#instead of domination and suffering you made it into an act of triumph and care for reviled creatures who didn't ask to be made

[vintage-royalty]

I haven’t said anything about Wallis in a long time because I was sick of the misconceptions and the drama and just everything, but I saw this article on a different site and it made me so frustrated I figured I’d come back and say my piece on it. Not really here to argue about how any of y’all feel about Wallis or Meghan but rather the inaccuracies and disingenuous comparisons made in this article. 

Part of the reason I even clicked the link is that I recently finished Anna Pasternak’s biography of Wallis. And I liked it. It was actually a very good, balanced, book. Not a particularly deep exploration of her life, but she debunked some of the false stories and it seemed pretty well researched and written and I probably agreed with 90% of her conclusions as someone who knows Wallis’s life backwards and forwards. It was also, as far as royal biographies go, a relatively feminist interpretation of Wallis’s life. 

So, I was expecting this article to be about the media’s sexist mistreatment of Meghan and that perhaps the headline was a bit clickbaity but the actual article would be good. Tragically, I was mistaken. 

“This sexist scapegoating is probably as unfair today as it was in 1936, as both Edward VIII and Prince Harry were ambivalent about their royal responsibilities before their marriages. But there are lessons in history.”

I agreed with this part: I had been hoping that perhaps she would articulate what I’ve felt but rarely seen spelled out in the media: that like the Abdication was unfairly blamed on Wallis even though she had nothing to do with it, that “Megxit” was clearly something Harry had wanted to do for some time and that it was more Harry’s decision than Meghan’s and it’s extremely sexist that everyone is baselessly assuming it was her idea. There also seems to naturally be a 100% overlap in the demographics of people who think Harry leaving is a horrible betrayal of his family and dereliction of duty and people who are inclined to be sexist and racist towards Meghan either way. 

“It became his life’s aim for the world to know and adore Wallis as much as he did. Alas, this festering emotional sore was not lanced during his lifetime. Will this become Harry’s angry preoccupation, too?

It’s agonising, as Edward Windsor discovered, when the world misguidedly mistrusts your wife. Yet the solution is not to fight back, but to retreat and enjoy the private tenderness you have, together.”

This is fake news. The Windsors did fight back against false media stories, starting in 1937 when they sued the publisher of Coronation Commentary by Geoffrey Dennis. They also did numerous interviews over the years, they each wrote a book, and wrote articles defending themselves. 

“Unlike Meghan, Wallis understood the royal creed. While it appears Meghan seeks to control her public narrative, allegedly encouraging friends to speak out and now trying to censor her press, Wallis resigned herself to the mute impossibility of her situation.After the abdication in 1936, she wrote plainly to Edward: “The world is against me and me alone. Not a paper has said a kind thing for me.” 

Admirably, instead of openly bleating about her situation, Wallis schooled herself to survive the shadow side of infamy. This she summed up as “to have one’s character day after day laid bare, dissected and flayed by mischievous and merciless hands”.Wallis contained her suffering with laudable resolve. Meghan would do well to learn from her predecessor, who triumphed with a “kind of private arrangement with oneself – an understanding of the heart and mind – that one’s life and purposes are essentially good, and that nothing from the outside must be allowed to impair that understanding”.”

These are all real quotes but none of them say what Pasternak is suggesting they do. Wallis didn’t just lay back and accept the fact that everyone hated her. She did push back on numerous occasions, though admittedly not as much at first. Meghan is also not trying to censor the press, she is just very smartly refusing to grant access to publications that have treated her unfairly. The Sussexes are not the first celebrities, or likely even the first royals, to make this decision, they are just choosing to be more transparent about it and making it clear that they will no longer dignify nonsense from racist tabloids with a response. In some ways, when you think about it, that’s doing exactly what Pasternak is saying Meghan should be doing. The Sussexes are choosing to not even comment on articles from tabloids that have a history of treating them unfairly. 

“If Meghan were more emotionally contained – which is not the same as having a stiff upper lip – might she earn our respect? There is great merit in stoic dignity, as the Duchesses of Windsor, Cambridge and Cornwall can attest.”

Wallis tried being emotionally contained and she also tried being more emotionally open. She got criticized intensely for both. And eighty years ago there was a lot more to be gained by “stoic dignity” as she calls it, that just doesn’t apply at all in today’s culture. She doesn’t mention Princess Diana, who was much more emotionally open, and significantly more popular than all the people she does mention. 

Then she goes on about how Wallis tried to repair David’s relationship with his family, with quotes to back up her claim, and contrasts it to Meghan, without anything at all to back up her claim Meghan is acting differently. We know basically nothing about what’s gone on behind closed doors between Meghan and the royal family. Anna Pasternak is making exactly the same kinds of baseless assumptions about Meghan that the media made about Wallis that, once we had more information, turned out to be completely wrong. David was the one who made demands, and behind the scenes Wallis generally tried to discourage him. The royal family blamed Wallis without knowing or caring who was really behind it. We have literally zero information about these dynamics regarding Harry and Meghan and the royal family. 

“Wallis did keep Edward happy – he adored her until the last – but nothing changed for her. Everything can still change for Meghan.”

So Pasternak’s advice for Meghan is that she should try doing things that didn’t work for Wallis because maybe they’ll work for her? She does not at any point make an argument as to how the media culture has changed that might make things work better for Meghan, which I suppose would be a legitimate argument she could make. No, her argument is basically: follow in the footsteps of a woman who everyone in Britain always hated and still hates or else you may be hated even more. Not to mention she is oversimplifying Wallis’s relationship with the press and her handling of the royal family to a ridiculous degree. 

“If she restrains her husband from ill-advised outbursts, if she accepts her own press and if her marriage is as long and devoted as the Windsors’ was, then she will prove, just like Wallis did, that the sacrifice was worth it. And we may come to love and admire her as Harry does.”

I’m mainly going to focus on the first part here because this is exactly the sort of sexist bullshit she specifically tried to debunk in her book on Wallis. Wallis couldn’t control her man, and he did and said much more damaging shit than Harry has done. It’s not the responsibility of a man’s wife to keep him from making bad choices, and Meghan, like Wallis, has already been baselessly attacked as a domineering control freak who has her husband pussywhipped. Read the comments on any article about the Sussexes: people blame Meghan for anything Harry does they don’t like and give her absolutely no credit when he does something they do like. I’m sure Meghan shares her opinions with Harry, and we don’t know if she agreed or disagreed with his recent comments, but he is a grown man who makes his own decisions. Furthermore, if Meghan wants to pick a fight with her husband and demand to look over his shoulder every time he talks to the press, she’s going to significantly reduce her chances of making their marriage work. Which, according to Pasternak, is also something she needs to devote her energy to.

This article not only feels extremely unfair towards Meghan, it’s not accurate about Wallis, and it’s entire thesis is based on assumptions about what Meghan is saying and doing behind closed doors. It’s also a missed opportunity: there’s a lot Meghan could learn from Wallis’s story, though unfortunately more of it is about what not to do than what she should be doing. 

[wisdomrays]

System Blindness and the Lifespan of a Society

QUESTION: While serving on the path of God, the tasks we are responsible forcan become ordinary and monotonous to some of us. Is this a consequence of system blindness? What can be done to prevent us succumbing to such blindness?

ANSWER: People gathered around such a lofty ideal as making the face of humanity smile and letting the breezes of happiness blow worldwide have so far seriously endeavored in order to realize this ideal. So it seems that God Almighty has rendered their endeavor fruitful, let theirefforts yield athousand fold fruits, favored them with showers of blessings, and made them successful on their chosen path. For these achievements, which are butthe results of Divine favor, to continue, the sincerity of purpose and commitment to the core ideal of this issue must remain. May God protect us, if we ignore the showers of blessings pouring down on us abundantly, lay personal claim to the achievements we are blessed with, orlet the means replace the purpose; for then we will also fall like all previous societies did. Actually, when the underlying reasons for the losses experienced in different periods by Muslim societies are thoroughly investigated, such deviations of thought will turn out to be the cause.

Recognizing the divine help in achievements

To elucidate further, the volunteers that migrate to the four corners of the world are favored with great blessings that outweigh the efforts they make. No people are risking their lives like the army commanders in Muta or combatting with an enemy like the heroes at Yarmuk did. The volunteers are welcome in every land they go to, and receive appreciation for the services they fulfill. Nobody is suffering for the good of humanity to the degree of forgetting their way home, their spouse’s face, or their children’s names. However, the endeavors they make in the places they go are becoming a means for good works with worldwide benefit. So, failing to recognize the Divine support, guardianship and protection behind all of these beautiful services, laying personal claim to them or thinking that what has come about as a result of Divine grace and favors will always continue, even without keeping up our spiritual state, is a serious kind of blindness.

Acknowledging the blessings in the face of achievements

All of the factors, such as: having different achievements, rising to an esteemed position, becoming institutionalized, or establishing a well-built system, might cause a person to becomeblind to the truth. In addition, people affected by such blindness might then fail a Divine test or fall for a Divine stratagem by laying personal claim to the graces granted by God. Thus, instead of acknowledging blessings in the face of success and turning to God with thankful praise, they might be overcome by pride and conceit. All of these are factors which willbring about a person’s fall.

As stated by sociologists and social historians as well, after enjoyingcertain achievements, almost every people and society experienced, todifferent degrees, a period of blindness as a result of the dizziness of victory. This situation caused societies to disintegrate, and consequently brought about their end. It is possible to say that some countries that have come to the fore in the balance of powers in our time have entered such a process. After making a healthy analysis, it is possible to say that the countries that took certain parts of the world undertheir dominance and achieved certain things have developed system blindness and their disintegration has begun.

Lofty purposes and relevant duties

In order to save a society from such blindness and increase its life span, it is necessary to constantly focus it on higher targets and give people relevant duties to busy them with good works. With their functioning mind, open spirit and a conscience that embraces the entire universe, they must constantly be engaged in an activity and never lose their metaphysical vigilance. If you do not direct people to high ideals and then occupy them with certain tasks for the sake of realizing these ideals, the devil will findwork for their idle hands to do.

Renewal of format

On the other hand, it is necessary to take into consideration different cultural environments in the world and make favorable use of common points and correctly determine the common ground. Afterwards, it is necessary to renew the good works you are occupied with and find some new ways and methods according to conjuncture so that you do not develop blindness. Otherwise, it is inevitable that you will become dull, lose your purpose, and rot.

Closing the door on worldliness

In particular, the people who are at the forefront with the most responsibilities must close their doors to self-indulgence and worldliness. When worldliness beckons temptingly they must answer, “Do not waste your energy in vain, the door is bolted shut!” Let alone worldly expectations, they should not even cherish otherworldly expectations in return for the services they fulfill.

Orbit of the heart and mind

Those who ascribe issues to themselves will experience—tomorrow if not today, or the day after that—a “fatigue of excitement” and die in spirit. As for self-effacing people however, they will have proven the existence of God in a way and taken refuge in His power and strength. Since such people rely on theInfinite Source of power and strength, they pass mountains and rivers, but never experience fatigue of spirit and lose nothing from their power or strength.

In this respect, people at the forefront of society must constantly keep alertso that they can enliven those around them. People who do not act in the orbit of the heart and spirit cannot serve as a means for others’ revival. Those who have lost their liveliness and enthusiasm, who are spiritually decayed, are no good to themselves, let alone able to kindle vitality, love or excitement in others. In particular, those who give in to fear, comfort, self-indulgence and home-addiction, or who take advantage of their position in order to allocate a personal share from what belongs to the people, definitely cannot breathe life into others.

During the Era of Bliss and the time of the Rightly Guided caliphs, people constantly busied themselves with struggling in both senses, against their carnal self and against their enemies. Thus, they always kept up their vitality and realized very important triumphs. They had no worldly possessions and lived incrude houses made of stones and clay. However, those people of great standing, who had begun soaring to the immensity of horizons, served as a means for the advent of brilliant civilizations in the world. In this regard, the only way to prevent blindness from being the result of the system and success is attaining this lively state as represented by the Companions, as well as edifying individuals to live for noble ideals.

Making societies live longer

The factors mentioned so far may not suffice to prevent the death of a society completely, since death is inevitable for societies, as it is for people. I remember that once upon a time a person of high status asked doctors a bit reproachfully: “Cannot you find a cure for death?” However, there is no possible cure for death. As a matter of fact, God Almighty, may His glory be exalted, created life and death together. Death cannot be killed off in this world.

As was stated by the noble Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, when people take their places in Paradise and Hell, death will be embodied in the form of a ram, which will be slaughtered. Then it will be announced that non-existence has been rendered non-existent. Both the residents of Paradise and Hell will hear that they will stay there forever. As a matter of fact, the Divine Names meaning “The One Who Revives” (Al-Muhyi) and “The One Causing to Die” (Al-Mumit) are mentioned alongside this in the Qur’an and the noble Prophet’s sayings; this fact also alludes to this truth. Namely, as God is the One Who creates life, it is also Him Who creates death. As it is stated in the Qur’an: “He Who has created death and life, so that He may try you (and demonstrate to yourselves) which of you is better in deeds; and He is the All-Glorious with irresistible might (Whose will none can frustrate), the All-Forgiving (Who forgives many of His servants’ sins so that they learn from being tested) (al-Mulk 67:2).

In this respect, death is inevitable for everybody in the world. However, by being careful about the points mentioned above, it is possible to delay a seemingly inevitable fall or collapse for a society and lengthen its life span.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: The Beginning of Wisdom - Chapter 22 (Ao3 link)

Fandom: Flash, Legends of Tomorrow Pairing: Leonard Snart (Len) & Leonard Snart (Leo), Len Snart/Mick Rory, Leo Snart/Mick Rory, Len Snart/Mick Rory/Leo Snart, Leo Snart/Ray Terrill, Len Snart/Barry Allen

Summary: In which Leonard Snart is twins.

(the life and times and loves of Len and Leo Snart)

—————————————————————————————————–

Leo woke slowly, which was unusual for him – both he and Len typically woke up all at once, a sharp shift from sleep to wakefulness, and any lying around in bed after that was a conscious choice. This groggy feeling of rising up slowly through the mud towards awareness was something he associated, if at all, with being severely sick and stuffed full of medications that warned of causing drowsiness.

He didn't remember being sick.

Had he gotten drugged?

It wasn't as though people hadn't tried, of course, slipping something into his drink at clubs or even at model shoots – whether out of misplaced lust, ambition or revenge, he was never sure. He'd even accidentally had some a few times before he'd learned that he needed to be as cautious in his world of fashion as Len was in his world of crime; the only reason nothing had happened to him was that he'd generally reacted by tottering into the nearby coatroom, telling Len he was sleepy, and letting Len handle the rest of the evening while he slept it off.

Following the first few instances of that, they'd told Mick about Leo's newfound party-related narcolepsy and he'd rolled his eyes and asked them if they'd ever considered the possibility of roofies.

Since that little revelation, Leo had opted to bring his own water bottles to drink at parties. He wasn't much of a drinker anyway, he always said no to drugs – he was always getting offered so very many drugs, seriously, models were ridiculous – and anyway, it was good for a designer to have a few quirks.

(Leo was well aware that his models weren't all as clean as he'd like, but he made sure that while they were in his employ, they had regular but highly supervised access to their drug of choice to keep them from buying it anyway unsafe, and also that they had access to rehab services without the embarrassment of publicly going to a clinic. A surprising number took him up on the offer, enough that he would routinely disappear them on highly secret photography projects that let them go in-patient for a short while – it felt like the least he could do.)

Still, it'd been a long time since any of that had happened, so this was still unusual.

Where had he been the night before? A party? Some bar? Some...

No, hadn't he gone to the racetrack on that job of Len's? Yes, that was it, the racetrack job.

What boring work it was, sitting around to wait for the right moment before finally going in, doing a bit of shouting and gun-waving, and walking out with the money. It was terribly anti-climactic; Leo remembered now how much he'd disliked it as a child.

Ugh, and he'd agreed to do more of this; he must have lost his mind...

"I know you're awake."

Every muscle in Leo's body froze in terror well before his mind, floundering, finally placed the voice in his memory.

He'd heard that voice so often, so many times before, that it was indelibly seared into his brain, but he'd tried so hard to forget it and it had been so long that he'd almost succeeded.

But now it was back.

"Dad," Leo croaked, and opened his eyes.

Lewis Snart was older, fatter, and smaller than Leo remembered, but when he smiled, a stretch of the lips with no warmth in the eyes, all of that was immaterial to the terror and hatred he invoked in Leo's heart.

He was three again, five again, seven again, ten again – he was in the position he'd sworn he'd never be again, caught at the mercy of Lewis Snart, who had none.

And the worst part was: his first thought was to wonder why Len was not here to protect him.

To be him.

No.

Lewis smirked. "About time you gave up the charade," he said. "We have work to do."

"Don't work with you anymore," Leo said, struggling to sit up. He was still woozy, but he had willpower to fight through the dizziness. This was not a time to display weakness. "Haven't for years – or have you started to forget already, old man?"

Bravado, of course, and Leo was already tensing up in anticipation of the blow that speaking back to his father would earn him.

But it didn't.

Instead, Lewis smiled, a sick, twisted little smile, as if some question had been answered.

"On the contrary," he said, his piggish little eyes gleaming, "I'm starting to remember."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Leo asked cautiously.

"A few things," Lewis said, standing up. "First: you haven't asked where your sister is."

Leo froze.

No!

"Don't worry," Lewis assured him, smirk widening. "She's free as a bird – but I'm keeping a very close eye on her. If you disobey, well, that wouldn't make me happy – with either of you."

The threat was clear enough, even without the details that Lewis would undoubtedly be more than happy to fill Leo in on later. Worse, Lewis would go through with it; of that, Leo had no doubt.

Len might have doubted the depths of their father's cruelty, might have protested, if only in his mind, in the hopes of changing their father's mind, but then Len always did have the softer heart.

Especially, as much as Leo hated it, where their father was concerned.

"Do we understand each other, son?" Lewis asked, putting a hand on Leo's shoulder – a paternal gesture twisted into an act of dominance, of possession, rather than of any affection.

"Yeah," Leo spits out. "I read you loud and clear."

It was fine: Lisa and Mick would go to Len, and Len would recruit Barry and Ray and everyone else, and they'd come to rescue him the second they figured out where he was.

He'd just have to play Len a little more closely than anticipated for a little longer.

He could do that.

He was pretty sure he could do that, anyway.

"Good," Lewis said, not removing his hand. "Because I've got a plan that needs your – special expertise."

Leo pressed his lips together.

Forget about whether he could do this. He would do this.

"I'm all ears, Dad," Leonard said to his father. "What's the job? What skills do you need?"

"Skills is probably the wrong word," Lewis mused. "You never did have any skills other than cringing away from me, did you?"

What was that supposed to mean?

Leo's confusion must have been evident, because Lewis laughed and his grip tightened on Leo's shoulder until the point of pain.

"Like I said, son," Lewis said. "I've been remembering a lot of things, these last few years in prison. And skills or no skills, I think you've got something that I can use."

His smirk widened into a maniacal grin of triumph.

"Ain't that right, Lionel?"

No.

No.

Not that.

Anything but that.

The name they hated most, the name of that empty and forgotten boy, the one they'd tried so hard to bury the ghost of, the one whom no one loved and no one cared for or thought about or knew existed, not since their mother died.

Or so they'd thought.

But that wasn't exactly true, now, was it?

Leo stared at their father in horror. He should have realized – should have expected – he never even considered –

Of course Lewis Snart knew about them.

Of all people, he had the most right to know: he'd been there in the hospital when they'd been born, he'd signed off on their birth certificates, he'd taken the two of them back to his home.

No amount of hiding, no clever tricks, no bribes or computer viruses could erase that knowledge.

And if he knew –

All those years of hiding. All those years of taking each other’s' place, of Len bearing the scars of abuse so that Leo wouldn't have to, of Leo just as scarred by the endless neglect, all those jobs, all those sacrifices, all those fights –

Lewis had known.

He just hadn't cared.

One son was all he needed, after all; one son was all that was convenient for him to have, and it was one son he'd helped make them into.

It was their own decision, yes, and they loved playing each other so much that they would have done it no matter what -

But he was where the trauma around it started.

He was the one who'd turned it from a game into survival.

And now, all these years later, he'd emerged from whatever dark hole he should have rotted in and seen that the Leonard he had raised, the Leonard he’d wanted, the thief par excellence, the kleptomaniac, the supervillain, the killer with nightmares, the soft heart frozen over – all his work, all due to him, all forced upon them by him -

Now, after all that, he didn't have any more use for that Leonard.

No, now he wanted the other Leonard: the one Len and Leo had created together through pain and suffering and deprivation, the one born of other's sacrifice, the one who had the space to go straight, to pursue his passions, to finish college, to be free to do as he wished.

To be free of Lewis.

And now Lewis wanted Leo.

Leo, who was enraged.

"That ain't my name," he said, and his voice was cold enough to burn stars.

Lewis backhanded him.

"Your name is whatever I say it is," he said, casual as if he were remarking on the weather. "I gave it to you, and only I can take it away, whatever nonsense you might've done with changing your name by the law."

"My name," Leo said again, ignoring the pain and quickly forming bruise, "is Leonard."

Lewis barked a laugh. "You know that's a name I gave you too, right?" he jeered. "But sure, son, have it your way. I know you're not the thief – anyone watching you could've figured that out. Your reflexes are slow and you don't have the confidence to do a proper stick-up; it was pathetic to watch."

So what if Leo wasn't a good thief?

He didn't have to be. That was the point.

"Now get up," Lewis added. "We have a job to plan. Unless you care less about your sister than you do your name...?"

Wordless, Leo got up.

Len sat down.

"What do you mean, you're having trouble tracking him?!" he demanded. "You designed the goddamn gun, Ramon; I know you know how to pinpoint its location."

"It's not as easy as all that," Cisco protested.

"You tracked me with it, didn't you?"

"You were using it! I've set up a city-wide tracking system, but I haven't picked up a single downward spike in temperature anywhere –"

"Nothing," Barry reported, appearing in a burst of lightning. He was panting lightly, suggesting that he'd pushed himself past the limits of even his ridiculous speed. "I've been through the streets twice; not a sign of him or the van you describe. He must be underground or inside somewhere."

"He can't just be gone," Ray said from where he's been pacing for the last hour. He was shining like a lamp, unable to contain the spike in his powers due to sheer worry-fueled adrenaline, but there was nothing he could use them for right now. He'd mastered throwing light beams and was working on using his light as a means of propulsion to fly, but while they'd theorized that he might have the ability to use his light powers as some sort of advanced scanning system – comparisons had been made to both echolocation (but with light) and super-vision (and associated puns about supervising), and there had been perhaps gratuitous misuse of the line about "everywhere the light touches" from The Lion King – but he hadn't managed it yet.

He'd been too busy to properly practice the ability, something he was clearly regretting now.

It didn't matter, though. If Barry couldn't find Leo, and Cisco couldn't find Leo, then they were dealing with something – different.

Len still thought a new supervillain seemed like a likely option for the culprit, but he was starting to suspect that it wasn't that. Mick's injuries had been somewhat worse than reported – he'd left the hospital AMA, only to collapse again once he reached STAR Labs, where Caitlin was now treating him – and if it had been a supervillain looking to catch a supervillain, then why not take Mick as well?

Maybe this was personal.

"I'm going to go ask some contacts of mine some questions," he decided.

"Won't that tip people off about there being two of you?" Cisco asked.

"I don't fucking care," Len said, and found that it was true. Leo was more important to him than Leonard would ever be – that's how this whole mess started, after all, back in the beginning.

It had always been about protecting Leo.

And no matter what it cost, Len would find a way to protect him now.

Unfortunately, most of his contacts had no clue about anyone gunning for him – no need to confuse them with details – but it didn't matter. Len was going to keep going down his list until someone told him something.

Even if it meant –

There was a small neighborhood of Keystone that Len always avoided. It wasn't a great area – pretty run-down – but it was out of the slums and moderately respectable, with a decent school for children and a possible way out of poverty if you worked hard and were lucky. The Families left it largely alone, despite the thriving sex work industry centered there, considering it a neutral area.

Len had helped broker that deal himself, at some considerable personal cost.

People had thought, at first, that he was getting something out of it – jokes regarding sex workers had been made at his expense – but when the years passed and he avoided the area like the plague, his work on behalf of that neighborhood was seen not as a measure for personal gain, but of unlikely sentimentality.

The neighborhood was, after all, home to one of the best known and most well-protected domestic violence relocation shelters in the Gem Cities.

(Leo always did say that Len was the one with the soft heart.)

Len never went there.

Not for anything.

He went there now.

(For Leo, he would do far more than anything.)

The neighborhood had been even more poor and unwanted, years and years ago, so it had been easy enough for an infusion of some serious (mostly illegal) cash to enable the shelter to buy the land for a song during one of the housing crashes. What houses and shops were still functioning and could pay rent, even minimal, did so, and helped restore the shelter's coffers; those that were empty and abandoned were redistributed to those who needed them: women fleeing from abusive husbands, husbands from wives, children from parents, people of any gender or sexuality but the norm from those who did not understand, or any mixture of the above.

The shelter had originally expected people to move out of the area when they no longer needed the help, but they hadn't. They'd stayed, even as they flourished, and helped pay for more houses, more apartments, and for a neighborhood watch strong enough to do what the corrupt or indifferent police would not.

They protected their own.

When Len came to the neighborhood, they watched him with a wary eye: he was dangerous, they could tell just by looking at him, and this neighborhood had no love for dangerous men.

"I want to speak with the head of the shelter," Len told the first one that stopped him, a woman half a head shorter than him but with eyes of steel.

"Why?" she asked bluntly. "Looking for someone?"

Len's face twisted up in a grimace of pain.

"Yes," he said. "But I doubt I'd find him here. I just need to know if – if she's heard anything. That's all. Then I'll leave."

The woman, whose name he did not ask, and which she did not share, waited to receive confirmation that he would be allowed in before letting him pass onwards, and Len waited with her in silence. He wasn't sure if she'd get that confirmation: there was a reason he did not come here.

After all, he was dangerous, and this neighborhood had good reason to hate dangerous men. Why should he be exempted?

And yet –

He needed to come here now, to ask. This shelter took in everyone who needed it, rich or poor, and some of those who came here were those with connections to every branch of power in either Central or Keystone: politicians and Families and more.

There was a chance, however small, that they might know something that would show him the way.

He was willing to break his vow never to come here for that chance.

For Leo, he would do anything.

More than anything.

The woman checked her phone when it buzzed. "Okay," she said, not softening even in the slightest degree. "You can go."

Len nodded and continued past her. He could feel her watching him as he went, and her eyes were not the only ones he could feel on his back as he climbed the shallow steps to the old armory, that massive squat building that no one had wanted when it fell into disrepair and which had now been converted into the main offices of the shelter - a bomb shelter and a place designed to resist a siege, all in one.

The first stop for anyone seeking aid, and the final stop for those that sought to abuse the shelter's offerings.

Len hoped he would be considered the former.

The head of the shelter had been beautiful in her youth, with soft dark hair that she'd once dyed even more black and dark eyes that always seemed wet and hurt but somehow warm, and she was beautiful still today - hardly more than fifty years old, with hair streaked with silver that she didn't bother to dye, the faint traces of Asian features more noticeable now that she no longer hid them with layers of makeup, and the same big eyes that were hurt no longer –

But they were still warm.

"Leonard," she said with a smile, reaching out her arms to him, but taking no offense when he instinctively shied away from her. "My little man."

Len shuddered. "I'm not your anything," he said, but he couldn't make his voice as sharp as he would have liked.

He never could, with people he cared for.

"I know," she said, and her voice was sad, though the warmth was still there. "You aren't. Not anymore. But won't you at least say it's good to see me?"

Len would rather not.

But he came here as a supplicant, and there was no harm in telling the truth when it served his purposes.

"It's good to see you," he said. "Marie."

[garywonghc]

Surprised by Joy

by Sharon Salzberg

When we see how quickly life just disappears, how even the longest life span is over in a flash, we realise how important it is for us to create the conditions that help us most directly move toward true happiness. The bravest thing we can do — the beginning of an awakened life of kindness — is to question our assumptions about what we are capable of, what brings us happiness, and what life can be about.

Many factors make developing kindness challenging. We may feel competitive and find a tad of satisfaction when someone is a little down, so that we can feel superior. We might genuinely care but be afraid to get involved. We might find ourselves dominated by a feeling of helplessness or a sense that anything we offer would be insufficient. We might be confused about the right thing to do.

If we are willing to take a risk anyway and consciously practice kindness, we can learn that, in contrast to the messages we hear from the world about how to be happy — ”Buy more,” “Compete more strongly,” “It’s a dog-eat-dog world” — a more refined happiness comes from feeling joined, from a sense of belonging — both to this life and to one another. We need to hone our own sense of purpose. We need to understand what will actually allow happiness beyond acquisition, what will help us realise happiness more steadfast than any temporary pleasure or fleeting triumph.

Addressing happiness, what causes it, and how to practice those causes, the Buddha taught simplicity and the path to liberation.

First we look at our vision of life and of ourselves in relation to one another. This is something that is not fixed or determined but can grow and expand as we perceive things more acutely, or see them from a different angle. I saw this several years ago, when I had been quite sick all winter. I had bronchitis, and every time I began to get better I’d have a relapse. Finally, I actually began to recover.

I was living in New York City at the time, and walking down the street one day, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “I was very sick all winter.” Naturally intrigued, I turned around, and saw a woman handing a street person some money. She went on talking to him: “I had pneumonia, and every time I started to get better I’d have a relapse. Now I am finally really getting better, and I just wanted to share the joy.”

I was taken aback. Realising that I had walked right by that man without a thought of sharing the joy of my own renewed health, I wondered, “Should I go up to him, hand him more money, and say, ‘You won’t believe this, but I was really sick all winter too, and I’d like to share some joy as well.’?”

I ended up not doing that, but I felt I’d learned something from that woman. The decision whether or not to give a street person money is complex, and there is no single answer to suit every situation. What made this such a forceful lesson for me was that I had walked right by that man without any thought that his life had something to do with mine. Without that view, there was no impetus to relate to him in any way — through noticing his sorrow, or thinking of sharing my own joy.

Life can and does turn on a dime. One little rotation of the wheel of fortune, and we’re no longer feeling so on top of life and impervious to change. Kindness doesn’t mean saying “I, who have everything together and am invulnerable, am standing way over here, looking at you way over there, and since our lives don’t touch except in this tiny, peripheral way at this moment, I am going to just toss you some money.”

With insight we see that we all share the urge toward happiness, and that no one leaves this earth without having suffered. Thus we look at others and see something not only about them, but also about ourselves.

Often this insight extends only so far. Then something may happen — a confrontation, a new relationship, a dawning view of the intricacy of a person’s life — and we find our perspective broadening. A friend of mine was a wonderfully emphatic therapist. One day a man came to see her, beseeching her to be his therapist. She found his political views alienating, his feelings about women difficult, and his behaviour quite annoying. In short, she didn’t like him and urged him to find another therapist. However, because he very much wanted to work with her, she finally acquiesced and took him on as a client.

Now, because he was her client, she tried to look with compassion instead of disdain or repugnance at his unskillful behaviour and all the ways he shut himself off. She began to see all the ways in which his life was difficult. Soon, even though she continued to see his unpleasant behaviour, she found herself feeling that she was his ally. Her goal became his release from suffering, which would also affect those around him. As she put it, he had become “hers.” Even though I don’t believe she ever came to like him or approve of many of his views, she came to care about him.

Hearing this story, I began to think of the role of the bodhisattva. In the Buddhist tradition, bodhisattvas aspire to enlightenment, dedicating their transformed minds and actions to the liberation of all beings. When we aspire to be a bodhisattva, everyone becomes “ours,” in a way. Our goal becomes the release from suffering of all beings, and so we view ourselves as working on behalf of everyone. Even when we take strong steps to keep someone from acting harmfully, we do this, to the best of our ability, without rancor or contempt. Developing this perspective is a great challenge, and it is also a great opportunity to bring about the unique happiness compassion can offer.

[witblessed]

there shalt thou find the mariners asleep

(prolly gonna post this on AO3 as soon as my new invite gets in but I’m impatient )

Rating: Gen

Pairing: Adolin Kholin/Kaladin Stormblessed

Word Count: 1,174 (not including the Shakespeare quotes)

Spoilers: For Way of Kings and Words of Radiance

Summary: The bridgeboy is asleep on guard duty, and during a highstorm, no less. Adolin takes the time to study him.

(Inset for WOR Chapters 32-33)

If by your art, my dearest father, you have

Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.

The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,

But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,

Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered

With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,

Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,

Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock

Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd.

Had I been any god of power, I would

Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere

It should the good ship so have swallow'd and

The fraughting souls within her.

—The Tempest, Act I Scene 2

The bridgeboy was sleeping.

It annoyed Adolin more than he cared to admit while under Renarin’s placid gaze: his brother had a way of asking just the right questions to make Renarin’s most jealously-held grievances seem like so much rockdust. 

But storms, if his father was trusting a former bridgeman with the protection of the royal family, surely he had the right to expect the man to do a little protecting instead of nodding off on the job.

Don’t pout, Adolin, it ill becomes you, Navani’s voice said in his head. Adolin sighed and rubbed at a spot on his forehead. The bridgeboy had been useful in allaying Elhokar’s fears after the railing incident, and—as much as he chafed at having nursemaids— Adolin had to admit that Kaladin had done more than a decent job of corralling a mess of unruly bridgemen into line and stopping up a number of the security gaps around Elhokar, his father, and his aunt.  If only the man weren’t so storming insolent!

It was the storm that was making him so irritable. Being trapped inside, huddling while the elements wreaked havoc and kicked up a shrieking, Heralds-curst noise at it had always made him itch.  The addition of his father’s visions had not helped, and now that he was being shepherded in with the high-strung Elhokar… 

Adolin leaned back against the gilded relief on the chamber wall (a scene of triumph from the histories, to match the others that lined the room, but Adolin couldn’t be bothered to remember which one) and forced himself to breathe deep.  Renarin, seated at the wide table dominating the room, was nodding along politely to whatever Elhokar was saying. Not wanting to get involved in the dullness of that conversation, Adolin let his eyes stray back over to Kaladin.

Even in sleep, he clutched his spear, curling around it with a single-minded intensity that reminded Adolin of mother axehounds with their young. Whatever dreams he was having weren’t restful. His face was creased in a grimace, and behind his eyelids his pupils moved, jittering under tightly drawn brows. 

“Serves you right for sleeping during a highstorm,” Adolin said. Kaladin didn’t respond.

Against his better judgement, Adolin found himself feeling sorry for the man.  He was always scowling when he was awake: if his dreams couldn’t give him a measure of comfort, what could? The cord that had been keeping Kaladin’s hair back had come loose, and despite the painful twist of his mouth, the hanging strands softened what Adolin had come to think of as an unforgiving face. 

Perhaps the slave brand should have ruined the effect? Adolin was a soldier, and no stranger to scarring, on himself or on others. He could see how Kaladin might even be handsome, if he ever bothered to unclench himself enough to try.

Outside, the wind screamed upward to a higher pitch. Everyone inside the room flinched, except the bridgeboy, who simply nuzzled further into the wooden slats of the chair he’d appropriated.  How tired was he, that he could sleep through this?

 Adolin thought back and realized, with a prick of guilt for his earlier disparagement, that aside from when Kaladin had been out patrolling he’d been a near-constant presence at his or his father’s backs since his instatement. Either flitting around in that silent, light-footed way of his or melting into the shadows until he saw fit to come forth with another presumptuous comment.

Looking closer, Adolin could see the dark bruising under Kaladin’s eyes, the haggard sharpness to his cheeks. Much of that must have been a result of slave rations and bridge duty: the man was hardly suffering more now that he’d been made—shards!—a captain, especially since Adolin knew his father’s dedication to feeding and outfitting his soldiers. Still, now that he’d noticed it, uneasiness sat sour in Adolin’s belly and made his cheeks flush with something that felt dangerously close to shame.

He’d order Kaladin to go to bed, after the storm let up. Or ask his father too, more likely: the bridgeboy had a particular resistance to Adolin’s authority.  He could hardly allow the man in charge of protecting his family to get sloppy due to exhaustion.

“Adolin, come settle a dispute for us,” Elhokar called, imperious as always. Fighting back a groan, Adolin pushed himself off the wall and made for the table. He allowed himself one last look back, lingering on the tense lines of Kaladin’s arms and back as he folded over himself in the narrow chair. That can’t be comfortable, Adolin thought, and then his brother drew his attention with a touch upon the arm, and Adolin was distracted by Elhokar’s spirited condemnation of whatever it was he and Renarin had been talking about.

An uproar—running—the Assassin in White—was he here to kill his father or the king or them both or them all—the bridgeboy a blur with his spear, landing blows when Adolin was helpless—

And then the bridgeboy returned, improbably, impossibly, looking like death itself but whole (two good arms, two, how) from a fall that should’ve killed him. Talking to his father and to Elhokar without so much as a salute or a “yes, sir.”

The words to upbraid him were thick on Adolin’s tongue, but somehow they wouldn’t come.  Instead he watched his father and the bridgeboy talk, a conversation that wine-drenched in deeper meanings Adolin couldn’t understand. Renarin could, perhaps, but his brother was staring empty-eyed at the floor between his feet, and Adolin would bet that he hadn’t even heard Kaladin coming in.

Was the bridgeboy—was Kaladin—still working after all that? Adolin could barely lift a fingertip, he was so weary, and he hadn’t been the one to tumble off a cliff. And he’d had his wounds looked at, besides. Didn’t Kaladin…wasn’t he hurt?

(Hadn’t Adolin seen him hurt?)

He didn’t understand this man, who he was or how he’d learned what he had or why he cared so much about some things and turned his back on others like they were refuse. He needed—storms. Adolin was going to have to keep watching him, wasn’t he.

Kaladin reached for a lamp. “Hold here. I need to do something.”

Arrogant storming…!

(Much, much later, Adolin would think to wonder that the prospect of keeping a close eye on Kaladin hadn’t seemed enough of the chore it should have been. Instead of resentment, or even the suspicion that had come later, Adolin had felt…a stirring of his blood, a keening of his senses. Something, he would say to Kaladin, when the night hid his face and the sheets were cool around them, almost like the Thrill but not...destructive..

I’m not a battle, Kaladin would say, tightening his arms around Adolin’s waist.

You’ve been nothing but a battle since the day I met you, Adolin would reply, laughing, and there would be no sleep for either of them for quite some time.)

                                             Nay, good my lord, be not angry.

No, I warrant you; I will not adventure

my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh

me asleep, for I am very heavy?

—The Tempest, Act II Scene 1

Notes:

Adolin likes the ones that give him a fight yeeeaaaahhhhhh boi (I’m going to write that three-way  shakadolin shardblade sparring match someday I swear)

(Please scream at me about how well The Tempest and Stormlight Archive relate to each other)

[alivesoulwithyou]

Conversation on the Way

The final type of conversation, akin to listening, is a form of mutual exploration.

It requires true reciprocity on the part of those listening and speaking. It allows

all participants to express and organize their thoughts. A conversation of mutual

exploration has a topic, generally complex, of genuine interest to the

participants. Everyone participating is trying to solve a problem, instead of

insisting on the a priori validity of their own positions. All are acting on the

premise that they have something to learn. This kind of conversation constitutes

active philosophy, the highest form of thought, and the best preparation for

proper living.

The people involved in such a conversation must be discussing ideas they

genuinely use to structure their perceptions and guide their actions and words.

They must be existentially involved with their philosophy: that is, they must be

living it, not merely believing or understanding it. They also must have inverted,

at least temporarily, the typical human preference for order over chaos (and I

don’t mean the chaos typical of mindless antisocial rebellion). Other

conversational types—except for the listening type—all attempt to buttress some

existing order. The conversation of mutual exploration, by contrast, requires

people who have decided that the unknown makes a better friend than the

known.

You already know what you know, after all—and, unless your life is perfect,

what you know is not enough. You remain threatened by disease, and self￾deception, and unhappiness, and malevolence, and betrayal, and corruption, and

pain, and limitation. You are subject to all these things, in the final analysis,

because you are just too ignorant to protect yourself. If you just knew enough,

you could be healthier and more honest. You would suffer less. You could

recognize, resist and even triumph over malevolence and evil. You would neither

betray a friend, nor deal falsely and deceitfully in business, politics or love.

However, your current knowledge has neither made you perfect nor kept you

safe. So, it is insufficient, by definition—radically, fatally insufficient.

You must accept this before you can converse philosophically, instead of

convincing, oppressing, dominating or even amusing. You must accept this

before you can tolerate a conversation where the Word that eternally mediates

between order and chaos is operating, psychologically speaking. To have this

kind of conversation, it is necessary to respect the personal experience of your

conversational partners. You must assume that they have reached careful,

thoughtful, genuine conclusions (and, perhaps, they must have done the work

that justifies this assumption). You must believe that if they shared their

conclusions with you, you could bypass at least some of the pain of personally

learning the same things (as learning from the experience of others can be

quicker and much less dangerous). You must meditate, too, instead of

strategizing towards victory. If you fail, or refuse, to do so, then you merely and

automatically repeat what you already believe, seeking its validation and

insisting on its rightness. But if you are meditating as you converse, then you

listen to the other person, and say the new and original things that can rise from

deep within of their own accord.

It’s as if you are listening to yourself during such a conversation, just as you

are listening to the other person. You are describing how you are responding to

the new information imparted by the speaker. You are reporting what that

information has done to you—what new things it made appear within you, how

it has changed your presuppositions, how it has made you think of new

questions. You tell the speaker these things, directly. Then they have the same

effect on him. In this manner, you both move towards somewhere newer and

broader and better. You both change, as you let your old presuppositions die—as

you shed your skins and emerge renewed.

A conversation such as this is one where it is the desire for truth itself—on the

part of both participants—that is truly listening and speaking. That’s why it’s

engaging, vital, interesting and meaningful. That sense of meaning is a signal

from the deep, ancient parts of your Being. You’re where you should be, with

one foot in order, and the other tentatively extended into chaos and the unknown.

You’re immersed in the Tao, following the great Way of Life. There, you’re

stable enough to be secure, but flexible enough to transform. There, you’re

allowing new information to inform you—to permeate your stability, to repair

and improve its structure, and expand its domain. There the constituent elements

of your Being can find their more elegant formation. A conversation like that

places you in the same place that listening to great music places you, and for

much the same reason. A conversation like that puts you in the realm where

souls connect, and that’s a real place. It leaves you thinking, “That was really

worthwhile. We really got to know each other.” The masks came off, and the

searchers were revealed.

So, listen, to yourself and to those with whom you are speaking. Your wisdom

then consists not of the knowledge you already have, but the continual search for

knowledge, which is the highest form of wisdom. It is for this reason that the

priestess of the Delphic Oracle in ancient Greece spoke most highly of Socrates,who always sought the truth. She described him as the wisest living man,

because he knew that what he knew was nothing.

Assume that the person you are listening to might know something you don’t

[heroesoftherepublic-blog]

Close Shave

Nobody was ready for Marcus Considius’s shop to once again be open. Rumours claimed him to be dead and the brutal peace installed by Germanicus on the Aventine allowed an illusion of normalcy to creep in. Most people would prefer to believe that resistance was over and that they could proceed with their miserable lives, trying to rebuilt something of the ruins of their suffering.

A life that included avoiding anything to do with the Considii.

Their status as pariahs did not last long. The olive oil lantern that Marcus lit every night attracted those that had everything taken by remodelling of the Aventine. The word quickly spread among the plebs, the barbershop becoming a site of asylum and focal point for a new sort of resistance. Clients slowly returned, knowing that any dramatic plan would come from between those four walls. Nothing worse than to be caught unaware of a new wave of troubles. 

“I don’t know if I will accept working as a porter at the port.” Declares the first client of the day, an Etrurian refugee just arrived to Rome. A growing group of plebeians sat at the entrance of the barbershop.

“Caecinus, you work as a carrier for how many, five or six different patricians?” Considius pointed out as he sharpened his blades. “At a certain point, what is even the difference?”

“Everything! There are faces, names, whole identities driving every single task. It is not simply a job, it is a purpose for my life.”

“And being a porter would give you that? It is hard but honest work, a way to contribute to the State with sweat instead of blood.” The cold blades brushed against the warm skin of Caecinus, the dextrous fingers of Considius perfectly matching the facial curves and his expressive muscles.

“There is little dignity in working for pay. Is that what I want to be seen as? Caecinus, the porter; all the richness of the nature of a Roman citizen is reduced to this.”

“If you put things that way, I can easily see your dilemma.” And so laughed the man that above all was known as tonsore, followed by the tonsore of the Aventino and only finally allowed to be Considius. “It eludes me how one may preserve their sense of self when they are turned into a face and a profession.”    

“Exactly, tonsore.”  The other plebeian continued with his lamentations. “I do not want to be known for my work, I want to be remembered by the things that I am able to achieve in my moments of leisure.”

“Enough crying, Caecinus.” One of the men waiting patiently for his turn shouted. “We are what we do, not what we want to be! If you spend most of your day carrying grain and bricks for them and another, you are a porter and a porter is what you are going to be! If you to be anything else, spend more hours working on that.

Caecinus span on his seat, rewarded with a scratch and a scarlet line along the cheek. Each plebeian stared the other down, a moment of tension quickly disarmed by loud laughter from Considius’ stubbornly complaining client.

“Then you should call me Caecianus Somnus, for what I do more than anything is sleep!” Cries in support joined this statement. Surrounded by laughter and an empowering wave of human comfort, Considius once more attacked the beard.

The mood of casual friendship was interrupted by the arrival a tall and muscled man, caressing his beautiful curly hair as his penetrating green eyes inspected the interior of the shop. He entered, three construction workers with unfriendly faces escorting Considius’ client back to the streets of Rome.

Germanicus sat down at the barber’s bench, waving with one hand so the tonsore approached while

stroking his three-days beard.

“That boulder was lighter than I expected, Considius. You actually made all the way to the top and back.”  Lemurs whispered, their words taunting Marcus, trying to inspire violence. Lost in diverging thoughts, the fingers of the man jumped between the various tools of his craft. The crime lord rambled on. “It is strange to have you back, specially when your miraculous recovery correlates with the death of my great friend, Titus Annius. A life paid for another, perhaps? The ways of the gods are capricious and a proper person should not linger too much when guessing what goes on infernal reason.”

Silence felt upon the store, Considius failing in providing a reaction. The lack of words seemed to provide Germanicus with what him required, as the man smiled as he fixed his gaze towards the plebeian and indicated his beard.

“My position demands a certain level of reasonable cruelty, as you witnessed first hand. Needs aside, that does not mean I am unable to feel sympathy for your or those that you aimed to represent.” The leader of the collegium continued. “There is no need to prolong bad blood and conflicts beyond what is strictly needed, an example has already been made and both parties have already lost enough. I think we all learned a lesson about Concordia and harmony; what happened, happened, and we must move on.”

Marcus Considius did not give a reply, his callous hand gripping the left shoulder of the other man, his routine gestures instinctive and automatic. He raised his fingers towards the beard, crudely measuring it as he selected the right tool. He first leaned towards a shining blade, sharpened a few moments before, but a lemur limb offered him a blunt and rusty set of scissors instead. The spirits of the Underworld refused to be silenced, theirs the only voices that Considius was still listening to.

If Germanicus was still waiting for an answer, he kept it well hidden, eyes locked on Considius and his scissor as if daring to be challenged. From his point of view a relation of dominance and submission was being established, the tonsore a broken man that had been dragged down to his proper place. The crime lord felt the rising tension as Considius reached for the back of his neck, a tap indicating for him to turn his head to the front. Feeling the scissors pressed against his cheek and Considius starting to work, a satisfied Germanicus allowed himself to relax, closing the eyes face a supposed impotence of the barber.

System shock made him open his mouth, desperately gasping for air.

The Tribune of Shades pinned him down with inhuman strength, keeping Germanicus steady on his bench, all while digging on his neck with the closed scissors. As the tides of pain seized his reality, Germanicus understood the malice behind the choice. Considius was not going to kill him immediately, instead slowly and cruelly tearing and shredding a path until the jugular, maximizing suffering. Without many options and tears on his eyes, the crime lord tried to call for his men, delirium making him see living shadows strangling them.

With a horrid wet sound the tonsore pulled out his scissor, a guss of blood covering his face and clothing. Germanicus was livid, as if ready to fade away.

“These are the only terms that I accept.” Considius hissed. “Your death and your secrets.”

The scissor descented with violence. Iron shards flew as it broke, forcing him to close his eyes. To much of his surprised, he opened them to find no sign of Germanicus. In his stead, a tall blond woman, her cloak torn by the blade, her skin untouched and unbroken. As she turned on her seat in order to share a cocky smile, Considius noticed that someone had freed Germanicus’ thugs and spirited them away.

“Marcus Considius, I presume.” The woman raised her hand as a greeting. “I heard about your new responsibilities and came to present myself to my latest

She did not get to finish the phrase, interrupted by a ferocious punch that projected her out of her seat. Still clasping the ruined scissors, the Tribune of Shades panted forcefully, his entire body shaking with anxiety. His eyes seemed to brim with power, losing colour and becoming a mesh of heavy grey and bronze; lemurs answered to the emotional call, shrouding him in his spectral armour of curses.

“I am Aeneid.” Lidia announced, adopting a pugilism stance and raising her fists.

“I do not care.” Considius growled with clenched teeth. “Germanicus was my prey, it was my right. What did you do with him?”

“Germanicus? Oh yes, you mean Pleuratus. Ridiculous name and awful taste, however, Rome has nothing to gain with his death. You do not gain anything.

“Where he is!” Umbrae Tribunus charged towards Aeneid, howling his demands. “His acts against the Aventine and my family warrant all sorts of punishments and then more!

A cascade of tentacles tried to grab Lidia, the woman limiting to dodge, refusing to touch them or get closer to Considius. With her impressive speed it would be all to easy to abandon the scene and escape, however, he always remained only two steps further than what was strictly needed, goading the lemurs hungry for celestial touch to stretch themselves thin, but never enough to force Considus to close the gap.

“Horrible and unforgivable things have been occurring on your corner of the Urbe. Pleuratus might have done all his dead on the behalf of another, but he is only the lackey of great powers. He is more dangerous to them alive than dead.

“What do you understand about what he did to us, guided by that patrician logic?” Considius finally advanced, spectres consuming almost all light in the interior of the shop. The walls seemed to contract and expand, with the effect of turning the barbershop impossible large. Recognizing the interference between their two Triumphs, Aeneid prepared herself against dangerous eventualities; Umbrae Tribunus exploited this moment of hesitation to waylay Lidia towards a corner, joining hundreds of lemurs in a single fist of darkness.

“Tsh, tsh.” Aeneid let go, frowning eyebrows and biting her tongue as she regained her classic smile. As the spectral punch descended, she jumped, impelled by her Triumphant celerity, knee meeting Considius’ stomach and kicking him out of the shop. It was easy to turn the conflict into a speed race without further obstacles, pushing the other Triumphant through streets down the hill, quick punches followed by sudden sprints. Cornering Marcus against a dead-end wall, grabbing the man and leaning her brow against this.

“Is this the face of privilege?” A short shake-up. “I know what it is to lose everything, I know how tempting it is to punch your way out of misery. Will you listen to me now?”

As way of response, Considius pulled his head back to prepare a head-butt. With an audible sight Lidia pre-emptively struck him, an equal measure counter-attack.

“I will admit, you are a strong one. But strength is not authority and I am surrounded by the fears and hopes the people!” The shadow of Considius’ on the wall developed a new silhouette, lemurs feeding it into something titanic, singing a remembrance for the mortality of Lidia and trying to supress her Triumph. It was dangerous, the legitimacy granted to Umbrae Tribunus contesting Aeneid and trapping her in that world vision.

Such threats only made Lidia’s goal even more clear.

Sparks surrounded her eyes and feet, spectres once again shrouding Considius’ face. The Tribune of Shads attempted to flank Lidia with an attack in two fronts, fists covered in lemurs in an imitation of Aeneid’s cestus, other spectres animating a copy made of living shadow. The alley distorted into the tunnels of the Underworld, the woman well aware that she would have a single chance and hesitation was a luxury she could not afford. She grabbed the man and threw him to the ground, ignoring the shade and making haste towards the main streets.

The chase continued, the lemurs did not give up the hunt and inspired Considius to speed up, lending him more of their power. Aeneid accelerated just enough to stay at the horizon, a prize impossible to catch up to. Arriving to the walls of Rome, she was forced to slow down, inspecting for possible exits or a way to avoid the insane traffic, ubiquitous to the gates of the Urbe.

Marcus Considius approached from the top, tentacles raising him like cables, penetrating the walls and pushing him towards them. More shadows took over the day, warning the woman about the urgency of retreat. An inelegant solution presented itself, inviting Lidia to run across the wall. And so she acted upon, only to find her path cut down by lemurs. Tongue sticking out, gained impulse by kicking the cold stone and jumped, trying to surprise Marcus through the air.

A shadow whip struck her face, tearing her hood. Lemurs drank her blood, lifting her with a greedy cut across her nose.

“For a moment thought you to be untouchable.” Consdius stopped for a moment to congratulate himself. One of the lemurs still held what remained of the broken scissors, pointing them towards Lidia.

“I take good care of my skin. Lower those shades and I can share some tips with you!” She shouted, landing own a low roof and cleaning the blood.

“As a fighting taunt that is pretty lacking.” A new exchange of blows followed suit, forcing Aeneid to jump between buildings to dodge.

“What provocation? My offer was as sincere as they go.” A loose tile made Lidia slip, forcing her to awkwardly tumble back to ground level. Considius got too close, fists raised. Dropping her dominant hand in a hook only to suddenly rise it straight towards Umbrae Tribunus’ chin. Such concentrated violence would ruin to day of anyone, even that of a Triumphant.

“Wait one second, I recognize that manoeuvrer!” The stunned Considius recognized her despite her pale completion. “You are Lidia Bella.”

“That pun is something I regret every single day.” Aeneid gifted him a smile. “It is always a pleasure to meet a fan.”

“Fan? I lost the earnings of two months because of you!”

“Lesson one, Considius.” Lidia raised one finger and wiggled it around. “Never bet against me!”

The conflict between the two Triumphant seemed to be getting to a close for a moment, grey abandoning Considius’ eyes. The lemurs do not share the same feeling, still sensing the celestial promises that sprouted from the Triumph incarnated em Lidia. Spurned, they delivered another attack, so unexpected that it made Aeneid quiver.

“The spectres are still furious, they do not know what is going on!”

“They just remember me, everything is fine.” Aeneid forced her most confident smile, hiding the pain that she felt. “Follow me, Considius, do not spare me for one second or they can turn against you. Such is the burden of the Infernii.

They climbed the walls together, trading blows all the way. The lemurs looked more and more eager, failing to be hampered by human limitations; Lidia looked more and more tired, unwilling to lose more of her self to the Triumph. Marcus grew more worried, hoping that whatever was the plan of Lidia, it was good enough.

To his surprise she jumped from the walls down to a trash and dejections pile, crossing on her tip toes over the sewers and stopping at the borders between city, road and fields. An astonished Marcus observed as she scratched a line on the grass with the right foot.

The spectres slithered behind the woman, ignoring the excrement of civilization, once again arming Considius with lemurs and animating a shadowy duplicate.

Aeneid lifted her palm and challenged him to advanced, cocky smile and all.

Umbrae Tribunus crossed over the line, Marcus Considus arrived to the other side. The lemurs were not able to pass through, remaining bound to him through a spectral umbilical cord that slowly withered away when encountering sunlight. Under the implacable will of Apollo the lemurs moaned as they got separated from Marcus and dragged back to the Underworld.

“You are a Tribune, Considius.” Lidia explained to the confused barber. “The powers entrusted to you are the same as your orthologues, they do not extend beyond the sacred limits of Rome. Without the authority the lemurs elected you for, nothing anchors them to the world of the living and there is nothing left to them besides surrendering to the fact.

Marcus nodded, believing that made sense for the most part, despite the events with Atticus suggesting that there were exceptions to the rule. Lifting his head up, he noticed the shadows that darted across the ground, reshaping the duplicate of Umbrae Tribunes. Aeneid’s expression was genuinely impressed.

- Amazing, how so little of my blood was enough to keep them cohesive?

The woman disappeared.

The shadow-tribune turned to the barber, the expression on his empty face composed of silent spectres that was impossible to read. Fearing the worst, Considius did not hide his relief to see a cestus going through the duplicate, followed by Aeneid. The eyes of the woman had disappeared behind scarlet and alabaster blurs, colouring her gestures with an inhuman aura. The lemurs finally dispersed, she regained her usual expression as Marcus instinctively grabbed something that had collided against his chest. He found himself starting down towards an amphora of wine from Bruttium.

“I know that my motivations might not make much sense to you.” Aeneid held her hand out, offering a cup. “Fear and hope, you say, but above all fear. Good sense of purpose, but a reactive one; I focus only in one thing. Avoid suffering.”

“I’m sorry, friend.” Considius helped himself to the wine. “Did you take a good look at the Urbe?”

Lidia pulled the hood up in order to hid the lose of her smile.

“Sometimes there is no path for happiness, only choices between major or minor suffering. Pleuratus must live for now.” He looked sadly towards Umbrae Tribunes, while discretely Marcus put a leg behind the line previously marked, lemurs gradually responding to the call and preparing for an eventual offensive. “I know what he did, I know of his involvement in the disappearance of your family. Much as yourself, Considius, I am someone that has to see the world beyond my fists; someone smarter than either of us will be required to solve this delicate trap.”

“I must try.” Exchange of nods showed how both agreed on that. “Above all I cannot distract myself with banalities.”

“I know.” Lidia breathed in. “The Shadow Senate wishes to replace you, there is a kid in training that will be adopted and take your place. I saw enough of you to conclude that you are a touchstone for the plebs and a pillar of the community. I want to help you maintain this position, but for that you must start to act with the acumen that the office demands. If even I manage to learn thing, how easy it will be for Marcus Considius?

“You are a good woman, Lidia.”

“Am I? I am this close to start a war. Talk about avoiding suffering. Tell me, Umbrae Tribunus; how much your blood boil for the opportunity to dethrone an oppressor?”