#i may have addressed “you�� but i was soothing my own conscience

[is-the-fire-real]

Another bit on the pro-Pal fandom, this one axiomatic

Being a good person is not the same thing as pretending as though you believe you are a good person.

Being a good person takes work. You have to do stuff. Doing stuff is hard. Doing good stuff is harder, because you have to put thought into determining what you think is good beforehand. That requires self-reflection, honesty, a willingness to challenge oneself, and taking in information from other people to verify that your concept of "good" is, well, good.

The nice part is that once you evaluate what is good and start doing good things, it becomes easier. You gain inner calm, peace, and even joy.

("Good" is not always the same as "necessary". Necessary work can be a slog, or it can be horrific. But there can still be a calming satisfaction at the core, the security that this is necessary and therefore worthwhile.)

Pretending to believe you are a good person takes less immediate work. You don't have to do anything that positively impacts the real world, and you don't have to do any of that annoying, time-consuming self examination. But in the long run, it's more exhausting. By far.

You are insecure about whether or not you are a good person. You're pretending to believe you are good. You can't feel secure in something you pretend to believe. That insecurity gnaws at you, especially when you engage in bad behavior--harassment, doxxing, posting gore, swarming tags, encouraging and promoting suicide among your fellow "activists", telling your opponents to kill themselves, stalking, spamming unrelated content with literal Nazi propaganda.

None of those are good things good people do. And you understand that. You would think someone was bad if they did those things to you. The cognitive dissonance between who you want to be and who you really are, as determined by your actions, is scary. It's painful. It rears up every time someone you have labeled a Zio colonizer scumbag asks you to please just stop and you remember a time when you begged someone--an abuser, a troll online, a 4channer, your parents--to just stop please just leave me alone.

That must feel terrifying, and again, it makes you insecure. It makes you question if you're doing the right thing.

So you do the work to pretend to believe you are good. And that's far more work than goes into being good.

You recruit others, and all of you agree that you will pretend together. Tabletop gaming has taught us how powerful this imaginative play can be. You all reassure each other that you are good and you are right. But since you're all lying to each other, that means you must spend more, and more, and more time every day telling each other that you are good, chasing that high, that feeling that you are a good person and your actions are justified.

You tell each other that your "opponents" in this "battle" are not people, so anything you say or do to and about them is okay. You look at lists of "dehumanizing tactics" and instead of internalizing what those lists are teaching you, you go: "Ah, so if I don't use the word 'vermin', anything I say should be fine!" And then you say it.

You do not smile over good news. You only smile when one of your opponents logs off Tumblr because you made the site unusable and unsafe for them. (The expression you make there isn't really a smile, but we'll call it that, since the corners of your mouth do turn upward.) You tell yourself you're just attacking Zionists and pretend you do not see how you're really going after Jews.

No self-examination; that would mean admitting that you're lying to yourself and others. Instead, you traumatize and exhaust yourself until you're psychologically incapable of self-examination. You watch snuff films. You stare at mangled bodies until you're weeping and physically ill (certainly, you're too ill to check whether the video is real, or if it was taken from this conflict).

You force your beliefs into your fandom spaces so that others, the bad people, cannot escape their complicity in genocide.

But more importantly, you do that so you can't escape.

You cannot engage in any fandom but the pro-Pal fandom because that takes imaginative energy away from your biggest pretense--that you're a good person.

You are NOT hurting people because you are striking a blow for Palestinians. You are hurting people, including yourself, because you do not want to do the work of becoming a good person. You are afraid that self examination, at this point, will reveal to you that you are exactly the sort of person you believe you are fighting.

That fear, that insecurity, that dread, that restless sense that if you ever rest or stop or think for just a moment, you'll discover something awful? That's your conscience.

I do not ask you to change your mind about your political opponents. Your defenses are already on your lips and in your mind; a thousand How Dare Yous for me hinting that you look at other people as people. What I will ask you is to consider this.

I came to young adulthood just as Bush was elected, and the Iraq War post-9/11 was the first war I really followed as an adult. I did what you're doing now. I forced myself to look at photographs of destroyed bodies. I looked at photographs of torture perpetrated by US soldiers. I blogged about it obsessively.

I told myself that I was Doing My Part to end the war. But really, it's that the anxiety of being an American during the war made me insecure over whether or not I was responsible for all of this, and therefore, a bad person. If I pretended my looking at snuff photos was activism, and that it was good, then I could pretend to believe I was good and shout "Not in my name" at protests. I could deny my responsibility.

What I really did was traumatize myself. It's been almost twenty years. I can still see some of those torture pictures in my head. In the end, that is the extent of the impact of my online activism. The blogs are all long deleted, and nobody remembers them.

Only my trauma remains.

I do not want this for you. I want you to be wiser. There is still time. You can stop.

Stop hurting yourself and other people. Do the hard work. Examine yourself and your actions. Consider what your own heart is trying to tell you whenever you start to get the shakes and your throat gets tight. Do not take that feeling out on random people online because they have a Magen David in their pfp.

Once you have done the hard work, it gets easier. You will be able to advocate and work for whatever causes you believe in because you know they are good, not because you're joining your friends in cosplaying goodness. You will still be traumatized, and you will still be sad, and you'll definitely still get angry. You will have to face how you've acted exactly like your own past abusers, and that's a real tough row to hoe.

But at the end, you will be able to advocate and work because you want to, instead of feeling as though you must in order to keep up the masquerade.

[hanazou]

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬.

Genre : Comfort, fluff, romance

Word Count : 1.9K

A response to this request.

— 𝙀𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠, 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙧, 𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛?

The days when time slows down is the most dangerous, you thought to yourself, because you can feel your soul rotting away, your will and lack of passion eating your bones, and yet the mind musters no good enough reason to pull your pieces back together.

It is a common story, your own. Your days have been cut shorter and your nights lasted much longer. The desire to sleep the sluggishness away monopolizes your energy, leaving none left to have your meals, diverting your eyes from mirrors so you don’t have to be reminded of your buffering state; one that lacks the passion to even stretch an arm.

You no longer drink morning coffee ever since its sweet-bitter taste is lessened to plain, distasteful bitterness, and the smell of your favourite food no longer makes your appetite moist. The insatiable thought of letting your bed suck in your slothful body washes away each wants and needs.

All those explain why you look the way you do now. You had the chance to make your eyes less saggy and to hide the dark circles, you could have pressed cold spoons and applied some concealer, but it was a chore to even toss aside the blanket glued to your body to drag yourself to the shower. You shouldn’t have slept that long, you barely washed your hair off the filth you gathered from sleeping on the same dusty pillow.

Even the possibility of running into Chuuya today wouldn’t get you on your feet. No, that’s inaccurate—it’s because you might meet Chuuya that you don’t want him to see you in this state. Your beloved won’t leave you alone the moment he sees you like this, which in itself isn’t a bad thing, but how will you explain everything to him? This dormant state, this feeling of wanting space and time to swallow you whole?

Your deepest wish is actually to have him around your arms. Just the thought of silently letting his warmth comfort you soothe you more than any blanket could, but you can’t afford to do that today when you’re in the headquarters looking like someone who’s considering starving themselves to eternal sleep.

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror earlier made your lips twist. You did brush your hair and wash your face and yet, you are still far from looking presentable to the Boss. Unfit to see him, unfit as a mafioso, unfit to be here at all. You did pat down your shirt and pants with a pessimistic hope the Boss will only reprimand you and not send you away on a probation period.

You couldn’t recall when your automated legs brought you here, but here you stand, listening to the Boss briefing you today’s agenda. The explanation feels like hazy flowing clouds of words that blow pass you. You can’t rearrange your wandering thoughts, can’t even feel your numbness away. You simply understand that there are vermins trying to intimidate Port Mafia’s weapons dealer and that the Boss is sending you there to give them a good hit on their faces.

Only when he mentions Chuuya’s name do the wires in your brain spark.

“Chuuya?” You blink.

“Chuuya-kun insists that you will need company, he came earlier than you did to convince me that.” The Boss grins, chin on his hand. “I have the same judgement as to him, but that aside, have you looked at yourself in the mirror today?”

Barbells weigh down your shoulders. That was his way of asking, ‘what makes you think you’re fit for a job today?’ The Boss is the personification of logic. How will he accept your explanation if even you don’t know why you’re feeling the way you do, as if you’re a homeless unemployed bum without responsibilities?

“I’m sorry,” You lower your head.

“Not a problem with me, actually, as long as the job is done.” He smiles. “You can go, Chuuya-kun must be waiting for you somewhere.”

After a respectful bow, you leave through the large mahogany doors. The corridor outside, dark and orange as usual, although narrow, feels too large without Chuuya next to you.

You and Chuuya usually walk out of the Boss’s office together, you smiling at the comfort he gives, discussing what you two would be doing after the day’s job. You feel like a forlorn. An abandoned. A lone traveller whose journey is just to get to the end of the corridor when it was you who tossed away the one whose presence is sure to bring recovery.

“Not going to say hi?” The voice you’ve been craving echoes from behind. You jolt. You’re happy. You want him to bask you in his presence. But you’re afraid. How will he react to your condition?

You debate with yourself, should you turn around and face him? You don’t want to make your worry contagious, but you will have to face him either way for the job. The tips of your feet face opposite directions, unsure where to face, but before you come to a decision, Chuuya appears right in front of you.

Your conscience twists like a sponge when Chuuya’s smile abruptly turns to shock as his eyes lay on you. He gapes your name, not sure what to address, and you turn and walk some distance between you.

“I’m okay, I just slept too much,”

Like a wilting flower, you hide your face.

“Are you kidding? Nobody looks like that from sleeping in too long!” Chuuya’s voice escalates just like you feared. You wish your earlobes can curl in to push away the guilt hearing him makes you feel. Oh, alas, he’s approaching—“What the hell’s been going on?”

“Nothing.” You cower away. “I’ve been feeling slow, that’s all.”

You omit the important parts because Chuuya didn’t sign up for them. He didn’t date you for you to become a lousy, disordered sloth. He wants the smiling and comforting you, not the you who needs him to smile and comfort you.

If you could just push him away for enough time for you to put yourself together—

Chuuya seizes the hand that’s about to put some distance. “You don’t think I can help you, is that it?”

You instantaneously look at him. “I never said that!”

“You know, I hate it when people lie to me, and I don’t like being kept in the dark just the same.” He says.

The way his eyes pierce your conscience makes your head avert away but he clenches your hand tighter. When you glance back at him, slowly that is, his hold softens. “But do you know what I’m feeling right now? Something like self-disappointment. For not noticing earlier that you’re having—those kinds of days.”

“Have you had one?” You ask, interest piqued. “Days when you just, don’t know what you want?”

With a distant look, Chuuya makes a noise of affirmation. He pulls on your hand, taking you with him to a deserted corner halfway at the end of the not-so-dark corridor now. In fact, it may feel a bit... warmer. More comforting, more familiar, more grounding with the way Chuuya’s hand has been holding yours. It’s amazing how just his hand helps more than sleeping for a whole day does.

When both of you enter the hidden corner, Chuuya’s pace still pulling you with him, he yanks you onto his body. Your body crashes against his and his arms are quick to trap you in him. There’s no room for you to struggle nor any space for your anxiety to linger. Like a strong wind, his embrace dusts away the cobwebs around your soul. His hand crawls to the back of your head to push you down so your face covers his shoulder.

“If I had met you when I was going through what you’re feeling now, you could’ve given me this.” Chuuya’s voice came from behind your head. His chin presses your back, his other hand holding you still against him. “So make sure to do this with me when it’s my turn feeling down.”

You begin to feel his heartbeat, and you wonder, has it always been this therapeutic, having this much influence to thaw your continuously swirling uneasiness? But the thought of letting him do the chore of comforting you doesn’t sit right. You push to put a little distance but his hold around you tightens, trapping your arms at your sides.

“Not yet. Just another 30 seconds since we’re on the clock.”

You’re unsure where to look. The floor in front of you? His hair near your nose? The material of his coat your hands are touching?

You don’t want to think anymore. No more confusing rationalities, no more questions, not in this position, not when he’s here. You want to feel, to finally accept. So you close your eyes, bring your arms around him, and let your breaths slow down.

How you’ve missed this.

This doesn’t solve problems, you think, but why can you feel your worry melting away?

The pressure on your arms becomes lighter. Has it been 30 seconds? You can put some distance between you and Chuuya now, but not to escape or avoid him. You just want to see his face.

But your vision was suddenly obstructed by something dark. A sharp scent of comfort, Chuuya’s scent, fills your nose. Your fingers graze up and down to figure out what it is. There’s a flat surface connected with the perpendicular one, and the texture feels oddly similar as you take it off.

From the upper sides of your eye, you spot that in your hand is Chuuya’s hat as he pushes it down over your face again.

“I’m lending you the hat this once so you can cover your face for the job, then I’ll stay with you for the whole day wherever you want.” His hand lifts off you. “I can come over, bringing some of my own wine. How’s that sound?”

You adjust Chuuya’s hat to sit properly on your head, liking how it fits perfectly on you as you look at him. From the look on his face, you know he thinks so as well.

“Hey, you know what? You don’t look half bad with it.” He smirks, pocketing his hands. “You can wear it for the whole day, if you want, but just give it back and don’t scratch it.”

“What a nagging man,” You chuckle. “I’m holding this hostage till I feel better.”

Chuuya scoffs. “Hostage? Ha! My hat will be the one making you feel better.”

“It’s not just because of the hat, silly,” Your cheeks grow from your smile, giving him a meaningful look to thank him.

Chuuya’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare. He turns away, walking out to the corridor, and you follow. “W-Whatever, just keep it with you.”

“What if it’s not enough?” You pat down the hat, liking the way it presses your head. “What if I want more?”

“If you want more, then ask me! Why do you make it sound complicated?”

You lock your arm by slipping it through his. The fabric of his sleeve on your forearm feels natural as you sigh, your temple against his shoulder. “Can I really?” You mutter.

Chuuya heaves a heavy breath and releases it with a long sigh. You raise your head to apologise but he shoves down his hat to cover your eyes again, obstructing your vision. “Of course you can, stupid. I promise.”

You breathe in his scent again, feeling his hat around your head, his clothes against your skin, and his strong stature on your body.

You see light at the end of these kinds of days if he’s with you.

📜 ; like what you read? visit my bookshop!

[samanthadalton]

I got you (collaboration fic) part 1??

Pairings: Becca x Emily

A huge huge huge shoutout to the amazing and talented @drmmyrs for collaborating on this fic with me, you are an incredible writer and being able to write with you is such a pleasure.

This fic was originally written for @the-freshman-appreciation-week becca’s day but we feel like we may write more parts to the fic when we get the time to collab.

The fic focuses on the relationship between Becca and Emily and their development, this was so much fun to write, again @drmmyrs thank you for writing with me :))))

wordcount: 1.6k

tag list: @drmmyrs @cloud9in @fundamentalromantic @alleycat97 @baexpoppy @veenast @straightlikewetspaghetti (this is my first time writing for becca so i don’t really have a tag list for her but if you wanna be added just let me know)

“Emily!” Becca pushes past the other partygoers, stomping towards the brunette who’s standing with her group of friends as her shrill voice rings throughout the room over the blaring music. The word ‘Emily’ coming out of Becca’s mouth feels foreign to her as she spits it out, almost as if she has a distaste for the name. Emily jumps slightly at the beckon of her name, her guard up as the sound of her name coming out of the blonde’s mouth instead of an insult, is something new to her ears.

“Uh yeah?” The brunette nervously assesses the blonde’s demeanour, taking in her slightly shrivelled hair and slanted stance, indicating she may have had her fair share of drinks tonight.

“What the hell are you doing with Chris?” Becca angrily gestures towards the football player, her eyebrows scrunched up while her voice only becomes more resounding as she takes a step closer to the girl.

Emily narrows her eyes at Becca, her voice civil and calming, a stark contrast to Becca’s. “He’s not your pet, Chris is a grown man and can hang out with whoever he wants.”

Becca huffs angrily, “Oh please,” is all she can muster, the buzz of the alcohol messing with her ability to come up with a catty insult.

Emily gives Becca a pitying look before turning back to her friends, nonchalantly shrugging at them, completely ignoring the blonde.

The music continues, the pulsating beat echoing throughout the house as the party rages on. Becca’s thoughts go into overdrive, the flurry of logic blending into the raucous music. She grits her teeth, bursting with fury, her vision blurring white as she saunters up to the girl, and without thinking, she grabs Emily by her shoulder.

Emily sharply turns around, irritation etches on her features as she shrugs Becca’s hand off violently, her calm demeanour gone in a split second. “What the hell’s your problem?” she hisses, the volume of her voice starting to match Becca’s.

The partygoers start to turn their attention towards the commotion, a small group forming around the girls at the possibility that a physical altercation may ensue.

“No one turns their back on me while I’m still talking,” Becca threatens, pushing the words through her teeth.

“Or what?” Emily retorts, not backing down.

A larger crowd starts gathering around them, some already whipping their cameras out, catching the blonde and brunette in a fiery stare-off with both not even daring to blink.

“What’s going on here?” A voice bellows from the crowd, silencing the murmurs as a brawny-looking man marches towards the girls, an annoyed expression on his face.

Emily is the first to tear away her gaze to address the man who happens to be a frat boy. “You should ask her what her problem is.” Emily gives Becca the side-eye, to which Becca responds by rolling her eyes. “I was just minding my business when–”

“Oh please. If you weren’t going around stealing other people’s boyfriends–”

“How many times do I have to say–”

“Hey I don’t have a girlfriend,” Chris chimes in but his voice is drowned out by the two girls as they continue to bicker.

“Girls, girls.” The man holds up his hand as if to silence them both. “I don’t care who started it. We have a no fighting policy at this party so I’m going to have to ask you both to leave.”

“But I didn’t even-” Emily stops herself when she sees from the frat boy’s face that it isn’t a matter of negotiation. “Fine, I guess I’ll go.” Kaitlyn and Zack begin following the girl but Emily holds her hand up stopping them, “no you guys stay.”

“You sure?” Kaitlyn frowns slightly.

“Yeah, I need some air and you guys might as well have fun, you earned it.” Emily musters a small smile, “I’ll be fine I swear, I’m more worried about her,” Emily nods towards the blonde who’s furiously waving her finger in the frat boy’s face, hurling every stereotypical insult about frats under the sun as she’s being carried out by two other frat boys.

“Now that’s a sight,” Zach sighs as he gives Emily a small hug before joining the group.

Emily sighs as she trails behind Becca’s screaming antics, once they get to the entrance of the house, the boys put Becca down before joining the party again.

“This is why I hate frat parties, I’ve seen pigs with more brain cells!”

Emily winces as Becca continues screaming until she feels her head can’t take it anymore. “Can you please shut up, they’re not letting you back in.”

Becca exasperatingly huffs, her eyes shooting daggers at the brunette, “well if it wasn’t for you Emily,” even saying her name in a taunting manner made Becca feel uneasy, there was something about it, that made it both so difficult but easy to say, “I would still be in there partying with my friends.”

“Me?” Emily points at herself, eyebrows raised, “you started screaming my name, coming at me, and for what? Chris? He’s not interested in you.”

“Like he even wants you,” Becca snaps back, the weight of the insult carrying nothing.

“Well that’s not what he told me last week so...” Becca clamps her lips shut, unusually silent, as she glances away from the brunette, her expression contemplative. Emily takes it as an indication that she’s won this battle, letting the weight of her admission hang in the air as she walks away from the blonde. But every step feels heavier as her conscience about leaving the drunk blonde behind preys at the back of her mind. Emily sighs, before turning back, cautiously approaching the blonde who remains in the same state she left her in moments ago. “Do you have a way to get home?”

“I didn’t bring my car.”

“Probably the only smart thing you’ve done today,” Emily mutters under her breath.

As Becca opens her mouth to spit out a comeback, Emily shakes her head sluggishly, evidently tired from today’s events. “I’m not looking to start another fight, Becca. Right now I just wanna go home in one piece. You’re in no state to be alone either so you’re stuck with me.”

Becca facetiously rolls her eyes, her body slumping as she follows the brunette, trudging slowly behind her. Becca and Emily walk home in silence, carefully maintaining a distance, the only sounds being heard are the clicks of their shoes and the occasional rumble of engines as they continue their journey in silence. Suddenly, a gust of wind sweeps over the streets, the once soothing breeze suddenly becoming a rush of air, as Becca wraps her arms around herself, rubbing her arms in an up and down motion, her breath forming clouds of condensations in the crisp, cold air.

“Are you cold?” Emily inquires, raising an eyebrow at the blonde.

“No, I’m just rubbing my arms just to see how much friction I can create,” Becca snaps back.

“Jeez, it was just a question,” Emily rolls her eyes but feels a sense of pity in her stomach as she realises Becca’s cheeks have reddened in the last few minutes. She reluctantly sighs, shrugging off her jacket before placing it on the girl’s shoulders. “Here, and don’t make any comments about how you don’t want it, you look like a tomato.”

Becca huffs angrily but she pulls the jacket closer to her, a small part of her grateful for Emily’s act of kindness, but she doesn’t show it. As she continues on walking, she struggles to ignore Emily’s lavender scent on the jacket, subconsciously pulling it closer to her nose so she can get a better smell of it, feeling an indescribable sense of security as she does. She’s so engrossed in the scent of the jacket, that she doesn’t realise she’s standing outside of Emily’s suite.

“You think you can manage it from here?” Emily inquires, the extensiveness of tonight’s events taking a toll on her demeanour.

But before Emily can step inside, a deep rumble from Becca’s stomach catches them both by surprise.

Emily sighs. “Come inside. I’ll fix you up with something before you go.”

“I’m not hungry,” Becca says stubbornly but is immediately countered by another rumble.

“Whatever,” Emily rolls her eyes, “I’ll be making some food so if you happen to want any, the door’s open,” Emily steps into the suite, keeping the door slightly ajar, knowing the blonde would take her up on her offer. Becca reluctantly steps into the dorm, slithering into one of the chairs as she cups her face in her hands, massaging her temples.

“Uhh I can make us a soup, you okay with that?”

“Yes, please,” Becca replies, her voice slightly muffled by her hands covering her mouth.

Emily snorts, her eyes glistening with amusement as she looks over at the blonde.

“What the hell is so funny?” Becca looks up from the table, catching the glint in Emily’s eyes.

“Just didn’t think you had the ability to say please.”

Becca groans, “whatever, my head hurts.” Emily playfully rolls her eyes, turning her attention to the box of soup in her hands.

As Emily prepares their food, Becca’s eyes sweep over the quaint room, a small smile playing on her lips as she notices all the motivational posters that adorn the walls, fairly certain that they are Emily’s.

Emily lazily mixes the soup, her eyes suddenly on the blonde’s as she observes the small smile on her face while she looks around the room. Emily feels a hint of content that her cheesy posters bring a smile to Becca’s face, a smile gracing her own mouth as she turns her attention back to the soup. After a few more moments, she uses a ladle to pour the soup into two bowls, grabbing two clean spoons and walking over to the table, sitting on one of the chairs. She slides over a bowl towards Becca, holding out a spoon for her, which Becca gratefully accepts, and the two girls sit in content silence, enjoying the wave of tranquility as they enjoy their food.

[capricornsims]

Strangetown Interlude: Olive’s diary

13 Deadend Lane, was the address that my home resided in, away from the disaster that was happening in the main part of town. Thankfully the spores had yet to breach my sacred space, as I spent the last few weeks in humble silence without my dear Ophelia. That girl believed that having an extended sleepover at the Smith’s was a good idea at a time like this, without knowing the true dangers of what the outside world had to offer. Behind these stone walls, I had protected her for years, away from the cruelty of the living and providing for her every need. After all, Ophelia was the one person in my life that was spared from my terrible luck. Everyday I contemplate on the bitter strictness that I held my niece under, but it was all out of love. She should be thankful for the knowledge that I have passed down to her, yet she refuses to understand the importance of it. 

My life as Olive Muenda, Mortis, Thanasia and Specter was a very unpleasant one to say the least. To spare my loved ones from the cruelty of my existence was my only wish, but Death had other plans. I was a harbinger of bad luck, everything around me had been affected by my curse no matter how much I cared for them. Grieving was temporary,but my garden is an everlasting collection of my past, ingrained in my memories. The ghosts know that my time in the mortal world is about to end with all the unfinished business that I have laying on my conscience. My one true love calls to me as I plan my burial ground in the very spot that I sit in right now, contemplating the will that I have yet to write for my niece...and my lost child. In the meantime, I plan to right the wrongs that I have brought upon the flowers in my garden.

My last flower, Lyla, has been suffering for the last few years, gripping onto the memories of her sons in order to remain intact with the living. She was a bright young lady that took refuge in my home during her marital disputes, little did she know that her demise would be in this sanctuary. I should have called an ambulance when she passed, but I knew better than to draw suspicion into my home,so now she rests along with my other victims flowers.  Her wails and haunting have annoyed me to no end, and I prayed that bringing her closest relative would soothe the ghost’s restlessness. All I want for her is to move on and be at peace with her death and to stop causing puddles with her tears. That is the least I could do for her at her most difficult time.  

Unfortunately, inviting her ex-husband to see the garden was the worst possible option to soothe her restless spirit. I soon came to realize that my path of redemption would come to an abrupt end if I had to stand any longer with the raving lunatic before me.“ You killed my wife and buried her with your other victims!”  He shouted at me. I was about to threaten to give him the same fate as his wife but I composed myself before falling for his tricks. I pity Lyla for suffering this long with the General along with the sons that were now stuck with him. At least, she is able to find an eternal refuge in my garden as lonely as it may be. Sometimes I go to bed at night wondering if I had done her a favor. 

I left the General to search the graves for any vague clue of where she was buried, after all, I never really engraved my headstones with their names for their own sake. It was rather amusing to hear his remorseful sobs as I disappeared behind my doors, realizing the errors of his ways and paying for the pain that he caused her. For such a strong self assured general, I thought he would have the courage to apologize to her in life, but now he has to settle with her tomb.

                                                          ...

As the outcast of Strangetown, I have contemplated my place on this Earth, having Death as a constant companion in my midst as people disappear from my life in an instant. I have embraced the rumors that the outsiders have labeled me : a witch, a murderer, and an evil hag...I would never admit that the rumors are true but my heart knows it. The most I can do now is to look towards the future of my dear, Ophelia and my missing child. 

I may have not done the best things in my time, but that doesn’t mean that they will be left with nothing. I hope that my niece will return to me so that my gifts would be passed down to her as if she was my own daughter. Her own abilities have yet to be realized, and it is only fair that I teach her our heritage with the dark arts, as much as I wanted my child to join her. 

                                                           ...

Forgive me for rambling, I’m just an old soul in need of the company dear reader. I have been a mess since an odd looking man with round glasses handed me a missing poster asking if I had seen the boy in the photo. How could I respond? A mother never forgets their baby’s face no matter how long I have been apart from him. His face was a gaunt pale white, with the faintest bit of color in his cheeks that showed his livelihood, my son was alive...but barely living. Despite his condition, he seemed happy to have his photograph taken by his friend and his brown eyes stared at me hopefully, as if he was seeing me for the first time in his life. The two years that I spent with him flooded back to me as I examined the photo, thinking back to the days I spent alone with my son, caring for him with all the love that I had in the world until that fateful day. I hoped that his disappearance from this town would be temporary and that I wouldn’t be reunited with him in a wooden box. 

Wherever you are, Nervous. 

I miss you. 

We miss you.

[hopingforromanoff]

The Things We Lost in the Fire (Firefighter AU)

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words:1351

Requests are open, so feel free to send in requests and I will do my best to get them posted ASAP.

My taglist is open

My Masterlist

An odor of smoke suddenly pulled you from your deep slumber. This smell wasn’t a stranger to you, but this smell wasn’t the familiar odor that clung to your husband’s clothes at the end of each day; this smell was different... stronger... dangerous. It wasn’t mixed with Bucky’s cologne after a long shift, and it wasn’t accompanied by your husband’s tender caresses, it was much, much more intense. Panic only truly began to set in when the sound of an alarm blared through the smoke filled apartment. 

“Luke” you called out to your son in the room next to you. He cried out in response; he may only be six but he knew what was going on. He had seen his father working enough times to know the signs of a fire. He knew how to be safe and he came to you. 

With your son clenched tightly to your side, you staggered towards the kitchen. Smoke bellowed and filled your lungs, choking you. The sound of shouts from your neighbors broke through the shrill of the alarm but you couldn’t go to them. The carpet scorched as flames licked under the front door. You were trapped, your only other exit being out the window, however the ground was four stories below you. The paint on the door began to bubble and darken as the flames engulfed it, bringing its wave of intense heat towards you. 

Within the apartment, fire had spread rapidly. The flames danced across the room, it would have been beautiful if it wasn’t destroying everything you owned and threatening your own life and that of your son’s. The fire overtook the apartment in no time. Staying close to the ground, you filled the kitchen sink with water and soaked the nearby dish towel in it. You placed the towel over Luke’s face to stop the smoke from corrupting his lungs. With sweat pouring down your forehead, you shielded Luke with your body and did the only thing you could do - wait. 

The sound of sirens broke through the sound of the alarms and the crackling of the fire. 

“Its okay Mommy, Daddy will save us” your little boy was trying to be brave for you. 

The station was filled with the loud chatter of the firefighters. Natasha and Clint recollecting the events of their recent medical call to Steve. Wanda and Tony preparing a midnight snack to pull them through the rest of the shift. Bucky and Sam sat at the large table playing a game of poker to relieve their boredom. 

“Damn it Barnes” Sam huffed as Bucky lead his hand down on the table effectively winning the game for the third time. Bucky’s enjoyment didn’t last long before the tones dropped and dispatch came over the PA system: 

“Squad 3 Engine 23 Truck 51 Ambulance 82, Structure Fire 2945 W 33rd Street, Brooklyn. 

Bucky froze, as the sound of the address spun in his head; there was no way he had heard it right.  However, the look on Steve's face seemed to confirm his worst nightmare. Bucky’s heart dropped, this couldn’t be happening. His wife and their son subject to the horrors he dealt with everyday. He suddenly stood as if to spring into action but his hands remained clutched to the edge of the table; unable to move or to comprehend the reality of what was happening around him. He had relived the nightmares time and time again of those they had not been able to save but those nightmares weren’t even close to the reality of what was spinning through his mind and heart in that very moment

“C’mon Buck, they need you” Steve’s comforting touch on this back stopped Bucky from completely spiraling. 

By the time Bucky was loaded into the squad truck, he couldn’t even remember hastily pulling on his bunker gear. He didn’t feel the usual adrenaline rush from the whaling of the sirens, he needed to pull himself together or he wouldn’t be of any help to his family. Sam had tried to make small talk to calm his Lieutenant’s nerves but it was fruitless because Bucky wasn’t listening. 

No matter the amount of experience prepared Bucky for how it would feel to watch his own home go up in a blaze. Heavy black smoke bellowed towards the sky. The moment Bucky stepped from the truck, radiating heat washed over him, almost instantaneously covering his whole body in sticky sweat. The smell dominating his every breath as the flames roared in front of him. Steve began barking orders at his team members, normally Bucky would have made a sarcastic comment about Steve always being his best friend even if he was his captain now, but not of that crossed his mind now. Bucky slid his helmet and mask down over his face ready to enter the fire before Steve stopped him. 

“Buck, no. I cannot in good conscience let you in.This is far too personal” Steve stepped in front of Bucky, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Sorry Steve but that's just going to happen” Bucky pushed past him and made his way closer to the fire, Sam hot on his tail. Bucky scanned the crowd, meeting the eyes of his neighbors but not of the eyes of the one he was truly looking for. 

His gear sat heavily on his muscular shoulders, weighing him down but he didn’t let that stop him. Smoke clouded his vision but he pushed on. When he finally reached your hall, it felt like it had been hours but in reality it had only been a few minutes. He could no longer see at all as there was far too much smoke, but Bucky didn’t need to see; his heart led the way. 

The front door to the apartment crumbled with one solid kick. He didn’t have much time. 

“Daddy” a soft voice called through the smoke. Bucky called his son’s name as he fought through the thick smoke following the ever weakening pleas from his son. After what seemed an eternity Bucky reached his son and scooped the fragile boy into his arms. He clutched his son for a few brief seconds before pushing him into Sam's arms, “You will be safe with Sam, I have to find Mommy” he said as he gave his son one last glance before disappearing once again into the smoke filled room.

Bucky pulled your shaking body to your feet, pulling you close. Sobs ripped through you as you clung to him, your fingers gripping the canvas-like material. You were in a far worse state than your son was, having spent the majority of the time trying to protect him. Your lungs felt as though the fire was inside them and you hardly remembered the long journey out of the intense heat. You could hear Bucky’s quiet reassuring words, but they were muffled due to his mask and the pounding in your ears. 

You gasped as your lungs finally got to breath fresh air. Soon an oxygen mask was pressed onto your face, soothing your aching lungs. Everything and everyone continued to rush around you. Natasha began to fuss with you, checking for any other injuries. You peered over the mask that partially blocked your eyes to see Bucky holding your son. Your heart swelled with love for your courageous son who stayed strong for his mommy throughout this nightmare, and for your husband who you never doubted would save you both. Your breath quickened, finally having the oxygen to breath again. A sob caught in your throat as the reality hit you; you could have died, your son could have died.

“Baby” Bucky soothed, his cool fingers running over your sweat soaked hair. He dropped to his knees in front of you, hands pulling you close. You leaned into his comforting embrace, seeking to calm the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

“Luke’s okay. You’re okay, we got you out. So right now all I need you to do is breath” He pressed his forehead to yours. 

“We lost everything” you cried. 

“You didn’t lose us”

Taglist- @mushyjellybeans​ 

[bygosscarmine]

A PERILOUS ENGAGEMENT

Man from UNCLE - Wife or Knife AU

9/12

Looking over, his first thought was, Oh, I haven't seen that friend in a while!

His second thought was, Oh, that girl is absolutely provoking.

He quashed the third thought trying to emerge, while he stalked over mostly to prevent more people looking to see who was calling for whom.

"Hello, Hettisham," he said with some emphasis.

"Hallo, parson," she said, as he discovered with some surprise that she had a dimple. He had not apparently thought this worth noting when she was just a lad.

"Did you put Solo up to this?"

"Solo? Is he about?" At his no-doubt darkening expression, she hastily admitted, "Yes. I'm sorry. I just wanted to see you once in a way that made it easier to talk. See, you're angry and that means it's not as hard to say something."

"How did you get here, you little fool? Are you totally unaccompanied?"

Gabrielle's eyes dropped, and the part of him that had been silenced earlier tried to draw his notice again to what it had to say, but was overwhelmed by his sense of outrage.

"I came with Maria, in a carriage," she said softly. "I will go back to her and we'll return directly to the house, never fear. I do not mean to make a scene, but I just wanted to see you once. Without…"

She did not finish her sentence, and turned. Elias also pivoted on his heel and went back how he'd come, only to be caught by Solo at the gate.

"You," Elias said bitterly, "need to stop being a help to that reckless girl!"

"What? Were you challenged to a duel again? Sorry to have missed that."

"No, she was…in costume."

"I am also sorry to have missed that," Solo admitted, "though it seems to have made you furious. Is she provoking you on purpose, do you think?"

"She said she wanted to talk with me angry rather than…I don't know what."

"Ah, yes. No, I know what she means. Easier for you to at least see each other first while you're being a self-righteous jackass and not a pillar of salt or something."

As if asking a perhaps sensitive question, Solo added, "Was she…still lovely?"

Elias swore and walked away from his friend, who followed with an annoying chuckle. The thought he had been suppressing broke free with this jab, however, and aired itself in what could have been verbalized most closely as, He's got the right of it.

Maria was very patient with Gabrielle's first quarter hour or so of restless pacing and muttering of self-condemnations, but then said, "You knew he would hate it. Why did you do it?"

"Because, it seemed important to remind him. I can tell from his recent letters that…well, he is quite kind in them. He's forgotten what I'm like."

"You're not always like that," Maria protested.

"I can't bear it," Gabrielle burst out. "I can't bear to love him still. If he had gone cold or gone offended, then it would have ended things, and it would all be easy. We would all have what…what we want."

"Except that you want to be with him," Maria said softly. "You cannot forget that."

"No," said Gabrielle, close to tears. "He shouldn't have answered my letters so well. He shouldn't have seen me and looked glad at first!"

"Well, all this blaming is not helping. What are you going to do about it now?"

What she did was send him a note with their address and the invitation to call.

Then she went and reread the letters she had from him to try and make herself see a resentment, a distaste, anything that could rescue her from feeling so drawn to him. But neither his letters nor her heart were so obliging.

Dear Miss Teller,

Your letter reached me in good time, as I was just about to quit my apartments in Cheapside for ones nearer the school where I am going to be teaching. You may use this new direction for any further letters.

My trip was uneventful once I reached the stage coach successfully. Bandits have disappointed me in all prior trips and I hope continue to do so despite my boyhood keenness for an encounter.

You may, if you see him to speak to, give Solo my regards. We are not much for letters between us unless it is to arrange a visit.

His hand is neat when it comes to ledgers and copying but if you ever have a chance to view a sample of his personal writing you will understand there is pain for his correspondents to endure. Luckily, he is not much of a letter-writer.

Nor am I, if this is an example.

Your servant,

Etc. Elias Carrick

Dear Miss Teller,

I did appreciate the gifts toward my recovery, and I believe they all reached me well.

The proper amount of items ascribed to the appropriate senders arrived, though if Ms. Parson sent any new potatoes they were compassionately removed before I received the parcel.

I am a bit abashed to admit that I was nearly all recovered by the time they came, but the tea and throat-warmer soothed the last dregs of the headcold and the rest cheered me from the doldrums of being abed with no one to nurse me but the cross landlady.

Once my head had cleared up most of the way but I was still not comfortable out in the cold I was able to do some reading in the volume you recommended…

Carrick stopped pacing long enough to realize he'd clenched the short invitation until it was rumpled like a day's worn cravat. He set it on the small desk in his apartments and smoothed it out with irritation. He was mentally dictating how he would respond, when Solo came up from the street, whistling an unseasonable carol.

"Is that the fair Miss Teller's hand?" he inquired as he entered.

"Do you know it so well, then?" Elias demanded.

"No, I merely hazarded a feminine writer must be she. You are still cross about yesterday, I see."

"Cross?" Carrick was amazed. "The young woman who is openly proclaiming to be my betrothed accosted me in a public park wearing the clothes of a man, and you think I am merely cross?"

"She is not actually openly proclaiming it. The family wished her to keep it private for the time being, so she has obliged."

Solo's wry expression indicated the convenience of this. Why did that not make him feel better?

"She has sent her formal invitation for me to call on her at home."

Solo scrutinized him. Then he said, "I see why I like her for you now. As a friend, I have pulled you into the world as you would not go on your own. She has the same audacity. It's good for you to be put off-balance every now and then."

"I was about to reply that she ought to cry off from the engagement soon, now that her plan has succeeded."

"Only if she merely wished for a trip to London--which I think we both know is not the case. Anyhow, you will not. You may compose such a note, but I don't think you would actually stoop to sending it, even if I didn't say so. You must see her, you know. For all the foolishness, you don't want to make her appear poorly in front of her so-worthy family. Besides, you haven't really gotten to have a real conversation. You should call on the family, and go with me to take her and Maria to the park on Thursday."

"Why should I?"

"Because you are a man of honor, and you implicitly gave your word that you would treat her well when you let her say you are engaged."

"I take it as personal affront when you are right about respectability matters," Elias said, but without rancor.

"I am calculating, so I am usually a good judge of what the proper thing to do is, even if I choose not to do it. You go by your conscience, which is less reliable in results."

Alas, Elias' conscience confirmed what Solo's cunning said about the right thing to do. He went the next day to wait on Miss Teller. He sat for half an hour with her and her cousin Mrs. Hettisham, alongside the newlywed couple from Middleton's whirl of festivities. It occurred to him, during this very ordinary visit, that Mrs. Hettisham was as ill-suited to her kin as was her cousin. Clever, imaginative, a bit of a daring reader if he guessed right. Their chaperoning wedded couple spent most of the time asking him questions about his connections, his hometown, and telling uninspired anecdotes about their own. Since he had spent a few weeks in Middleton, he had already been told most of these tales at least once.

He promised to come walk with the ladies to the library in the future as well as to accompany Solo the next day, and took his leave. He shared only a few words with Miss Teller herself, and he wasn't sure what to think of that. Perhaps it was for the best.

Link to all posted chapters here.

[revlyncox]

Responding

Some of us may be anticipating stressful situations, and are looking for skills in de-escalation. The first step is to de-escalate our own minds and hearts. How can we respond rather than react when our earliest instincts tell us to fight or flee? This Platform Address was written for the Washington Ethical Society, December 6, 2020, by Lyn Cox. 

If you’ve got a young child in your life, you may be familiar with the book, Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus by Mo Willems. I think about this story sometimes when I’m evaluating my own capacity to make good decisions. In the story, there is a bus driver on a break, and a pigeon who really, really, really wants to drive the bus at top speed through traffic, taking corners on two wheels, drifting and spinning out as he dramatically brakes at the end of the journey. It is the pigeon’s dream to be a stunt bus driver. The reader’s job, in this book, is to hold the boundary, and prevent the pigeon from driving the bus. It is part of Mo Willem’s brilliance that the reader is an active participant in the story, making it more dramatic and engaging. Holding the boundary is frustrating for the pigeon, but helps everyone stay safer, and can give the reader a sense of accomplishment.

When I’m applying this story in my own life, I am the pigeon. I am also the bus driver, and the other passengers, and the reader. I imagine that my life, my choices, the person I am who is going about their day is a bus. Inside the bus are my thoughts, my feelings, my memories, my goals, my embodied senses, my impulses, and all of the other things that swim around in my mind and heart and body. All of those things belong on the bus, they are part of me. That being said, the pigeon is not the right candidate for driving the bus. The pigeon is not able to take responsibility for the safety of others, the pigeon is all about impulse. The pigeon can be on the bus, my impulses are part of me, and I can take note of what they are saying without letting them be in charge. If my life is a bus, the part of me that watches and reflects and exercises discernment in my choices is tasked with listening to the pigeon, helping the pigeon get what it truly needs, but not allowing the pigeon to drive the bus. Occasionally habit or routine can drive the bus, but not for too long if we’re trying to be safe. Logic can drive the bus if it’s listening to the other passengers. Love can drive the bus. But I try not to let the pigeon drive the bus.

I do not always succeed at preventing the pigeon from driving the bus. Sometimes I make a split-second decision on social media that I shouldn’t. Sometimes I open an email that I know I will be better able to deal with in another state of mind. Sometimes I snap at people I care about. This is part of being human. I make amends as best I can and resolve to do better. And part of what we’re here to do together is to bring out the best in each other, and therefore in ourselves. I’m trying to keep the pigeon in the passenger seat more often, and to create space to make it easier for other pigeons to stay out of the driver’s seat of their vehicles.

I bring this up because I have been hearing a lot of questions about what we do with conflict, and also a few questions about what we do when all of us are working with limited capacity. This has been a hard year. The challenges of grief, of unemployment, of illness, of uncertainty have left us with fewer emotional resources for handling our relationships with skillfulness and care. Sometimes the questions about conflict are about the big picture, such as how to we move on when people we’re connected with disagree deeply, or how do we begin to repair the damage when we don’t all have the same strategy for healing, or how do we continue the work of liberation as a united community when not everyone has caught up to the urgent need for that work. Sometimes the questions about conflict are specific, hoping to be prepared to intervene in cases of harassment on the street or online, or expecting arguments about the results of the election, or what to do with the family member who continues to disrupt the family Zoom get-togethers with their aggressive assertions of misinformation. Sometimes the questions about conflict are about how we can learn from our everyday experiences, the clashes we have with the people we are closest to when we’re frazzled. Though I hope the coming year will be better than the one we are leaving behind, there is still more conflict in our lives than we may wish.

Let’s be clear that not all conflict is bad. Conflict can be generative. Conflict can provide the creative combustion that helps us to articulate our values, compare ideas, and come up with new solutions. Peace is not the absence of conflict, peace is a state of being when we operate with justice and compassion, each rooted in our values, each treating the other person with respect, each accepting accountability when our choices do not match our values. We can disagree, we can debate, we can struggle for understanding, and still be at peace. If we try to suppress generative conflict, if we try to superficially soothe the agitated and appease aggressors, we may end up with a conflict that is quiet but that eats away at the foundations of community; that’s not the same thing as peace. We make room for conflict to be generative when we bring humility and relationality, when we are more committed to our values than to being someone who is always right.

Our task, then, is to help shape conflict to be generative rather than destructive. That’s not going to be possible in every instance; we need to be able to get to a place of mutual respect, it is very hard to have a generative conflict when one or more parties approach one or more of the other parties in a dehumanizing way. But that work of shaping can be worth a try, and at the very least we might be able to help redirect a conflict to reduce the harm being done to the most vulnerable person in that situation. Lowering the temperature, raising the level of relationship and connection, setting the stage for a shared understanding of values, all of these things can help. In short, when the bus is headed into a conflict, we want love in the driver’s seat, not the pigeon.

This process is also called de-escalation. In de-escalation, we shape conflict so that the heightened tension that leads people to act out of fear and anger relaxes, so that we can engage in the discussion from a place of wisdom, and choose actions that align with our goals and our values. In the weeks leading up to the election, I did a couple of online training sessions to refresh my de-escalation skills. The Poor People’s Campaign, the Election Defenders, and Faith and Public Life were all gathering people to get ready for a variety of scenarios. We didn’t know what was going to happen, but we anticipated that November and December would be difficult, and full of emotion and tension, and that our communities would need people of conscience to help redirect angry, fearful, impulsive energy into channels that are more conducive to right relationship. I hope we can engage with more training together at WES in the coming months.

We don’t have time for me to share everything I learned, but I would like to share the one thing that was the first principle in each training: Before we de-escalate a conflict involving other people, we have to de-escalate ourselves. The peace in our hearts, commitment to our values, and intentionality in our actions that we bring with us are the most important things we can contribute to de-escalating a situation. If we try to rescue or take over or suppress a conflict situation when we are acting based in fear or hurt or anger, we may do more harm than good. That doesn’t mean fear and hurt and anger aren’t real, or even that they aren’t important parts of ourselves (they are, indeed, important parts of ourselves), it means we have to process those feelings so that they are not leading us into poor choices. Don’t let the pigeon drive the bus.

For that to work, to give ourselves that ability to process so that we can lead from love and wisdom, we need to slow down. I find that some of my worst mistakes in escalating conflict come when I engage hastily. When I don’t take time to think before I respond verbally, when I add a comment in the spur of the moment, when I send an email riding on a wave of emotion rather than leaving in my drafts folder until a reasonable hour the next business day - those are the times when I’m most likely to raise tension and move a conflict further away from the generative zone.

To give ourselves time to de-escalate our own minds and hearts in response to a tense or conflicted situation, let’s be critical of an internal sense of urgency. Sometimes things really are an emergency, and so we tread as carefully as we can as we engage in the moment. But it’s worth a second thought to examine whether something feels like an emergency because it ignites our emotions and actually isn’t an emergency, or whether something is both time sensitive and of great importance to a person or an organization’s wellbeing. Not everything that makes us anxious requires our immediate action.

This is why I took the Facebook app off of my phone. Social media pushes a sense of urgency, because urgency is how the social media outlet keeps the attention of users for their own profit. The fast pace of social media makes people think they have to respond in real time to a comment stream rather than thinking or reflecting. Misinformation spreads quickly, because it fits an emotional story of urgency. Social media conversations do not wait for the people with the most accurate data, nor does the venue make clear whether all of the stakeholders are in the room at that moment. I do use social media, but I try to remain aware of how I’m feeling when I use it. For me, I make more reasoned choices when I’m on a device with an external keyboard than when I’m on my phone.

Slowing down also gives us time to be curious, and to examine our assessment of a situation. Are things as they appear when we are at our most agitated? Does our initial impression match all of the available data? Is everyone here OK, or is there some hurt under the surface? What information might we be missing? Could we be anticipating an outcome that might turn out differently? There is a lot we don’t know, and even if pausing for a moment or a day doesn’t fill in all of the gaps, we may be able to take note of our assumptions.

In this morning’s story, the farmer held off on declaring any given event as good luck or bad luck. Sometimes we don’t know what’s going to happen, or what the impact will be of current events. That doesn’t mean we should never act, but it does mean that focusing on potential or imagined catastrophes might be less strategic than focusing on the facts on the ground right now.

In one of the training sessions I attended, Rev. Rosie Washington urged us to think about our purposes for engaging in tense or conflicted situations. She was speaking specifically about nonviolent action aimed at making change for justice. I believe the same is true for any conflicted situation we may be approaching. What is our purpose in engaging? She offered these key questions:

What compels me to participate?

Why am I choosing to participate?

Who are my people?

How do I need to show up to achieve the stated goal of my people?

What compels me to participate? To me, this is a question about the values that undergird our motivations to act. This isn’t a simple “why,” it’s what compels you. What is so important to you that you can do no other than make a choice to engage in something that is uncomfortable? Is it a promise you made, or a deeply held belief, or love for your neighbor? There is something at the core of who you are, maybe the still, small voice of conscience, or maybe the mission statement you have committed to for your life, that leads you into places that are not easy but are nevertheless important.

Why am I choosing to participate? This is a question about goals and tactics. Where is the power in this situation, and what is the best way to shift the power toward justice? This is also a question about our state of mind. Are we looking to build a better community, or are we looking for revenge? Rev. Washington said that if we don’t have a goal in mind, we can’t effectively de-escalate. Let’s reflect on our reasons for engaging in conflict or action.

Who are my people? Whose lives are we hoping to improve, who has entrusted us with a role that entails engaging with this particular conflict, to whom are we accountable in our choices about how we engage? Who will be impacted by our choices? Who are we in conversation with as we act together? Who has articulated the principles and values and goals of the community that we represent as we engage with conflict? This is a question about relationships. Moving a conflict toward the generative zone is, in part, about lifting up relationships.

How do I need to show up to achieve the stated goals of my people? How will I carry myself? How will my choices further our shared goals? What techniques will I use on myself to maintain a commitment to nonviolence in moments of adversity? How will I draw from shared tradition? Again this is about connection and relationship as well as self-awareness. De-escalation is not individualism, it is not about being an isolated hero. De-escalation is a recognition that we are all in relationship with one another, that what happens to one affects us all. Remembering the parts of Ethical Culture that you most value may help you to show up as your whole, wise self in times of stress.

These four discernment questions point to the importance of knowing ourselves in body and mind. Before we even begin to engage with conflict, practicing self-awareness helps us to be intentional about how we show up and the energy we bring to a situation. We want to lead with love and our values, that does not happen by accident.

As I’m sure you know, when humans are agitated, when we are angry or fearful, we are more likely to engage our amygdala, the part of our brain that governs our response to an immediate threat. This is where our fight-or-flight response comes from. There are two more responses that might come from that instinctive response to threat, freeze or appease. We can thank our amygdala for trying to keep us safe in a stressful situation, but these impulses are not always the wisest choices when we are dealing with the tensions of the modern age. Helping to guide a conflict away from dehumanization and toward the generative zone requires different techniques than escaping from a saber-tooth tiger. But our bodies can be very convincing when we think or feel like we are under threat, and so we need to be ready to reassure our bodies that we can handle the problem a different way.

It’s good to know yourself and your body’s responses to stress. What posture do you tend to take when you start feeling like fear or anger is moving into the driver’s seat? What is the rhythm of your breathing like? What do you do with your hands? Is there a sensation in your body, like feeling flush in your face, or a twinge in your heart? These might be signals that your body is operating in fight-flight-freeze or appease-mode. We might call this being activated. Let your body give you information about how you are feeling. Honor the wonder of a body that has adapted to help you in an emergency. Notice what might be true about your feelings - perhaps a boundary has been violated, or perhaps you are taking a risk - and then let the feelings take a seat on the passenger side.

The good news is that, often, our bodies respond to a conscious effort to change. When the Mindfulness Group leads Platform on December 27, I’m sure they will go into this in more depth, so I’ll just make a brief mention today. When we notice that our breathing is shallow, and our body language is defensive, we can choose to slow our breathing and release tension in our bodies. Making that conscious choice interrupts the instinctive feedback loop, and signals to your brain to downgrade the perceived threat level. Your executive function can re-engage. Breathe in a way that is comfortable and nourishing for your body. Perhaps, in a time of stress, you will remember one of the meditations we’ve used on Sunday morning during Platform. Relax your jaw muscle. Release the tension in your shoulders. Remember the inherent worth and dignity of every person. Then you can return to the challenge at hand.

Self-awareness also extends to our habits of mind. Again, I look forward to hearing from the Mindfulness Group later this month. Briefly, though, let’s think about what we know about our own tendencies. In moments of mindfulness, we are able to maintain awareness of the present moment while calmly acknowledging and accepting our feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations. Each of us has some specific and personal things that are especially powerful in distracting us from practicing mindfulness. I don’t like being cold, because it reminds me of times when I didn’t feel like I had the resources to thrive. When I notice feeling cold, I also acknowledge that association, and I can let both the sensation and the fear of scarcity go. For other people, there might be personal challenge in dogs barking, or a car door slamming, or diminishing light, or the smell of decay. When we know ourselves well enough to realize that certain stimuli are tailored to push us off-center, it is easier to notice those factors and respond with resilience.

Knowing our bodies, our minds, our values, and our shared purpose are all helpful preparations for approaching a tense or conflicted situation. We each have our own vulnerabilities when it comes to putting love and wisdom in the driver’s seat, yet we also have an entire busload of assets for helping to move situations of tension away from dehumanization and toward generative, relationship-building, problem-solving discussion. Being part of an Ethical Culture community provides us with role models and opportunities to practice bringing out the best in each other and therefore in ourselves. There are people among us whose expertise and experience we can consult when we slow down and take the time to examine a problem together. There is a tradition of rigorous thought, intentions for justice, and loving action that can help us to stay grounded in times of adversity. Guided by our shared values and shared agreements, rooted in love, and taking our time, we are capable as a community of shaping tension into opportunities for growth. May it be so.

[sirsharp-a]

You Make Me so Mad. ❜

Summary:  Breathe, bunny.  You have to breathe.  Even if you don’t want to. Warnings:  Just gut-wrenching angst.

    She awoke that morning with butterflies in her stomach.  Curled up in the blankets, bare legs entwined with his, a cosy feeling radiating throughout her body as she nuzzled into him.

    He loves me.  Edgar loves me.

    Slowly, Grace opened her eyes, prepared to greet him, only to find that she was alone.  The duvet had been fed between her legs as if to simulate his sleeping body, the warmth surrounding her a product of the cocoon that had been consciously crafted for her.  Clearly, he hadn’t wanted to wake her when disappearing for the day.

    “... Eddie?”   she asked redundantly, hoping to hear his voice from the bathroom.  He showered every morning, oftentimes at six on the dot, but she’d heard the lack of running water long before she’d asked for him.  He isn’t here.  Why is he not here?

    With a huff, she threw the covers off of her and began searching for her clothes.

    “Idiot...”   she muttered ruefully, scorned by the fact that he had vanished in the midst of such an important confession.  Dragging her underwear up her legs like a stubborn child, she snatched up her dress and began to fix it into place, grumbling the whole while.   “You can’t just disappear after saying that…  you make me so mad sometimes--  stupid-head--”

    He probably has work to do, a voice in her head said.  When did he not?  If it wasn’t as an Alpha, it was as a bartender;  if it wasn’t as a bartender, it was as a political ace;  if it wasn’t in Huron, it was on Earth.  Somehow, in some way, he was always coveted. ��She hated the fact that his free time was always so minimal, but she understood it.  Responsibility had a funny way of tailing him  -  and why wouldn’t it?  He was a mature man, a well put-together and responsible figure of authority;  somebody that exuded confidence and charm;  somebody that people felt they could trust to get the job done;  somebody that people  liked.

                                                                I just wish I could spend more time with him.                                                                                … maybe I’m just acting spoiled?

    About to storm out, she paused whilst grabbing her keys.  On the nightstand, a crisp white envelope stood lodged between the lamp and the clock, her name unmistakeably scrawled in cursive.  The woman hesitated, feeling guilt begin to gnaw at her conscience.

    Did I get angry too soon?      Maybe he just didn’t have the time to stay…  so he wrote a note instead?

    But why would it be  addressed to her  if such was the case?  Why would it be  closed, sealed and complete with the tavern’s address in the event that she failed to notice it?  Slowly, the pit of dread that she’d found herself in yesterday began to open back up, her heart skipping a beat.  With clear hesitation, she moved to pick it up, perching on the edge of the bed to examine it more closely

    Grace Adler.

   ( In the event that this letter is left unnoticed, please return to the sender address on the back of this envelope. )

    With her heart beating hard, she flipped it over and examined it.  The Strahvern’s address…  and a note that was clearly meant for her.

    In the event that you have noticed this, please do not open this letter until a week from now.

    Her brow furrowed slowly, confusion and apprehension only growing.  Suddenly, the paper felt heavy in her grasp, panic beginning to nibble at her ear as she pondered on what to do.  She felt torn.  In her head, she knew that she should obey the notice.  He had never failed her as a leader before, and the side of her brain that had grown used to being his inferior felt keen to abide by his instructions…  but there was a primitive feeling in her heart, one that tore at her with teeth and malice.  Much like humans could tell when they were being watched--  even when there was no particular reason to feel as such--  she could feel in her gut that disregarding his order was the right thing to do.

    If I don’t open this and read it right now, something irreversible is going to happen.  I don’t know what and I don’t know how, but that’s the way it is.  Everything about this is wrong.  Something is going on and he isn’t telling me.  That means it’s serious.

    With trembling fingers, Grace tore a small hole in the corner of the letter, one large enough for her finger to squeeze through, before she drew it cleanly along the sealed triangle.  It opened without much resistance, a sheet of paper filled with crisp black ink staring back at her.  Even without knowing what she was about to read, she knew to steel herself.

    My dearest Grace,

    If you are reading this, it is likely that I am already dead.

    Static crackled loudly in her ears, eyes dimming as she stared at the message.  What do you mean dead?  Part of her wanted to toss the note aside;  to find him and slap him for daring to write something so horrific, but she knew that doing so would only harm her.  If I don't continue, I'll never know what he's talking about.  With her heart in her throat, she forced herself to read further.

    There are a lot of things that I have been struggling with as of late.  Mounting wars.  A growing demand for my services on Earth.  My duties as an Alpha.  My developing feelings for you.  I want you to know that my disappearance has nothing to do with any of these things  -  least of all, you.  I do not believe in suicide.  It is the coward's way.  Even if I consider it sometimes, I would never go through with it.  I believe in rising to challenges and overcoming one’s own weaknesses.  I need you to know that.  It was never your fault.  It was never anybody's fault  - not even my own.

    There is no way to talk about this without being forthright, blunt even  -  whether it makes me sound insane or not.  A few days ago, I was visited by Raku.  I have met him several times and, as such, am somewhat familiar with his disposition.  He did not greet me with patience this time. He was angry and bitter, and informed me that my time was drawing to a close.  Apparently my existence ‘upsets the balance’  ( which I may consider a compliment of the highest order, even in spite of my impending death ) and I must vanish.  I do not know if this is true.  I won’t pretend to understand the universe, nor the work of deities.  I do understand what I am though, and as such, it would not surprise me if Raku is right.

    Do you know the way of hybrids, Grace?  We are brought back from the dead based on sin Over time, we are supposed to recall our transgressions, become horrified by our past choices, and seek out death as punishment.  We are supposed to be so overwhelmed by guilt that we want to do nothing but die.  But I do not feel guilty.  I did some distasteful things, but my reasons were sound.  I was a grieving man.  I was a sad, lonely, desperate man that had everything torn away from him.  God turned His back on me, even when I was devout, so I turned my back on Him.. I will never apologise for the person I turned into  -  not without my maker first admitting that it was His fault that I became them.  Until then, I am comfortable at this impasse.

    He is not.

    Soon enough, He will forcibly take my life away from me.

     How dare He try to take what He didn’t help me to get.

    I know that I should have told you.  I should have told everybody.  It isn't just you that it will hurt.  A group of lyes will be leaderless.  Murr will lose a dear friend.  Earth will lose a fearless vigilante.  All of the people that my favours have reached will lose a reliable business partner.

    But all I can think about is you.

    Believe me when I tell you that I tried, Grace.  I tried several times to come clean;  to admit that our time was limited. That our dates were numbered.  That though my passion for you was infinite, the time I had to show you it was not.  I couldn't do it.  Not only could I not break your heart like that, I couldn't accept it myself.  I kept telling myself that there was a way around it, that I could use my brain and worm my way through, but it is impossible to stand up to God once He has decided what will be done.  I'm truly sorry for keeping this from you.  It is one of the only things in my life that I regret.  You deserved more than this  -  and though it causes me great pain to say so, I hope you find the one that can make you happy;  the one that can stay.

    I can only hope that I leave this plane with you feeling loved  -  because you are.  I am certain that even in the void, my heart will ache for you.

                                                                                                       Always yours,                                                                                                              E. Strahv.

    P.S:  There are a series of letters awaiting you.  I have scheduled their delivery across the following year.

    She sat there in silence, unable to process what she had just read.  The letter was beginning to crease with how hard she was clutching it, and only after a few minutes of stagnant silence did something wet hit the page.  As soon as she became aware of the fact that she was crying, she found that she couldn’t keep herself from sniffling  -  and that snowballed into a sob so hefty that she felt it was choking her.  Before she knew it, she was struggling to breathe, tears thick and hot, panic jeering at her from the side-lines like a rigorous coach.  I want to see you break a sweat, kid!  It ain’t real unless your vision’s blurry!

    You can’t die.  You  CAN’T!  

    What about all of the happiness that there’s left to have together?  We were just getting somewhere.  You can’t leave now.  You can’t leave now.  Please don’t leave now--

    Breathe, bunny.  Just breathe.

    Somewhere amidst the pounding headrush, she heard his voice soothing her, bringing her back to reality.  She had had a number of panic attacks in front of him before, though it stung her pride to admit as such, and he had been the voice of reason that slowly drew her back down to earth.  He couldn’t cure her, but he could certainly help when the world felt as if it was caving in on her.

    Forcing herself to take deep breaths, Grace tried to will the connotations of the note from her head.

    I was supposed to see this when it was too late, but I didn’t.  There might still be time.  I did the opposite of what he told me to do and it might just save him.  I could do something.

    … but what?

    If Edgar, the most powerful lye she had ever witnessed, stood no chance against their maker, what could she realistically do?  There was no way that she’d be able to make a dent in the deity if her Alpha couldn’t.

    It doesn’t matter, she thought stubbornly, forcing herself to stand up on quaking legs.  Her heart was pounding miles too fast, face pale and hands quivering, but she rose.  She rose much like a phoenix being reborn, caked in dirt and weakness, only to emerge as something formidably jaw-dropping.  There’s no time to cry over it.  Edgar has always come through for me.  I can’t rest knowing that I didn’t at least try to do the same for him.  He’s never had an hour of need before, but his time is now.

    Quivering fingers curled around the note once more, scanning the text for clues.

    ‘Even in the void, my heart will ache for you.’

    “... I know where you’ve gone,”   she whispered to herself, haphazardly folding the note and tucking it into her skirt, flattening it down before shifting into her lye form.  Agile footwork carried her from the bed to the open window, her body a long streak of shadow as she sailed effortlessly over its ledge and onto the cobblestone path below.  She would need to move fast.  Now more than ever, her footwork was key.

    There’s only one ‘void’ I know of in this God-forsaken place, she mused as she darted across the street and into the never-ending plains.   It’s No-Man’s Bluff.

[patrineptn]

Secret Santa Gift!

This is the first part of my Secret Santa Gift to @fenrae-l! I hope you like it! There may be some errors (cuz’ my keyboard isn’t on good shape lol) but I’ll double-check tomorrow before posting part two!

Also tagging Miss @masquerabe for organizing this wonderful Kagx Secret Santa!

Detroit: Becoming Hers

Part I One would think a workshop in a big company such as Cyberlife would be full of modern tables, glass walls, shining surfaces and the latest generation technology like they show in the movies. Maybe they were like that in the development department; certainly, Kamski's office was designed to be a perfect representation of the company's public image: futuristic and revolutionary. The dream working room for newly graduated engineers - at least for ninety-nine percent of Kagome's former classmates. As for Kagome herself, not so much.

Kagome Higurashi graduated a few years prior - a few years meant over a decade, but she didn’t dwell too much on it as time and age held no significance for her. She wasn’t the top of her class and had no relevant projects to shine. Her grades, however, didn’t reflect her passion for artificial intelligence and androids and this trait wasn’t missed by Kamski. From assistant do project manager, Kagome climbed up her way through Cyberlife until she was assigned to one of their newest products, RK800, the negotiator and law enforcement prototype.

"Hello again, Connor," she greeted as the android entered the room. The security camera followed him. He seemed physically fine, which was an improvement from the last time he came. He resembled a human in almost every aspect. His artificial intelligence simulated so many emotions she often forgot he was a machine, especially in times like these.

"It seemed to suit you," he said as he handed her a small box. Kagome looked away to hide the silly grin on her lips. She had been in charge since #313 248 317 - 01 and he was no less than a charming gentleman. Even after fifty versions, there was always something new, especially now that he was working with Lieutenant Hank Anderson.

"Thank you," she answered with a soft smile and Connor’s face seemed to relax. He laid on the table in front of her. After one last glance, his eyes became distant and cold.

Kagome carefully saved her gift, drinking in a single gulp what was left of her tea and filling the mug with clean water before putting the flower on it. She then typed a few commands on the prompt. The sounds of the engines filled the room. Kagome put on her IPE. It was time to work.

___

"Is he okay?"

Connor couldn’t not recognize Hank’s characteristic voice. He had regained conscience sometime before, but his functions were still coming back as his system checked the status of his biocomponents. The first was the taste, which reminded him of how much thirium he had lost. The last thing he remembered was the deviant at the TV station threatening Hank’s life. Then came the touch, with gentle fingers working on the wounds on his body, soothing the slight sting from the laser.

Green tea and cherry blossoms, a combination he recognized but couldn’t remember who it belonged to, as his brain was still fully concentrated on the task of repairing the previous damage. He was comforted, though, by these smells. Connor wasn’t sure he was supposed to feel that, or if that was the right name for what he was feeling. He was made to interpret feelings, not feel them. Connor saved that information to discuss with Kagome at their next meeting.

“Yeah. Connor should regain conscience at any moment.” Connor would never mistake Kagome’s voice. That explained the scents too. And the gentleness. But why did they let Hank into the workshop?  There were only a handful of people allowed to enter, certainly, the lieutenant wasn’t one of them.

He expected to meet plain white walls, mechanical arms, and grippers, some wires and loads of screens. Instead, as his vision came back, he met wooden walls, flower vases, some paintings, Hank drinking something other than soda or alcohol. What caught his attention, however, was Kagome Higurashi.

Replacing the white lab coat and the usual Cyberlife uniform were a tank top and a pair of shorts. Her black hair was free and wild, the opposite of the tight bun or straight ponytail he was used to. She had been in charge of him since Connor #01, proof that she was one of the most talented and trusted engineer working under CyberLife - and his favorite, he admitted.

More than a handful of times he caught himself thinking about Kagome.

“Welcome back, Connor,” said Kagome, her blue eyes warm and welcoming. "Don't you dare to scare me like that again." She released a sigh as she put down the laser and took off the protection glasses. “I almost had a stroke when Hank knocked on my door dragging your limp body.”

Connor turned to Anderson, who was frowning at the source of the scent. “Lieutenant? How did we get here?”

“How? You spammed my phone with this address. I've felt like the time I've accidentally clicked on a weird ad."

The memories came back. The TV station. The deviant android. Throwing himself to save Hank from possible death. He thought the sacrifice would be worth as long as he could save his friend’s life at the same time he was scared for his own life.

He lifted his gaze to meet Kagome's relieved look. “Thanks for bringing him here, Hank. Cyberlife has this thing to just replace cyborgs over the smallest things, you know? I would hate getting to work tomorrow and having to set up a ‘new Connor’. Cyberlife has never been the same since Elijah retired.”

“Elijah?”

“Elijah Kamski, Cyberlife’s founder,” answered Connor. “The mind behind the android technology.”

“Is he alive?” Kagome and Connor nodded. “Good. I guess we are paying him a visit tomorrow.” Hank stood up. Connor followed his lead. “We’ve already taken too much of your time, Kagome. We should be going.”

“It’s not a problem at all! I hope we can meet again under better circumstances.”

“I’d love to. Come one, Connor. I can’t leave Sumo alone for much longer,” said Hank, already heading to the door.

That little dialogue bothered him. For the first time since they met, he felt hostility towards Hank. Conflicted thoughts, alien feelings invaded his core. He needed to sort that soon and there was only one person he trusted enough to open up about the matter.

“Actually, Hank, I’d like to speak more with Kagome.”

Part II will be up tomorrow! (Fev. 16, 2020)

[tarithenurse]

All is fair in Love & War - 16

Pairing: Loki x reader Content: Probably a lot of spelling/writing errors as my brain doesn’t work, but I still wanted to post. And then the usual like pining, angsting, caring, scheming, wanting revenge, bad eating manners (nothing detailed), daring stunts, maybe cursing, death. Might have forgotten something. A/N: I’ve taken the liberty of tagging people who seem to follow, but if you do/don’t want a tag pls let me know. Tags at bottom of post.

16. In the dark of the night

As the columns loom above you, stretching toward a grey sky as they hold up a triangular façade decorated with scenes of the miracles attributed to that faith. It is not the religion that was practiced in the village you grew up. There, the focus was on very practical faith in the sense that prayers were sent to any deity willing to grant a good harvest or protect the miners from accidents. The temple in which darkness is shattered by candles and colourful fabrics is a place for big miracles which explains the steady stream of people coming and going. You recognize the tired expression on their faces, the desperate hunger in their eyes. It is not the first place you visit, and each holy sight held the same subdued sadness. Hopelessness.

“Lady [Y/N],” someone addresses you softly, “what brings you here?”

It is a temple priest, wrapped in the faded blue signaling his position within the order. The skin is lined as a result of caring for too many too long, and the hair on the part of his skull that has not been shaven is greying, making you think of plants withering in dead soil – too stubborn to die, yet malnourished. Most importantly, however, is the kindness radiating from him as if it could heat the air and welcoming anyone wishing to approach him like you do know.

Röskva is trailing behind you, keeping an appropriate distance to maintain the role as handmaid and mistress, but you know she is listening in on every word. Why should she not? No one in Midgard knows that she speaks their language.

“Father…?” You hesitate, feigning uncertainty in how to address the man, and he nods in approval. “What would a visit to a foreign culture be if the guest did not learn of every aspect.” Again, the slight not urges you on. “The holy houses of my homelands are of importance to us…yet I dare say not even the biggest temples see such a traffic as this.”

Sighing heavily, the father beckons you to follow. “Our people is…despite what you may hear at the palace…” As if tasting the words carefully before spitting them out, he chews on his tongue and lips for a moment. “The people suffers. War brings losses and casualty, that’s the nature of strife…but as oth-other problems are added and there’s no relief…where else can they turn to than the gods?”

“Hope, guidance and solidarity is food for the soul.” Take the hint.

He scans the corner of the temple aula where he has brought you. “What we need’s real food though. Clothes. Medicine to treat the illnesses that come with deprivation and poverty.” A fear flickers in his gentle eyes. “This war’s claimed to be for the people…the people win nothing, and the enemy’s false!”

“So…it is as I feared…” You do not have to act sad although it is a struggle to hide the victorious feeling surging through in the veins at the priest’s words. “If only someone could restore peace and care for the people…”

Leaning in conspiratorially, there is no hope in his face. “Several people have been deemed fit for the latter…the problem lies in the former part of the challenge.”

…

The tiny bottle gleams in the candlelight, the liquid within seemingly absorbing any light passing thorough the tinted glass which makes it appear like the Void itself. You have to handle it with care, never once removing the thin leather gloves that have been treated with wax. Just a few drops. The contents could kill everyone in the palace if mixed into the wine, but no…such a tactic is too risky because sometimes the servants enjoy a sip in secrecy. Thankfully, there are safer ways.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

A new snowstorm rages, keeping the brothers inside the sheltering walls of Utgard. While Thor is enjoying the steamy bath facility and mulled wine while joking with all the servants, Loki has retreated to a painfully familiar room. This far from the kitchens, the keep is quiet. No voices or (because of the Asgardian brother) warbled singing is chasing away the winds’ howling or the echoes of memories, conversations spoken when the mood was bolder.

There is an uneasiness that has taken root in Loki’s heart the last hours, a restless worry that distracts his actions and guides every thought to the south where he knows he cannot go. Hands fold and unfold the grey shawl that used to hold the soothing scent of his little mortal but now smells of nothing else than wool. Maybe a bit of pine needles. Looking to the dresser, he sees that new twigs have been placed in a jug of water without his command – the servants have found their own ways of honouring [Y/N]’s memory and one of them is to not abandon the room as if it were out of use. This will not be her chambers when she returns. When. It is a small word that somehow has become incredibly powerful, causing Loki to cling to it because it is the only bastion against the dreaded “if”.

…   READER’s PoV   …

It has taken some planning and sweettalking to arrange for all of the Vanir in your company to be occupied elsewhere tonight. None of them are without at least three Midgardian witnesses. Although Röskva was visibly distressed at the knowledge of why it is necessary, she still went peacefully with a few of the maids under the pretence of teaching them how you want your meal the next day. Likewise, the men have gone to train in the barracks where it is certain that plenty of the castle’s soldiers will see them.

In other words: you are on your own.

Black clothing, soft leather shoes, the belt with tools of your new trade. All of it is fitting snuggly, giving you a sense of comfort as you sneak through the empty paths within the castle walls. Up and up you go, the directions memorized and tested several times to minimize the risk of mistakes, the time it takes to get from one place to the other…and to ensure you know how to hide from any possible pursuers. Crouching behind the shift in the wall, you fight down an eager to hurry. Take the time needed…wait for the snoring.

By the time you slip out from behind the pink and white panel to land silently on the marble floor, it once again makes sense to you why the king and queen of Midgard sleep in separate chambers: that woman is noisier than a rockslide! Still, the racket she produces now is nothing compared to her shrieks when she found out the servants took the discarded food and distributed it among the poor on their way home. Apparently, the queen would have preferred the waste to be burned or left to rot while the rats gorged themselves than see the hungry fed in the dead of the winter. The thought alone makes your fingers itch and shake with anger as you slip on the gloves.

There hinges on the door are perfectly oiled, granting you a silent entry to the bedroom where a single oil lamp is turned down low under the mother-of-pearl cap, illuminating the canopy. A cocoon of silk obscuring the target until you pull it aside slowly, carefully. And there lies the queen in her “peaceful” slumber. Ha! There lies the wicked witch…but even that analogy does little to steel your nerves as you pull out the vial and twist the cork out with shaking hands.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

None of the food or drinks are tasteful to the host although Thor thoroughly is enjoying the feast. One would think that being a prince, raised in the Asgardian court, would provide a strict set of table manners…in fact Loki knows that it is not for the lack of Frigga’s patience that the older brother still eats as though he has starved for days. Normally it would bother the Jotun king immensely. Not tonight.

I should have left right away. Of course, the winter weather is not a deterrent for a Jotun, but it is for a mount. Traversing half the country (or what feels like it) on foot will take longer than waiting for the storm to pass and then ride. If only Heimdal…angrily pushing the thought aside, Loki drains his glass while considering half-heartedly what curses to cast upon the Keeper of the Bridge, his brother, his mother, anyone who has a hand in creating the distance between him and [Y/N].

Who would have thought that a simple mortal could gain such power over him? Hundreds of years have passed where he answered to no one and nothing but his own (sometimes questionable) conscience, where he did as he pleased without concern for the days to come. Much of that had already changed when Loki learned the truth of his origins, causing him to seek revenge on slights be they imagined or real, but that too is naught but a shadow compared to the responsibility and the connection he feels with this unassuming woman. The love and joy she has brought him is far too precious to lose.

Love is a wicked game. And still…Loki never plays a game that he does not intent to win.

…   READER’s PoV   …

The rattling sigh is still echoing in your ears as a ghost’s clamouring accusation when you reach a narrow window at the end of a darkened passage. The air is cold and crisp, caressing your face as you lean out to spot the balcony above that has been reduced to a black silhouette against a starry sky. Like icy crystals. For a few seconds, it is possible to imagine that you are watching the winter night from a different window, and it calms your thumping heart a fraction.

Rough rope skitters through your gloved hand. Upwards in a steep arch until the distant clink sounds, causing you to freeze with the stomach in a knot and pricking in down the back of the legs from fear that someone will have heard and come running. But nothing happens, and the delicate task of securing a grip with the tri-hook can commence.

It takes far too long, it seems, before you swing your legs over the balcony railing and allow yourself to lie flat on the cold stones. Sweat cools on contact, sending shivers through your leaden limbs. Or is the shaking from the exertion? It hardly matters right now, and either way it is a blessed distraction as your mind has somewhat quieted while you were dangling over an impenetrable darkness. Down below is the moat, dug to allow the nearby lake’s waters run around the castle’s perimeter as an extra fortification, but the water may as well have been a world away, invisible and only present in the mind. A sigh whispers by your years. Just the wind, nothing else.

It is time to focus on the task at hand and you push yourself onto your weak knees and from there to your feet although in a crouch. The metal of slender lockpicks tick against each other as you set to work, and a surge of pride warms you moments later when the lock clicks, allowing your access to king Gorm’s private chambers.

Hidden between the drapes, you take in the surroundings for the first time and are pleased to see how accurate the servants’ descriptions have been. A wardrobe with painted carvings and bigger than any single piece of furniture you have ever seen, the chaise lounge full of fluffy pillows all of which is standing next to an actual glass table with golden legs! And that is not even the half of it…but by then your eyes are glued to the shape partially visible through the velvet canopy’s crooked drapes. Already the little vial with the dark poison is resting in your palm.

There is no raging battle in your heart this time. Maybe there should be. Perhaps you have grown evil, becoming one of these individuals that you have taken upon yourself to rid the world of and shying no means to reach whichever goal you deem appropriate. This isn’t for my sake. It is a weak argument and you know it. Standing here is a direct result of the life you have lived and the sufferings you have seen. Of course, you could have decided to remain safe and sound in Utgard while pretending all is good…but then you would have had to live with a lie and a burdened conscience. If I was still here, I’d want someone to save us from the tyrant. So is that it? Are you a saviour?

Frustrated, you push the thoughts away. I’m pass the point of no return. Instead you call forth the hard memories of losses and pain, of hunger and suffering, of the carelessness with which Gorm and his noble fellows spend the lives of the people as if they are cattle for slaughter. And now there is no doubt. Stowing the tiny bottle in its padded pouch, your fingers curl around the handle of the long, slender knife. Dying in his sleep is far too kind for the man sleeping in the bed across the room.

The soft padding of feet is swallowed by a plush carpet. No reaction to the rustle of the curtains can be seen or heard as you study the king’s face with its content little smile and the speckle of drool at the corner of the mouth.

A leather-gloved hand clamps over his mouth the second you plunge the blade in between his ribs. Startled, bloodshot eyes meet yours. The exact moment realization hits the king is obvious, and now the little smile is on your lips, your face hot with rage and pride.

“Before you die,” you whisper to his face, causing him to pause his struggles at the difference in your voice, “know that I once fought for you – now I know better.”

...

[lordrethandus]

The Uncomfortable Truth

Eristel sat in the middle of his training chamber, deep in the heart of the Tidebloom Estate. He kept his eyes closed while he focused on the fiery inferno circling him, deafened by the power of his own flames; he continued to whisper incantations to soothe the ebb and flow of his channeled spell, finding it a useful practice to learn his own limitations. Eristel had sat here for hours on end without food and water, meditating on the potential of his own spellflame; but every now and then his focus would falter, causing the fiery cyclone to vanish in a wisp of smoke and heat.

 Eristel opened his malachite gaze to the fireproof tome resting on his side. A gift from a woman who no longer needed such burdens, but a gift he was hesitant to accept nonetheless. It belonged to the infamous Zerethel Kash’kaar, the first of his name and youngest of his family. Few things excited him more than delving into the techniques of his betters, but Eristel was no fool; he heard stories about the late Pyromancer, and he knew he did some terrifying things to obtain the knowledge stored in this tome.

With a snap of his fingers the embers dancing around him disappeared, nearly plummeting the chamber into complete darkness before a small ball of flame was conjured in his hand. With his free hand he placed his open palm on the ancient book, wondering how many times this old thing had been opened and closed again. Unwilling to simply get up and leave, the Mage inhaled sharply moments before pulling the cover up, bracing himself for the off-chance of any traps he might trigger.

 Much to his relief there were none. The penmanship scrawled across each page was easy to read and well-organized, with sidenotes littered across the edges to further explain his findings. A wealth of knowledge on Fire Magic lay open before him, filling his heart with excitement; spells he had never seen before and runes he could barely pronounce sprung up at him with every turned page. Eristel’s grin widened from ear to ear the more pages he flipped, knowing this would take years to digest and master.

 The thirtieth page gave him pause. There were no runes to study, no words to read; a sketch of a young elven woman with short curly hair looked up at him in impressive detail. Freckles were sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, and the general feeling of the sketch put him at ease. Eristel would recognize those lips anywhere, however; this had to be of Tyrasam when she was younger. Slowly the Mage turned the page to see the writings and runes return. Eventually he reached another sketch of Tyrasam in a sundress, laughing with an emphasis on her bright smile. The date on the bottom was from over two centuries ago, yet the picture still looked like it was drawn this morning. Eristel’s eyes widened at the parchment that slipped out of the tome to fall onto his lap. This picture was of Tyrasam when she was much older, as the date suggested, but when he lifted it up and unfolded the rest, he found himself staring at her completely naked.

“By the Gods…” he thought out loud, carefully keeping the flame in his hand a healthy distance from the drawing while he studied it in great detail. Her hair was longer then, reaching down to her pierced belly-button; a tattoo of a splintering lynx’s head sat around her left hip, further pulling attention to her many curves. “Is this drawn to scale…?” Eristel couldn’t help but lick his lips, almost burning the drawing with his flame before pulling it away. Her pierced breasts demanded his utmost attention above all else. Eager to see if there were any more of these sketches, the Mage began to quickly yet carefully flip through the rest of the tome, completely ignoring the wealth of knowledge he was skipping over.

 Another object fell out from the very back of the tome, landing hard against the cobblestone floor. It was a disc-like object of obvious Titan origin, with a single message scrawled across the surface. “For my Beloved. Open by pressing your thumb into the center.” He read the words out loud, tempted to see what the late Pyromancer was up to; but his conscience would forbid it. Carefully he gathered the contents and rose to his feet, deciding it would be best if she saw this herself.

 Tyrasam sat at the front desk of her shop, babysitting a bottle of wine. The shelves were restocked and the floors swept, now all she had to do was wait until it was late into the night to fall asleep.traight from the bottle Every now and then she would glance down at the wedding band on her hand, which only prompted another swig of the bottle; it wasn’t getting any easier dealing with her loss, but at least she was too emotionally exhausted to collapse into tears again. A heavy knock on the door snapped her out of her stupor, but she didn’t bother looking up from her bottle to address a potential customer.

 “Sorry, we’re closed for tonight.” Tyrasam declared. Normally she would be worried about someone entering her shop hours after she closed, but having two guards stationed within shouting distance in one of the safest sanctuaries on Azeroth gave her the confidence to keep the doors unlocked throughout the night.

 “Lady Ku’sol? It's Eristel again… can I come in?” She perked up at the sound of his voice, quickly glancing down at herself to ensure she didn't have any wine stains on her dress.

 “You may.” Tyrasam waved him in, watching him closely the moment she recognized the time beneath his arm. “You know… this is the fourth time you've visited me this late at night. If you're not careful your family will start getting the wrong idea.”

 “I tend to not care about the opinions of others, especially ones about me.” Eristel lightly shrugged, but underneath his casual smile she noticed how flustered he was. “Anyway… how is Jaeras doing?”

 “She's out cold upstairs in her room. It's been a long week for the both of us.” She paused to yawn into the palm of her hand. “Is that why you're here? To discuss her training?”

 “Actually no.” Eristel held the tome tightly as he approached her, gently setting it into the front desk. “I noticed a few things in here that should belong to you.”

 “I told you I have no use for it already.” Tyrasam perked a brow before grasping her bottle of wine again. “You're a pyromancer and you're going to train Jaeras. Keep it.”

 “I was referring to…” Eristel slowly opened the time to pull out a few loose pages. “ Some of his uh… drawings of you.” A shrewd smirk spread across her face while he handed her the folded pages. “He was… quite the artist.”

 “Yes he was.” Tyrasam unfolded the drawing to gaze at it for several moments; she looked neither surprised nor embarrassed knowing Eristel had seen such a revealing drawing. “This brings me back. I must have been just over a hundred and fifty when Zereth sketched this... he made me lay there for three hours before he was finished.” She glanced up at the Mage with an inviting look. “Is that why you’re here, Eristel? You wanted to see if this was what I looked like naked?”

“I…” Eristel choked on his words, taking extra time to think his response through. “That’s on my bucket list for sure… but that’s not all that was in the tome.” Before the Paladin could open her mouth to speak, he pulled out the small disc-like device from his robes. “It’s for you. A message from your late husband.” Tyrasam’s sly smirk vanished for a few moments while she stared at it. She sharply inhaled while her gaze trailed back up to his eyes.

 “He used to use that to give Jaeras simple lessons while he was busy in his work.” She explained, reaching out to him. “I think I should watch this alone, hmm?”

 “Of course.” The Mage slid the device across the desk into her hands, but as he pulled his hand away she snatched him by the wrist and pushed the sketch into his grasp.

 “Keep it.” Tyrasam started, staring uncomfortably deep into his eyes. “Take it with you when you go deep-fry some demons with the Oathguard. Think of it as… a reminder of what awaits your return.” A shiver ran up his spine while he got goosebumps along his arms. Without another word he tucked it into his pocket and plucked the tome off the table; slowly he backed away toward the door, unwilling to break eye contact until he bumped into the door.

 Tyrasam’s inviting smile vanished the moment he left her sight. The Paladin trembled while she held this device, terrified of what could possibly be recorded on it. Before she turned it on she briskly walked to the door to make sure nobody else was around, locking the door shut. It was difficult to turn around to gaze at the device, but as her heart grew heavy, she gently set the device onto the ground and reluctantly pushed the button.

 Her blood ran cold at the sight of Zerethel’s image springing to life; although it was a spectral projection, she nearly felt his presence again. “Is this recording, Zolaar?” He asked, causing the Paladin’s heart to drop into her stomach. “... good. You may take your leave. If I don’t return, deliver this message to her.”

 “Zereth…” Tyrasam sat on the front desk and stared at him intensely; she closed her eyes the moment he wheezed, causing her stomach to flutter moments before her heart stung once again.

 “Tyrasam,” he started. “What I’m about to say is for your ears and your ears only. I would appreciate it if none of this got out to anyone else. It would prove… dangerous for you and Jaeras. You know more than anyone that I had my fair share of secrets- even from you. But I need to get quite a bit off my chest, and lay my secrets at your feet.” Tyrasam ran a hand through her hair while she focused on the projection. “My first confession involves us specifically. I died in Northrend, Tyrasam. I fell in battle against the Scourge only to be raised as a Death Knight to help ravage Quel’thalas. Once free of the Lich King’s control I was convinced you and Jaeras died in the invasion. I had succumbed to despair and inflicted my agony onto others, particularly the original members of the Keepers of Shadow. I tortured Syrahn for over a week, carving the skin from her hands to get her to talk… that’s why she always wears those gloves… from the scars I gave her.” Tyrasam’s gaze fell to the device on the floor while he spoke, overwhelmed and confused at what she had been told. “When I learned you and Jaeras survived, I turned to my old enemies and pleaded for their help. I delved into taboo magic long forgotten, and learned a terrible secret to rid myself of the Undead Curse. Fleshcrafting was the first step to return my mortality. I ambushed a young elven paladin and murdered him in cold blood… I then used his flesh to return my own. To seal the change forever I made a pact with a being I called Theed, though the Void Lords don’t actually have names that can be pronounced by mortals like us. In exchange for my returned life, I had to feed it souls. Many souls. But in the end, the result was… imperfect.” Zerethel paused to let out a coarse wheeze, causing Tyrasam to wearily glance back up at him. “I told you I was in an accident which made my sterile in Northrend… but the truth is Theed robbed me of my greatest dream… to raise a family with you.”

 “Zereth… you caused so much unnecessary pain…” The Paladin pinched the bridge of her nose while she absorbed all that he mentioned, but he was far from finished.

 “When rumors of Whitstan’s return reached my ears, I convinced you to hide Jaeras away in Silvermoon City while I devised a plan to destroy him. I recruited Rethandus to be my greatest pawn, convincing him that I would restore his life so he may raise a family of his own. Another lie to get what I needed…” The Harbinger faithfully following her late husband’s orders began to make sense now; Rethandus certainly had no use for money, what else would Zerethel convince him with? “I tortured people during our time in the Bloodsworn Vanguard, though I’m sure you’re already aware of that. But what you don’t know is the nature of my interrogations. Tyrasam… I burned families alive while I usually made their fathers watch. I inflicted the most agony on my enemies just for information. I convinced myself that no matter what I did, no matter how cruel… it was for your safety and protection. I see now that I was wrong.”

 “Gods no…” Tyrasam covered her mouth while she glared angrily at him, not sure how to react to such dreadful news. Torturing their enemies was bad enough, but children? She knew Zerethel was always up to no good, but this was beyond something she could simply ignore. The Paladin felt guilty for turning a blind eye when she shouldn’t have; how many families could have been saved if she stood up to him?

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness, Tyrasam. I do not deserve it.” Zerethel paused to wheeze again, pounding his chest several times in an attempt to calm his coughing down. “If you think this is cowardly of me to spill all of these secrets onto you through a recorded message, I wouldn’t disagree. Truthfully I don’t have the courage to look you in the eyes while I explain myself to you. I regret doing what I have done in the name of justice… and it appears my crimes have finally caught up to me.” The Pyromancer lifted his hand to flash a large piece of parchment. “A bounty from my family has been placed on my head. On your head. If I manage to kill my father and brothers nobody would dare try to collect the reward… but I don’t think I am strong enough to face my father after all these years.” He took a deep breath while he carelessly dropped the parchment. “I have to kill my old family. I have to end the lives of their children lest they seek revenge by killing you to get to me. It is not something I will enjoy… but it must be done in order to keep you safe. If I don’t return from this mission, please… change your identity and lay low for the next decade, Tyrasam. Find an honest man to marry, someone who will treat you far better than I did. You’ve earned better than I am… and… I know I don’t say this often… but you are my first, last, and greatest love. I would drown Azeroth in blood to protect you… and that is why I am unfit to be your husband.” Tyrasam slowly closed her eyes again as she held back her tears, but she was far more angry and hurt than she was mournful. “Tell Jaeras who her father really is, once you think she’s ready. With luck, Whitstan will not be a problem for much longer…”

 Tyrasam didn't know how to react to all of this. The man she's lived for two hundred and sixty years had fallen so far in the past thirty years; she knew something had changed him, but she always assumed it was from the horrors he faced in Northrend. As it turned out, she wasn't wrong. She didn't know the names of his victims, but she would pray for them tonight and every night until she was content; she would also beseech the gods to show Zerethel’s soul mercy as well.

 “To ensure your safety from my crimes, this device is set to self-destruct. Shorel’aran, dalah’surfal.” Zerethel fell silent for an unreasonably long time, staring off at nothing while he clearly struggling speak. Tyrasam saw a spark of fear in his eyes that she had never seen before and will never see again; she couldn't tell if it was from dying, or what would be his fate afterwards, or what lengths his vengeful former family would go to for revenge. In the end it didn't really matter now. “Tyrasam…” he weakly spoke, still choking on his words. “I have abandoned you in a world of war and witchcraft. But know that I will always love you. And I will forever think of Jaeras as our own flesh and blood.”

 The hologram abruptly shut down, leaving the room quiet enough for her to hear her own heartbeat throb against her temples. The device faintly hissed for several seconds before a quick pop caused it to burst, leaving a small plume of black smoke to rise from the destroyed machine. She stared at where his face was projected for a moment in silence, as if he was standing there like he hadn't died four months ago.

 “Momma…?” a groggy voice caught her attention as Jaeras waddled out from behind a door in her pandaren pajamas. “What’s going on…?”

 “Nothing sweetie. Just…” Tyrasam glanced over at the smoking wreckage in the middle of her shop. “Trying to tidy up before I go to sleep. Did I wake you?”

 “I think I heard Poppa’s voice.” The little girl took a few sluggish steps forward, rubbing one of her eyes with one hand while clinging to her stuffed tauren doll with the other. “Did he come back to life…?”

 “No, honey…” Tyrasam bit her lip while she rose to her feet. “Go back to sleep. You have a big day with Mister Eristel tomorrow.” Jaeras was unconvinced nothing unusual was happening, but she was far too tired to think about it; it was long past her bedtime. Without another word she slowly turned around and closed the door behind her. Tyrasam listened to her heavy footsteps pattering up the staircase, causing her to sigh in relief once she was back in her room. “You don’t need to know of this.” she thought to herself, scooping up the unrepairable device to toss into the trash. “Not here. Not yet.”

Mentions: @whitstanwilhelm

[rubixa-seraph]

OC Questionnaire Answered

1. What’s their full name? If they’re an alien and their name is in their native planet’s language, have you thought about what it means? Roy Evans King. Don’t ask me why his middle name is like that. It’s complicated both in story and in actual explanation.

2. Say your OC made a playlist on Spotify. What bands would be on that playlist? Any specific genres? He’s a bit moody in many different ways and has several playlists to suit his tastes for the moment…feeling competitive? EDM and bouts of rock. Feeling calm? Calm classical or ballads. Feeling forlorn? Anything soothing and somewhat emotional, usually music from games, anime, or TV shows. Feeling driven or remotely angry? Power music, either Classical or soundtracks of epic proportions. Inspired? He’ll queue up specific things for the inspiration. Not sure? Play the entire “Like” section and hit skip about a hundred million times if it plays things he doesn’t care about at the moment. High maintenance? Yeah. That’s why he has a subscription to Spotify.

3. What kind of video games would they play? Any specific titles? Strategy and RPG, sometimes puzzle games. First person shooters tend to piss him off when multiplayer is involved but he’ll play them anyway. Will only play fighting games if cool weapons are involved, but greatly prefers flashy 8-way-run over 2D-scroll. Plays one too many freemium games on his phone. Stays as far away as he can from harem/dating sim games but you *will* catch him eyeing them once in a while in tempting curiosity. Notable game titles he likes? Typically mainstream stuff: Zelda series, Soul Calibur, Halo, Destiny, Overwatch, Fire Emblem, and a good chunk of anything else that falls under the categories above. (Sorry, my repertoire of game knowledge is pretty lacking.) on his phone he specifically plays Fluttr and it’s moth-content counterpart. He likes to collect bugs, even if they are virtual. Yet he’s not a big fan of your generic monster collecting games.

4. What would their favorite cartoons be, and why? What would their favorite characters be? He was never quite fond of your typical cartoons, but he’s watched every Disney Princess related movie for the sake of some “typical princess fashion inspiration.” Anime of various action and supernatural genres interest him, but half of the time he plays them in the background while he’s tailoring and miss half of the plot because he’s concentrating on his work. But what really gets his attention aren’t cartoons or anime. Sit him down in front of anything Kamen Rider, and he wouldn't want to be interrupted.

5. What’s their favorite type of weather? Do they like to do anything specific on days when the weather is how they like it? He hates windy days, and also doesn’t like to be under the sun…because he likes to wear black on most occasions. Loves the rain but only if he can stay out of it with a nice cup of tea or the likes. After the rain, he would enjoy a nice walk outside. The air tends to be nicer.

6. If they’re a fan of Hot Chocolate, Tea, or Coffee, how do they like either of those drinks prepared? He favors coffee, enjoys tea, and sparingly partaken in hot chocolate. He is definitely a fan of warm drinks. The coffee habit, he got from an “uncle” who was a family friend. Drinks it every morning…or whatever his equivalent of morning would be. Takes it with a bit of cream, no sugar. Tea, he has at least once a day also, if not twice. Black tea is his preference, milk and sugar. Not a fan of green tea, oolong, or chai, contrary to his Asian heritage, but the English influence from his Birthplace of Hong Kong shows through more. He tends to stay away from hot chocolate, finding it too sweet and also a “lazy” hot drink option. (Clearly he’s not familiar with the concept of gourmet hot chocolate.)

7. What kind of animals would they like as a pet? What names would they give their pets if they got any? If they already have pet’s what are their names? He’s partial to travel so he doesn’t keep pets. He’s partial to dogs of loyal and obedient breeds, but he can’t get over the fact the fur and his tailoring profession means more trouble than it’s worth. If he had his way he’d keep a pet snake or scorpion, but those are pretty costly pets in their own ways. He’s pretty bad at naming things outside of his creative endeavors, so chances are he’d be asking for lots of suggestions before picking.

8. How does your OC keep track of time? Do they have a planner? A calendar? Despite how much he loves the latest technology, he’s oddly old fashioned in some circumstances. Appointments, he’d use his phone calendar in order to automatically have reminder alerts set. But commission details and things like address information and the likes? A traditional planner. He wears an analog watch to keep track of time, though the phone is not far from reach when he needs it.

9. How do they write? Do they write in cursive? How do they dot their i’s and j’s? Do they have specific ways that they write certain letters? He really likes his capital letters and they all have a bit of flourish at the beginning or end of his strikes. He avoids writing in cursive to avoid mis-recording information, and writes in neat formation. His handwriting is somewhat geometric when capital letters aren’t involved, but he does dot his letters when needed.

10. What’s their favorite time of day? He has no real preference to the time of day…mostly because inspiration doesn’t care what time of day it is to strike. And he’s prone to an inconsistent sleep schedule.

11. What kinds of foods and drinks do they like? Do they like certain foods to be fried? Do they prefer certain foods to be prepared hot/cold? He’s not a fan of cold foods, and is picky about his fried foods. Dim sum is his favorite kind of food but not what you could call a feasible thing to have every day. He favors soups, and in general would prefer Asian dishes. But a fancy western meal isn’t something he’d turn away from either.

12. If they were an actual character in an animated film or TV series, who would they be voiced by? Do they have a certain accent that the person would need to perfect? Oh god this is a question I’d have a hard time answering. I don’t watch a lot of things with English voices, and I’m not very good at paying attention to actors. My darlin’ said he imagined for Sam Regal to be a fitting voice, so I guess that’s my best answer. Being from Hong Kong, Roy’s accent is somewhat British, but he lived a good amount of years in the U.S. also, so he’s control over the accent varies depending on the circumstances. (He’s found that his native accent garners a bit more positive reaction, though.)

13. If you are an artist, and if your OC can draw as well, could you replicate what their artstyle looks like? Or, if you can’t, could you describe it? I don’t quite have the time to draw right now, but Roy’s drawing skills are limited to patterns and concept art for clothing design and planning. Most of his artistic skill goes into tailoring, whether it be fashion, formal wear, or cosplay.

14. If your OC owned a Tumblr blog, what kind of content would they post? Two different blogs: his tailoring work, and then a blog about bugs.

15. How do they type? Do they use emojis? Do abbreviate and shorten words? He’s a fast typist and will type out every word. No emojis, but he certainly likes his punctuation. And will often narrate his action or mood in some sort of brackets or asterisks quotation…apparently body language matters to him in face-to-face conversation and it bothers him when it can’t be conveyed in text.

16. If your OC was a film director, what kind of movies would they make? If he must, it’ll probably be action scifi fantasy. But please…he’d rather be the costume designer.

17. If your OC was a musical artist, what genres would they do? He may enjoy many types of music, but his old music lessons left him for a bias towards playing classical. That aside, he’d still rather pursue clothing design.

18. What type of singing voice does your OC have? He’s a bit on the tenor side, but he doesn’t really care to sing. He will hum or sing along with his favorite songs like any music lover would, and his sister tells him his voice and musical talent is wasted, but he doesn’t care.

19. Does your OC like to collect things? What kind of things do they collect? Oh boy…other than cloth, ribbons, threads and the likes? Things to do with bugs, but not actual bugs because he doesn’t have that much room to display things like that.

20. Was your OC inspired by anything? Another character? A person? Ah…okay. I hate having to explain this one because it’s very complicated and full of a lot of personal loss and conflict with myself and my family. The best way I can describe it would be…he’s an accumulation of what I have yearned for, lost, and come to terms with. A personification of regrets that I will also put to use for stress relief, and on some levels, a familiar mask to put on in the realm of fiction in order to indulge in pretending life isn’t stressful. His concept seems very depressing, but rest assured, Roy and his fictional escapades are probably a healthier coping mechanism compared to the self harm I could have done. Ah! Please don’t worry about me! With him as part of my conscience and with my new family, I’m doing a lot better. And Roy can actually see some light in some more balance RP and story settings now.

[frenchcirce]

Pride, Narcissism and Prejudice- Chapter 24

Mai looked through the window and let a heavy sigh escape her lips. The misty rain falling outside was enveloping the garden in a gloomy mantel of humidity and the grey skies were casting a bleak light on this already morose scenery. Nothing seemed to be left from the bright and sunny weather that was her life just a day before, and the rivulets of rain cascading on the window were slowly washing away all traces of happiness.

A slight knock on the door jolted Mai out of her pensive contemplation. The young woman had been engrossed in her thoughts for a while and the unexpected sound came as a sobering reminder that, despite the apparent calm in the house, she was still in a difficult position.

Since Takigawa's proposal the day before Mai had prudently stayed in her room, trying to avoid the commotion she had caused. She knew it was a cowardly reaction, but since she had no idea how to deal with lady Hara's anger, her cousin's disappointment or the gossip which would most likely spread like a wildfire in the neighbourhood, hiding had seemed to be the most reasonable option.

"Come in" she answered automatically before biting her lip in worry. What if it was lady Hara? No, she reasoned, the old lady would have probably burst through the door without any warning. This soft manner of knocking could only belong to the elegant Masako.

Soon enough the delicate figure of her sister appeared in the doorframe, and Mai let a relieved exhale escape her lips. Masako at least was on her side and wasn't blaming her for her decision.

"Masako, what a nice surprise!" exclaimed Mai while standing up from her armchair to greet her sister. "I was afraid mother would never not let you out of her clutches."

The pleasantry was met with a contrived smile.

"She went downstairs to have a word with father, so I took the opportunity to come and see you."

"I am so happy to have the pleasure of your company, I missed speaking with you! Well, I missed speaking at all to be honest, I haven't seen a kind living soul since yesterday. Pray tell, how are mother's nerves? Still too weak to be deprived of your presence?"

Mai, in her delight to be able to chat with her friend, missed the unusual stiff composure of Masako who was closing the door cautiously.

"Well," replied Masako hesitantly, "you know as well as I do that her nerves are made of steel, even if she claims otherwise. However, I have hardly seen her in such hysterics. No need to tell you mother is most unhappy about the recent turn of events…"

"That I am perfectly aware of," interrupted Mai tiredly. "She had not lost an occasion to voice her thoughts very clearly and loudly each time she knew I was within earshot."

Mai had always known that Lady Hara wasn't especially fond of her, but the friendship provided by Masako and the care for her well-being displayed by Lord Hara had been enough to forget the old lady's hostility so far. However, her decision not to accept a suitor, thus dismissing her chance to leave the house and marry wealth, had sent the old matron in an unprecedented bout of uncontrollable rage.

Masako sighed knowingly, having been the witness of the numerous reproaches her mother had addressed to her sister.

"In all honesty, I feel also responsible for this situation," confessed the dark-haired girl. "I advised you to follow your heart on the matter, and as a result…"

"And as a result I only reap what I saw," said Mai resolutely. "Oh Masako, you are certainly not responsible neither for my folly nor my stubbornness. Had I not been so short-sighted, or had I simply asked for your advice… I could have avoided all this chaos," she finished, her voice tinted with regret.

The orphan was perfectly conscious that her lack of discernment was solely responsible for the misunderstanding. She had led the clergyman to believe she would accept his affections happily, and his magnanimity concerning her foolish naiveté was making the gnawing guilt even more unbearable. Never had she wanted to deceive or hurt him, but whatever how bitterly she was now regretting her stupidity, the wrong had been done. Takigawa had declared he would forever remain her faithful cousin, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she had lost him somehow. The rejection had been hard on her already, the last thing she wanted at the moment was her foster sister feeling guilty about it.

"I beg of you, do not believe you have an ounce of culpability. It was unfortunately all my doing."

"Still," insisted Masako, "I am afraid I have been ill-advised in my comment. I underestimated mother's wrath and now… Mai, I need to warn you, she is determined to coerce you into accepting your cousin's proposal."

The seriousness and regret in her sister's tone got Mai's attention.

"To coerce me?" asked the orphan in alarm. "But how? Masako, if you know about it, please tell me, what exactly is she is planning to do?"

The young lady of the house wrung her hands nervously and sent an apologetic look to her sister.

"She believes that it is her duty to make you admit you were in the wrong, so she went as far as to seek father's support."

"Lord Hara? But what…" started Mai.

"I heard her ask him to force you to go back on your decision, with the very serious threat of banishing you from the house if you don't," finally admitted Masako after a sharp inhale.

Mai's pale complexion turned a whiter shade at these words. So, in addition to hurting a precious family member, her rejection had also triggered a storm that threatened to wreak her life havoc! She had always felt the uncertainty of her position in the Hara family, but since the tragic death of her parents it had been the first time she had realized how insecure her future was thanks to it.

Masako noticed her sister's reaction and went to her side immediately, taking Mai's slightly shaking hands in her own.

"Do not worry," she soothed in her most encouraging tone, "for I am certain father would never allow such a thing. Nor would I," she muttered under her breath. "However," she stated out loud this time, "I thought it would be best to let you know how determined mother is. It would be wise not to anger her further if you can avoid it."

Mai nodded wordlessly, her throat painfully tight and her mind reeling. She had done what her mind and conscience had deemed right, but the terrible outcome was making her reconsider the wiseness of her decision. Why hadn't she accepted her cousin like her reason had told her to? Why had she listened to the stupid organ called a heart, which had demonstrated the annoying habit to be lured by a lying gentleman named Naru? It had only led to more heartache and trouble than it was worth in the end.

Masako squeezed Mai's hands in a silent display of sympathy. As she opened her mouth, probably to offer some comforting words, a hesitant knock at the door signaled the presence of the housemaid. The young lady sighed, released Mai's hands and faced the door resolutely.

"Yes, what is it Jenkins?" she enquired to spare her distraught friend the bother of speaking.

The timid servant opened the door carefully and came in, seemingly embarrassed.

"I am sorry to intrude, but the master and the mistress are asking for miss Mai in the master's office. Hum, she is expected to come at once," added the girl hesitantly, visibly unsure of the degree of seriousness of the request.

"Thank you Jenkins," replied Masako in her usual calm demeanor. "Mai is coming down immediately. You are dismissed."

The maid bowed and left the room after sparing a pitying and somewhat admirative glance to the very pale and discomposed orphan who was standing still beside Masako. Being at the end of Lady Hara's wrath was probably the most frightening thing in the whole world for the servant, and Jenkins didn't envy Mai's situation in the least, but she couldn't help but being impressed before the girl's daring. The young mistress had unknowingly gained her respect.

Once the heavy footsteps of the servant couldn't be heard anymore a crying Mai collapsed on her bed and hid her head in her hands, offering the very image of affliction.

"Oh Masako, what have I gotten myself into? What if they carry out their threats of throwing me out on the streets? What will become of me?"

"Mai, please, do not let yourself fall into despair!" scolded her friend gently. "No such thing will happen, I am certain father would not resort to such means. He most probably simply wants to know your motives, nothing more. Do not fear, I shall accompany you downstairs, I will be by your side."

Mai wiped her misty eyes and nodded, to which Masako responded with an encouraging smile in an obvious attempt at being reassuring. Her schooled serene features could have been convincing enough if she had been able to conceal the anxious glimmer in her eyes.

So it was on unsteady legs and with a frantic heart that Mai went down the stairs to enter the room in which her fate was to be sealed.

She knocked warily on the office's doors and waited for her father to call her in, sparing anguished glances at Masako who was trying to look as encouraging as possible. When the baritone voice of Lord Hara invited her inside Mai took a deep steadying breath and entered the room.

When she passed the doors of the office she was met with the contorted angry face of Lady Hara, standing behind her seated husband, and an unusually solemn-looking Lord Hara. The sight rightfully frightened to the poor orphan, having her praying fervently that she wasn't about to be thrown out of the house without any warning.

"Mai," started Lord Hara in a serious but not unkind voice, "I assume that you understand why we want to speak with you."

Mai nodded wordlessly, her hand clutching her dress desperately. When he had proposed Takigawa had mentioned her foster father was aware of his intent, so she supposed her tutor had well known and welcomed her cousin's proposition.

"I have been informed that you did reject your cousin's proposal yesterday. You may understand that such news came as a surprise to say the least. The whole family was expecting a joyous conclusion after the proposal, since such a union could only benefit you greatly, be it on the social or financial front. I had the occasion to discuss the matter previously with the gentleman and his wealth, situation and intentions toward you were honorable enough to have me give my blessings."

"Indeed!" cried Lady Hara, "Rejecting such a fine gentleman, have you no common sense, you stupid child?"

"Please, dear, let me handle this matter," warned Lord Hara.

"You were incredibly lucky to have such a man show an interest in you, however you ruined your chances with him!" continued the old woman, ignoring her husband's demand. "And your disgraceful behaviour will probably affect our Masako, too! What will people think and say after your blatant flirting? Such ungratefulness, after all that we have done for you! We should throw you out on the streets and make you realise…"

"Enough!" boomed the gentleman in a rare display of authority. "As the head of this family I do believe it is my duty to address this matter!"

Lady Hara gasped indignantly, startled by the outburst, but didn't retort and kept wisely quiet. Mai, though grateful her mother's accusations and threats had stopped, felt quite shaken herself by her father's shout. Her eyes were stinging suspiciously, and it took her a great effort not to burst into hot tears thinking about the terrible outcome which had been evoked .

"So, Mai," resumed the older man more gently, "as I was saying I was pleased to see you show a genuine interest in your cousin during his stay. Having Takigawa as a husband would have guaranteed you a comfortable life, and we would have been glad and relieved to see you settled this well. Do not misunderstand my dear child, this question is only motivated by my concern for your future, since you have no personal fortune to live on would you decide not to marry."

Saying that she had been wrong and that she would accept her cousin right away had never been so tempting to Mai than in that particular moment. She had to gather all her willpower not to falter under lady Hara's furious glares and her foster father's enquiring looks. Thankfully her husband's injunctions to keep quiet had managed to shush the disagreeable lady long enough, and Mai took the opportunity to plead her case.

"I can assure you sir, that I am perfectly aware of all the benefits of marrying my cousin," she declared in a trembling voice. "I do know that he is a respectable gentleman, and I am very fond of him, as an esteemed member of the society, as a caring family member and as a charming friend."

"What stopped you then?" asked Lord Hara, confused.

The young lady clutched her dress tighter and took a deep breath. She knew she had to explain her motives, but she was less and less certain her reasons would be deemed acceptable enough for her foster parents. They had probably looked forward to seeing her married and settled, as she would have become someone else's responsibility. Lady Hara would undoubtedly never forgive her for turning down such an opportunity, but would Lord Hara understand her qualms?

"Mister Takigawa is a wonderful person, and I am proud to count him as my cousin. I am also honoured to have excited such feelings in him, as I realise I did not deserve such attentions. Nonetheless, I had to refuse him, sir," declared Mai with a confidence she was far from feeling.

"You had to? You shameless…" started lady Hara, stopped short by her husband's commanding hand.

"Please sir, I beg of you, try to understand!" implored Mai, ignoring the older woman. "As honourable as they are, I cannot reciprocate my cousin's feelings. I shall forever respect him as a relative, but alas, nothing more. He deserves a spouse which would be worthy of his affections and would love him back with equal fervour. It would be unfair of me to accept him knowing I could never share his feelings nor provide him the happiness he deserves. I simply did not want to deprive him of it."

Mai breathed heavily, waiting expectantly for her foster parent's reaction. Lady Hara did not disappoint, as she was growling angrily about the foolishness of brainless romantic young girls. However, Lord Hara's eyes had softened considerably at her last words, and an odd look of understanding and regret had marred his features for a second.

His own marriage had been the result of his youthful haste before the beauty and apparent docile behaviour of the once young lady Hara. At the time the gentleman had thought having such a graceful and handsome woman by his side would grant him the marital felicity he had dreamed about. But said woman was only eager to marry wealth and nothing else, and once the marriage had been celebrated she had proven to be stubborn and narrow-minded, and not interested in the least in her husband's opinion. Mai's consideration for her suitor's future happiness reminded the gentleman bitterly of his own history.

"I see," simply said the man. "It appears, my dear child, that you have become a selfless and kind lady, and I cannot blame you for your decision."

"Lord Hara!" shrieked his spouse indignantly.

"Mai did for the best, and these shall be my last words on the matter. You can go," he addressed the orphan.

The young woman kissed his hand with emotion, overwhelmed with relief, and almost sobbed her thanks. As she was reaching the doorknob to flee the scene the gentleman called to her a last time.

"One more thing before you leave," he asked, "I have been informed that Shibuya also came to visit yesterday. We did not receive him considering the circumstances, of course, and I do not know why he came, but… There have been rumours after the ball at the Matzuzakis concerning the two of you, and though I do not pay attention to gossip I cannot help but wonder. Is this gentleman the reason why you turned down your cousin's proposal?"

Mai froze at the mention of the blue-eyed traitor. Naru was a deceiving imposter, and he didn't deserve her consideration. If anything, she only wished for him to rot in hell, where he probably belonged, for all the pain she had gone through because of him. Just hearing his name was making her blood boil and her heart ache, but her father's question was forcing her to ponder the influence he had had on her.

In all honesty her feelings for the man had been the trigger for her rejection. Not because she was saving herself for him, but because she had realized that Takigawa could never elicit such intense reactions from her. As annoying as it was, she had been irresistibly attracted by Shibuya, or whatever his name was, the moment she had spoken with him. He was irritating, insanely proud and condescending, but his piercing gaze and his so rare sincere smile had her under his spell. Whenever he was near she was losing her temper, her reason, and even her mind. So she had come to think that she could only give herself to a man who could spark her passion similarly, and regretfully Takigawa hadn't been able to.

But whatever his intentions were, Mai was determined not to get fooled by Naru ever again. After a small moment to collect herself she answered, her voice clear and poised.

"I have no idea myself about this gentleman's motives. Maybe it simply was a visit of courtesy, or an errand for Yasuhara. I do not know anything either about these rumors you heard, and I can assure you they are totally unfounded. I despise the man, his pride and arrogance, and I am fairly certain he has no interest in me."

"I did think it was strange," admitted lord Hara, "since you have only expressed displeasure concerning the gentleman. Very well then, you can go," he added with a smile.

Mai didn't waste a moment to follow his invitation and exited the room as fast as she could. Lady Hara, who had been chafing under her husband's injunction to keep quiet, was now very loudly and heatedly complaining about his permissiveness toward his charge, and the orphan had no desire to hear the hurtful comments.

As soon as she came out she was greeted by Masako, who had been shamelessly listening behind the door. Her sister kissed her affectionately and, taking her arm, led her upstairs where they could have some privacy. They both sat heavily on Mai's bed, legs shaking.

"I was certain papa would do the right thing. Oh Mai, I am so glad they did not decide anything rash!"

"So am I, believe me! I was truly terrified. However I do understand their incomprehension and their worry concerning my future. I have no fortune, and unless I get married I will not be able to live on my own. They most probably want me out of the house as soon as possible."

"Mai, what gave you this silly idea? Do not listen to mother's rants, and rest assured you are not unwanted here. In all honesty I am selfishly happy you do not get to leave my side," admitted Masako. "And do not worry about settling down either, if by some misfortune you do not find a man worthy of you, we will live together as two old and bitter spinsters," she joked.

After the taxing discussion with her foster parents Mai was far too happy to avoid heavy subjects and exchange some light jokes with her friend.

"I do not want you to become a spinster, no! I suggest you marry a handsome and extremely rich gentleman, put him under your spell and make him unable to refuse to offer shelter to an old and penniless friend of yours. Or better," laughed Mai, "have him convince an acquaintance, preferably handsome and wealthy too, to marry me. What do you think of my clever schemes?"

"I think they are both excellent," smiled her sister. "They just have a major flaw: where am I supposed to find such a man?"

"Oh, but we know one, and he conveniently lives in the neighbourhood!" teased Mai.

Masako's amused smile turned sad and resigned.

"But I fear he does not see me in this light. If he were interested, he would have proposed already."

"It is obvious to anyone that he loves you, Masako, please do not lose faith in him."

"It is hard not to," she sighed. "But it is does not matter in the least," she said with faked casualness, "I will happily stay his faithful friend if nothing else."

Mai took Masako's arm gently and let her head rest on her sister's shoulder.

"You shall get your happy ending. Remember, you have to marry well to provide for your old spinster sister."

"Oh Mai," sighed Masako while patting her friend's head.

The ladies then stayed side by side on the bed, both contemplating their future in a morose silence.

AN:Hello again! I know I know, it's been quite a long time since I last updated, but my pregnancy got me so tired that I had to take a break. To be honest I was unable to perform any physical or intellectual work for a while, hence my silence. Things are much better now, so here I am with a new chapter. Initially this was only the first part of the planned chapter, but I had to cut it in half because of its length. Part two will be (normally) published next week.

[rfhusnik]

The King Of The Underground

Written By:  F. John Surells

              Just now I’m thinking I feel a lot like the man who is my main focus in this piece most likely felt when he left the first line of a poem unwritten. Yes, he left the initial line blank, and then wrote as that poem’s second line “has been left unwritten.”

           I say we have, as mortals, two great human influencers who greatly assist us in our making of temporal decisions. Their beliefs stimulate us mentally. Their actions challenge us physically. And we use their totalities of being to help construct our own. But who are those people? The first is a love of one’s life, and the second is one’s greatest philosophical mentor.

           And personally, I and a number of others have previously stated in these writings that the love of my life is Renni Maes-Surells, but my greatest mentor is a man whose name can’t be shared here. He exists in a realm I call “the underground,” though I’ve referenced him in other writings as “the man from the (two words deleted).” And the following are some points of view and reminiscences concerning him.

           “This is the end of our grace period in regard to you,” said the conformers. “All your life all you’ve really done has been throw stones against the bastions of structure. And don’t try to revel in clarity, or excuse wrong deeds you may have done simply because you knew long ago that there hadn’t been any collusion or obstruction.”

           “Sometimes maybe it’s better to leave unsaid certain sayings which others might raise eyebrows to; but then, if they don’t know you have the capability to say such sayings by now, then I guess they never will know of that capability, and, they’ll never really know you! And besides that, who is ever going to truthfully tell us if one should use a slash mark rather than a semi-colon, or what Fitzgerald and Poe thought about starting sentences with gerunds, and why, in all candor, the best looking woman at the performance wasn’t really a woman, but rather a man who dressed like, and appeared to be a woman?

           But, with that last question having been posed, the man from the underground said “Alright, enough is enough. Let the record show that while I believed members of one sex could be attracted to members of that same sex, I was never one of those. And, likewise, if it’s true that certain mortals identify as being both sexes simultaneously, then I believe only they can understand and confront the realities of such a situation.”

           But then suddenly the defenders of conformity interjected themselves into the conversation yet again. “We’ve got a lot to say now” they said. “And please, from this point on, don’t even bother to distinguish our concerns with the use of quotation marks.”

           “You’ve got it”! said the underground man. And he set off his quote with quotation marks.

           Opposites often attract, but attractions often fade. They fade away sometimes, and then those who were attracted are left to hold on to reminiscences, but only if they wish to; or only if they somehow simply can’t free themselves from them.

           Sometimes (and that some time may be any day time) I feel like a man who just reached the garden gate after walking down a straight and narrow concrete walkway from his home inside the sanctuary of literature. And as I open that gate, and prepare to leave an abode of personal personalities, I realize that today, as on all previous days, and I suppose as on all days to come, I have an idea of, but can’t actually say for certain what lies ahead of me in the world outside the barrier which opens and closes my world to that of others.

           And, yes, I’ll open the gate, and I’ll walk out into an unknown and an unsuspecting world, but before I do, I’ll say a prayer here on the inside. “God of all that’s known and not known, keep me and those I love safe this day. And guard the world you created. Keep it safe from those who are evil, and from those who are careless, and also from those who, apparently for one reason or another, can’t realize what the ramifications of their beliefs and actions may be.”

           And with that prayer said, it occurs to me that some may think me arrogant or narcissistic, or both. And some may feel I’m a number of other objectionable things as well. But yet, whenever those fears of possible behind my back condemnations visit me, I’m also reminded of two simplistic clichés:  One, I don’t want to fade away without having said what I knew needed to be said; and two, I don’t want to be simply gone – even if it may be that I’d be gone but not forgotten.

           And I’ve already pledged my love, respect, and allegiance to the Master of the Universe, but now I want to speak of a certain man I’ve spoken of before in these postings. He’s been my greatest mortal influence – I think! That is, he doesn’t live in my city. He only visits it from time to time.          I got an email from Ralph recently. He wrote that the so-called “man from the green city” will soon be visiting our city once again. And, Ralph asked if I’d attempt to write what he termed a “free flow prose piece” in honor of that man and his city. And Ralph said he’d give me a “free hand” to construct that piece (or pieces if I needed to extend to two postings), but he wished me to entitle that composition “The King Of The Underground,” which apparently is the new appellation he’s given to the man whom we previously addressed as the man from the green city.

           Now, as you may surmise, this is a daunting task in that I don’t want to disappoint Ralph or the man whom I’ll be referencing. But yet, from the few times I’ve met the Underground’s newly crowned monarch, I think I can easily hold forth here for at least two postings, and, could probably extend beyond that. Trust me, the King is such a mortal as you’ll most likely never meet. He has his own mind, his own beliefs, and, like our city’s leader Ralph Hawk, seems also to have what I’ll call “an iron will.” Still, his interests and concerns seem to be varied and multi-faceted. Thus, expect the words that will follow here to exemplify what I perceive as being his “reality of being”. And, please

remember that the words I’ll write here will most likely only be visions held briefly within my comprehension. And, I’m thinking that most of those which won’t directly reference the King, but which will instead speak to other random matters, may emanate from news broadcasts which we’ve lately learned tend to report the incorrect and the fake, rather than the truthful and verifiable.

           Thus, narcissism I grant you a free reign here! Anoint your new king!  

           Look! There’s a picture of a boy who, as a man I came to know as a friend, though I only saw him when he infrequently visited our city. And, he visits here yet sometimes still, albeit always with a mind concerned about the future, while often contemplating the past.

           And there’s a year written on that picture I referenced a paragraph ago. It’s 1955. And on the picture the lad seems to be proud of his new toy log assemblage. But then I guess a year passed, and the Union of Soviets invaded Hungary, and the boy learned, mostly through personal study, about Nikita Khruschev, Joseph Stalin, and Communism.

           And, with a knowledge of the far left wing of the political spectrum in hand, an introduction to the far right wing came with the trial of Adolf Eichman in the early 1960’s. And some background study taught the lad about The Fuhrer and the dream of a fascist world. But then came November 1963 and the death of a Democratic president. And today how many in his party would dare ask what people could do for their country rather than what their country could do for them?

           And after the assassination, a cultural void was filled by English musicians. And they soothed the conscience of America until the nation’s most divisive war began to rage in the middle of the 1960’s. And in 1969 it was at its ugliest.

           But it was fashionable to live in cliques at that time. And cliques and communes were fine for a while, until the leader of one of them sent some of his followers out to commit some brutal murders – in 1969.

           But, now it’s happened! We’ve reached a juncture at which we’re no longer certain that certain occurrences really occurred, or whether they did occur, but in different ways and means from those believed and gossiped about by commoners we may have known.

           But the absolute truth and truths of the past are known only to the masters of the universe. And of them today we ask forgiveness for all wrongs we’ve committed. And we assure them and all their inferiors that our remorse for errors committed is sincere. And then we – carry on. And then we – try to live better than we have.

           But our respect is given only to those who’ve earned it. We won’t allow ourselves to be degraded by old men and elderly women who shake their fingers at us and blame us for an environment that’s changing. Of course the environment is changing! But so are many other things! Are we living in a vacuum where all remains the same except for such alterations which chastise the middle and lower classes?

           And you young men and women who occupy seats in the various levels of our nation’s government; many of you are sadly incompetent to perform the duties you’ve undertaken. Many of you espouse radical changes which would bankrupt this nation at the least, or render it vulnerable to domination by foreign powers, or the large number of people you’ve helped enter it illegally, or both.

           Working class Americans don’t want to be demeaned by phony investigations or hate-filled  environmental and impeachment threats. Instead, they want Congress to address their concerns about their  future safety and well-being, as well as their desire that America remain an English and not a Spanish speaking nation in the years to come, and that it be an American and not a Hispanic governed entity.

[getoutoftheweeds-blog]

Soul Food - What is a Meal and How is it Different Than Just Eating?

It’s a fact: you must eat to live.  Your body requires nutrients to run properly.  Your body also needs fuel to keep all of the intricate biological subsystems operating.  Food fills these needs for us.  In fact, food is quantifiable.  We can define it mathematically (calories) and calculate how much of it we need to operate our bodies optimally.  We can further break this down into different nutrient varieties (fat, protein & carbohydrates) to further analyze bodily need and postulate certain outcomes, like building muscle or losing body fat.  It is scientific, it is determinate, and it is simple. 

Food defined.  Good food does all these things.  Plus, it has the added benefit of tastiness. 

In my mind, however, there is a very distinct difference between eating food with someone at the same time and having a meal together.

Let’s start with a basic question: What is a meal? 

Here is a definition from an online dictionary (it was the first thing that popped up on Google, not sure whom to credit):

Meal: noun

Any of the regular occasions in a day when a reasonably large amount of food is eaten, such as breakfast, lunch or dinner.

The food eaten on regular occasions.

Great.  Meal defined, in a nutshell.  What makes a meal so special?

The answer to this is something I have been trying to explain to my wife for a few years now.  To me, a meal is an expression of relationship and value.  I grew up in a large family and all of our get-togethers involved some sort of meal.  It didn’t matter if we were celebrating or mourning, a meal was part of it.  Also, I was a volunteer and co-op firefighter for a handful of years.  Firefighters are known for cooking and good food.  The departments I was on were no different.  Everyone, both in the family and on the FD, brought something to the table in terms of specialties, technique and presentation of food.  This is part of the reason why I love a good meal more than just good food.  Meals carry a substance to them that has far more complexity and intangibility than simple nutrition.  Nutrition feeds the body.  Meals feed the body and soul.

It’s traditionally been hard for me to explain just what it is that makes a meal so special, but after jotting down some notes, I found myself circling back around to five points.  While I have no formal training on human relationships, I do interact with humans every day and have had many meals that fed me more than just food.  Maybe I’m not qualified to talk about parts of this, but I’m going to anyway.  Consider yourself warned.

The five areas I see a meal filling more than just your belly are: Caring, Expression, Achievement, Bonding and Memories.  Take a look at my notes below where I try to explain my intuition.

Caring – meeting a need.  Making a meal for someone has long been looked at as a form of caring.  Anytime you meet a person’s need, you are displaying a level of care.  Right after my wife gave birth, we had people bringing us food over.  When my grandfather died, people brought food over.  When I get sick, my wife goes and gets food for me.  There is something simple, yet profound, in this act.  In one act, someone can bring you something that meets your current and future needs.  When someone provides a meal, they are essentially allowing you to conserve your time and energy to address and stay focused on your issue without worrying about what you have to prepare next.  They use their hard earned time and resources to ease someone else’s burden.  I’m not suggesting food should be eaten to soothe pain. But, not having to worry about the next meal does lift a mental, and sometimes emotional, burden. 

I have had this blow up in my face before, too.  Word to the wise, be careful when you start a diet or change the way you eat.  People may get offended.  Some folks will simply just not know your specific diet.  They will not understand if you wholesale reject their love offering because you are now a disciple of some trendy fad diet.  After all, for them, mentally and emotionally, they spent their time and money to provide you with something that was supposed to meet a deep need.  It is hard on folks to find out their help is unwanted and a hindrance.  So tread lightly.   In my world, I am thankful for the gesture and accept these gifts for what they are, signs of love, compassion and caring.  I’ll even consume a small amount of it.  This helps me to keep a clean conscience when (or if) they ask about it.  That way I can honestly appreciate their offering and give them feedback about it.  No one says you have to eat the whole tray of lasagna to get a taste for the time and effort that went into it. 

Expression of personality – You know what, some folks are just good at stuff.  For instance, my brother is amazing at smoking ribs.  I don’t even try to duplicate it.  Old Man up the holler has moonshine that is better than anyone else’s.  (Metaphorically speaking, of course.)  This even applies to foods that don’t make sense to me.  I have an aunt who makes this crazy tomato, cheese, bread pudding stuff every year at our holiday celebrations.  I don’t know anything about it, other than it tastes good and she makes it.  It is not the signature part of the meal, but without it, it’s like she isn’t there. (Even though she would presumably still be there. We’re at her house, for crying out loud.  She probably just made a different dish.  But it’s not the one she is known for.  So I have to look for her instead of assume she is here somewhere.  Sheesh.)

Also, this is why everyone’s Momma or Grandma makes the greatest (fill in the blank).  It is a unique thing that expresses culture and history.  It is an expression of our culture, region and family sensitivities.  It can tie us to our relatives, many generations back.  It doesn’t matter if it is Bolognese, traditional German potato salad or mac & cheese with ketchup swirled on top, if it is unique to our family or traditions, we are proud of it.  It is part of who we are and where we came from.

Achievement – This could be mastery of something (cooking skill, style or developing your own recipe).  I think this is the reason most church ladies want you to try their casserole at the potluck dinner.  They have a unique spin that sets them apart from the other wanna-be great casserole makers.  I feel bad for the poor Preacher who has to gush about the nuances of three different styles of creamed corn while trying not to show any favoritism.  Compare this to the competitive bar-b-que circuit.  Those folks travel the country, spending a lot of money and time to be crowned Brisket Royalty.  I appreciate that.  It’s like art, in a way.  These folks have mastered a medium, adding their own twists of personality and lay their wares out for all who come by to try out.  Perhaps you have been to a chili cook-off.  Generally speaking, I love these things.  They are simple enough that anyone can enter, yet still provide a canvas for some wild creativity to be displayed.  At a family chili cook-off I once sampled Bourbon Chili, Chili Pizza, Pumpkin Chili and Avocado Chili, just to name a few.  A winner was crowned.  The ceremony was a ton of fun. 

Another aspect of achievement is celebration.  How often do we have a meal as part of a festivity?  Did your t-ball team win it all?  There will be a banquet, small trophies and fizzy punch with tri-colored sherbet.  Did that relative of yours finally graduate?  Your Grandma is genuinely proud, and “you will be at that celebration meal.”  Did you just manage the feat of turning one year older?  Good on ya! There will definitely be food and everyone will sing.  Did your kid just get circumcised? Neat-o! Please, don’t serve calamari at the reception.  Did your cousin just get hitched?  Yay! You get to dress up and have your choice of chicken, beef or vegetarian option.  You did RSVP, right? 

You get the drift.

These next two points are off-shoots of the first three.  I alluded to these earlier, but I think they deserve to be called out on their own.

Bonding – The whole reason we get together in the first place is to either grow our bonds with each other, or to make new ones.  The very first thing a mother does is to nurse (feed) her newborn child.  It is built into our experience.  There are some divine properties to a meal that bring us together.  It has been studied and the evidence is clear; a meal together brings you close together.  So turn your dang phone off and bond with your family tonight.

Hope – By this I mean, meals are where we publicly deal with past memories and future anticipation.  In most religions, feasts are prescribed for certain times of the year.  These are usually done in remembrance if certain important events.  Christmas and Easter come to mind.  We celebrate birthdays to honor someone’s expectation of what the next year holds.  We get together at New Years in anticipation and resolution that the coming year will be better.  We have a tendency to wrap both our past and future into a celebration in the present.  These gatherings turn into rituals, which, when done correctly, encapsulate letting go of the past and hope of a better future.

Those are the reasons I think a meal is different than just consuming food together.  Caring, Expressions, Achievement, Bonding, and Hope. 

In conclusion, I have a question… Is there a difference between eating food at a prescribed time and a meal?  I’m interested in what you have to say.  We look forward to hearing from you.

[rosheendubh]

This draft is so pre-draft rough(ruff) it's barking its language...forgive the bad pun;)

–I’m putting this here to paste into my WriteWayPro file later. Its OTT, way over-narrated, and sort of stream of conscience, including my personal thought asides on notations to address later, bc it’s better having more material with which to work when editing later, and refining after that, than less… –This is part 2, actually after the opening (not posted on my tumblr) told from Artorius’s POV, which started on ‘how does a man enter Rome’? –Rome, spring 182 CE Early, early spring, the second year of his honored majesty’s rule, Emperor Lucius Aurelius Commodus, banquet celebrating the deification of the beloved Marcus Aurelius –The theater, some private theater mentioned in my most recent audiobook venture, 'The Architecture of Ancient Rome’, which was utilized for smaller venues hosted by the nobility, including the Imperial family… ~~ The headache was with her all day, a throb in the back of her skull that felt like a siege hammer pushing through her forehead to the back of her brain. It had started in the morning, barely noticeable, but had grown steadily with the falling night, made her eyes ache/strain in the light, and curled her stomach with faint waves of nausea. They had plagued her since adolescence, these 'cephalgia migrainosus", which is what Galen called them, and the had grown steadily worse Since the death of her father, more frequent, hammering through her brain, and sometimes incapacitating her for 2 and 3 days at a time. The days when her maid could attend her at home, and she could lay in her sleeping quarters, the cool breeze wafting up from the (Hamilton…just kidding)__Heights, sun freshened air chasing the stagnancy of the lower streets hanging heavy in the chill mist that clung to Roman mornings in the early spring, with her favorite lute-player strumming a soothing melody, and her daughter rubbing her temples, she rebounded within a day. It was when her brother summoned her to court, the drill she played between his excesses and outrages, his impetuousness and boredom, which, if he indulged it, turned to malicious amusements unless she interceded, the way she had cultivated through the years, teasing and tailoring, softening and easing Commodus’s temperaments in counterpoint to the Ruffled sensibilities of the old patrician Senators, taking care to not overstep that tenuous boundary imposed by his favorite hangers-on. The headaches on those days were interminable, but she has learned to sublimate them, subsume the pain, and construct her mask. A public facade, the flawless serenity she shows the world, –She’s taken a place at a window, facing north (I need to establish if this setting is at the Theater of the Nobility/or the Palace/and decide the direction toward the Tiber…) across a sea of darkness, broken by the faint lamps and torches that line the maze of streets and plazas, down the _____Hill, toward the docks of the Tiber, sipping wine she knows will make her headache/weariness worse, but it warms her stomach, spreading its soft glow to her clenched fingers, grasping the vessel, and slows the rapid burst of her heart against her chest. The Scent on the night wind reminds her for a moment, of that week in Hispania, when her father paid visit to a branch of an equestrian family, native to the (Neopolitan region), the gens Artorii, who had settled along the sea-battered cliffs of Asturias, and supplied cavalry mounts from their breeding farms outside of Isirium/Coruna. A retired veteran, Aelius Artorius Verus had one son, a restless youth on the eve of his 2nd decade, Lucius Artorius, who was grappling like a caged beast w/ambitions to see the wider world, and for a young man of provincial equestrian status, that meant joining the army. She had been newly widowed, an empress, now a mere emperor’s daughter once more, and thinking she was to enjoy a welcome respite from domesticity, enjoy her father’s company as his confidant, in place of her often frail mother, anxious over her infant sisters, and her favored brother. But she was the most gifted of his children, for all she was a daughter and not a son. Her rebuke to her father had been sharp that morning, discovering she was to be bartered off in yet another marriage, to another eastern low-born catamite. Marcus Aurelius’s unruffled, philosophical regard/equanimity only set her off her more, and she stormed in angry tears from his quarters, used as his temporary audience hall, whilst they resided at the home/villa of the Artorii. Her upset took her out into the stables where Artorius, in the process of grooming and saddling one of their private mounts, stopped frozen in his task, tongue tied/stuttering out some greeting. Lucilla, accustomed to the adoration she often observed upon the faces of the varied retainers of her father’s men, learned to accept such worship with nary a pucker or a blush, as serene as her father, and properly haughty when necessary. But this day, she had no patience for such awkward/untried/infatuations, snapping at him to ready another of their horses, and to ride out with her, letting loose another rampant of temper when he tried to insist there was no horse in his father’s stables gentle enough to act as a woman’s pony. *You think the only sorts of horses I rode while crossing the rocky footpaths of Dalmatia with my husband were slow-broke nags and docile ponies? My safety isn’t a concern of yours or anyone’s but my own.* Artorius had flushed, the shade harsh, making his ruddy, sun-touched skin only darker, but his eyes, a steel-gray that made her think of storm-clouds low over a squalling sea, met hers, saying firmly. *I did not mean imply you have no talent for more spirited horses, Lady. But I’ll bear your anger to correct you in saying that your safety, in fact, is of the utmost importance, bc it’s my life forfeit if it’s in my company when you happen to be unseated from your mount and break your neck, or your head is dashed upon rocks bc you’re thrown. It will be upon my conscience that I did not caution nor guard you close enough, and it will be upon my family’s honor that I, who ought to have been responsible for the Augusta’s life, failed in my duty.* Shocked into silence, it took Lucilla some very long, slow breaths to work through the turmoil in her mind, not used to being opposed/countered in her demands. He was obviously not the callow, infatuated, all-worshiping youth she had thought; though she could see him starting to glance away from her stilled gaze uncomfortably, looking like he wanted to be anywhere the other side of hell than in her presence just then. Her sudden peel of laughter took him aback, his eyes leaping back to her, consternation in his frown. *Indeed, Artorius Castus, forgive me. You are right–about my flippancy toward mortality anyway. As for the title, that’s no longer mine to claim.* His face eased into a gradual smile, a cheeky half-grin at first that lifted his earnest melancholy, a flash of white teeth and twinkle in his gaze that made her, in that moment, uncomfortably aware that he was quite handsome, in that roughened way of men who spent their hours outside tasting of wind, sun, and chasing the clouds or the waves in all elements. His laughter was warm and deep. *We aren’t as inclined to track titles, my Lady. You’re the daughter of an emperor. And you were the wife of one. Your husband being dead makes you no less an empress. That alone elevates you above the common stock.* His words hit like a cold ice-crush into her chest. *Today, I don’t wish to be anything other than…me. Lucilla.* She willed him with all her heart, trying not to let the edge of panic/desperation/hysterics take her voice. *Please, take me out with you today. I’ll ride whatever horse you feel suited.* The set of his mouth revealed his inclination to protest. Studying her, she wondered what he must have seen in the intensity she could feel drawing tight the muscles of her jaw/the strain over her brow. *I can’t go back to face my father right now* *As you wish*he nodded, after a moment’s indecision.

–During week Lucilla/MA visit Isirium, escaping plague sweeping through the east, Artorius and Lucilla escape from dreary boredom of older older adults early morning in spring, riding out along the cliffs down to seaside, finding a sheltered copse ringed by early spring flowers, in low cluster, discuss Varro, Artorius despises, commenting how poets make all rural dwellers sound like they suck the tears of their goats, and fuck their sheep, to which only realized the coarseness of the comment after he says it, apologizing, Lucilla insists she not offended, explaining that she spent most of her married life around her husband’s dissipated crowd…Artorius expresses his frustration, wanting to see the world, to which Lucilla states it may not be all so enticing, Artorius states he will at least have experienced it, Lucilla asks if he would like to hear what offends her, going on to explain how men belittle the fact she’s a woman, and for that reason, can’t understand what it takes to rule an Empire, despising how the borders need reinforcements, and are strained, spend gold to the East for foreign luxuries, eyeing the silk and thread threading of her over gown, while the treasury taxes the people to privation in order to buy Egyptian grain… Artorius insists he’s not offended, but enchanted, and she states how the both have their ambitions…

She ignores the background chatter in the room, finding the dim glow from the streets below, stretching north and east across the Forum___, and climbing up the terraced ____scattering of homes set into the ____Hill less harsh to her pulsing/exhausted vision/sight/stressed sight. “Is it very bad, this one?” The words come from behind her, as she swings around at their sound. “Artorius! How did you escape being announced?” she whispers conspiringly, dropping her head low. “By taking to the streets, on my two feet, like a common pleb.” His grin hasn’t changed in all the years between their first meeting and now, revealing the same cheeky humor, the twinkle in his eyes. “Your attendants were made of more delicate stamina.” “Careful with your criticisms. They’re two of Saertoros’s favorite cosmeticians. You insult them too strongly, and he’ll see that my brother orders you to groomed by an African ape for the amusement of the mob.” “Well, they did wonders with my garb, I’ll grant that.” He gestures over the fine linen tunic of light blue, which falls below his knees, edged in the thin border of porphyry silk, the belt of silver plate-links, the buckle of bronze and gilt working showing Neptune driving his chariot of sea horses across the waves, trident in one hand, whipping his beasts on with the other, the only indication of Artorius Castus’s commissioned status in the chief marine unit of the Emperor. The years haven’t so much aged him as refined the essence of that eager, restless young man who had captured her heart in those brief, sweet days they had spent rambling along the wind swept-cliffs, upon the sturdy steeds his father used to fortify bloodlines of cavalry mounts for the legions, bearing them, clamoring up hidden trails, and winding into the deep green valleys, where they sat and shared their dreams, their memories, with one another beside a sun-dappled river, and a strand of blossoming aspens. Thick black brows crown his strong features, a wide forehead, balanced by deep-set eyes, their gray now shaded by a more staid melancholy than she recalls, the first lines at their corners evidence of sun, wind, and sea, than the ravages of time. His gazes moves over her unabashedly, following the line of cheek, the slope of throat, where the glitter of twined Spanish silver drapes like a slither of snow over her collarbones. She feels her skin warm/face flush beneath the draw/heat in his gaze, his focus sliding along the slight rise of her breastbone, the curves of soft flesh just below, outlined by the gentle folds of Indian cotton, shot with silvered silk, the delicate fabric shivering against her skin with each quickened breath. A handful of stolen kisses, caresses in shadowed corners of fort buildings, the dizzying exhilaration of their movements, his limbs twined with hers on the rare nights she had been able to sneak away to him, the last time they had been together in Aquileia/Sirmium, in that week before her father died, and the world changed forever. Despite their solitude by the window, at the edge of the banquet hall, Lucilla is ever aware of the greedy attention of the guests that track her every move, and posture. She sighs long, gathering her poise, giving him a scrutinizing look, inhaling/sniffing the air about him. “Well, you don’t smell like you’ve been at sea these last 12 months.” He quirks an eyebrow,/puzzled look/caught by her off hand comment, before breaking into a short, gruff laugh. “Your attendants- "Saortius’s attendants.” Lucilla wants it clear, she bears no ties, however casual or trivial such associations may be, with any of the intimates of her brother’s circle, particularly his male-lover. Artorius gives her a pointed, playful look, humoring her correction. “Whoever. They had their hour, primping over me in the baths. Amid the mewling, hissing, and tsking- "Fascinating. Were they cats, or men?” His mouth quirks up at one side, the mirth in his eyes basking over her, not off-put in the least by the tart tone. “They were yowling like cats by the time I was done with them.” “Oh dear,” Lucilla frowns, feigning concern. “You weren’t too horrible to them, were you? They are, after all, rather used to the effeminate world of stage actors and court dancers. Not the demanding rigor of our military men.” Artorius’s voice carries all of his mimed disdain/insult/violation. “They plucked a hair from my chest.” A line of neatly trimmed hairs accents his jaw, matching the dark brown, thick cropped tresses covering his scalp. “They left your beard,” she offers in mock sweetness. “They tried sprinkling me with Rose oil from Antioch,” he blurts in his barley contained indignation. To which she laughs suddenly, Artorius’s deeper timbre adding to her joy. A husky merriment that relaxes the tension cramping/squeezing her temples, chasing away the dull hammer of her headache behind her eyes. She feels…lighter, in that moment. Young again, and wishing to be the woman, the person she always had been with him, the person he had always cherished. Not an icon of power, a vehicle to breed heirs, or even, as her brother acknowledged, an advisor, his echoing confessor, to soothe his impulses, and temper his fears, balancing that fine edge between keeping his favor, and repairing the sensibilities of the senators. Conscious of the attention their mirth has drawn from the other guests gathered about the hall, they quiet into breathlessness. A glance exchanged, Lucilla has to squeeze her lips together, seeing Artorius’s smirk flick at the edge of mouth, threaten to dissolve them into another round/gale of laughter. “You should smile more,” he says. The tenderness in his voice cuts into her heart. He sees the question in her eyes. “You look…” “Younger?” She can’t quite keep the archness/tartness from her tone. “Freer.” Her smile this time, is a sad ghost, a memory of the girl she had been, the hope of her youth, buried, sunken beneath the woman she has become in the years since her father’s death, managing Commodus’s excesses and corruptions, fighting to keep her perfect composure, serenity, and keep his suspicions of her dead. Her eyes cross over the myriad bodies clustered in the private groups, conversing in low voices, sipping from their fine molded, silver goblets. She tone is hard. “The same men who used to surround my father squealing like suckling pigs now cage my brother like scavenging sharks. He and his lover paw each other like humping dogs in front of his wife, and she does nothing. He insults our generals, men who won our father’s victories, spurning their counsel on the eve of triumph to instead, treat with the Quadi, and they do nothing. He degrades our senators, ignores our laws, and squanders our treasury upon his perverse entertainments, and they do nothing. My husband does…nothing.”

“Lucilla?” Her name only, but his tone if full of caution, knowing, not wanting to understand what she’s saying.

Far below, the streets of Rome emanate a faint glow, the soft light of torches mounted outside forecourts, oil-lamps set on open casements in upper story rooms. The season is still early, the night fresh with the spring rains which blow in from the coast, washing out the muddied lanes, and clearing the gutters of their festering filth. She turns from the window, from the dark night beyond the palace, meeting Artorius’s’ frown with a slow, reassuring smile. “It will all be different after tonight.”

“What do you mean?” The question is spoken low, his eyes heavy upon her.

Her smile fades as she glances behind him, seeing her husband, Claudius Pompeianus, approach them from across the banquet hall. On his arm, he escorts his guest. A woman, tall, regal. Striking, despite being on the closing end of her fifth decade, as Lucilla figures her age anyway. Envy, jealousy, or hatred. She ought to feel something other than this empty echo of sadness which rises, a dull ache pressing into her chest. She can’t hide the curl of her lip, her sorrow briefly breaking through. “Nothing,” she repeats the word like a mantra of her emptiness, turning her attention fully to Artorius, “I mean nothing. Only that I am happy you are here. That we are finally together after so long apart,” her practiced poise smoothing away any expression of upset.

The troubled shadow in his gaze tells her he’s not convinced. Despite Artorius’s devotion, his desire for her, there’s little he, nor anyone can do to cure this malignancy, the pain of her marriage. The grudge she still carries against her father, who she adored with all the faith in her being, transforming into the epitome of culture and grace, an empress to match her emperor. She had been the restraint, the light touch of wisdom redirecting the excesses of Lucius Verus’s behavior into victories that secured the loyalty of their eastern provinces. When plague had taken her first husband, and stolen away her role as Augusta, Marcus Aurelius hadn’t granted her the reward of autonomy, but bartered her to a man of lower rank, and dull ambition. For all Pompeianus’s military achievements, he carried little regard for the art of politics, and the intricacies of imperium. He had long ago accepted his wife’s baffling contempt as yet one more necessary inconvenience in the fulfillment of duty. She had given him a healthy son, and in so far as state contracts were concerned, Lucilla had kept her part of the bargain, providing an heir for Pompeianus, and assuring his senatorial heritage. Had she known back in the early years of their marriage, the true source of his coolness toward her, his forbidden, secret affection for the woman now at this side, Lucilla might have been spared the gnawing guilt that had haunted her for so many long, tortured nights.

An urge nearly overwhelms her, to suddenly unburden herself, admit everything of her plans, the reason for her enigmatic words, to Artorius. But Pompeianus and his companion draw near, almost into ear-shot. Instead, her desperation raw in her voice, she whispers, “Come to me tonight?”

She hears the ragged breath of his surprise, his desire, the way his gaze, suddenly bright with need, lances through her, then leaps to her husband and the woman at his side. The conflict of his conscience constricting his face. "Lucilla–“her name harsh, dragged past his lips into silence.

"Please.” She knows Artorius’s opinion of her husband is somewhat more elevated than her own, more favorable. They had served along the Danube together, Artorius Castus a mere centurion at the time. He was honored by Pompieanus, by her father, for his treatment of the Sarmatians, the conscription of over five-thousand horselords to re-garrison the depleted forces along Britannia’s hinterlands. Those shores of cold mist and savage moors, where legionaries described the women as giantesses, war-mad and frothing at the mouth, charging their chariots into battle. The woman striding elegantly beside her husband is tall, taller than the average Roman man. By all appearances, though, she embodies the ease of a Republican matron, rather than a warrior-queen, bent on tearing her enemies to pieces.

“Who is she?” Artorius asks, following the line of her gaze to her husband and his guest.

“The one he ought to have married.” She clutches his hand quickly, feeling the warmth, the power in his answering grasp. "Come to me tonight?”

He traces the delicate band of bronze circling her ring finger. “You still wear it?”

“Always.” She nods, swallowing, her breath catching in her throat, the years of loneliness she’s kept at bay with the precious memories of their loving her only succor in the endless seasons of their separation. “Please. Tonight.”

A moment of silence, marking the time with the thundering of her heart drumming through her hearing. Then…

“Always,” spoken harshly, a sigh, everything of his love, and his reluctance in that one word.

One last squeeze, and their hands drop apart. Claudius and his companion slow, stopping to offer their welcome. Lucilla inhales deeply, greeting them with a bright smile. "Husband! You recall Lucius Ar-

"Artorius Castus!” She’s always hated how he over-speaks her, but Lucilla manages her annoyance, a small bow, and she steps back to Lucius'a side as the men exchange their greetings.

Claudius grabs Lucius’s hand, drawing him into a vigorous hug, their hearty ribbing full of laughter and jest. Her husband is still a well-built man, for all of being in in his mid-sixties.

“Last I saw you, lad, you were pummeling Sarmatians back to their Maker. Then, stroking the scabbards of Marcus Aurelius’s advisors the wrong way–may his soul rest easy–insisting the turds be conscripted.”

Artorius grins quickly/ruefully as the part. “For which I had the dubious task/honor seeing to their transfer across 10 rivers and no less than five provinces, excluding the crossing to Britannia.”

“And soundly rewarded with an assignment direct to the emperor’s fleet out of Misenium,” Claudius says in his clipped/brisk voice/chuckle. Lucilla marvels how he can strip himself of the trappings of a genteel senator, and take on the trappings of his old military demeanor when in the presence of fellow veterans and active legionaries, as though he doesn’t wish to be thought of as soft or indolent these years he’s resided in Rome. “Are you bored yet, with spitting sea salt and basting German whores along the fringe of the Rhine?”

Artorius’s laugh is short, his smirk touching his eyes, a comradely smile passing between the men. “You’ve obviously been keeping a close track on my career.”

“We heard about how your men routed the Quadi/OTHER TRIBES/LAST ENGAGEMENT AFTER COMMODUS’s PEACE at ______Fort on the Danube, where it crosses at____, all the way here in Rome.” Claudius’s admiration is plain across his grizzled features, white brows and silvered hair, his dark eyes shine like a alert hound’s, hungering for the hunt, reliving the glory days of his own command under her father. “Ingenious, using the damming from the winter melt.”

Artorius, more reserved, says only, “We were fortunate the spring thaw was so rapid that year. It slowed their boats/rafts, halted their offensive, or we would have been fighting their parties from two fronts. It allowed time to oil the logs, and have the archers take a position from the trees, and set them ablaze. Gods be thanked, it’s been some years since we’ve seen an active engagement like that. Now, it’s mostly transport, food-stuffs, supplies, occasional livestock, transferring a unit or two, and the like.”

“Ah, the reality of peace.” Her husband can’t quite his disdain/disproval/contempt, her brother’s odious treaties with the tribes among the Danube one of the few points he seems to concur on, feel as strongly as she does, in regards to the ill-reasoned direction of her brother’s decisions in ruling the empire. “Are you Nostalgic for the days of direct action?”

Artorius hears the peculiar vibe of dissatisfaction from Claudius, eyeing him curiously/carefully/cautiously. “Only in so far as it kept the men occupied. Bored soldiers are no good for the integrity of our frontiers.”

A strange look, full of some unspoken meaning that unsettles Lucilla, passes between Claudius and the woman who stands just off to his side. Claudius nods. “Which is why it’s necessary to have men of experience staffing the posts in our hinterlands.”

He sounds like he’s about to reminisce on the glory days of his own command, but Artorius sniffs loudly, an unvoiced frustration/consternation surfacing. “And leaves me in my current quandary. I was advised by my commanding officer not 6 months back I’d receive my next assignment direct from the barracks here in the capital. 6 months later, and there’s been no commission forthcoming.”

“This, perhaps, is where my brother’s wife may of some help.” She waits patiently to be introduced, stepping forward to take Claudius’s hand. wrapped the woman who has accompanied her husband to this banquet tonight, held by her brother. “Maeve, the wife of Antius Crescens Calpurianus, legate of the VI Legion Victorius out of Eboracum, daughter of Lucius, king of the Briganti nation, and heir to the provincial domains of northern Britannia.” She weaves an Alluring portrait/image, a tall, elegantly figured woman in a gown the shade of crushed violets, her black hair, streaked with white, is pulled into an elegant coif, held by a circlet of netted silver and diamonds, her cheekbones high in a long face and probing eyes , her high forehead accented by thick slanting brows, heavy lidded eyes the color of ice, appear serene, ironic, as though they’ve looked on the multi-layered worlds, the souls and actions wrought by men, and little, if any circumstance exists which can still disturb her ease/poise/composure. She must have been stunning in her youth, and now, into her middle years, her presence still invokes a hushed respect in Lucilla, rarely effected by others of rank, a stab of envy jabbing her conscience as Artorius’s gaze travels over the woman’s form appreciatively/admiringly/consideringly. He’s never been shy in his appraisal of the women around him, a trait which would have infuriated her had he not also prized their talents and minds in turn.

“A queen?” Artorius says admiringly, on cue, bending down to kiss her elegant fingers, twined with Claudius’s. “You’re far from home.”

“It’s an impotent title, carrying little more these days, than the symbolism of a fabricated past.” Her smile, fleeting, warms her eyes with a quick, darting humor upon Artorius, and thawing the image of immaculate reserve. “Far from home, and long away as well.” Her voice has a low, smoky lilt, her Latin accented in that cadence of her northern home.

“I imagine you’re much missed by your husband, Lady. What would spur you to leave so far from both hearth and country?”

Her eyes rest upon Artorius, an enigmatic smile ghosts over her lips. “That would be long story for one night. Suffice for now, there’s value in seeing how the world fares beyond the sunrise and sunset of our own lands, whether we’re women and men. Do you not believe so, Artorius Castus?”

“I do,” he says with a single, firm nod, meeting her intent expression.

“Good. Then, you’ll understand to my chagrin, I’ve been so long absent, that I’ve only now had the benefit of Claudius apprising me of the most recent reports from Britannia. They’re distressing, to say the least.”

“My sympathies, Lady. If the reports I received as well from the Hadrian limes hold any merit, they also credited your husband, and your sons I believe, with the discipline and courage that has kept our frontiers solid against barbarian incursion these last years.”

A flash of some emotion, anger, lances the coolness of her poise. “It’s your Saramatians, Artorius Castus, who haven’t yet fulfilled their potential as reinforcements in our northern auxiliaries. They’re recalcitrant and have proven excessively difficult to integrate into the deployments, according to my husband.”

Artorius blinks at her sharp tone, nonplussed it seems, but his voice is hard when he answers her remark. “Perhaps it’s that the right man hasn’t yet been found. Who understands their customs without denouncing them, and demonstrates an adequate command of equestrianship.”

Amusement, subtle, washes over/melts across/softens the British woman’s regard, returns his defensive/tense words with breathy, considering little laugh. “Alas, my thought as well.

Artorius’s regards her/studies her/watches her with a closed/guarded expression. "And your husband?”

“My husband tends to concur,” Maeve states with an air of serene confidence. An unease begins to take hold of Lucilla, as the British woman’s crystalline eyes fall upon Claudius, and he motions with a nod in return. “Marcus Aurelius highly commended you. Senator Pompeianus extolls your feats in battle, especially against the Sarmatii, but it was your skill in orchestrating their/the steppe nomads’ peaceful transfer to British shores which snagged the accolades of my husband. Your name crossed the rosters for reassignment in the last year. Antius has had you marked.”

Anticipation livens Claudius’s usually /bland/stern/morbid comportment when required to interact socially with others. “The command is yours, if you wish it, Artorius Castus.”

“And what command is that, Senator?”

Lucilla glances at him quickly, sees the interest sudden, blazing, lighting up his rugged features. He carefully/deliberately avoids her stricken gaze, as she struggled to quash the rising panic, the awareness he is to be taken from her again before they ever have a chance to claim a happiness forever eluding them, duty the despair of their love.

Maeve answers before Claudius can speak. “Prefect of the Cohort of the First Wing of Sarmatian cavalry.”

He ponders her words in silence for the beat/space of a breath. Then, a rueful smile crosses his features. “That was the post Aurelius’s counsellors denied me at the juncture when their Prince, Batrades, was about to embark with the first contingent across the Channel from _____(northern French/Amorican/Norman/Breton port). They told me I treated them too sympathetically, that my interactions with the Iazyges were too familiar, and my orders were not issued to conscripts with sufficient authority or discipline to keep them in their place, subordinate.”

“You lacked the seasoning and rank back then to have been rewarded such a sensitive assignment/position. That rapid a rise would have ruffled the envy of other officers Aurelius considered too essential to snub at the time,” Claudius says. “Times are different now. The opportunities for a talented legionary, the equestrian background–well lad, there’s few who would object to your placement as head of the Sarmatian horselords.”

He’s obviously drawn to the offer, his gaze bright, what regret he might feel, once more being separated from her by distance and duty, rapidly evaporating from his mind.

“But so far?” Lucilla asks, trying to keep her voice smooth, distant/polite, wo the imposing need, but thinking how forced the words, her smile feeling forced, past the constriction of her throat. “Surely after a year at sea, and so many seasons spent in our hinterlands, you would seek an assignment more centrally located to Rome, to your family. The Praetorian ranks, perhaps?”

A strange perplexity clouds his features. “I barely know my family, at least of the Neopolitan branch. My father’s uncle is my closest living relative, who now lies near his last breath, and never gave my father more than a passing indulgence once year around Saturnalia. Home has ever been…Asturias. I’ll accept your offer, on one condition,” Artorius says, his fingers worrying/working the fanged pendant, his determined gaze on Claudius’s. The senator gives a small nod/cautious nod/slow nod. “Grant me leave to see my grandmother, assure the farm is stable, and our household provided for.”

“Done.” Claudius reaches out his hand. Artorius clasps the man’s forearm in a return, a exultant light suffusing his eyes, sealing their deal as Lucilla’s tenuous grasp at joy begins to spin away from her, into a dark abyss drilling a hole of abandonment into her soul.

“A curious pendant, those teeth.” Maeve’s voice moves over them like a gentle breeze off summer seas.

The men part, stepping back from each other. Artorius, still fingering the fangs off the leather tong around his neck, gives a cursory glance down at the yellowed ivory canines. One curved fang embossed with vertical gold etchings like bird’s feet in sand, down its the curve to the narrowed point, the other tooth bare, wo embellishment or mark.

Artorius lets the enameled teeth drop from his grasp, to rest undisturbed, just below his collarbone. “A family heirloom of sorts. It was the only treasure brought from Hibernia by my grandmother, passed to my own father, then to me upon his death.”

“The one with the writing, it’s rendered in the language of the Druids.”

His gaze upon Maeve is measuring. “Do you know what it means?”

She squints, a veiled/hooded expression/unreadable expression upon Artorius, examining the gold-embossed talisman. “It takes some time to translate druid-script into the Latin. What of the other?”

A half grin twitches across his lips. “A humbling reminder, Lady, of hubris–a novice recruit, his first assignment at the northern extent of the Rhine, and a perhaps, too reckless exuberance for adventure that turned into a struggle for survival in the face of a blizzard, between myself and the wolf who had previously made use of that tooth.”

“Would he now propose he’s free of hubris?” Lucilla asks, hurling the question like a thrown dagger, looking directly at him, probing his face, refusing to let him retreat from her silent pain.

Contrition shines from his eyes, but before any other comment can be spoken, trumpets sound through the hall, blaring the arrival of the emperor in a flurried entourage/procession from the high vaulted gallery fronting the entrance.

–Commodus’s entrance, greeting with his sister, announces for his guests to be seated in honor of his father’s commemoration/deification, change in the program of the entertainment, from Aristophanes and Lysisrrata to ??writer and Antigone, a message of familial fidelity, of devotion to one’s parents and one’s siblings, gaze fixed on Lucilla. Premonition chills her, hearing Maeve’s whispered observance, her ice-blue eyes fastened upon her brother’s procession like she’s gazing into a different world/a distant horizon just beyond. “The shadow of death lies on him.”

“What are muttering about, woman?” Claudius asks distractedly, scowling at her. “This isn’t the time to having spells/episodes, Maeve.”

She blinks, a slight pucker, snd a fine crease between her brows forming, her disconcerting gaze shifting to Lucilla. “Oh Claudius, you should have left when I told you with your wife,” she says with a peculiar remorse.

Commodus announces the change in venue, explaining it’s only appropriate on a night for commemorating their father deification, to celebrate a playwright of Antigone who had captured the virtues his father always espoused, of humbleness, modesty, dignity, serenity/patience, asking Lucilla if this is not what their father taught, as he gestures for her, in a change of seating hierarchy, in a bow to familial ties over marital, to take her old position at his right hand as they, the guests about them begin to move toward their assigned places toward the lounge-divans/cushioned/pillowed benches facing the central raised platform of a stage, Commodus’s wife, Bruttia Crispina throwing her a savage/vicious/waspish glare, and in the coup de grace, as Lucilla takes his hand, he proffers her the accusatory dagger, hurt and rage finally contorting his fine-hewn features that he shares with his sister, words filled with venom, 'The Senate sends you this gift, sister’, shock and confusion buzz from the spectators/witnesses, and Claudius demands to know what the meaning of Commodus’s insinuation is, tossing his wife a bloodied dagger, whilst in this juncture, as everyone’s attention is focused on the play between brother and sister, Lucilla stiff as a statue, color faded from her cheeks, fastened upon the dagger in her trembling hand, Maeve has melted back into the shadows at the edge of the hall, noting a slave who directs her to where the latrines are located, skirts stealthy/sneaks out unnoticed, throwing her palla over her hair, and evading groups of guards at the main entrance, as she darts out a rear servants’ access leads out from the fetid drainage/sewer alley in order to hasten back to Claudius’s mansion on foot, through the streets, and get a message off to her daughter, Artorius too is trying to make sense of the situation, 'Lucilla’, shifts Commodus’s attention to him, in a forced theatrical voice, 'Ah, Lucius Artorius Castus, I believe. I recall the praise my father heaped upon you after the close of the Macromanni assault, and my sister’s favor for you, retaining her golden cunt for her particular lovers. What, I Wonder, did she promise you, in dividing of my empire between her enchanted conspirators, Artorius says in a a low, dangerous voice, menacing, Be careful, Commodus, of what you’re charging, to which he bristles, You have no right to address me as such! I am your emperor, spurring Lucilla to intercede before Artorius advances/responds, voice tense, He has nothing to do with this Commodus, and Commodus pierced her with blazing look of despair and hatred, 'Like Ummidius Quadratus had nothing to do with this, like you hadn’t fucked him into treason against his emperor, his face livid, His blood stains that blade sister, bc he tried to take my life at your instigation, a collective gasp rippling over the audience, as she bites out in a voice like acid, 'How dare you, little brother–no more fit to hold the throne of Caesar than you are to mount a donkey. You insult our father by shitting on his vision, and parlaying with barbarians. The Senate abhors you, the people despise you, and the army disdains you. Perverted and corrupt, your reign will be nothing but a curse left to be smashed from the pillars and walls after you die, Commodus stepping toward her, she sees Artorius tense, ready to jump to her defense but her brother, only a finger breadth taller than her, only whispers, I loved you, Lucilla, above all my sisters. I valued your words, and would honored you. We would have ruled in glory, to outshine even our great father. Hesignals the Praetorians to break their formation, coming forward, taking positions around Lucilla and Artorius Castus on all sides. In a voice meant to project to the audience, he says, “Instead, sister, I order your arrest, for treason, sedition, and attempted assassination against your emperor. You will be exiled to Capri–” the Praetorians wo any command, taking up points on all sides around her–“your sentence to be decided. And Lucius Artorius Castus, to be taken into custody under suspicion of conspiracy–” Fear pierces Lucilla’s voice for the first time that night. “Commodus, he had no part in my actions, no knowledge,” Throwing a desperate look to Artorius who makes no protest as two guards move to restrain each of his arms. “Claudius, please,” she begs, “you know he is innocent!” Commodus raises his hand, commanding his guard to pause, and they freeze, like mimes sharing one mind, in unison. “Indeed,” her brother says with a small, sadistic twitch of his lips that leaves Lucilla numb with dread. His gaze falls on Claudius, who looks like he’s aged a century in the moments since his wife’s treason came to light, skin parchment pale, sagging exhaustion beneath his eyes. He shuffles toward the emperor, falling to his knees, kissing the signet ring when Commodus extends his hand. “The clemency I seek, your Grace, is not for my wife, but for this man. He has served your father, and you, fiercely and faithfully, along our water routes, and our furthest boundaries. He could not have had any knowledge of my wife’s betrayal, gods have mercy upon his life.” “Mercy,” Commodus repeats the word, as though spoken in a foreign tongue. “My father promoted justice along with mercy. And we are, if harsh, also just. Rise Claudius Pompeiaus,” he motions with his hand. “And if Lucius Artorius Castus is, indeed innocent,” he fingers clutch Lucilla’s fine-boned wrist, bringing the dagger in its grip to Artorius’s hand, as the guards thrust him, shoving him, before Commodus, “then he may prove his loyalty to his emperor.” Malice fires an ardency across Commodus’s features, meeting Artorius’s defiant gaze. “So, soldier, I ask, how ought my traitorous sister be punished?” She feels Arorius clasp the handle of the knife, his focus unwavering from her. He’s as taut as a catapult, drawn, and ready to fire. The tremor from the power of his grip on the knife, her own fingers still wrapped about its handle, shudders up her arm to her shoulder. “No, Artorius, don’t!” What happens next is a blur of outrage/alarmed cries/bellows, the dagger in his grip driven upwards, Lucilla trying to divert its momentum/force from her brother’s chest toward a point into her neck, unaware of her helpless/stricken utterance echoing through the hall. Commodus’s outraged cry sends the Praetorians into action, the nearest raising his short sword hilt like a bludgeon at the same moment Artorius wrenches Lucilla backwards/pushes her backwards, out of grasp, sending her stumbling to the ground, ramming his shoulder into the man’s armored torso, his fist smashing into the doubled-over guard’s jaw with a sickening crunch. The man behind him flails, his spear flying out of his grip across the floor, scattering the onlookers, as his downed comrade, sluggish/reeling from Artorius’s blow, crashes into him, and spins to marble floor, his shout to look to the emperor strangled by the Artorius’s foot landing in the side of his neck. Lucilla manages to stagger upright, seeing the additional regiment pour into the hall, twenty-five men, in polished black armor, advancing to the scene, as Artorius dives for the lost spear, dodging the third guard’s hapless maneuver with his shield, that he tries to leaver up, and clip Artorius’s rapid motion, but he lunges into a tight roll at the last moment, lurching to one foot just in front of the surprised guard, the closest Commodus, and trying to impose himself between the attacker and the emperor. Artorius thrusts the spear into the thunder bolt blazoned shield, using the soldier’s paralyzed astonishment to yank back, dragging the guard forward, the man loosing his footing, warning Commodus to back away while he and Artorius grapple for the man’s still sheathed sword, dangling at his waist from the leather strapped belt. With the spear shaft as his winch/lever/mast, Artorius Heaves himself bodily into the shield, shoving the guard further back as he tugs the sharpened head out of the rawhide and bronze/alloy sealed wood, maneuvering to come behind the guard, and drive the spear head into the man’s calf as the guard snarls in pain, twisting to his knees, his shield clattering to the floor as his hand flies to where the barbed lance is buried in his muscle, a pool of red liquid leeching out from the wound. Artorius, undeterred by the arrival of the additional soldiers, never stalls, launching himself with a bestial sound, all his disgust/contempt for Commodus in that sound, who staggers back, vulnerable and exposed, face a mask of fear, flinching away from the bloodied dagger Artorius aims at his throat, even as his free hand, flies out to grab her brother beneath his chin, hauling him off his feet, carrying him back, such is his anger and power in his motions, slamming Commodus into one of the grand marble columns/Quartz columns lining the room. “Was this what you thought I would do to your sister,” his voice full of menace, pressing the edge of the blade up to her brothers throbbing vessel in his neck, glaring into Commodus’s frenzied/panicked eyes, rolling in his head. “Artorius, no!” She knows there’s no recourse now. Claudius restrains her from rushing toward them as a contingent of 4 new armored men surround her and her husband, another looking to the beaten soldiers slowly recovering themselves, gathering gear and coming unsteadily to their feet, but the soldier with his leg left bleeding, groaning as a medic trained officer readies to dislodge the spear head driven into the back of his lower leg. She and Claudius are the only two left standing of the other guests as the additional Praetorian regiment cleared through the hall in a ruthless efficiency, they have forced every guest, man or woman, senator, wife, escort, actor, or nameless slave, to the ground with their swords drawn, shields in the front, every 5th man left at the perimeter of the kneeling, prone, terrified audience to survey for any surprise attack. “You’re a dead man, scum,” Commodus chokes out past the iron grip flexed about his throat. One of the black armored guards, flanked by two of his companions advances toward her brother and Artorius. “Release your lord emperor, soldier.” He levels his spear, in unison with the other two guards fanned to either side of him. Artorius ignores the command, keeping the dagger edge pressed against the pulsing artery in Commodus’s jugular. “I’ll make your death a living hell, if dare harm her.” The guards shuffle nearer, spears readied in the grasps, closing from behind where Artorius has Commodus pinned against the column. The leader stresses the words more firmly. “I repeat–release your emperor, soldier, or you invite a harsh consequence.” Commodus’s voice is audible, shaking in his fear, his forehead slick with perpetration, but his malice shines from his blue, reptilian eyes, basilisk’s gaze. “You heard them, soldier,” the word hissed. “Release your emperor. How exactly do you expect to save my traitor of a sister by murdering her brother?” Lucilla entreats Claudius’s understanding, and he releases her arm, seeming to read the plea in her eyes. The strain weighs heavy on him, and she can still see the disbelief of her actions warring with the reality of events spinning faster than he can keep apace from the loss/confusion marring his normally stern features. The troops surrounding them act, at first, to obstruct her purpose. Her raised hand, a pacifying gesture, the regality of her bearing, assure them she intends no threat. They keep their weapons trained upon her warily though, as she glides toward Artorius and her brother, locked in Artorius’s choke-hold. She stops just short of the three guards oriented near enough that could thrust a spear into his neck, or slice an arm with their short-swords if so incited. “Artorius–There is no winning this now.” She passes like a wraith between two Praetorians, coming alongside him, begging silently that he will heed the force of her will in her words and /unmoving/fixed/steady gaze centered upon him. Tension tremors his hand, squeezing the dagger blade harder against Commodus’s neck, just short of drawing blood. Her brother makes a short, strangled sound that alerts the trio of guards to close in, their spears in positioned, the men postured for the kill. Rage burns from Artorius eyes, trained upon Commodus, and for an endless heartbeat that leaps into her throat, stopping her breath, she thinks he’s about to slice the dagger across her brother’s bared throat. Contempt twists his features, and with a snarl, Artorius shoves his elbow forcefully/hard against Commodus’s windpipe, removing his throttle hold from the emperor’s throat with a rapid recoil of his hand, fingers still flexed/curled about the knife handle. Commodus falls to floor, crouched on his knees, trying to relax the spasms of his crushed throat, his blazing hatred centered on Lucilla. “He was innocent of all involvement in this, brother. The responsibility of all of this lies with me, solely.” “Lucilla…,” Claudius calls her name helplessly, a mixture of anguish, shame, and fear in his voice. “You’ve so much as condemned yourself of treason, sister,” Commodus rasps past his raw throat. He struggles to his feet, his quick glance to a guard staying the man who was about to come to his assistance. Even her brother, for all his idle cowardice, still has his pride. “Do you admit your guilt in this failed 'coup’ (did that equivalent exist in the Latin lexicon??), sister? That you deliberately deceived your rightful emperor, and plotted the assassination of your Augustus, and most disappointingly of all, devised the downfall of your only living brother, who has loved you above all his siblings?” She meets his evil/vile smugness calmly, her mind so clear in purpose now, even fear has left her, replaced by a resurgence of clarity and determination. “Will you let Lucius Artorius Castus free? With no accusation of complicity, and innocent of all malicious/malevolent intent?” “Oh, my dear,” Artorius murmurs softly at her side, a sad acceptance imparted with words. “He’s hated me from the moment of our love.” His presence by her side is a warmth, a comforting touch in her mind of reassurance, filling her with courage. She cannot look at him, or she thinks she will lose this last thread of hope to make some kind of reparation for the disaster of her plot. “Will you let him go, without threat of harm or imprisonment?” The smugness across her brother’s face makes her want to spit in his eyes. Instead, she keeps her her gaze placid, drilled on him, awaiting his decision. Benevolence floods/washes over/spreads into a gracious smile over his smooth cheeked face. “Of course, dear sister. As I said, we are, of all things merciful as we are just.” She raises her chin, eyes steadied upon Commodus, defiance, pride, in her voice to the last. “Then at least one us, brother, shall go to our death having tried to preserve our father’s legacy.” Anger tics his mouth in a sneer, immediately repressed by his facade of equanimity. She fully expects him to issue the order to his guards of her arrest. Instead, he shifts his attention to Claudius, who continues to watch their exchange cautiously. “I’ll presume by having not mentioned your husband with the same passion you defended your equestrian legionary, Claudius Pompeianus also had no affiliation with your plotting.” Shame, guilt, resentment all wash through her, reluctantly looking toward her husband’s broken expression. A man of talent whose ambitions had fallen short of greatness, disappointment leaves her with an exhaustion that almost sacks her of her stoic will. Especially when Commodus continues in his pronouncement. “Pompeianus will surely not wish to provoke his emperor’s anger by attempting any additional conspiracy when he mercifully allows Pompeianus to collect his wife for the night, to spend one last evening with her family, snd settle estates or make reparations as she might. For your son, of course, Claudius, my favored nephew, who remains innocent of all wrong-doing despite the sins of his mother.” Something bleak, creeps into Lucilla’s voice when she rallies her response. “You will not harm him, my son?” Commodus’s beneficence is sickening. “Why would I harm him?” He asks innocently. “I love him.” “You loved me,” she returns stiffly, through her dread. Her son, who she won’t be able to protect once death and the earth separate them. “And I still do, sweet sister. I still do.” Commodus inclines his head toward the guards surrounding Claudius, to allow him to approach. Commodus stretches out his bejeweled fingers, thick with the rings of his authority. The aged senator kneels, effacing himself before her brother, humbly posturing obeisance as he places his lips upon the imperial signet. “Remember Claudius Pompieanus, guard her well. The official warrant of her arrest shall be issued tomorrow.” Artorius exhales sharply, but Lucilla stays his protest with a darting glance, a short shake of her head. “A Praetorian contingent will take her into state custody at that time.” “I understand, your Eminence.” Pompeianus awaits Commodus’s permission to rise. “I am ever your faithful servant.” Magnanimously, Commodus gestures for her husband to rise, even offering his arm for the retired army general to use as support. He turns to her, and she’s struck by the haggard/worn pall which makes her husband seem suddenly ancient, shrunken, like a dying tree, is a new thing. Next to her golden haired, trim-built brother, with his high cheek bones and Asian tilted eyes the color of lapis blue, Claudius appears like a withered stump. She’s never noticed how tottering his hair has become, nor how lumpy/swollen his knuckles have grown with rheumatism, as he places a hand hesitantly, almost permissively/or submissively/timidly upon her wrist. “Come wife. Let us go make your preparations.” She feels moved to pity for the pain she has caused him, for first time, she experiences the deeper awareness/burden of the fallout of her brother’s rage that will undoubtedly be unleashed upon not only her fellow conspirators, but all members of the Senate, whether or not they were involved in her plot. Names which must have been ripped from Ummidius Quadratus’s mouth as he suffered extraordinary torment at the hands of Imperial interrogators. *So long as Artorius is spared*. Lucilla would once have sheared herself with guilt at the priority of her affections, before her husband and even her son, but she’s done with self-castigation, with deception, to herself most of all. Her father’s values of justice and moderation were her guiding beacons through her life, but it was the value of truth, to oneself, above all else that Marcus Aurelius instilled most deeply into her heart. Artorius Castus, his love, had been a treasure, a precious gift belonging to her alone. The truth was, What judgements history would later lie upon her sarcophagus, where her ashes would rest in eternal darkness, no longer caused her worry. And she knew all of them, the infamous women with whom she would be staged with posterity, from Cleopatra to Livia, Agrippina to [Vestal murdered by Domition], they were strung upon the wrack of condemnation, torn apart by ambition, led astray by lust, covetous for power, and over-reaching in their grab at immortality, at glory. Lucilla wondered when people of later generations read the story of her downfall, if anyone would read between the lines imparted by the chroniclers. If they would understand the higher purpose she had been trying to serve in her father’s memory, the honor, however miscast as the sort of nobility peculiar to women, which had been the true motive behind her attempt to oust her brother from power. Or perhaps, that was her own deception, and she truly had hungered to rule, bc she ought to have been appointed Augusta in her own right. It no longer mattered. It was now, only the moments she had shared with Artorius, worshipping each other with their bodies, as the shared the hearts and souls. That was the treasure, the gift that was hers alone, and would never be taken from her so long as she met her death, knowing in those minutes, he would still see the sunrise on this side of life the day after. He would still exist in the world, and so would she, carried in his heart, the memory and hope of their stolen seasons beneath that same sun. She lets Claudius lead her toward the arched entry of the banquet hall, sensing the rustling of dispersed guests arrayed on the floor, raising heads, trying to catches glimpse, hear a line, take the measure of the events which so rapidly unraveled, all of them still under the watchful attention of the Praetorians. She pauses, and Claudius makes no objection to her turning, her gaze searching out Artorius’s one last desperate, stolen glimpse of the happiness she had almost won, and slipped from her grasp like the salvage rope from a drowning man’s fingers. “Remember me,” she calls. His eyes hold the cast of stormy seas, anguished. “Always,” is all he can manage. She sees the rebellion, the need to fight, leap to her defense taut in his powerful form, the way his throat works, his anger at his own helplessness, the injustice at her arrest. The guards with their spears trained on him are aware of his coiled anger as well, the leader of the three leveling/weighing him with a warning look, a repositioning of his spear, indicating any wrong move and Artorius was a doomed man. The bronze band around her finger seems to pulse, grow warm, and contract, causing her skin, the bone beneath to burn like she was scalded by hot oil. Perhaps it was true, the insistence of the poets and musicians, that some magical chain ran from the ring finger to the heart, where all life in its pain was a measure of an organ beating away the time until there was no longer the despair or ecstasy of joy, sorrow, hate, loss, and most of all love. Until there was only peace, stillness, silence, and the memory of a life once lived.

It’s in that moment, when she registers Commudus’s motion to his guard, the leader of the trio who still pen/corral Artorius with their spears, and the troops fall upon him. Artorius, surprised by the first blow to his gut, doubles over, the wind knocked from his lungs an audible grunt, wheezing/gasping to breathe even as he makes to spring at his attacker, catching the man’s hand, gripping his spear, shoving it aside before the guard can react, and pummeling his fist straight into the man’s nose, bone and cartilage crunching like a rotten egg, a wet, sickening spray of blood that sends the guard tipping back, letting out a gurgle of choking, red-stained phlegm and tissue. One of the remaining guards imposes himself between Artorius and the emperor. His companion blusters his shield out in front of him , as Artorius wheels to meet them, the spear in his hand. Fellow troops cross the room, leaping into the foray/scuffle/melee. He attempts a valiant rally. The collective battering of spear butts into stomach and back, dull thud of booted feet into knees and groin, and finally a sword hilt to his temple, which downs him at last, occurs in the dead silence holding the guests in an entranced spell of horror, broken only by Lucilla’s screams, bringing her to her knees, even as her husband tries to keep her from toppling to the floor with the agony that seizes the strength from her limbs. The ring blazes against her finger, scalding, and she knows what it is for her heart weep in an explosion of grief, shuddering against Claudius, her pleas to her brother broken by her sobs, Commodus watches/scans the entire scene like a god over his enamored worshippers, in the midst of his black-armored troops, his fine-boned face, like a cherubs in its pleasure, resplendent in his triumph, glowing, his skin smooth as a boy’s over his sharp cheeks, the radiance matched by/accented by his the halo of cropped, golden curls, thick about his head.