– The World of Thedas Volume I

So that’s ... pretty great. It sounds as though you’re suggesting – best case scenario – that the Chantry should get points for setting up a soup kitchen for the homeless, when they were the ones who burned down those people’s houses. And built an ugly mansion on the land.

But that really is a ... best case scenario. It doesn’t really fit with the reality of how the Chantry operates. I mean: the Chantry takeover in Kirkwall was a fucking disaster. Meredith had death squads. I mean – death squads. That whole situation was a dystopian nightmare.

And then there’s whatever the fuck is going on in Tantervale:

Chantry law is all but absolute in Tantervale, earning the city its dour reputation. The city guard is obsessed with enforcement. A street urchin would get a year in the dungeon for something that would get him a pat on the back in Orlais.

– World of Thedas Volume I

So ... yay for theocracy? And then there’s the clusterfuck in Jader:

The overpopulation and poor living conditions led to an outbreak of disease that nearly crippled the city, followed by famine in the poorer sections when it was quarantined.

Mother Giselle, whose prosperous chantry was in a wealthier quarter, wrote to Val Royeaux asking for assistance from the Chantry. When help was not immediately forthcoming, it is said that she addressed the clerics of her chantry. “As Andraste herself said, ‘My faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,’ then so shall faith sustain the hungry in this time of need,” Giselle told them. “As we have devoted our lives to divine contemplation, such a diet should come to us quite easily.” With that she took the unprecedented step of taking all of her chantry’s food into the poor quarters of Jader, distributing it to peasants who would otherwise have starved to death.

Shocked and shamed by what some in Val Royeaux privately referred to as an ostentatious bullying tactic, Chantry officials coordinated relief efforts. Food arrived quickly, along with instructions on how it was to be distributed: first to the Jader chantry to end the hunger strike, then to the Orlesian peasants, then to the Fereldan refugees, and finally to the elves of the alienages. Mother Giselle famously replied to the orders by saying, “If we believe that some have fallen further from the Maker’s grace than others, then those who have fallen further are in greatest need of our care. We cannot fill their souls until we have filled their bellies.” With the support of Lady Seryl of Jader, who was directing relief efforts of her own, Giselle ignored the directives and fed the poor of the city without regard for race or nationality.

Her actions saved thousands of lives in Jader and made her a beloved figure among the poor in Orlais and Ferelden alike. Those actions also destroyed her chances of any official political advancement in the Chantry, as the grand clerics did not look kindly on being shown up in such a manner.

– World of Thedas Volume II

So, five important points here:

1) Mother Giselle’s actions are ‘unprecedented’. So stepping up like that and forcing the Chantry to give aid in a time of crisis is not actually standard practice.

2) This is a clear example of a person attempting to do good and being stymied by the Chantry hierarchy.

3) The Chantry is, in case anyone forgot, really fucking racist.

4) Ending a famine also ended this woman’s political career, because the Chantry just cannot stop being The Worst.

5) While Giselle is undeniably doing some really awesome stuff here, that bit about not being able to fill people’s souls before filling their bellies indicates that even good people tend to do harm when following Chantry doctrine, because they can’t just ‘do good’. They’re also pushing conversion.

Whenever and wherever the Chantry has real power, they tend to do terrible harm. They do it on such a scale, on such a level of ‘these bloody hands may never be clean again’ awful that ... a few acts of kindness can’t easily redeem them.

To be critical of the Chantry, I don’t need to have another option. I can critique a thing without going further – especially since ‘The Chantry killed everyone else’ is ... pretty much why other people aren’t around to help. But ... it really isn’t as if no one else knows how to do good? 

I mean – look at Alistair. Assuming you made him king, he shows up with ships to bring the Fereldan refugees home, and offers aid to rebel mages. He fights with Meredith about it. That aid continues into Inquisition. While the Chantry is busy tearing Kirkwall apart, Alistair is helping. Anders runs a clinic for the poor and dispossessed in the Kirkwall sewers. He’s so damn popular that a mob turns up to defend him. That’s just one man. Most people like him are locked up, so they can’t help. Imagine a thousand clinics run by spirit healers.

Or ... did ... no one listen to Merrill?

Merrill: What does your Chantry do? I mean, you keep saying how great it is. Anders and Isabela tell me to stay away from it. But what does it do? Among the Dalish, the Keepers teach the children, preserve our history, perform magic. The priestesses here just... sing.

Sebastian: The Chantry does many charitable works. It cares for widows and orphans –

Merrill: Who in the Dalish would just be part of the clan, like everyone else. I just don't get it.

...

Bethany: So, there's no Circle among the Dalish?

Merrill: Any child with the gift of magic is apprenticed to a Keeper... in another clan if there's no need in her own.

Bethany: That sounds nice.

Merrill: Magic is a gift of the Creators. Why wouldn't we use it? It just seems... wasteful for humans to lock their mages away where they can't do any good.

– Merrill Dialogue

The Dalish would regard ‘charity’ as a communal duty, and magic as a tool to help people. She’s not wildly impressed by the Chantry, which is not doing enough good of any kind for her to notice. Merrill lives in one of the poorest parts of the city. So. Maybe her way might be worth a try?

Individuals can do good. Organisations can do good. These things are not in question. But the Chantry is – and I say this again – an imperial religion. Its primary function is to serve the Orlesian empire, which is racist, power hungry and deeply religiously intolerant. Empires are bad news.

I’ve seen the examples you’ve given. They exist. Some of them are real instances of a Chantry official, or a small, local chantry, doing a Good Thing. But I have to ask ...

Can you really look at a set of scales that has ‘genocide’ on one side and ‘helped out a single mum that one time’ on the other and say “Sure, that balances”?