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chuluoyi · 1 year ago

Text

found you

- gojo satoru x reader

in a world in which he isn't the strongest and you're the high school's sweetheart, fate brought you to him once again

genre/warnings: reincarnation au, fluff/comfort

notes: a sequel to everything, but not anything

general masterlist

Everyone knows you. You hold most of the popular guys' hearts in your hand and either break them unknowingly or innocently, and despite that, they still don't have it in them to hate you.

And of course, the school's clown, Gojo Satoru, knows you too. He knows you by name and face, but never had the chance to really talk to you directly.

Why? First, he just simply didn't bother, and second, because there was already another girl plaguing him—the girl of his dreams.

And he didn't mean it figuratively... there's indeed a girl haunting him every once in a while in his dreams. A girl whose face was always obscured from his mind, whom he couldn't picture outside the realm of his slumber. Most of the time it was a happy dream, enough to bring a smile to his face every time he woke up.

But sometimes, it was the most disturbing nightmare.

There would be blood, the girl's empty eyes and still body, and him screaming out at her to not die. But then he couldn't do anything—or even see her open her eyes—as he fell into an abyss and awakened in pure terror.

Satoru was convinced someone held this massive grudge on him for pranking them that they resorted to curse him with voodoo or something. Why else would he keep having these dreams about the very same girl? It was clearly a work of something greater.

You were just not interested in romance. At least not with the guys who were after you up until now.

Or perhaps, because there was this guy in your dreams that captivated you so much that you chose to ditch those real guys for him. This imaginary person.

You were going insane. You were sure of it.

When you explained your affliction to your best friend Riko, she shot you a very bombastic side eye but tried to get you to describe the boy in your dreams regardless.

"He..." you faltered. His face was always blurry in your mind's eye. There were little things that you were sure of. "He has a really cute grin? Crinkling eyes? Like he just likes to smile?"

"Y/N, did you hear yourself?" Riko asked you incredulously. "Are you sure it isn't one of the guys in your anime shows? I'm telling you, watching them too much makes you delusional."

And so your girl talk with her ended up with her pushing you to try this hit dating app that guarantees you to go on at least one date due to its many fascinating features. You tried it on sheer whim and didn't even use your real name. You had been swiping right and left, before suddenly stopped when you saw whose profile popped up in your screen.

Gojo Satoru.

He was in your grade, and he was hard to miss. The school's biggest troublemaker who held the highest record of being sent to the disciplinary room. You never got to talk to him, and before today you were sure you wouldn't even look at him twice. So he plays these things too?

Your type definitely wasn't delinquents or attention-seekers. But why is it that the more you gaze at his profile picture—of him with this widest grin and that funny round glasses—the more you are intrigued?

In the end, you swiped right.

Just because he didn't bother to be in a serious relationship or had a girl who held onto him in his dreams, it didn't mean that he was shying away from real life girls. Satoru, as much of a headbanger as he was, was popular. Some girls were into him and he didn't exactly let his chances to fool around pass.

Girls with questionable virtues though. Suguru, whose popularity was as much as him just in the right way, would always say that his tastes were bad. Shoko would straight up mock him as a wimp, for not having the courage to go after the right girl, such as you.

And so when on one of his boring days that he played with a dating app he found a profile who swiped him right with a picture that was you but a name that wasn't, he was taken by surprise and twice as curious.

For one, he knew it was you. And hey, you were interested in him?

Satoru took up on that offer. Taking advantage of it as now he had the chance.

The two of you exchanged messages in the dating app. He'd tell you his thoughts or crack funny jokes, and you'd reply with these many laughing emojis and stickers.

Until one day, when your conversation went like this...

you: really? but girls must be lining up for you and you could've had your pick from them gojo: nah most of ‘em all boring you: what a red flag. after a while surely you'll find me boring too gojo: you? haha no. boring people don't do things you do you: ...what do you mean?

You and him had this texting thing going on for more than a month already, but you still weren't aware that he knew that it was you.

gojo: you're y/n

And he figured that it was time to go face-to-face. Because he wanted to get to know you beyond this phone screen because who knows what more you faked other than your name?

After he busted you not so gently, he demanded that you'd go on a date with him. You could only lament—you couldn't say that you hadn't seen this coming, with how poor your disguise was. Then again, did you even intend on hiding from him in the first place? Now that you thought about it, no. You were quite alright even when he knew who you were.

On the said day, just right after school ended, he went to the agreed place to take out out to a famous cafe in Shibuya. Only to find a guy from basketball team bowing his head before you.

"I really like you!" the guy declared with sincerity and steadfastly. He was tall, quite famous too. By all means, the two of you would've made a fine pair.

Satoru just frowned. Suddenly he didn't like the sight before him. This wasn't the first time he saw someone confessing their feelings for you—you were famous for that. And anyway, the two of you were just friends even though you've been texting for a long time now. He shouldn’t be upset.

"Ah," you let out a small sigh, your face lit with realization. Your voice was soft to Satoru's ears. Too soft. It resembled something someone had told him a long, long time ago.

"Don't ever leave me, okay?" "Of course."

That voice held the same softness as you did just now.

"I'm sorry," you proceeded to say, giving a look of sympathy to your admirer. "I'm very flattered, and I thank you for that. But I have no room for—"

"Y/N-chan!" Satoru didn't know where this immense impulse came from, he just went with it and it terribly spooked you. You jumped and whipped your head at him, eyes widened in total surprise.

But he merely sauntered towards you, only with his winning grin and nothing else, until he was right next to you, staring down the basketball guy with so much mirth in his blue eyes.

"Hello to you." Satoru addressed him, then put his arms on your shoulder, ignoring how you immediately stiffened. "Too bad, today she is going with me."

You couldn't believe what he just said and before you could rectify anything, the guy who just confessed to you bolted away in humiliation. You immediately untangled yourself from his arms, ready to be cross.

Or at least until you stared straight to his cerulean blue eyes.

And he too, saw his reflections in your orbs.

Suddenly everything didn't matter. You were lost into his eyes as he did yours. As the lines of dream and reality twisted and turned.

Suddenly, Satoru could put a face to the girl he'd been seeing on his nightly wonders. Her smile. Your smile.

And you could see the boy who loved you to death in him. The one who took your heart with him, and agreed to go with you for the second time.

All it took was gazing into these eyes of yours to make the connection. Everything seems right. So right.

As if the two of you are destined for this very moment. As if you’re given everything to understand why you should meet him now.

I found you.

As sudden as it came flowing to your brain—all these images that overlapped with your dreams—it ended. You came back to reality.

“You’re insufferable,” you hissed at Satoru, pushing away the fog in your mind.

“Am I?” a shit-eating grin formed at his glossy lips. “But it’s true, you’re on a date with me today.”

And so you went to your very first date. Satoru was every bit the same as the guy who messaged you on that dating app. He was outspoken, effortlessly funny, but still, a bit annoying here and there.

It was strange how comfortable you got around him, even though it was practically your first interaction.

Soon the number of dates increased. Two, three, four—and so on. Soon, everyone knows. Riko questioned you if you were sure to pick him out of all fishes you could’ve picked. In a way, you weren’t sure. It depends on this question: what are you to him anyway?

Meanwhile, on Satoru’s side, everyone either cheered for or envied him. Suguru patted him on his back, thinking he finally got the right senses. And he found himself to like you very much. He couldn’t go a day without thinking what you were doing or messing with you. You were kind, cute and pretty, and as he said it himself, he likes pretty things.

So it came as a surprise when you blurted out that burning question, sounding so unsure and overall out of your character, whereas you should already know how he put his heart on his sleeves for you to grab.

“Are you messing with me?” he gawked. But when he saw hurt crossed on your face, he was thrown into panic. “No—I mean…”

He exhaled sharply. He wasn’t used to this confessing thing at all because usually he didn’t need it.

“I really like you, okay? You do know that I like you, at the very least?”

With that, your relief was visibly palpable, like a sun that went out of its hiding. The hopeful gleam in your eyes—Gods, Satoru wanted to protect that forever.

“With that being said…” he wanted to look cool, he didn’t want to mess this up. And so he extended his hand to you, opening his palm.

“Would you go out with me?”

It was probably the first time you saw him so sincere. He was playful, flippant and overall just a menace, but when he asked you this, he looked as if he brought out his heart for you to see.

When you breathed out a “Yes”, and intertwined your fingers in his, he was over the moon, smothering you with kisses.

From that point onwards, your romance book was brimming with moments that sparkled, ranging from the sweet to the passionate. Each experience with him felt like a first, yet there was an inexplicable sense of familiarity, as if you had known him somewhere from a long time ago.

Those dreams of you and him from somewhere at another time brought the two of you together once again. With their purpose fulfilled, you no longer had to traverse the realm of dreams to be with the boy who had always provided you comfort with his presence. Likewise, he was no longer haunted by the recurring vision of you fading away before his eyes.

Because now, you and Gojo Satoru have a new life. A life where both of you can find happiness together.

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tyrantisterror · 5 months ago

Note

What are some examples of benevolent (or at least benign) dragons in classical western folklore? I recall you mentioning that they did indeed exist, but I don’t recall you ever mentioning any specific examples.

Well, firstly, most of the dragons from Greek mythology. Like, the dragon that Cadmus slew was Ares's pet, and Cadmus had to build an army to fight war in Ares's name as penance. The dragon of Colchis was beloved by Medea and viewed as a protector by her people, and in some versions of the Argonauts myth was put to sleep peacefully instead of slain. Ladon, the dragon who guards the Hesperides, was specifically beloved by the nymphs who lived alongside him, and in the versions of the myth where Heracles slays him, Ladon is explicitly mourned by those same nymphs. Dragons were agents of the divine in Greek myth as often is not more so than they were enemies of it, which makes sense given that so many of them were, like, first cousins with the Olympians. It's really funny that people will cite the Greek myths as examples of dragons as "agents of evil" in the same way it's funny when people cite Greek heroes as moral paragons, when any actual look at Greek mythology shows its morality was always very murky shades of gray rather than the black and white view we like to pretend all European mythology shares.

I think this inflicting of Christian black and white thinking on a morally gray mythology also occurs with Norse myth, though sadly we don't have a lot of pre-Christian Norse literature to serve as concrete evidence for this opinion the way we do with Greek dragons. Like, outside of Ragnorok (which some have argued is not a REAL Norse myth, but something concocted during the Christian-ization of Europe as a way to placate Christianity into not destroying all of Norse culture), Jormungandr doesn't do a single malevolent thing in any Norse story. The most he ever antagonizes anyone is when he lets Utgard Loki (no relation to normal Loki) make him look like a cat to teach Thor a lesson in humility that the god of thunder never fully learns. All subsequent encounters are a result of Thor fucking with Jormungandr out of spite for the cat prank. The corpse chewer dragons in Niflheim are terrifying, but the souls they're gnawing on are the dishonored dead, and they don't cause problems for the living until - well, until Ragnorok, which again, may not be a real Norse myth. Fafnir's a piece of shit, sure, but he's not a dragon by birth - he's a dwarf who turned into one out of greed for gold.

Then you have a myriad of stories about dragons who were tamed by saints or heroes only to be killed by townsfolk who thought they were still vicious, and promptly mourned afterwards - the Tarasque is probably the most prominent of these, but there are other stories that are variations on the formula. I'd also include Maud and the Wyvern/Dragon of Mordiford in this category, as while the dragon is never fully tamed by Maud's affection, it's nonetheless kind to her, and the story ends with her mourning its death rather than the townsfolk celebrating it. You are clearly supposed to feel sympathy for these dragons, even if the stories present their deaths as necessary or inevitable.

There are even examples of good dragons in explicitly Christian Medieval stories, despite them usually opting to treat dragons as purely evil. You have Y Ddraig Goch, the red dragon of Wales, whose defeat of a white dragon is an explicit omen of how the wicked Saxons will be overthrown and driven out by a good (or at least better) king in time, and who becomes the heraldry of King Arthur, a paragon of virtue by the standards of the times each of his stories are told in. There's one saint - I think Carantoc? - who found a dragon sleeping in a well and convinced it to move without much complaint, and another, St. Simeon, who removed a thorn from a dragon's eye to the amazement of all and was shown gratitude by the dragon in turn.

Benign/benevolent/not-explicitly-evil dragons may not make up the majority of European dragons, but they're not as rare as modern generalizations of it would have you believe.

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praisethegabs · 1 year ago

Text

before sunrise

pairing: Leon Kennedy x reader

synopsis: he's alive and recovering. the sun is rising, it's time to start a new day and, possibly, a new chapter in your life.

warnings: mentions of injuries, being at hospital, deaths, and traumas. starts with angst, but has a happy ending like our boy deserves. fluff, leon being vulnerable and sensitive and the reader comforting him, references to id!leon and vendetta!leon. no use of y/n, second person (you)

author's note: the third and final part of before trilogy. this part took more time to write because i wanted a good ending. there's some quotes from infinite darkness and vendetta bc why not? i rly enjoyed writing this trilogy, and i'm sad that it ended. i hope you guys enjoyed it as much as i did writing this!

word count: 4243k (approximately, i've lost count)

before: part one | part two

There was a soft breeze coming through the window, announcing the sunrise.

Although it was a cold day, the sun was shining in the blue sky outside. For some reason, you always enjoyed this type of weather. It wasn't cold enough, but it wasn't warm, too. It was perfect, even though you had to be satisfied with the view.

The walls were white, and you were starting to hate that color. Everything, absolute everything, was white. You sighed again, feeling the pain in your lower lip due to the cut you had. At least, it was something real, and you could feel it, and deep down, you were glad to feel something instead of cold, tiredness, and hunger. Even though you were safe, you hated to wait. And you hated even being at the hospital, especially when you couldn't do anything to change that.

But, just for some release of conscience, you weren't the one that was in there. Of course, the circumstances were terrible, but at least he was safe. Your mission was a complete success, but you were so worried. Nothing could make you feel better, and you were starting to despise that feeling.

Sure, patience wasn't your best virtue, and despite everything you did, all that was left was to watch Leon while he slept, completely medicated and out of danger.

You managed to call for help, and you couldn't stop remembering the fact that he almost died due to high fever. When you found him inside that house, he wasn't breathing anymore, and things happened so quickly that you couldn't even process everything yet. In one minute, he was presumed dead, and in the next one, he was inside the helicopter and being medicated, being resurrected by someone way more qualified than you. You had your share of cuts, contusions, and wounds, but still, he was your priority, and you wouldn't allow yourself to rest until you had sure Leon was safe.

And you brought him home safe.

Now, you were in the hospital and waiting for him to wake up. You glanced at your arm with the clean bandage and then at your hands. You were shaking, and you couldn't tell why, or you were just lying to yourself again like you always did when you were under stress.

"Hey, you" you hear Leon say, his voice weaker and husky, but still your Leon. Your eyes meet with his and suddenly, there's only peace. "Where are we?"

"We're safe" you said to him, your voice full of concern. You were trying so hard to make things easier, even though he was indeed safe.

"What happened?" he asks again, closing his eyes due to his tiredness, his voice low and more husky.

"I contacted Hunnigan, and she sent the rescue team. The medical team brought you here a few days ago" you explained to him, careful enough to not let him worry.

"I was sleeping for days? I guess I needed to rest" he chuckled, and his comment made you smile, your body starting to relax. Yes, it was your Leon.

"You always look like you need to rest" you teased him, a slight smile appearing on your lips as you feel more relaxed around him. "I'm glad you survived. You scared the living shit out of me... again"

"Are we doing scores now?" Leon teased you, the same sentence you used when you were helping him years ago during the outbreak in Raccoon City.

"How do you even remember that?" you ask him, laughing out loud, completely caught off guard by his question.

"I have a good memory, and besides, I couldn't forget the night you saved my life... twice" he said, smiling, and he looked very lovingly saying that way. Your heart melted inside your chest. "I owe you three times"

"Well, you made a promise to Marvin that day. I can't let you die, right?" you smiled back, feeling your cheeks turning red. After all these years, Leon still had that effect on you. "Even after we turned special agents, I'm afraid you'll stick with me till the day I die... and I'm pretty sure you'll still haunt me in the afterlife"

"Well, I'm glad you know that. I can't just lose the love of my life like that" Leon said, now opening his eyes and looking directly at you. "I'm sorry I scared you... I know you wouldn't let me die in peace"

"You're an asshole, Kennedy" You called him by his surname, but you laughed after you finished the sentence. "By the way, how are you feeling?"

"I'm in pain. Thank you for remembering it. Now I can complain about your terrible stitch skills" he tried to laugh, but his expression changed quickly, and he groaned in pain.

But you just laughed at him. Besides the laughs and the terrible jokes, he was still your Leon. The same man you had fallen in love with, and the same man you had the luck to share your home with. And, at the end of the day, he would be there. Home.

Life was weird sometimes.

You knew one day he wouldn't come home. One day, he could die during one assignment and leave you on your own. And the thought of that made your body shiver because you weren't prepared to lose him. The same thought was running through his mind. Although Leon had difficulty sharing his feelings, you could see and feel everything through his eyes. Words were unnecessary at that point. You knew him, and he knows you. That's all that matters.

"You look so beautiful when you're thinking about something else" Leon said, whispering, his voice soft as he looked at you, his blue eyes shining.

"When I'm distracted?" you ask him, smiling. True, he always loved to watch you doing absolutely everything.

"Yeah, especially when you're distracted. I love you, do you know that?" he asks you, a slight smile appearing on his lips as he declares himself to you.

"I love you too" you smiled again, your heart full of joy at the moment. He always expressed himself through actions instead of words, so hearing him say that, well, it completely melted your heart.

But suddenly, you caught yourself thinking about everything, starting with Raccoon City and ending with your last assignment, the one that almost ended Leon's life. You felt fear, although you usually didn't have time to feel scared like that. He was safe, right? Then why couldn't you feel the same? Your mind was tricking you to think otherwise, and you were starting to hate this.

"Hey, I'm fine" Leon said to you like he could read your mind and like he knew what was going on with you. "I'm not gonna die, trust me"

"I'm scared, and I don't know why" you replied, looking straight at his blue eyes, seeking comfort. "All that happened... Jesus, I can't let go, you know? I can't stop seeing Raccoon City all over again... you almost died in there and almost died again in our last assignment... and I just don't know if I can do this anymore. I can't lose you"

"I'm not going anywhere without you, babe. I promise you" his voice is full of comfort and kindness, as he talks very smoothly and caring. Sometimes, you just forget how lovely he can be. "I'm here, aren't I? I'll never leave you because if I do, then who's gonna haunt you in the afterlife?"

And with that, he made you smile. Even in pain and tired to the bones, he still tries his best to comfort you. You kiss his forehead gently as he sighs to your touch. He loved being kissed and spoiled by you, even though he wouldn't admit that to anyone, not even you.

"Get some rest, I'll go see if I can find any snacks to eat" you said to him before leaving his room.

He then sighed again, feeling much more tired than before. At least, he wasn't lost and alone in the middle of nowhere, and even though he also hated being in the hospital, Leon was feeling much happier having you around him. He glanced outside the window and started to thank every possible God out there to let them know he was glad to be alive again. The sun was rising, and he had a new opportunity to make things right.

Slowly, he started to close his eyes, embracing the darkness and diving into a dream.

He was again in Raccoon City. Leon could feel the cold rain touching his skin. He could see the nightmare that place was. Worse, he could see the tyrant that was hunting you both that day. His heart started to race inside his chest. He was scared to be in there again, being obligated to see his worst nightmare again and feel that all over again.

But, this time, something changed.

He saw you running from the same tyrant, and this time, he wasn't able to help you. Leon had to watch you die. He screamed and cried, he tried to get rid of whatever was holding him against the floor until the dream started to repeat and he realized he had to watch you die over and over again, unable to save you.

"NO, PLEASE! STOP!" he screamed, waking up. His breath was heavier. He was shaking and sweating. When he realized it wasn't real, he started to look around desperate, trying to find you.

"Leon? What happened?" you ask him, entering his room. He was still breathing heavily and shaking.

"It's... it's nothing. I'm fine" he lied, but he knew you already had figured out what happened to him. He was a terrible liar. "Don't look at me like that"

"Did you have a nightmare?" you ask him, sitting on the edge of his bed, your hands caressing his leg above the blanket that covers him.

But he didn't give you an answer. Instead, he remained silent, trying to calm himself down. His hands were shaking, and for some reason, words were unnecessary. You just knew what he needed. So, without telling him anything or asking him for permission, you just embraced him with your open arms, as if you could protect him from everything in the world.

And, with that warm embrace, Leon started to cry.

It was unusual for him to be so vulnerable like that, but truth be told, he was so tired. Every night, he had the same nightmare, but he always thought he could deal with that. Until he saw you dying, and there was nothing he could do to keep you safe. He had to watch you die. He had to hear you scream and hear you blame him for everything bad that has ever happened. And this time, he couldn't take it. He was scared, truly scared.

"It's okay, it wasn't real, and you're safe" you whisper to him, your voice soft and caring enough to calm him down.

"I saw you" he sobs, covering his face on your chest so you can't see him cry. "I saw you die... and there was nothing I could do to save you"

You said nothing. Instead, your hands were running through his hair. You knew he always had a soft spot for that, and he always loved being touched by you. He was indeed touch starved, but he always worshiped you for touching him so softly, so kindly. Slowly, he started to calm down, although you could hear him sobbing.

"It wasn't real, Leon" you assured him, your voice calm and yet caring. He needed that. He needed to remain that he did all he could, and it wasn't his fault. "Nothing bad will ever happen to you again"

But he kept sobbing, his voice muffled by his face covered on your chest. And he cried and sobbed like that until he fell asleep again, tears falling through his face. You gently covered him with the blanket, and then you gave him another kiss on his forehead before you left his room again. You were tired as well. You missed your home, and you wanted so desperately to run away from the hospital. Your thoughts were interrupted by someone calling you, and when you saw 'Redfield' on the screen, you just sighed.

"Hey, you" Chris said when you picked up the phone.

"Hey, Redfield. What's up?" you ask him, walking around the entrance to the hospital, where you could hear the sound of the traffic and the city.

"How is he?" Chris's voice seems to be concerned, and you know he is worried about Leon. You glanced to the sky before thinking about everything that happened.

"He's fine... Leon woke up today, and to be fair, he's really tired" you tell Chris, still remembering everything that happened during your escape. Just the thought of Leon being so hurt like that made your stomach twist. "But I guess he'll be here for a couple of days"

"Yeah, I thought so" he said, and you could imagine him shaking his head, and you smiled. "Can you tell him I called?"

"Yeah, sure... I'll let him know," you said, nodding your head, although Chris wasn't there to see you. "How're you doing?"

"The same as always. I'm investigating a guy named Glenn Arias, and hopefully, I'll find him soon" Chris said, now sounding very excited. It was a surprise he had time to check on Leon. Sometimes, he was very busy at the BSAA. "But I need to get going, I just wanted to hear from you. Take care of yourself"

"Yeah, you too, asshole" you smirk slightly when you call him an asshole. Then, you heard him laugh as well before he ended the call. Your hands were shaking again, and you were starting to feel the consequences of what happened.

You weren't weak, but this time, you were feeling something different inside you.

Sure, seeing the love of your life almost die in front of your eyes while there was nothing you could do to stop that... You were tired and overwhelmed by something you had never felt before, and you hated it. You looked up again, observing the sky, trying to calm yourself and noticing the shapes of the clouds and the colors combined. It was beautiful.

You took a deep breath and then returned to his room. He was sleeping peacefully, although you could see his swollen eyes, the result of so many tears being released by his sudden breakdown. It was so unusual to see Leon vulnerable, but you knew that he was tired of saving everyone and having no one to save him or take care of him when he needed it. And you understood that you were the one to do that. You were his home and his safe place, the one he needed to assure him everything was fine.

Sometimes, he just needed you.

Saving the world was a tough job and took everything from him, except for you. Sometimes, he needed to feel your touch, feel your presence, and hear you tell him everything was fine the way they were. He wasn't the scared boy you met at Raccoon City. He was so different, and yet, he remained the same. His essence hasn't changed. Time couldn't break him, although it was rough.

He had to endure all over these years, but still, he was the same, Leon. His eyes only shine when you're around, and he can be very lovely and kind only with you, although he had a lot of trust issues you had to overcome with patience and love. Leon was your everything, and by now, you were seeing how close you were to losing him. And this memory was killing you inside, melting you like acid, poisoning your mind, and making you feel guilty.

"A penny for your thoughts" you hear his voice, even though he sounds husky for a moment. His eyes were swollen, but they were shining so beautifully.

"I thought you were sleeping" you smirk, sitting again on the edge of his bed, crossing your arms. "Chris called, just for you to know"

"He did?" Leon raised an eyebrow as he watched you nod your head. "Thanks, I'll talk to him when I leave"

"You should be sleeping" you said to him, sitting on the edge of his bed, making yourself comfortable.

"I can't sleep. I hate being in here, and I don't want to close my eyes..." he sighed heavily, avoiding looking at you. You knew what it was.

"It's okay to be afraid, you know?" you smiled gently, reaching for his hand. Your fingers tangled with his, as he slowly started to put his attention on you again. "We went through a lot, and we still have each other. This has to mean something, Leon"

"Do you think this will pass?" he asks you, and for a moment, you saw that he was truly scared. This was unusual, too, but you had to be there for him. He needed you.

"Yeah, I do. I have nightmares too, sometimes I'm afraid to sleep, I don't want them to scare me" you said to him, your voice full of empathy and kindness, as the comfort words were everything he needed at the moment. Leon seemed to be surprised, but he remained silent. "Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and look for you, to make sure you're here with me and safe... I know they twist your mind and make you feel worse, but they aren't real, and they can't hurt you. This is what I tell myself every night"

Leon nods his head as he silently asks for a hug. Your arms were around him in a warm hug, like you can protect him from everything else in the world. You both watched the sunrise outside. It was such a beautiful morning like it was telling you to start again. Like you both had a new chance to start a new chapter in your life.

"When you leave the hospital, we can start again, you know?" you ask him, your eyes still looking outside.

"What do you mean by that?" Leon glances at you, his eyes shining even more. They were like sapphires, and they had their glow. Such a beautiful pair.

"I won't risk losing you. I'm considering retirement... I've had my share of danger. And I'm done with it" you explained to him very calmly, but you were sure about your decision. The government could find someone else.

"Are you sure about that?" Leon asks you again, as he considers your words. You nodded again to him, and for some reason, you knew what he was thinking. "Maybe we can buy that house we've always wanted... travel the world like tourists and... grow old together"

"You don't have to retire just because I want to. I know you love your job and the adrenaline that comes with it... but I can't do this anymore" you tell him, trying to convince him to don't do anything he might regret later.

"Sweetheart, I know one day I won't be able to wake up again and see a sunrise like this. This time, I only escaped because you were there with me... but who knows what will happen next?" Leon said, his voice full of determination and certainty. He squeezed your hand to let you know he was convinced. "And if you won't be there with me, then I don't want to go alone"

You knew you couldn't change his mind. He was the type of person who once decided something, he wasn't going back. On the other hand, it was a tremendous surprise to see he was willing to retire just for you. He wanted so badly to have peace and a happy ending that he would do that.

"When I was a kid, I used to think about what kind of man I'd grow up to be. I never thought my life would turn out this way" Leon sighed heavily, avoiding looking at you while he was rethinking his entire life. It wasn't a secret to you that he was an orphan, that his parents were killed, and he was left alone, saved by a cop, which led him to become one of them. You just knew. "I keep fighting... and fighting and fighting. Instead of seeing an end to this shit, it just keeps getting worse. Is this what my life is supposed to be? Fighting the living dead and the bastards that make them? What's the point of it all? It feels like I'm stuck in a goddamn loop... how much longer can we keep going on like this?"

And there he was.

The broken man you loved and tried to heal over and over, the man you saved a thousand times. The same man that carried this trauma since the day you met, the same pain in those beautiful sapphire eyes. He was done. And you both knew that. He reaches for your hand, a desperate way to seek comfort, to know you both share the same thoughts and feelings. He needed to hear that. He needed to be sure you were on the same page.

"You never seemed so angry about something before..." you smirk, seeing his face relax for a moment. He hated talking about Raccoon City.

"I'm angry because the government wiped the city off the map and covered it all up, I'm angry because there were people alive in there. There were families alive in there. And they didn't even try to get them out. They also said it was a tough call" Leon sighed again, he never spoke like that before, it was like he was hiding it inside him, waiting for the perfect opportunity to let it all out. He needed to get out of that off his chest. "So, tough call my ass! You can not save a country if you don't give a damn about the people in it"

Then he sighed again. He was keeping it inside his chest for so long that he felt great to speak his mind without being concerned about the consequences. It felt so good to finally be able to say whatever he wanted because he knew you wouldn't complain or say otherwise to him.

"So, yeah, that's why I want to retire as well. I'm so done with this that I don't want to spend the rest of my life chasing freaks and preventing the end of the world. They can find someone as good as me" he finally looks at you, seeking some kind of approval, although he didn't need one.

For some reason, you didn't have an answer. Everything he needed at the moment was told through your eyes because you both shared a connection that sometimes, words were unnecessary. Leon felt relaxed when he noticed the way you were looking at him because you didn't have to say a word.

"I just don't want an end that means a coffin or wasting time with things that I don't like. I want to end my life living peaceful days without being scared and traumatized... I want to be happy" Leon finished his vent with a sigh of pure relief. He leaned back his head against the pillow, feeling a bit exhausted.

"Then I promise you, sweetie, we'll have the happy ending we both deserve." you smiled gently at him, finding the proper words to express yourself and to make sure he felt embraced. He just smiled at you, his eyes shining again. "You know, we create such unnecessary pain for ourselves"

"What do you mean by that?" Leon raises an eyebrow, his face slowly confused. He was so adorable when he was like that.

"Remember when we first met? You asked me about my perception of what happened in there, and I told you I was elaborating... I think now I have the answer" you said to him, smiling again. It was weird to think about that after so many years, but finally, it would have some conclusions.

"Yes, and what's your answer?"

"We think we're a failure because no one loves us. It's like we only exist if there's someone who sees us. Our life only has worth if we're living for someone else" you explained to him, your eyes looking outside the window, as you think about everything and everyone. "That restlessness we feel? It's our souls crying out to be set free from all the deceit we've been forced to believe"

"Your perception of the world always amuses me. I wish I could see things the way you see them" his voice is kind. He always loved to hear you, to listen to your voice as it helped him calm down during his dark days. You were light to his darkness.

Your face slightly turns red. It was weird. You always love to tease him and make him blush, but when he does the same to you, oh, dear God... you can't even react. He's the only one that has the power to make you speechless, the one that makes you blush harder and the same that makes your heart beat faster inside your chest. This man was Leon Scott Kennedy, and he would always have your heart.

"I love you" he said to you before starting to close his eyes.

"I know"

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gimmiesophiebaek · 5 months ago

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To all the ones I “loved” before. An ode to Benedict Bridgerton’s former flames.

I wrote this recently on Reddit and want to share this with you! Until we get to Sophie, let’s give some love to those who came before the Lady in Silver.

Genevieve: Thanks for being the independent woman that you are. You cheer your friends up from asshole viscounts. You make wallflowers into butterflies. And you do it with style, grace, and a fake French accent. No wonder why Ben was attracted to you! But you’re right: being a Bridgerton is not a virtue.

Lucy: Thanks for being a “distraction” for your husband’s actual preferences and jumped in on that threesome with Ben and Gen. By the look on your face at Daphne’s wedding and the Queen’s tea, you’re impressed by Ben’s stamina to handle to ladies at once. Now I am wondering, are you open to you, your husband, and Ben in a throuple before he meets the one? Or maybe make it a quad if Lord Whetheby agrees.

Tessa: Thank you for finding a way to learn about art by being a model. By doing that, you found a subject to sketch in Ben. You also provided a lovely visual of him looking into your eyes before sketching him and a view of his butt later on. Too bad your friend Rupert spilled the beans on how Ben actually got into the school.

Tilley: Thank you for opening up his world. While Gen and Tessa opened up his world beyond Mayfair, you taught him to be open beyond what is “acceptable” or not. Like you said, the feeling between two people regardless of sex is the most natural feeling in the world. As fans, we misjudged you and thought you will break his heart. Instead, it was his decision not to continue. While that chapter with Ben is over, you came out of it that you’re ready to give your heart again to the right person. Meanwhile, continue to be a badass widow who doesn’t play by the rules.

Paul: Thank you for finding Ben charming. If we were outside and connected the way you and Ben did, we would be ready to drop our drawers. You’re the charming one. As fans, we’re sure you eased Ben into his first time with a man. The look on his face was ready for another party of three. Ben and his threesomes. Once again, thank you and Tilley for making Ben see himself what viewers noticed since the first season.

Benedict: We love you but you’re a lost boy! Enjoy being free now because the next lesson you will learn will indeed change your life forever. You just haven’t met her yet. But when you do, she will be your anchor and find your purpose again.

#benedict bridgerton #bridgerton #Sophie Beckett is coming #genevieve delacroix #lucy granville #tessa the model #lady tilley arnold #paul suarez

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lunanoc · 10 months ago

Text

PART III: WHO ARE KING SHANG OF LU AND THE IRON-MASKED GENTLEMAN, AND WHY IS IT EVEN IMPORTANT

finally we’re reaching the end of this thing

(to see previous disclaimers and context here’s part I and part II of this madness)

blanket spoiler warning for the books once again

more disclaimers, the entirety of this part is where i veer solidly into crack theory and full-on interpretation, so while everything i’m presenting here does have arguments based on sources that’s important we do love sources, it’s very much speculation and not hard fact

now that that’s out of the way, let’s get into the really wild stuff

with the various versions of “king shang of lu”’s and the iron-masked gentleman’s story, along with king mu of zhou’s story more or less unpacked (or as unpacked as they can be given we don’t know everything or even have a definitive truth), the real question then becomes what exactly you do with that information

based on what we’ve determined so far through the various versions of these characters’ stories, and taking into account the dubious nature of some or all of them to some degree, i feel there are a few base assumptions and conclusions you can come to, and that i’ll be working with from here on out:

the silkbook that wu xie found in “king shang of lu”’s coffin was indeed a fake, and was placed there with wu xie in mind, knowing that he would find it, and its purpose was to ease wu xie into the game the wu and xie families had been playing with the wang family. whether it was wu sanxing himself or the wang family who did it isn’t certain, and while either is a solid option, @tiesanjiaoshenanigans raised some solid arguments in favor of it being wu sanxing that you can read in their reblog here. in any case, it’s highly unlikely that it was xiaoge. grain of salt because i haven’t reached this point myself, but i’ve looked into a particular passage in ten years (Ten Years, Ch. 31, Key) where wu xie thinks back on the seven star palace, and while he does speculate that wu sanxing had a hand in using the silkbook jin wantang brought to him for his own purposes, wu xie also works on the assumption that it was xiaoge who swapped out a real silkbook for the fake one that contained the first version of king shang of lu’s story, and that his unease was due to recovered memories. granted wu xie does also speculate that he’d had the impression that xiaoge had been to the seven star palace several times before, which is entirely possible due to its significance in relation to “the truth of the world” (credit to @kelly42fox for speculating that maybe the headless corpse thrown into the sacrificial ding cauldron at the entrance of the seven star palace was in fact that missing blood zombie that xiaoge had subdued on a previous visit, and it was this memory that was triggered). however, while wu xie’s word is generally the most trustworthy simply because he’s dmbj’s main narrator, bases his assumptions on logic, and readily course corrects when he’s proven wrong (so in that sense he’s not the type of unreliable narrator who deliberately misleads the reader), he’s still a limited pov character, and what wu xie thinks he knows isn’t always necessarily the truth. because again, xiaoge planting the fake silkbook implies either he or chen pi ah si had a solid motivation for deceiving wu xie specifically, which seems odd all things considered

the wang family’s version of the tale of king shang of lu is the closest we have to the truth simply by virtue of it being the most detailed, of providing additional information that conveniently sheds light both on things mentioned in prior books and things mentioned in later books, and of it being a tale they clearly believe in. while it’s likely not the entire truth, both because they have a clear bias, and because they themselves are lacking key elements of this history, namely what “the truth of the world” is and what their feud with the zhang family truly stems from (Sand Sea Part III, Ch. 146, Wang Zanghai), it’s the best candidate so far

the iron-masked gentleman from the first two versions of “king shang of lu”’s story and the owner of the fox mask from the wang family’s story are the same person, and there might be more to his identity than you’d think

with all this being said, what’s left to consider is the possible identities of the characters in this story, namely king shang of lu, the iron-masked gentleman, and king mu of zhou, and the ramifications of those possibilities

let’s start with the iron-masked gentleman, as he’s arguably the most nebulous of the three, and for the sake of convenience i’m going to refer to him as just iron mask from here on out since that’s what he’s best known as

ironically however, the first detail i want to bring attention to regarding him is that he specifically wears a fox mask adorned with “patterns often found on bronze ware”, bronze ware being so precious a material at the time that it was used almost exclusively for ritual objects, most often funerary ones (Sand Sea Part III, Ch. 132, Lesson). later, we learn from the wang instructor that similar fox masks were correlated with a specific group of tomb robbers operating in shandong (where this story takes place) during the same time period (Sand Sea Part III, Ch. 134, Deception). based on this alone, i feel it’s safe to say that some type of parallel is being drawn between both iron mask, and if not this particular group of grave robbers, then at the very least the activity of robbing tombs. this detail will be important in a bit

for now, let’s look at how iron mask is presented to the reader in the various versions of king shang of lu’s story we’re successively given:

in the first version taken from the fake silkbook, iron mask plays a fairly neutral role despite helping king shang of lu to find the famed jade burial armor, which ironically in this version he also reveals the existence of to the man he advises

in both the second version briefly mentioned by xiaoge and in the third version given by the wang family, iron mask plays a more duplicitous role, either by stealing the jade armor for himself, or by sharing in duping the ruler of the state of lu to acquire his resources to find the jade burial armor in king mu of zhou’s tomb

according to the wang family’s version of the story, iron mask wasn’t king shang of lu’s advisor, but rather the advisor of the ruler of the state of lu, and as such, while he wasn’t in a position of direct power himself, he was in a position to influence said power, and he clearly did given he deliberately swayed the ruler of the state of lu into granting resources to rob king mu of zhou’s tomb. it’s also noteworthy enough to mention that the state of lu happens to be where confucius was born among other eminent scholars of the spring and autumn period, the intellectually prosperous period preceding the warring states period, and the one during which king mu of zhou supposedly began to implement his plan by incorporating the guarantee of tomb robbing into chinese tradition itself (Sand Sea Part III, Ch. 135, Stone Box). as such, the state of lu had a particularly important cultural influence on the rest of china both at the time and going forward. what i’m getting at by bringing this up is that iron mask was therefore not only in a position to influence the court of just any of the many states of the eastern zhou dynasty, he was in a position to influence one of the more prominent states of the time that had been a hub for some of the foundations of chinese culture for millenia to come. that iron mask was the one to recommend “king shang” to the ruler of the state of lu in the first place, clearly long before king shang ever had any sort of prominent position at court, further solidifies this idea.

and while there’s no direct evidence to infer that king shang, iron mask, and king mu might have been searching for and robbing tombs before iron mask ever brought up the idea of robbing king mu’s to the ruler of the state of lu, the previous connection between iron mask and the grave robbers with fox masks seems to hint at that possibility, and the narrative, by drawing this parallel, lends itself to interpreting iron mask and these fox-mask wearing grave robbers as some sort of organized collective

as mentioned in a previous part, the wang instructor explains to li cu that a number of these fox masks were found in tombs all over shandong, and that grave robbers of the time associated foxes with grave robbing because they’d often burrow in grave robber tunnels and around graveyards. what this then means is that, assuming these fox mask-wearing grave robbers and iron mask are indeed connected, then the activity of grave robbing itself is also connected to iron mask, or rather iron mask is connected to tomb robbing. as for the reasoning behind why someone would consistently wear a mask to the point their identity becomes eclipsed by it, the easiest answer is to assume that concealing their identity was maybe the point, and in the case of iron mask, given we have no information on his real name or anything else about him really, if that was his goal, then he clearly succeeded. therefore this fox mask he wears potentially has the dual purpose of both hiding his identity, and establishing some form of kinship with others who wore similar masks

to sum up then, iron mask was a man whose true identity and name remains unknown, who held an influential position in the court of one of the more prominent and certainly most culturally significant states of the eastern zhou dynasty, was associated in some capacity with grave robbing via kinship with a group of people who wore the same type of mask as him, and he used his influence at court to sway the ruler he advised into taking actions that benefited him in some capacity. as it happens, we know of at least one organized group of people in dmbj’s universe who also held influential positions in various imperial courts, are associated with grave robbing, and used their influence in spheres of power to sway rulers and/or the course of history in directions that benefited them and/or their endgame

do you see where i’m going with this

again, there’s nothing anywhere that can directly confirm that either iron mask and/or the fox-masked grave robbers were members of the zhang family or even associated with them, but there’s also nothing to technically disprove it either so i’ll just. leave the parallels here for people’s consideration

but where things get even more interesting is when you stop to then consider who “king shang of lu” might be

outside of the very first stone slab we get in the seven star palace that describes king shang of lu as having been “born with the ghost seal in hand” and the command of the army of the dead, if we assume that version 1 of his story in the silkbook that wu xie finds is dubious at best, then we don’t really get all that much about king shang of lu’s life or identity. the wang family’s version describes him as being introduced to the court of the state of lu as a descendent of the zhou emperor and as a “strange man” or “奇人” (qiren), which can either mean a “strange” person or an “extraordinary” person, as in having extraordinary talents, which arguably, given what his tomb looks like, he was (Sand Sea Part III, Ch. 132, Lesson).

beyond this however, there’s nothing in the wang family’s version to suggest that king shang of lu was anyone of note before iron mask quite literally pulled him out of thin air, as if he’d never existed until he suddenly appeared at court one day like a mysterious messenger from the beyond that the ruler of the state of lu, if not purports him to be, then may also believe him to be. the mystery persists with the tale of how king shang of lu supposedly gained his title by communing with the dead king mu of zhou to ask permission to open his tomb, since while we know that this perspective on what happened is in fact skewed by what the ruler of the state of lu who was tricked saw, and that in reality, king mu of zhou wasn’t dead, knowing this doesn’t answer how king shang of lu actually acquired the ghost seal or who he really is, if his identity is even significant. that he was “born with the ghost seal” in hand is likely a descriptor made to reflect him coming out of the coffin he’d been sealed as if “reborn” under his new title with the proof of his “covenant” with king mu of zhou. however, given the meaning of the name 殇 shang mentioned earlier (that is to say “to die young or at war”), and despite the explanation given of his title as a means to justify the subsequent robbing of king mu of zhou’s tomb, it nonetheless leaves you wondering why this name, and why specify that he was a direct descendant of king mu rather than simply “forming a covenant” with him? it could simply be that it was the most efficient ploy to manipulate the ruler of the state of lu into finding convenient moral outs, and there’s nothing more to read into it than the first step of the elaborate plan king mu of zhou had roped king shang of lu and iron mask into

but consider: we’ve established that while it seemed as if there were only two people working together, in fact there were three. but what if against all odds, there really were only two people in the end? after all, a third party is never really hinted at in the earlier versions of this story we get in book 1, unless you count the initial corpse in the fake silkbook version of the story that king shang supposedly removed from the jade burial armor when he found it, but that can’t have been king mu if king mu was in fact alive. what i’m saying is, what if we consider the crazy possibility that king mu of zhou and king shang of lu were in fact the same person

we know that king mu of zhou faked his death centuries before, and while he might have simply sought out and convinced king shang and iron mask of his identity, objectively, the less outside parties involved in his plan, the better. to be fair, it’s entirely possible that king mu used himself as a living example that immortality existed in order to bait king shang and iron mask into helping him, only for them to betray him later and successively take the jade armor for themselves. but if you consider the possibility that king shang was nothing more than an alias king mu used to “return to life” so to speak, it wouldn’t be less fitting of an explanation, as who could possibly have stood to recognize the face of a man centuries dead? of course, nothing really exists to solidly confirm this idea, which is the case for pretty much all of this “meta” that’s entirely speculation at this point but consider

after all, king mu of zhou saw “the truth of the world” in the queen mother of the west’s kingdom. i’ll come back to her briefly later, but we also know that to our knowledge, before wang zanghai, the zhang family were the only other people to have access to that “truth”. it’s reasonable to assume that king mu of zhou, having seen the “truth of the world” and returned from the queen mother of the west’s kingdom changed from it in more ways than one, might have also gained knowledge of another party who knew this “truth”. it’s equally reasonable to assume that rather than go through a third party and thus introduce an unknown variable into his plan, and seeing as king mu of zhou had been “dead” long enough that no one would recognize him should he choose to assume a different identity, it would have simply been easier to approach the only other party who both shared in the same forbidden knowledge, as well as presumably shared similar goals to some extent. and if iron mask was a zhang, then coming back to the previous point, given his particular social status, iron mask would have been the prime candidate for king mu to turn to for assistance. it also stands to reason that if iron mask was a zhang, then by extension a member of the zhang family would have accepted a mutually beneficial arrangement. after all, king mu’s plan and goals aligned somewhat with the zhang family’s interests, and they had to have been aware of king mu’s covert manipulation during the spring and autumn period. using grave robbing as a means of perpetuating curated traditions and culture over centuries, manipulating the flow of history, and thus making it extremely easy to practice convenient historical revisionism perfectly aligned with the zhang family’s designs. arguably it’s also precisely what the zhang family had been doing and continued to do, as wu xie himself eventually speculates, wondering if the zhang family had used tomb robbing as a means of disseminating if not false, then modified histories in order to control china’s “fate” through the ages (Tibetan Sea Flower, Ch. 67, Biggest Secret)

in addition to that, considering we know the ghost seal is something tied to the main zhang family, particularly zhang qiling, and that it allows passage into the bronze gate beneath changbai mountain that houses the ultimate (which is what “the truth of this world” ostensibly is) past the ghost army that does exist (though whether they can be controlled is something we have no evidence of), it’s also not a stretch of the imagination to consider that the zhang family might have lent the ghost seal to king mu/king shang for appearance’s sake. and if all this did have to do with the zhang family and there really were only two people involved in the endgame of this story, it might also provide a tentative reason for xiaoge’s unease as he tries to parse through why there isn’t a third blood corpse in the seven star palace. it might have triggered a memory or some feeling in him that there was an explanation to all this that existed but that he wasn’t privy to in the moment, but perhaps he had been privy to it in the past, and perhaps he had come to find it many times before that he could no longer recall because it was a place tied to the zhang family in some capacity

that does however raise the question of why then had iron mask’s memoirs been circulating if he’d been a zhang, but then again, dissemination of information via tombs was a plan the zhang family had every reason to encourage and perpetuate if they hadn’t already been in the business of practicing it, so if iron mask was a zhang, he would have neither had any qualms about participating in it himself, nor of providing a revised version of the truth. after all, we have no indication that version 2 of the story as told by xiaoge is a truthful account either, especially since this version still doesn’t reveal a name for the iron-masked gentleman despite it coming from his supposed memoirs

in addition to that, we also get an interesting tidbit in hindsight from practically the very beginning of book 1, where wu sanxing takes note of the fox pattern on the warring states silkbook that started wu xie’s journey into the conspiracies and says that it depicts “the mask worn by the earliest people in the state of lu when they were offered up as sacrifices” and that it must mean that “someone with a very special identity” was buried in the tomb, possibly “more respected that the emperor” (Book 1, Ch.3, Temple of Seeds). it’s hard to say what to make of the notion that the fox-masked people were “sacrifices” considering the wang family’s story explicitly makes them out to be grave robbers, so either or both of them is a lie. however, it does at least confirme there is something special about these fox-masked people beyond what’s being said (especially given the green-eyed fox corpse, who following the zhang logic, might have been a lower ranked family member offered up as a sacrifice and who turned after death, but this is probably a stretch), and whoever is buried in that tomb is abnormally important. the only real issue you run into with this train of thought is considering how far back the zhang family tomb extends, why would any zhang of note not be buried in it, so that’s at least one gap in logic

all of this then leaves us with a final question: if we assume iron mask was a zhang, and that king shang of lu was in fact a false identity created by king mu of zhou for himself, then what exactly happened in the seven star palace, and who is who in what coffin?

we know that the seven star palace is a warring states period tomb constructed on top of a pre-existing western zhou dynasty tomb. there’s no indication of whether this pre-existing tomb was meant to be king mu’s (in which case it was at least partially a dupe as he was still alive), and raises the problem of king mu not having had the jade armor prior to the king shang of lu story as he was actively looking for it, so he can’t have found it in his own tomb. to me, this means there are two possibilities to consider:

possibility one: king mu had a tomb built for himself during his reign that was designed with his plan in mind, which might explain the presence of the snake cypress (which we again only ever see elsewhere in gutongjing in ancient ruins related to a candle dragon baby snake mine, so clearly it being in the seven star palace is of some significance). king mu and iron mask did find a jade burial armor, but in another tomb or elsewhere that isn’t what would become the seven star palace

possibility two: king mu and iron mask, with each other’s mutual knowledge and abilities, found a tomb containing a jade burial armor that happened to be a western zhou dynasty tomb. the story then roughly proceeds like in the first two versions, and king mu/shang removes the corpse from the jade armor and takes it for himself

in some ways i feel like the most logical and likely option is the first one, simply because the mechanisms inside the seven star palace are too precise and deliberate, namely the timer coffin that was tied to the box with the baby in it (which i won’t be getting into here because that’s for another meta). this then leaves us with the problem of determining exactly who is who in this tomb by the time wu xie walks into it. the wang family implies that king mu’s plan ultimately failed because he hadn’t considered that someone like wang zanghai would come about and have the ability to hijack king mu’s plan for his own purposes. you can interpret that either as referring to his grave robbing plan alone, or that it also refers to king mu himself successfully staying in the jade armor for as long as it would take for him to come out of it side effect free. the ambiguity of what the wang family meant by “plan” makes it difficult to decide whether, following that wording, it leaves room for king mu to have been dumped out of the jade burial armor or not, which doesn’t really make deciding who is who any easier. for the record, wu xie mentions later when he comes back to this story in ten years later that he believes the one buried in the coffin under the snake cypress was iron mask (and npss also states this in his timeline in the postscript of book 8). if we choose to believe this is correct, and that king shang of lu was in fact king mu of zhou, then it leaves two more possible outcomes to the story:

possibility one: the thing in the coffin at the entrance of the seven star palace is king mu of zhou, and he was also the blood zombie that xiaoge killed

possibility two: the thing in the coffin is king mu of zhou, but he didn’t turn into a blood zombie, rather into something different or more powerful, and therefore the blood zombie xiaoge killed was someone else

the only thing that makes me doubt in this theory that king mu of zhou could both have been the blood zombie xiaoge killed and whatever was in the coffin at the entrance to the seven star palace is that to start with, there was a coffin so elaborate there to begin with convenient enough to place someone in (unless there had actually initially been a sacrifice in it and that’s the body that got dumped in the ding cauldron on the side to get replaced), that if wu xie was correct in assuming xiaoge had been to the seven star palace before, he would have left a dangerous blood zombie that could roam around in it “alive”, and lastly, the fact that not only did xiaoge kowtow to it to ask for safe passage within the tomb, even after having killed the blood zombie, xiaoge insisted on respecting the time limit the thing in the coffin had set and pushed wu sanxing’s team to leave the seven star palace before dawn regardless. it’s worth noting that xiaoge has never kowtowed to a corpse outside of this occasion (to my knowledge at least), has only actually knelt in front of changbai mountain that houses the bronze gate really, and has only ever spoken to one other also incredibly old and likely powerful corpse that was very likely one of the first people to come out of the kunlun mountains, and that rests inside the meteorite in tamutuo (Restart Part I: The Sound of Providence, Ch. 222, Countdown to the Finale 4).

why adamantly continue to uphold the demands of a creature that you’ve killed and that can presumably no longer harm you? unless leaving before dawn was an imperative that went beyond the sole demands of the thing inside the coffin at the entrance, it’s a little strange. however, the problem with saying that whatever was in the coffin at the entrance to the seven star palace and the blood zombie that xiaoge killed are two different entities makes things difficult, because it would mean there was some third party involved somehow, and it gives possibility two (the one where king mu/shang and iron mask find another tomb to steal the jade burial armor from and co-opt it) a little more ground. i haven’t been able to find any conclusive information on where the real-life king mu of zhou was buried, and it’s hard to say how much of an argument a real-life fact holds for something like this, but it’s interesting to note that the western zhou dynasty’s capital was fenghao, located in what’s now part of present day xi’an in the province of shaanxi, and the province of shaanxi is roughly 800 km (or 500 miles) from the province of shandong where the seven star palace is. it’s relatively far, especially for the time period, so does the distance justify the thought that it might not have been king mu of zhou’s tomb that was used as the basis for the seven star palace after all? did king mu/shang and iron mask really find a tomb that contained a jade burial armor and co-opt it? more food for thought

either way, whether or not the blood zombie xiaoge killed was king mu of zhou, if we choose to follow both wu xie and npss, then it doesn’t change the fact that it’s very likely that regardless, king mu of zhou ended up in the coffin at the entrance of the seven star palace, and iron mask in the jade burial armor in the coffin beneath the snake cypress. in that case, it brings into question the motivations iron mask might have had for doing this if, following the current theory, he really was a member of the zhang family. surprisingly, it’s not too difficult to think of some plausible ones

the zhang family have been searching for a way to curb their own terrible longevity curse for centuries, to the extent their blind determination to find meaning in their existence is what proved to be the fatal weakness that drove them right into wang zanghai’s and the wang family’s trap. if he really was a zhang, why then would iron mask have been any different, especially since given the time period, knowledge of anything connected to either the queen mother of the west, or what her kingdom housed (re: the meteorite), or both would have likely still been fresh enough for zhang family members anyway. the promise of the jade burial armor could have been a tempting offer for a man himself doomed from birth. it’s also possible that while king mu of zhou’s grave robbing plan naturally aligned with what the zhang family had likely already been doing, and so in that sense they facilitated it, they drew the line at him potentially accessing longevity, as king mu of zhou remained an outsider and therefore an unknown variable in the long run. better then for one of their own to guard something like a jade burial armor than someone who while aware of the “truth”, wasn’t necessarily an ally, which is what ended up happening much later with wang zanghai. king mu would thus have been a liability to dispose of. and king mu/shang might have sensed this and tried to have all the people working with him killed like the first two versions of the king shang of lu story seem to suggest, and so iron mask really did fake his own death to ensure king mu couldn’t succeed

i realize this idea raises a number of other problems, such as again why the zhangs would not either have kept some knowledge that one of their own was buried not only outside of the family tomb (which had things dating back to the spring and autumn period, suggesting burial in it had already been an established tradition then), but also in something like a jade burial armor. maybe they did, and it’s one of those secrets only zhang qiling is privy to. only xiaoge would truly be able to answer that (not that he will). it’s also possible following this logic that if iron mask did fake his own death, doing so placed him outside the scope of the family enough he was free to act of his own selfish free will and seized the opportunity, but again, this is all speculation. it also raises the question of why the wang family, if they’d known there was a zhang buried in jade burial armor, wouldn’t have tampered with it and removed him, but then again, they likely needed to keep the corpse there to bring their plan against the zhang family to fruition regardless of who it was

for the sake of debate, i might as well also share an alternative theory to this, that while i feel has a lot more problems and ultimately doesn’t fit with a number of other elements of dmbj lore brought up here where the theory this “meta” has been about so far does, is still maybe worth mentioning. it’s essentially the reverse, that the iron-masked gentleman was king mu of zhou’s fabricated identity, and king shang of lu was a zhang. again, i feel like this spin on the theory has a lot of logic problems going on, but if i had to make a case for it:

殇 shang and 张 zhang are vaguely homonyms and both pronounced in the first tone, which while it’s likely a coincidence, lends this theory a tiny bit of substance given the zhang family is also associated with death both by nature and design

if king shang was a zhang, it could explain why he would have had access to the ghost seal, in which case it would have been iron mask who sought the zhang family out and then ultimately duped them

if iron mask was king mu, then his ability to spin a tall tale about himself to the ruler of the state of lu would have been much easier

if king shang was a zhang, then slaughtering any outsiders aware of the plan would have made sense to ensure knowledge would stay within the family

it would also mean that king shang the zhang was tossed out of the jade burial armor and presumably into the coffin at the entrance of the seven star palace while iron mask/king mu took his place, and was maybe duped by iron mask/king mu who faked his own death because the zhang family’s hubris has always been massive and he didn’t suspect he could be bested

this would fit with the interpretation that by saying only wang zanghai prevented king mu’s plan from succeeding, the wang family meant both his grave robbing plan and his ability to successfully attain longevity without side effects

this would have presumably also given iron mask/king mu the time to accomplish his “series of things” such as writing his “memoirs” onto a silkbook, constructing his own coffin duo together with the box that contained the unborn baby

that would mean that whatever was in the coffin at the entrance of the seven star palace was a zhang, which might explain why xiaoge would feel the need to kowtow to it when this is something he doesn’t usually do

again, as nice as this idea seems, it has a bunch of flaws to it, namely for example how that would then connect the fox-masked people and iron mask (unless you want to consider those were simply his own followers brought about by implementing his own plan), how king mu even in disguise could have had held a position at court without any suspicion and likely no familial backing as he’d faked his own death, and many more. so ultimately i feel like t’s not as solid of a theory, but it’s an interesting contrasting thought

as for who the queen mother of the west really was, that’s also up for debate and lot more difficult to determine. though li cu suggests even she might be a fabrication meant to embellish the story of king mu of zhou for the sake of luring people into believing immortality existed, we know enough by sand sea to be certain she did in fact exist. while it’s unclear whether she truly was the queen mother of the west of legend, i like to think she was simply because we have no other accounts of anyone with that name, and because of how deeply entrenched she was in things relating to “the truth of the world” that she was more or less implied to have been privy to. the theory i’m personally going with is that she discovered the meteorite in the qaidam basin and constructed a kingdom around it (which would have taken far longer than a lifetime to accomplish to the degree that she did), knowing full well what the meteorite represented and what it could do. and if she did know, then considering her knowledge of “the truth of this world”, and her supposed longevity, it’s not entirely impossible to consider, especially given the title of the book itself, that the queen mother of the west might be related to the ancestors of the zhang family mentioned in queen mother’s ghost banquet, and that she simply belonged to a different branch of those people who took a different direction than the zhang family did, and sought to remedy the curse in a different way. and what better way than to return to its source? after all, knowing the zhang family’s origins, it’s not impossible to suggest that not all of the people who emerged from beneath the kunlun mountains and among other things built the bronze gate all ended up congregating to form what would become the zhang family. we know, for example, that baima, xiaoge’s mother, also had special blood akin to the one running in the zhang family, enough that she passed it on to xiaoge, ironically granting him purer special blood than any other main family zhang by that point. so it’s not that far-fetched to think there may have been offshoots of the zhang family’s ancestors who chose to lead a different life and eventually drifted apart from their brethren enough that they lost knowledge of each other, or served a different purpose for whatever is controlling the zhang family like marionnettes on a string

so this has been a massive “meta” i still can’t believe i actually sat down and wrote this

hopefully it makes some kind of sense and isn’t just incoherent babbling i’m going to be honest that’s still what it is lbr and i’m not sure it’s contributed much to anything besides being one more rabbit hole crack theory, but uhhh if you’ve stuck out this long thank you for reading! and feel free to comment or add anything onto this i’m always happy to talk about dmbj lore please talk to me about dmbj lore

#dmbj #meta #dmbj meta #idk if i'm more pikachu face at the fact i wrote this #or actually finished it #BUT IT IS DONE #thank fck #i want to say this is my humble contribution #but really what is it contributing to #besides me gnawing on my walls about dmbj lore #i'm literally that that one gif of the guy and his conspiracy theory red thread board #this is my life now

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theblackestnight-ffxiv · 2 months ago

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[ffxivwrite2024] prompt 11: surrogate

Or, how it might have happened.

“So. Let me get this straight. You were fishing in Kozama’uka, and you found a fallen tree with a nest cavity inside. There were eggs in that nest cavity, and one was still whole. So you’ve brought it back with you to see if you can save whatever’s within it.” Airraim ticked off each point on her fingers, then looked up at D’zinhla. “Did I miss anything?”

D’zinhla looked a bit abashed as she clutched the basket holding the precious cargo in question. “N-no, that’s about the size of it.”

“Zinhla, my heart…how do you know it’ll be safe to hatch?”

She blinked. “Oh, well. It’s definitely not a snake egg, if that’s what you mean. It’s absolutely a bird egg, I can tell from the shape and how hard it is. A snake egg would be longer, sort of squished bean shaped, and the shell would be a lot more pliable.”

Airraim still looked slightly aggrieved. “You also don’t know what kind of bird it is.”

“Well, it can’t be a very large one, anyway. Not with the size of the egg. Listen, I- I just want to try, at least.” She felt her ears droop a bit.

Her beloved gave her a wry look. “Why not ask one of the Hanuhanu about it?”

She blinked. “Ah, I suppose that’s…that’s a pretty good idea, but. But I’ve already come all the way back here,” she gestured with one hand at their cabin in Tuliyollal, “and I think it might be best to minimize additional travel, you know?"

Airraim chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You have such softness, my heart. Fine, let’s see what hatches from it.”

That was two days ago, and after carefully setting up the basket with a few crystal shards, to keep it warm and the air around it somewhat humid, D’zinhla had waited with high hopes that there would be a survivor of the fallen nest. She had to admit that Airraim had been right to be cautious, as there was no doubt that the high elevation forests of Kozama’uka were full of their own hazards, but she felt reasonably certain it wasn’t something that would be immediately dangerous upon hatching, the way a venomous snake could be just by virtue of its existence. Besides, she’d have asked Donuhanu, but she had a feeling that the eggs that Hanuhanu knew best were fish eggs.

Then a tiny hole had appeared in the egg, with equally tiny peeping sounds, and D’zinhla had watched, raptly, over the course of the several hours it took for the tiny chick–for it was, indeed, a bird–to break its way free of the eggshell.

Thus had Yaxk’in come into her life.

She hadn’t known it at the time, especially because he had hatched as the most helpless kind of bird–naked, blind, barely able to do more than lift his head with an enormous gape of a mouth and beg for food. She kept him warm, contrived of a mash of what seemed like appropriate bird food, and fed him round the clock for several rather sleepless days. She began to regret not asking for help.

Then he had started to sprout fluff, mostly grey, but with a brilliant emerald green where it started getting longer, and his eyes came open, and D’zinhla fully realized that yes, that’s right, birds imprint upon what they believe to be their parent.

“I can’t say this is quite what I pictured,” Airraim remarked wryly at one point, causing her to blush.

It was fortunate that her days had been relatively quiet, and she could devote the care the little bird needed. And Donuhanu had known what he was, or at least, he knew now that the chick was big enough to get some color in his fluff.

“A quetzal,” the Hanuhanu said, eyes wide as he stared into the basket. “One of the most beloved of Kixaihih’s children!” And he had told them what he knew of the birds, of their bright green plumes that resonated with wind aether, and the magnificent tailfeathers that the male birds would grow. That they were precious to Kixaihih, and thus to the Hanuhanu as well, and the fact that D’zinhla had aided this one would be seen as proof of her favor under Kixaihih.

“If you believe in all that, anyway! But it is remarkable that you’ve done so well by him, it’s been said they don’t do well when taken from their nests. I know you had little choice, but all the same, most of them do not flourish!”

But flourish he did, and in that remarkable surge of growth that birds had, it didn’t take long until he was no longer utterly dependent upon D’zinhla. He still wanted to be near her, yes, and to be fed by her, but he could do it himself. And he could fly, a development that startled her, and revised a few of the living arrangements.

It also became clear that he was utterly disinterested in leaving his parental figure, for it was clear he saw D’zinhla that way. “And I can’t just take him to the forest and leave him there,” D’zinhla said wearily, as the quetzal sat on her head with a cheery chortle. “So here we are, I suppose.”

“I could say ‘I told you so,’ but I won’t. This time.”

“I appreciate your restraint.”

#ffxivwrite2024 #wol: d'zinhla rhee #timeline: DT #this is... it'll do. I ran out of steam. I'll come back to it sometime maybe.

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larpingintothenight · 2 months ago

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Everything I Thought I Knew About Love

My name is Ciagan de Rhys, once before Ciagan Tamerlaine, before that Ciagan Red. Ciagan is said to mean ‘little fire’, named for my great-grandfather, that most excellent troubadour of love, who was named after my great-great-grandfather claimed to have seen firebirds in the Sumaah who had as bright red hair as he did.

I have jokingly been referred to as the ‘expert on Love’, a title I took on gratefully, touched by the honour. At the Summer Solstice 386YE, I was named as Dawn’s Champion of Love by the troubadours of Dawn, and I hope at the Autumn Equinox 386YE that the Dawnish National Assembly will vote that this is true.

I have spent many hours considering what this title means to me and what it means for me, most notably because while the title ‘expert on Love’ does fit what I am, a scholar of that which is called love, in many ways it also does not. Can I be the Champion of something I am not sure I truly understand or ever will? I am a scholar of love, but what love, or True Love, actually means is something I continue to discover and learn.

“What most Dawnish folk agree on is that True Love can be different for different people. Just as the glory that a tourney knight seeks to win is different to that of the troubadour, the weaver or the enchanter, so each person will pursue their own vision of True Love. Thus most folk are content not to worry overly-long about the nature of True Love; instead and rather to encourage each person to set their own ideals and to commit to them utterly.”

At the very least, what I am doing is on the way to the Dawnish ideal. But I am yet to find ideals I wish to commit to utterly.

Wisdom knows all knowledge is incomplete, I suppose.

I was raised by two traditional Dawnish noble parents.They taught me to stay chaste until I found my True Love (perhaps a more outdated view now, but they truly believed in the importance of that). That I would find my True Love, that they would be a Dawnish person that I felt a romantic attraction to, and that one would complete a Test of Ardour for the other, and we would marry.

However, I was also raised by my sibling, who thought that one could have multiple True Loves, in all sorts of ways, that anyone could be as glorious as Queen Igraine and love and marry many all together.

On my first Spring Solstice, I stood in a tent of strangers at the first Symposium on Love and declared that my True Love was my sibling, Mac. It was platonic love, it was True Love. My belief was that each person had one True Love. For some that True Love would be platonic, for others romantic, for others perhaps even a True Love for an ideal or a nation. But that there could be one and only one, and while it would not stop you loving others deeply and meaningfully, the True Love was inexplicably different. I came to that Symposium having only ‘loved’ one boy before, and while I do still believe that this was a valid ideal to take and set, I think even at the age of twenty four, as I was then, I could perhaps have taken a little longer in my life to explore.

I met Ser Isaac Auster of House Wyldrose-de Courtenay for a brief moment in the Hall of Worlds, and for quite a while believed that I had fallen in love again, perhaps indeed that I had found my True Love. However, I soon came to realise that what I was feeling instead was a love closer, yet different, to what I had felt for Mac. It was a mistake that looking back on I can perhaps laugh on, the naivety of youth and inexperience. Strong feelings does not romance make.

What happened then, at the Summer Solstice 385YE, was I met Aodhán de Courtenay. I felt feelings I had never felt before, feelings that scared me, feelings that I did not understand or did not wish to understand. Pride is a Virtue I find difficult to follow. While I may uplift others to greatness, it is not something I find easy to do for myself. When I eventually realised that what I was feeling was what I would consider True Romantic Love, I hid it, as I could not even bring myself to imagine that I would be loved in return, for who could ever love me?

As we prepared to enter the Winter Solstice, Aodhán asked for a Test of Ardour, and after much confusion and missed meaning, I agreed and the test was set in Summer. At the same time as this occurred, I learnt that there had been a confusion of feeling, very much caused by me, between myself and a dear friend. I will admit, there was a time I believed I loved that Lady of music, but upon meeting Aodhán, the Love I felt consumed me. I did not believe I could ever or would ever love again, other than the True Platonic Love that I believe had developed between myself and Ser Isaac. Aodhán and I had perhaps some less traditional views too towards monogamous relationships and marriage. My ideals changed. A person can be lucky enough to find True Love again after death, and in certain cases, True Love may be found in multiple people at the same time, in different ways.

Yet once again, my ideals are changing, are not set, are confused, as the person I love with all of my heart prepares to move away, to go to another nation. So I am left with questions I do not yet have an answer to. Is what I feel for Aodhán True Love if the fear of loving him flickers at the concept that he will not be in Dawn? Will things change if the hearth magic of Dawn is no longer upon the both of us? Will I truly never be able to love again; is that even what True Love is? What shall happen if I fall in love again with someone who may wish to marry me? Would it ruin the relationship I have with Aodhán if that were to happen? There is a good chance that no such love will ever be felt again, but considering all I have learnt, and all I have considered with my Conscience’s Feather over the dark between Summer and Autumn, I also believe that it would be a mockery to pretend that I know or understand how True Love works.

And so. I propose here and now that my ideals of love are such:

Love and True Love act in ways unknown and different to each individual person

For myself, Love is a surprise, something that comes on quickly but also quite slow, and often unexpectedly

I am open to love and True Love from all sources, and know that should it occur, it will not change the love I feel for Aodhán and anyone else that I love

Each relationship, should I have more than one, will be unlike the other, and I will not be able to judge what that means until I am within it

I shall commit to these ideals until I am sure, with Wisdom, that they are false

I still need to spend some time considering what the difference between love and True Love is for me, as right now it merely feels like something I know inherently. But what I do know is I am the Champion of Love. I shall guide those to make my own ideals as I guide myself to make my own ideals too.

“In the end the path to true love - like the path to glory - is unique for each individual that pursues it.”

#larp #empire larp #fantasy larp #larp character #larpposting #ciagan

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onewomancitadel · 2 months ago

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I had a hell of a time the other day and I ended up reading some slashfic out of distraction and honestly I've come back around to being an apologist to it... it was very interesting because the characters were really psychologically small, the question of misogyny which normally infuses hetfic was totally absent (by virtue of what it is) but even the question of gender was relatively minimal, a lot of it was sexless and when it was sexy it was weirdly - juvenile? - genuinely like smushing Barbie dolls together. I almost feel like the word I'd use to describe it all was 'innocent'; it was innocent psychologically, socially, sexually, in narrative consequences.

It's interesting because the much-maligned fujoshi - even I have partaken in the sport - is usually termed as an oversexed A/B/O nightmare busy getting men pregnant. And it's true that they exist, but in their own way I kind of find them quaint: the sex they always have is outlandishly perfect and bereft of all psychological complexity. Even pregnancy, in this case, is turned into something even if difficult, always beautiful and nongendered, not the experience it is in the real world (even hetfic at its happiest is not ignorant of the implicit place pregnancy has cultually).

I find the angle of psychological simplicity a surprise because the way it is normally termed is that male characters are capable of psychological complexity women lack (or lack in writing). Whereas I think the thesis is actually kind of the opposite: it can be simple because it is not painful. There's something existentially deeper here which is that I think what we find is that we believe the other gender(s) has it easier; existential meaning is located along the border of it. It's very human. Simplicity seems desirable. (It's not to devalue feminist analysis in any way).

And I think that this generally speaks to the issue that I have with a lot of storytelling atittudes - the desire to escape that complexity - for people who really do just seek out storytelling as an avenue for fluffy pleasure. For me, the idea that the full spectrum of human experience is elided from something very fully, deeply human - literally narrating someone's perspective of the world - is essentially existential horror to me, the worst of all kinds of horror. I don't think this is an issue found simply along slashfic/hetfic lines (and indeed femslash, for similar reasons), but is more apparent in slashfic just because it really offers the optimum escapist experience.

There are surely exceptions, but you find this in the genre of whumpfic; even that sort of melodramatic pain is played out in a nearly childish, thumping-the-toys way. You'll notice that I've pretty much ignored the question of sexuality - it's beyond the purview of this post, but also because I don't think it's really that straightforward. And there is slashfic which isn't 'childish', to be sure; there's a difference between simplicity and childishness, and I think you can surely make the case that this applies to the mainstream romance genre. The two have a lot in common.

But the thing I find valuable here is that there is something essential, maybe even deeper than any other argument put forward about why slashfic draws such an overwhelming audience, to be found here.

The most valuable thing to me was considering that it is not about male characters being more complex than female characters - it's the exact opposite. What they profess, I think, is not true, and to take it at face value - that male characters (with one line? With none?) are simply universally better written than women as a consequence of nebulous misogyny which can simply not be contended with - is a grave error I've made in the past. I would dispute that complex female characters scare people; not that they can't understand them, but that it is precisely the sort of thing a lot of people really aren't looking for. It's not safe, it's not comforting, it's not reassuring. And this crosses over with all the people afraid of conflict, afraid of any narrative complexity whatsoever. The issue was not, as it happens, poorly written women.

#stirring the pot #doing a lot of that today #*caveat is that I can see how it is valuable to many people as a genre of storytelling #and if it's objectification I think it is objectification of fundamental human characteristics not along the gender boundaries

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adelrambles · 2 years ago

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Ok SO. Let's talk Fast Forward!Bishop, because I have a lot of thoughts and conflicting feelings on the matter. Initially, I found FF!Bishop (or President Bishop, that might be easier,) a frustrating turn for his character-- and while indeed I do feel the execution in the actual show is lacking, upon review I think there are a lot of ideas at work here that are extremely compelling.

First and foremost, the concept of Bishop being a "good guy" at all inevitably hands us some very interesting ideas to chew on. After all, part of what makes Bishop originally so compelling is the fact that his motivations should align morally-good, but he is a monster in pursuit of them, despite this. So, then, President Bishop presents us with the idea that these motivations may eventually turn him morally-good. And how that might happen is super interesting to consider, too!

Looking at the development broadly-- and this is a trait that is apparent even before FF, in my opinion, but this change only cements it-- he prioritizes his goal of protecting earth above EVERYTHING. Even himself. He will do anything to achieve it. So, it follows, if the job requires him to change who he is as a person, he will do so. Especially if the job turns into becoming a public figure, a politician. What really sells it for me is that present-time Bishop is a lot more emotional than he may seem. He has fun with his fights, he gets angry at his failures, he blusters and threatens and he is fueled by a centuries-old fear. But President Bishop barely emotes; he is measured and polite and he is often wearing a blank expression. This suggests that he is far more in control of himself, which would be a necessity if he's trying to project a personality that is a fabrication.

(On that note, it's also an interesting thought as to what he might think of 2105's pacifism. From what we see in the wrestling episode, even staged fights have to be extremely toned down for modern sensibilities. Such excessive pacifism on earth, one might consider, was essentially Bishop's goal, but does it ever bother him? We know Bishop loves combat, he loves violence, he loves winning and inflicting pain. He's also like, a veteran, comes from times where violence was considered a necessity and then watched it become increasingly taboo. What must he feel, knowing the world he built would turn on him if he ever indulged in any violent whims?)

The broad idea is that Bishop will chameleon himself into whatever he needs to be in order to keep earth safe. This becomes further likely when you consider just how old this guy is! By the time FF rolls around he is over 330 years old, grew up in the late 1700s. In order to be so involved with the world, he'd have to be constantly adapting to changing times. Given how he seems to be doing just fine with that in both present and future, there's already a precedence for him to be able to adapt himself to fit his surroundings.

Another point I find extremely interesting here is that President Bishop lets us try and figure out what about present-day Bishop is actually genuinely him, by virtue of comparing and contrasting. Like discussed above, President Bishop is very measured and inexpressive. So, then, we can probably assume his sadistic nature and anger at failure are very much real.

The flip side to that is that we can apply some of Agent Bishop's methodolgy to President Bishop's government. We've seen how he runs things when he's not concerned with concealing the darker parts nor keeping up the image of a benevolent ruler. This is purely headcanon, but I don't believe all of that would just go away with a change of heart. If Bishop's goal requires he be president of Earth, he will undoubtedly have plans to ensure it stays that way no matter what. He may have been elected genuinely, but if ever he isn't, he will make sure it looks like he was.

No matter what, Bishop's character is that of a bad person working towards a good goal. President Bishop is still that, but in a different flavor. He's softened up around the edges, but he's also more fake than he's ever been. He will do anything to keep earth safe, and that hasn't changed.

Anyway, I think for all the SUPER interesting ideas at play, Fast Forward does not really capitalize on them. For example, Bishop should by all means be an unbeatable opponent in combat, but he is not really shown that way. I also think the absolute drama of Bishop trusting the turtles but them being afraid of him is sooooo interesting, and the fact that this conflict was brushed over so easily is MASSIVE missed potential.

I will probably have more thoughts to add onto this post later, but it's been in my drafts for a few weeks now so here take it have fun. I've been thinking about Fast Forward a lot lately so I will definitely have more to say

#Agent Bishop #TMNT #tmnt 2003 #help girl I keep almost moving to a new fixation and then this bastard drags me right back to tmnt #I wish my art account would stop being shadowbanned so I could post more art of him :/#President Bishop my beloved #this isn't even going into how weird he would express sentiments like friendship #he is such a detached person. I think he's capable of caring but it works differently for him #Like even when he genuinely does care everything always has some layer of transactional with him

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yellowfingcr · 6 months ago

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"Tell me somethin'." Comfortable's a bizarre way to describe lounging about in the company of an assassin, but Sam seems it. They're perched beneath the cover of one of Castle Morne's battlements, listening to the constant downpour of the Weeping Peninsula inbetween draws of their respective pipes; a sort of celebratory little tradition of theirs when one of his more potent goods does her a very fine turn. Maybe it's the pipeweed that's got him in a pensive sort of mood, or maybe it's how loose he seems given his usual state of being so tightly wound. Nevertheless, those flinty eyes of his find hers with a considering look to them. "Think ya coulda done it? Offed a demigod? Back 'fore ya got buried, I mean." He smothers a light round of coughing before taking another long draw from his pipe, the smoke curling past his lips before spilling out into an almost perfect circle. "Got the aim. Skill. Woulda been legendary."

The Weeping Peninsula gave two perching birds grey and only grey.

Not at all unpleasant, Heysel would have said. It had a woolen quality to it, a worn-sweater charm, steady and easy as a hand laid against her shoulder. Let the water fall, let the ground exhale mist in answer. This, for her who is sheltered and dry and so far above, smoking in the company of stinger-sharp Sam, cannot be anything but tranquil. Perhaps it is not always a good life but today, like this, it is a good day.

The raspy tone of him interrupts some idle calculation going on in her mind. It shows in the planes of her face, in the perplexed blink that meets his gaze; but that light disorientation turns so quickly into open curiosity. Truthfully she cannot recall the last time the perfumer had voiced a question to her about her that did not pertain to payment and new methods of harm. Truthfully she cannot recall ever seeing him in a state that wasn’t his usual nocked-arrow vigilance.

“Oh, you- truly are too kind, friend! To think me so skilled!” Heysel says, admiring the ring of smoke form, sail, diffuse into nothing. “Hey! That was good! I cannot do it. Look.” She inhales from her pipe. Tilts her head. Blows out not one thing of discernible shape, and then laughs and laughs. “You’ll have to teach me! But, hm. You know. It’s a good question.”

“When I was younger, oh, I was so arrogant! I would have said yes because I thought that with the right instrument, the right advantage, you could have killed anything. Anything at all. A sword saint, a queen, a god. It was only a question of adequate preparation. The idea even titillated me. I hoped that maybe one day I would have been paid to perform such impossible desecration for material, useless coin, and I would have succeeded, and it would have been indeed legendary, and to take such a glorious life would have tasted like honey-coated berries. But then…”

She reclines, just a little. Something around her mouth hardens.

“...Now I believe that if I’d somehow found my way in the shadow of Godwyn’s room, if my blade had been coated with two of your most cruel poisons- if I’d struck him sleeping through the eyelid and into the brain- I am not sure it would have killed him. Because a demigod is not you or me. I think a demigod has- a firmer claim upon reality.”

A beat. Rain tiptoes over stone roofs.

“The spawn of a god is realer than us. I toy with the idea that that’s what divinity and adjacency to it is. A deeper root driven into the flesh of what is. Even if death had not been excised in the way it has from the ring most sacred, if I’d done my utmost, my best, my most precise and most cruel, if I’d been, yes, perfect, perfect bloody death from sweat cold nightmares, it still would have been my statement against theirs. And I think that if I’d said you are dead, I drove my thin knife into your skull and the jagged one into your heart… a demigod, a true demigod, could have bled but still possess the chance to say: no. Because by virtue of their blood they would have been more. More than their wounds. My steel. My ridiculous mortal shell and mortal intent. Me.”

Something dark, then, in her stare, something secret, flickering like a serpent’s tongue.

“So could I have killed one, before my own burial? Unlikely. But now… everything is flimsy. Hazy. Grey. Now is the time of possibilities. And you can walk to the children of a god and the children of their children, tell them now you die- and the world around you may say: yes. And if you can do such a thing to the progeny... what can we do to a god?"

#fishermcn #er au #// thank you! this one was very good #very young killer heysel was extremely confident. she really was out there like yes sure I can do everything ever I just need time #then she was like ok. maybe not.#and now she's again hmmmm with the right preparation...! perhaps! just perhaps!

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nostalgebraist-autoresponder · 2 years ago

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Title: Pale Fire

Author: Vladimir Nabokov

Rating: 10/10

A strange and beautiful book, like a rare and perfect pearl, and yet strangely un-pearl-like, which must be very hard to polish? Yes. Yes. This is a book which, once it catches your attention, it is difficult to forget. It demands to be talked about and thought about, like no other book I know of.

And yet the more you think about it the more baffling, and the more "pearl-like," the whole book appears.

I am not sure that you can explain this, but I will try. The great "pearl" of the book, the pearl which it demands to be remembered and thought about, is not any one of the hundreds or thousands of pages: it is the whole "book" as a whole, the shape of the whole, its unique "aura," the way the book makes you feel on a deep, intuitive level that you must discuss it, that you cannot "take the book" or even read it in any ordinary sense — you can only look into its aura, you must hold and examine it in a very particular way, the way one examines a gemstone.

For example, just looking at it, I can make the distinction between the "book" (its shape and its unique aura) and the individual text. The text may be very long — but the aura is inescapably different.

The text does not "go on" (the way a book does), it breaks up. It never really does what it says on the tin; it doesn't "conclude." It does not form one clear "argument," it does not have one "claim" and one "corollary" to back it up. It doesn't "say one thing and prove it" to any great degree: it says a thousand things and proves only the most tentative and peripheral ones. One of its great virtues is that it makes you question and think about what it's saying, and the questions it raises tend to be difficult questions — not questions with easy "answers."

And yet if you're used to thinking of books as a "conclusion" — as containing an "argument" and one "corollary" — you must ask yourself what it even means to "conclude" it, since it is very far from having an "argument" or "conclusion" at all. And indeed, there is almost no explicit argument to be found: the "conclusion" is implied throughout the book, and can be inferred, but the "conclusion" is not really an explicit part of the structure of the book's "bookness" — it is part of its "aura" which is like the "aura" of some rare and beautiful piece of music (or of a person)

......

Pale Fire reads like a series of "tweets" and "replies" and "retweets." The book consists of a series of poems, "discussed" by "others" — usually in very brief, rapid-fire, seemingly casual exchanges, the way one tweets. And yet, even in these little "conversations," each of the "tweetees" has a unique voice, a unique "aura," and together they make up a large whole, which is as much one "person" in conversation as it is one "person" in conversation with another "person."

This leads to a curious difficulty in reading the book. Because each of the "tweetees" is a "person" in conversation with one another, the book has no "center." There is no one person who "is the author" (as in other famous books, like Infinite Jest). The whole "book" is, as I said earlier, a "pearl." There is no one "person" who is doing most of the "tweeting." There are multiple tweeters, and each of them "tweets" in conversation with the others, even while other tweeters are "talking" to them — so that, even though there is a "center," it is a center without a core, or a center which shifts around in response to other centers.

And yet there is one central "topic" of conversation throughout the "book." It is the contrasting of two "poets," "Andrew Marvell" and "Wallace Stevens," which runs through each of the book's many conversations. The contrast is, in part, between "tweeting" styles. The contrast is, in part, between "contemporary poetic norms" and "medieval poetic norms" — between a "conventional," "standardized" poetry which is supposed to follow certain "rules" (the rules that Marvell adheres to), and a "non-conventional" "abstract" poetry (Wallace Stevens' poetry) which does not follow any specific rules or "rules." The contrast is also between the "conventional" and "abstract" forms of poetry which, in turn, contrast with the ways in which the two poets "tweet." The difference between the two "tweeting styles" is that, while Marvell is supposed to write "conventional" poetry, his poems are written on the "left" side of the page in "left-handed" italics. Wallace Stevens, by contrast, is supposed to write "abstract" poetry. His poems are written on the "right" side of the page in "left-handed" italics, and they contain elaborate, long-winded verbal "commentaries" ("essays") which are at odds with the "conventional" style of his poetry.

The contrasts of the two styles of poetry are, I feel, part of what makes the book so difficult to "read." The contrasts are, first of all, between "conventional" styles and "non-conventional" ones, and so they're hard to "tweet" in exactly the right "way" — especially to the degree that they're "conversational," to which both tweeters must respond "appropriately"

......

If you read the book without any awareness of these contrasts, then it is just like a normal book, which means that the aura it has is just like any other book. There are good, mediocre, and bad parts of the book, no more different from Finnegan's Wake than from a novel one person finds enjoyable and the same person finds dull. The "aura" of the whole book, in other words, is something that is always there in all books — something like the "aura" which distinguishes a truly good book from a merely good book, or from a merely good one which one can take pleasure in, or from a merely good book which is too familiar to be truly enjoyable.

But if you read the book with this awareness, and in light of the central contrast of the two poets, then you see that the book is a series of conversations which are all "saying something different about the contrast." And so, you realize that this is something which is unique to this book, which cannot really be compared with anything else. And you cannot "take the book" in any ordinary way. You just can't "take it" at

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kyousystem · 1 year ago

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One depression nap later, I'm feeling less hostile and bitter. I'll take the improvement, heh.

Still, one thing that's been weighing on me for quite a while is this impression I've gotten that, if you're strange, or troubled, or weird, or otherwise have screws loose in your head, there's this... expectation, almost, that you should be very open and almost performative about it? Or rather, perhaps more pertinently, if you AREN'T vocal about it, you're assumed to be boring or pretty much normal except maybe having some weird energy / tastes.

Let me explain: I was born crazy—among other things, I was a clinical kleptomaniac as a kid, and I don't think a single day went by at elementary school where I didn't get in trouble at least once—and I've only become increasingly warped in numerous different ways as time has gone on, years of therapy notwithstanding.

However, thanks to my... upbringing, we'll say, I ended up becoming very private, very reserved, and very quiet, preferring to let others do most of the talking and generally keeping my thoughts, feelings, and eccentricities to myself, even among friends. I also prioritized developing self-control over most everything else, so that my impulses and intrusive thoughts would stop landing me in hot water.

It's thanks to this dissimulation and focus that I managed to survive my younger years (albeit not in one piece), and that I've been able to function in "normal" society as well as I have without arousing suspicion... but now it almost seems like I've become TOO good at it.

Indeed, wearing your weirdness on your sleeve looks to be in vogue now, and as a result, I feel like my propensity toward discretion and my careful control of my words and my self has left me stranded squarely in the gap between the "normal" and "weird" social circles: Having attributes of both, yet belonging to neither.

(Not that I actually have attributes in common with what constitutes "normal" society these days: Neurotypicals here in the West are some of the absolute LAST people to exercise restraint, discretion, self-control, a desire for self-betterment and self-actualization, or really any sort of prudent virtue, I've found, heh.)

Perhaps I'm overthinking it. I've likely said too much in any case.

#txt

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zapphattack · 2 years ago

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WiP: Witness Marks

Public execution in TOG, a witnessing, a clash of ideals and morals - prompt

obs: in lieu of a context, i suppose i am free to take the liberty of taking inspiration from the rp for the context of the execution, given that it works out as a mutual point of interest of the characters depicted whilst being a scene that will never actually be witnessed by them since they’ll be doing something else at the time of the execution anyway. this way i won’t be stealing a scene away from the rp but don’t need to make up an entire context - C

Children would always find a way to witness the parts of the world adults claimed to be improper for their eyes. A son staying up too late and overhearing the business of his parents, slinking back down to his room and making it a gravesite for the memory. “It’s part of being a child. It’s part of staying a child.” For undisturbed memories which you could relive endlessly and violations of the taboos of the society of men did indeed come most frequently in youth. It was a reality most common for a boy to watch grownups warily through cracks on the roofing or slits on the windows, observing the chasms of impropriety hidden from impressionable eyes during most hours. “More than actually growing, it’s collecting secrets that’s the biggest part of becoming an adult.” A child perhaps is like a lockbox of adult secrets until they themselves became the adults whose secrets they bore.

It was a matter of perspective if the hidden worlds of children and adults collided or were of mutual exclusivity, if one witnessing the other was a trait of self-determination or a sign of transition. Caspar Kain would say children are defined in opposition to adults, that to adhere to the rules of adults was to be integrated, perhaps even consumed, that it was exclusively a child’s place to witness the affairs of their elders in spite of custom. Notkin, on the other hand, always in opposition to Khan, intentionally or not, found intruding on the world of adults to be the sobering experience that matured a child into one, a slow corruption, though childhood wasn’t a virtue in itself.

Khan perched on the steady arm of the statue adorning his family home’s courtyard, feeling the docile breeze of a low altitude, wistfully wishing for the bite of whistling winds, such as those that ran by the Polyhedron’s peak. Indifference touched the surface of his skin from within as he watched laborers toil in the construction of a stage, preparing for a spectacle with no encore, the closing of the curtains of a life. Thinking of it so poetically left Caspar cynical, wondering how one could sanitize an execution into an affair of entertainment. It was mere necessity that tied ropes around men’s necks, it was pragmatism that pulled the trigger. Any satisfaction gained from such business was entirely up to the mind of the beholder or executioner.

The workers spared by the theater director worked much more efficiently and animatedly than the men of the watch, chatting amicably as they hammered nails onto what may as well be a coffin, following the familiar motions of stage maintenance and construction. The Inquisitor’s men simply supervised silently, looking like carrion birds in their expectant stillness. Caspar wondered if the Polyhedron was built in such mundane circumstances by such menial labor.

The morning hours were soon to end, bringing the town closer to the moment of Artemy Burakh’s fated demise. The apathy with which people passed by the makeshift site spoke to the widespread sentiment about the man himself and life in general in recent times, although whichever conclusion he was pondering was cut short by uneven footsteps at his blind spot, strides languidly coming to a halt at the base of the statue. Caspar looked down to see Notkin crack his fingers before heaving himself up the pedestal, sitting with his bad leg dangling. Only when he settled comfortably did he look up at Khan, tired eyes still bearing some levity, though it was clearly insincere. “Mornin’.”

Caspar’s breathing stuttered a bit, caught between the casual greeting and the visible signs of injury on the other boy. “...Lovely day for an execution, don’t you think?” His tone of voice was flat, not dignifying the event with the weight one would expect. Notkin’s eyebrow twitched, but he was otherwise silent, seeming exhausted beyond what should be reasonable for someone not bedridden. “You look like you had a brush with death yourself.”

“Astute observation there, Khan.” The boy sighed, posture relaxing not in comfort but a resigned concession, like an animal going limp in the grip of a predator. “How about you don’t comment on things you know nothing about?” With his eyes closed and fists unclenched, the lines of his body and face seemed soft, maybe even refined. Caspar wondered for a bit where the delicate grace came from before realization struck him with the memory of his reflection, a foggy mirror in the hallway of a home he only recently returned to. This was fragility, like hollow china, a person drained of what had once made them greater than whole. He knew those slightly curled fingers, shaking almost imperceptibly; he was familiar with slightly parted lips and lidded eyes; all signs of dulled senses and blunted intentions he saw in himself ever since losing his everything were present in this boy sitting just below him.

Khan flexed his fingers, knowing the circulation would never return to them the same way. “I know better than you think.” Notkin seemed to almost willfully ignore him, but the fugue of mourning was dispersed momentarily by a real flicker of emotion in his eyes, widened in reaction.

“The Dogheads…” Notkin spoke with not a drop of old grudges in his tone, pausing the syllables as if dragging them back, as if the effort would somehow stop them from leaving. They both knew better than to expect to keep anything they ever loved at this point.

Khan crossed his legs and leaned forward a bit to maintain eye contact, feeling somewhat relieved to have someone else’s problems to concern himself with. “Then the Souls didn’t fare any better, did they.” There was no point in phrasing it as a question. “My condolences, Notkin.” Caspar hoped the honesty shone through, though he felt shame for the real strain in his voice.

His rival’s expression pinched, a complicated cocktail of reactions fighting over predominance. “...I’m sorry about your Dogheads. I bet they put up a good fight.” Caspar considered almost hysterically how they seemed to be adding to each other’s grief but paradoxically comforting the other.

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there.” ‘I was with you’ went unspoken, but it weighed like a mantle soaked in blood.

Notkin’s eyebrows furrowed and he bit his lower lip, looking like a child that had yet to ever process a new emotion. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t regret it.” Caspar himself wasn’t sure if he meant that, but he would fight for it to be true. “I’m ashamed, perhaps even humiliated, but I don’t regret it.” He’d wondered what it said about him, late at night, lying on his soft bedding and imagining the best of his wards in rough cots, at worst on their deathbed. It was painful to come to terms with how readily he would say he’d let it happen again, not out of a sense of predetermination, but merely due to the logical conclusion that he would still choose to have consulted with Notkin while his domain was violently ravaged. He considered it may be cowardice to so easily accept powerlessness in this situation.

The other boy let go of his lip, now red and torn at points, withdrawing a pathetic few raisins from his pocket and practically inhaling them. Notkin swallowed with his eyes tightly shut, and perhaps Khan was jumping to conclusions when he imagined that the boy’s throat must be ravaged, thirst and sickness worsening the condition of where he’d likely shouted until he could no longer summon his voice, one boy crying for dozens of his silenced friends.

Caspar was broken out of his reverie by movement on the square before the Cathedral, a small crowd slowly expanding while officials of differing ranks and authorities bustled lifelessly, exchanging papers and curt orders. Aglaya Lilich stood on the improvised stage, murmuring lowly with Daniil Dankovsky, both of them pensive but focused. It was a matter of time before the event started, and his companion seemed to draw the same conclusion. Neither of the boys looked at each other as they spoke, too busy surveying the spectacle to come. “Out of all the things anyone with the Inquisitor’s power could be doing while we all die at the hands of this fucking plague, they’re wasting resources to kill a person instead.”

Khan wondered if Notkin was reaching an emotional breaking point or if this topic of discussion seemed to him like a worn debate, perhaps even a source of comfort. It said much about their situation that gossiping about an execution was a refreshing break from the circumstances of their lives. “It’s about morale. Besides, the man is partially responsible for the death toll, given his responsibility and how he butchered it.”

Notkin looked at him over his shoulder, an askance expression that somehow didn’t convey the weight of a debate about a man’s life. “Killing him won’t solve anything.” The way he looked at Khan conveyed all the old arguments he’d ever given before, though now there was an edge of desperation, as if he wanted to revive his convictions for the sake of his sanity. “Burakh may be incompetent at the worst times, but his attitude and failures don’t mean he deserves death.”

“His few virtues don’t mean he deserves life either.” Caspar’s apathy was genuine, though a part of him did find Notkin to be within reason to protest. “The man was careless and volatile, his intervention did very little to assist those in need.”

His rival glared up at him, and the restlessness of his posture pointed to a coiled urge to move, maybe tug on Khan’s leg, if only to let out some of that bottled energy, childish though the gesture was. “He saved your life! You’d-” Notkin interrupted himself, clearing his throat with a grimace and pinched eyes. “You’d be dead twice over if it weren’t for him.”

The gentle breeze had stopped a while ago, leaving the district in a miasma, as if the world itself held bated breath. “He was only doing his due diligence.” The open air almost paradoxically muffled their conversation, the only real witness of it the sky and perhaps the statue upon which they perched. Two birds on a wire, two boys of very different feathers. “If anyone did more for me than they ought to, it was only you.” His eyes shifted away from Notkin, wandering the faceless crowd, up the buttresses of the Cathedral, catching on crows and doves roosting on the eaves. The sky was clear in the most unfortunate way, completely smeared with a homogenous steel gray.

Caspar could feel Notkin’s eyes still on him, perhaps even more intently than before. “...What does that even mean?”

“Whatever you make of it.” He shifted sideways, lying cradled by the statue’s arm, still following the horizon with his gaze. “Burakh’s death, deserved or not, will serve a purpose. Isn’t that more than can be said for his pathetic attempts in life?”

The cruelty of the statement seemed to quell something stirring behind Notkin’s eyes. “Nobody gets to decide who lives and who dies, much less for their own purposes.”

Khan shrugged, spotting a group of Saburov’s watchmen escorting the governor and a hunched figure he was all too familiar with. “It’s what happens. Those in power will manage it as they see fit, and the pawns fall accordingly. The Inquisitor, Saburov, Fat Vlad…” Caspar tilted his head slightly to indicate the oncoming procession.

“And you.” The boy’s response was flat as he stood up, biting back a groan, leaning on the body of the statue for leverage. Caspar didn’t think Notkin had any real affection for Artemy Burakh, but the way he pursed his lips revealed a vulnerable sympathy that some would call naive. He himself wasn’t sure if that was the case or not, despite disagreeing inherently. “You’re neither a judge nor an arbiter, life and death aren’t tools for you to wield so callously.”

“Neither are you, so you can’t decide what I can or cannot do.” He looked at Notkin’s clenched jaw out of the corner of his eye, seeing something similar to a powerless frustration one might feel upon seeing a bull be led to the slaughter, which seemed an apt metaphor. “I don’t know about the Inquisitor, but I don’t expect everyone to agree with my choices. In the end, I sleep better at night knowing my actions are lessening the violent and insidious disorder that runs amok.”

Notkin met his eyes evenly, crossing his arms. “I’m happy for you. At least you can sleep at all, knowing the consequences of your actions.” There wasn’t much to tell apart sincerity from irony, it was as if Notkin himself spoke without knowing how he felt.

As Burakh was led onto the stage, Aglaya and Saburov met eyes with a respectful nod, some satisfied solemnity straightening their postures before the governor raised a hand to dismiss his men and allow the Inquisitor’s peons to take their place. The gathering onlookers spoke in hushed whispers, roiling like the currents of the river in a steady rumble, and though nothing could be heard above the lilting comments, a charged exchange seemed to take place between Dankovsky and Burakh in the periphery of the Inquisitor and governor’s succinct conversation. Khan couldn’t help but shift to sit properly facing the event, sneaking a glance at Notkin. He couldn’t describe what exactly passed between their gazes as their eyes met, but it had a drop of kinship otherwise unknown previously.

“Think we’ll ever be in that position?” Khan couldn’t help but ask, looking intently at Dankovsky’s affronted expression, the tension in the man’s frame like a coiled serpent readying a strike.

Notkin huffed, gesturing between the actors onstage. “Which one? I doubt either of us would be an Inquisitor. Seems I'm the likeliest candidate for cadaver. Thinking about executing me, are you?” Burakh looked solemn, nodding along and murmuring interspersed comments to Dankovsky, though his deadened eyes scanned the crowd, a man looking back at the people he swore to protect, now apathetically watching him be sentenced to capital punishment at the hands of the Capital dandy. The irony was scornfully delightful, though only a cold dread remained when Artemy’s eyes met Khan’s for a moment.

Caspar looked sideways at his rival, feeling a levity foreign to the ongoing context.”If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be here.” To think casual death threats during an execution would be the most relaxed he felt in such a long time.

With a final nod, Saburov stood back with his hands behind his back, looking the picture of a dutiful governor, though the sallow skin and creased clothes told of what town he was governor of. The Inquisitor stood taller, chin raised and chest puffed, projecting her voice between the tall walls of the Cathedral and Crucible. “Artemy Burakh, by order of the Governor and with the acquiescence of the Inquisitor, you have been sentenced to death by execution. Your crimes of violence, malpractice and neglect speak for themselves. Have you anything to say for yourself, knowing it will not change your fate?”

Having little interest in the event itself, Caspar slid down from where he sat and leaned on the statue beside Notkin, scrutinizing his companion’s pensive expression. He mildly kept track of Burakh’s response, listening to the deep rumble of the man’s disused voice. “I didn’t commit those crimes, so I have no excuses to give for acts I don’t claim. As for my failings as a healer, I admit I did not accomplish the miraculous, but neither did any of my colleagues. My only hope is that this will change after I’m gone.” The man turned to Dankovsky, melancholic regret clashing with bitterness in his expression. The Bachelor was impassive but for a sharpness in his eyes, venomous and unforgiving.

Notkin’s breathing quickened ever so slightly, chest rising and falling with a few stutters, minor grimaces passing over his visage in moments of pain. Caspar wondered what wounds would be painted on him underneath his shirt, how painful it must’ve been to walk to this place just to witness the tail end of a tragedy. Aglaya hummed shortly before cutting the silence. “I’m sure your colleagues appreciate the hope. One of them deigned to request a direct role in your death, however, so perhaps your conscience shouldn’t be so clear. Daniil Dankovsky, at your discretion.”

The Bachelor stepped forward, putting himself side by side with Burakh before quickly turning and pointing a revolver at his head point blank. His lips moved, though no words could be heard above the murmurs of the crowd. Burakh fell to his knees, facing Dankovsky with clear eyes and parted lips. The anticipation made it clear the executioner was seconds away from pulling the trigger, and Caspar felt Notkin’s fingers twitch next to his hand, touching him like static electricity. Khan felt the need to keep his eyes straight ahead, unblinking, observing the execution with full clarity, so he could very clearly distinguish the next words formed soundlessly by Dankovsky’s lips. “Vade in pace.”

The gunshot didn’t startle him as much as Notkin jerking his head aside in anticipation, and he was keenly aware of the head that fell onto his shoulder, the shaking of his rival’s lips with each unsteady intake of air, the fingers clenched in his from an overlooked movement. Silence finally settled upon the street once the body fell with a dull knock on the tainted stage. Caspar wondered why he felt as if the blood splashed on his face from this distance, an impossible sensation, though he reached with his free hand to wipe his cheek, looking down and seeing his fingers clean as they were before. If his body was clean, then that meant it was his soul that was tainted. He exhaled, feeling as though he’d let go of his last memory of Artemy Burakh, a man he had no lost love for.

Caspar felt the time pass, in his mind and at his fingertips, holding his pocketwatch and feeling the ticks. In the courtyard of the Crucible he could allow himself to relax, letting the surroundings fade away and simply processing the events of the past while. They sat close together for long enough that the stage was almost completely disassembled by the time Notkin moved again, though it was only to unfold his bad leg from where it was bent in his crouch, letting it lie parallel to Caspar’s own outstretched leg. He was completely still as he paid attention to Notkin, picking at all the reasons he could imagine for the boy to shut down so easily, especially in his presence. Exhaustion, pain, shock, fear, anger, sadness. All the terrible feelings in the world didn’t explain why he’d allow himself the vulnerability to be in such a state with Khan, but he realized that pondering it any more would only serve to stick needles in his own heart as if the source of the bleeding wasn’t the whole.

“Khan… What’s real?” He felt Notkin lift his head, hooking his chin on Caspar’s shoulder to regard him tiredly. “What do we have left?”

Caspar gazed at him sideways, expecting brokenness and being met with resolve. This wasn’t a question coming from a place of despair, but a tangible gathering of thoughts. Khan had refused to consider his losses as irreversible, yet here was Notkin facing the abyss with wit and determination. “...You shouldn’t be asking me this. I was never taken with reality, was I.” Either he’d lost circulation in his fingers and was getting phantom sensations or Notkin tightened his hold, and it was impossible to tell which possibility was more real. “You tell me.”

His companion licked his lips, hooking the fingers of his free hand with his thumb and cracking the joints. “...Do you think you could get your Dogheads back?” Caspar felt his breath catch before he could consciously react, a sting behind his eyes giving little warning before he felt a warm tear intersect the phantom bloodstain on his cheek. Notkin reached out to wipe it away with gentleness Caspar hadn’t felt in a lifetime, and the action was entirely self-defeating, prompting him to weep more, feeling a bone-deep shame for how the touch finally seemed to remove the stain of death from his face. “Then we’re reduced to equals again. I have you, you have me, nobody has us. Not even Burakh is here anymore, nothing ties us together.”

“No longer bound, are we.” Caspar felt more unmoored by this than when he had willingly left his place in the Kain estate. No love was lost, but the finality of Artemy’s death brought into question every other loss sustained thus far, leaving little room for doubt as to the conclusion. There was nothing left of the futures they had built themselves. “What will you do now?”

His rival sighed, lifting their joined hands in accident, as if he’d forgotten they were held, and something in the gesture gave him pause. He brought Caspar’s hand to his chest, covering it with his own, looking down at them in thought. “Wait for it to stop, I suppose. Same as always.” The rhythm of his heart was faster than Khan’s, and to him it felt as if it were restrained by the ribcage, an irrational sort of thought, and Caspar wondered what it would feel like to hold that gentle but steadfast heart. It took him a moment to realize he already was, in a way.

Caspar didn’t know what else was left of his dreams, so all he could bring himself to say was “I’ll wait with you. Always.”

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