#it’s a long ass name but it works

[theworldshouldhaveendedin2012]

i feel like their name is a bunch of cowards and the bravest little girl in the world but like that’s so long

[anonymouscheeses]

Bonus under cut vvv

Later that same day:

And... I made an Emily redesign too...... *sniff sob /j* it's not final (like all my redesigns) I'm just trying get better at this design stuff and where better to do it except my current fixation ehhh?????

Long Emily design explanation/rant thing ignore it probably but pls dotn im desperate: I wanted to make her more round and soft cuzzz I love those typa designs I'm just a sucker for circle characters. Made her actually black and not fuckin gray cuz its a transformation to look more human and gentle(for me they go between two forms, their true ones that we see the first time we see them snd their human/softer ones if they ever interact with actual humans which... they usually dont.) Not a demon form tfff. In this version I wanted to put Emily in animal inspired features like... the sheep nose, ears, and hooves. Because she and Sera know that humans and about all beings love animals. Birds have sharp features mostly so they don't look as welcoming as they want to seem. I wanted Emily to look sheep likes and pretty much all the seraphim look more sheep like to make Lucifer stand out as the only one who was symbolized as a snake/goat(still don't know if I'll make him goat or make Lillith goat. I'll decide when I get there lmao). Justtt overalll wanted Emily to look more round, welcoming, and cute. I kept the freckles lighter than her skin color(even tho that's SUPER not accurate to what actually black people look like with freckles but whatevr) because it reminded me of fawns and.... sure Emily is a sheep but I still wanted to incorporate other cute animal traits with her cyz y not.

[somegrumpynerd]

Thoughts from trying to go to sleep last night: I don't think Nightmare cares if they call him boss anymore.

At the start when he got Killer it was a demand, because this was an employment of sorts to him and it was a respect thing. Killer always did and always has called him boss. Dust did so begrudgingly, and usually with a kind of sarcastic lilt to it. By the time Horror came along he was beginning to see them less as a means to to an end and more as... friends? creatures he cared about, so he didn't really bother making a point of it, though Horror still did call him that because the other two did and he just kind of assumed.

By the time he brought Cross in he was well past the point of "these are people I'm employing for things I need done" and more into the territory of "no I'm not taking in people because I'm lonely and soft on them you're lonely shut up!!!". So Cross was never given any instruction to call him boss, but he still picked it up from Killer and sticks to it.

Nowadays, Dust and Horror will sometimes call him Nightmare, usually when they're talking about him to each other. They do sometimes call him Nightmare to his face, but it's usually either when he's done or said something wild or when they're having like, a genuine moment.

Cross probably only calls him that when he's talking to xChara with nobody else around, otherwise he holds himself to it because he's decided it's a rule and he's not allowed to break it.

Killer still only ever calls him boss, to his face and to others and to himself in his head. Nightmare worries sometimes that it's a sign there's still a sort of weird uneven balance between them that he doesn't know how to fix, but truthfully it's just another nickname to him at this point and Killer loves those

[howdygravytrain]

*jingles pathetically across the courtyard*

holy shit y'all, this was the most extensive set of gposes i've done yet. this took almost an entire week from me getting a room at my fc's crib and transferring all my shit from my apartment to there so i could make the bedroom, gathering/crafting everything for said bedroom, the poses themselves, desperately trying to find a crime for aymeric's earring before i said fuck it and photoshopped it on LMAO, the editing, putting the screenshots into panels since tumblr only allows 30 images per upload and finally typing up the transcript, I AM FINISHED.

all because a friend wrote a snippet about "what if aymeric fantasia'd into a lalafell?" i have not known peace since then 😩 /pos

btw i plan to make an introductory post for gravy sometime, but noT FUCKING TONIGHT PLS IF I HAVE TO OPEN PHOTOSHOP ONE MORE TIME I'M GONNA HURL MYSELF INTO THE AETHERIAL SEA

got a doozy of a transcript, find it below the break!

TRANSCRIPT

Panel 1: [ONE PECULIAR DAY WHEN GRAVY ARRIVED BACK HOME IN ISHGARD…]

Panel 4: Gravy Train: Huh, that’s weird…Aymeric always greets me when I come back home. Maybe he got holed up at work again?

Panel 7: <He hasn’t been to work in two days…The hell is goin’ on?>

Panel 10: Gravy Train: Howdy, Eddie. Aymeric home?

Panel 11: Edrant: Ah, welcome home, Lady Gravy. M’lord is currently upstairs in his bedchambers. He specified to let none interrupt him since yestermorn.

Panel 12: Gravy Train: He ain’t want no one to bother him? Is he alright, is he sick??

Panel 13: Gravy Train: Ayms, ya doin’ alright, sugar bear?

Panel 14: <Hmm, no answer. Maybe he’s in the bathroom?>

Panel 16: Gravy Train: The hell, he ain’t in there either??

Panel 17: Gravy Train: Now just where could he’ve gone off to? Surely if it was an emergency he’d’ve let me know somethin’...

Panel 18: Gravy Train: Maybe Estinien’s gotten into some shit that Vrtra couldn’t get him out of and Aymeric went to help? Or Lucia needed him in Garlemald? Naw, Lucia’s got her shit together, Estinien’d be the one who’d fuck around.

Panel 19: Gravy Train: Aight, that bastard better have his linkpearl in or I swear to goD–

Panel 20: ???: Darling, is that you?

Panel 21: Gravy Train: Huh–who in the–?!

Panel 22: Gravy Train: Hollup–Ayms, is that you?

Panel 23: Aymeric: Aye, and I assume by your expression the potion worked?

Panel 25: Gravy Train: Oh my god, yer my size! Holy shit this is so cool!!

Panel 26: Gravy Train: Oh wait, ya got any clothing that’ll fit?

Aymeric: That I do. I may have taken the opportunity to, ahem, borrow some of your clothing and have outfits of similar proportions made for myself.

Gravy Train: Ohhh, I wanna see those fits!

Aymeric: Of course, if you could excuse me for just a moment…

Panel 28: Gravy Train: Ahhhhhh ya look amazin’, honey!

Panel 31: Aymeric: Um, darling, is something amiss–

Panel 33: Gravy Train: I can do this t’ya now, sugar.

[guqin-and-flute]

Holding Me Holding You–Ch. 7 [3zun Raise Jingyi Prequel]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6]

[Ao3 Link]

[Holy shit, how has it been 2 years since I last updated this fic?? ANYWAY HELLO HI I MISSED YOU. We're keeping the baby, guys. CW: Disjointed, slightly nonlinear narration; negative self talk; more talk of battle aftermath, bodies (gross but no more graphic than prev chapters), and death; focus on lots of trauma to do with death and grief; general Twin Jade parental trauma; vaguest mention of child death, in that he repeatedly tells himself there isn't one and remembers part of his nightmare about Wangji/A-Fu dying]

Who are you?

‘Wen Baiqi.’

What must be done for you to rest?

‘Say goodbye. Tell her goodbye.’

It’s raining in Qishan. It’s nothing like the rain in Gusu.

Who are you?

‘Hei Xuecen.’

What must be done for you to rest?

‘All my fault all my fault ALL MY FAULT--’

This rain isn’t crisp, but disconcertingly warm. It doesn't bring life. It soaks into the ground, milling the dirt back into the blood and gore bloated mud of that night, sucking at their feet. Reeking of putrefaction. It coats Xichen’s tongue and throat.

Who are you?

Each time, there is a chance he will receive a reply from the Yiling Patriarch himself. 

‘Ye Qian.’

He never does.

What must be done for you to rest?

‘Never apologized--’

What would he do if he did?

Who are you?

What would Zewu-jun do? Clan Leader Lan?

What must be done?

Would he soothe his spirit?

Who are you?

Ghostly fingers pluck at his sleeves constantly. 

Who are you?

‘Nie Zixing. Never knew him, tell them--’

When he had first arrived, the bodies of Wei Wuxian’s Wen contingent still hung from the gate to the battleground. Or what remained of them. After scavengers, time, and the elements had had their turn. Swaying in the warm, wet breeze along with carrion birds’ cries and the distant tunes of the guqin language. Grisly pendulums. Dripping.

There is no small boy among them. He had hoped against hope, but now he knew for sure. This secret is tucked deep, deep down beneath his heart.

Who are you?

The corpses on the ground are Wen. They are Lan. They are strangers. They are Da-ge, lying bloody on the floor of the Scorching Sun Palace. They are A-Zhan.

"We should burn them like they did to our people. Scatter their ashes, so they will never rest." A venomous whisper from his own disciples, a young man, face twisted in rage.

(“They’re killing everyone,” he had choked his sobs into A-Yao’s arms. “My people--my family are all dead and I did nothing.”)

A-Yuan had been so, so pale against the sheets. So tiny compared to the infirmary bed.

“These people?" Xichen’s voice is quiet. "These cultivators that studied healing? Miles and miles from Qishan?”

Silence.

“Did they destroy our home? Did we fight them in Sunshot?”

Too little, far too late.

There is no small boy among them. There isn’t.

A-Zhan, gray and slack, eyes glassy, head lolling--

He pushes the dream-memory away.

Who are you?

‘Jin Mingni. 

My father--’

"We will bury them and hold the proper rites, as we have the rest of the fallen. And I will ask you to swear yourselves to secrecy regarding their exact resting place. In case anyone later shares your thinking.”

‘Zhou Sanniang. Never wanted to come. Save me.’

“Help me bring them down.”

There may be no small boy among the Wen, but he sees corpses all day, every day. They're in his dreams. He cannot stop seeing them. And he cannot stop seeing a boy (Afuyuanzhan) among them, from the corner of his eye.

He can never quite catch the face before he realizes there is no one actually there.

A skeletal hand is unearthed when they lift a body--a remnant of the Sunshot Campaign, years before. There were plenty of partial skeletons from that time that the Yiling Patriarch had raised to fight them. It seems some didn't have the strength to fight their way out from the mud. The death here has layers. A slow growing mountain of violence and dead and blood instead of stone. The building of the Burial Mounds’ successor.

Do the Burial Mounds have as many crows? Is it a feasting ground, as this has become?

They carry the quiescent dead, cover them with cloth, lay them in rows. Those whose spirits have passed on easily. They lie with their Sect members--when they are able to discern who they are. Still, fields of undyed cloth mounds, waiting to be retrieved by their loved ones, if they still live. Somewhere out there, there must be people still alive, families whole and happy, living in the sunshine. Somewhere.

Who are you?

His fingertips bleed from days playing Linhai and Liebing.

What must be done for you to rest?

Even those here that are living shamble like the dead--the rogue cultivators, his Lan disciples, the handful cultivators from other Sects, all here for the same goal, all hollow eyed and pale. He is supposed to be here for morale. 

They work deep into the night, far from familiar, ingrained rules about schedule and tidiness, here. Adrift.

What must be done--?

The fierce corpse is not a powerful one, merely tenacious. Shuoyue snakes out. It crumples immediately with a muted splurch into the muck, halved.

‘Tell her I loved--’

The top half of the corpse writhes, still scrabbling for him. The sound it makes from its ruined face is horrid. It's a wonder it can sense his yang qi at all; no eyes, no nose. Its robes are a splotchy black and rusty brown-red, but the Lan ribbon around its forehead manages to show a ragged white through it, here and there.

The talisman sears, blinding. It is enough. The body slumps for the last time. He can settle into that mud, summon Linhai from his qiankun bag for the Songs of Rest.

Who are you?

‘Lan Ruicai.

Show them all--’

The blood of the walking dead is no longer life-hot, but the same, unnerving lukewarm as the rain. He cannot feel it. He can’t tell where it’s stained him until he reaches his tent each night. 

He is efficient. He is in control.

The rain here doesn't cleanse anything. It hasn’t stopped for days.

Everything is the same color; the sludge, the thick haze of lingering resentful energy, palms, boots, the hems and knees of robes. That old clotted wound color. Dirt repelling talismans can only do so much before they are overpowered by the sheer weight of yin energy permeating everything. Stained.

There's no use cleaning. He tries anyway.

‘I was so scared, so scared--’

Who are you?

Sometimes, the spirits do not answer. Sometimes, they speak first, before he can even start the questions, raking the strings repeatedly in their anguish. Sometimes, they try to tear the guqin from him, try to rend his clothes, squeeze his throat. Sometimes, banishment is the only way. 

The sudden shrieks and roars at night startle everyone from sleep. If Wangji was well, he would be here. He is known for going where the chaos is.

Is that what had led him to this? To Wei Wuxian? An affinity for soothing chaos? For chaos itself?

Who are you?

‘Don’t know. Want to go home--’

"I can't anymore, zongzhu, I-I--"

"It's alright. Return to the Cloud Recesses. You’ve done enough."

Sometimes, he wakes in the night to find that he is in the middle of dressing, having no memory of doing so, a clump of cleansing talismans clutched in his numb hands. He has cut down so many fierce corpses, he’s lost count.

Who are you?

Food is tasteless glue in his mouth.

Who are you?

Every night, he is sure to take the medicine that gives him no dreams.

‘Oh gods oh gods ohgodsohgods--’

Every night, he prays that he has not left Uncle overwhelmed, that his people are being cleansed and healed back home, that Wangji has stopped bleeding, that A-Yuan is healing, that A-Fu is….

Who are you?

(What right do you have?)

What must be done?

He has been here for days that run into one, long, dark, meaningless drain. 

‘Son. Baby. Where is he?'

Who are you?

‘Pan Liu.’

His raw fingers pause on Linhai’s strings, still humming. Rain patters quietly on the hat that shields his face from it.

He knows that name. How does he know that name.

There have been plenty of others he had recognized among the dead, from different Sects and his own, from childhood, from Cultivation Conferences, from class. But each time, he must pull himself back to that life to remember, away from the rain and the red and the dead.

He can’t place it.

What must be done for you to rest?

‘My baby. Safe.’

The spirit is a thin wisp of light, playing about the strings, shining on the dark wood. Focused. Waiting.  

Who is your son?

‘Lan Fu.’

His mouth is dry.

("A-niang?" A hopeful little voice. The memory of a crumpled form in the blood-churned muck, a shoe print between shoulder blades….) 

It is cruel, endlessly cruel that he is the one alive. That he is the one sitting in the mud across from this poor young mother’s spirit. That he is the one with blood enough in his hands to leave rain blotted stains on the strings as he tells A-Fu’s mother; He is safe.

(Shrieks of raw sound as they carry him away. Echoing off the trees. Reaching back for him.)

A hesitation. Then, ‘Who are you?’

Lan Xichen. Zewu-jun.

‘Zongzhu.’

He will be safe. I swear. 

‘...Safe.’

Rest, now.

‘...Rest….’ The notes are quiet, exhausted. Longing.

Then, silence. That pale light is gone. 

She is gone.

He sits, still and silent as the soft caverns in the clotted mud continue to patter around him. His face is wet--mist and rain and blood. He almost wishes it was tears. 

He aches in a new, terrible way, now.

Oh, little one. You were so loved.

He has been witness to both sides, now, of this small, destroyed family reaching for each other through the dark. And how useless he has been in the task of bringing either of them lasting peace. 

To bring anyone lasting peace. 

(Useless.)

And do you serve anything so fiercely that it would be your last thought, taken across into death? 

It is irrelevant. The soul quieting ceremony had been performed on them as children, with all the other inner disciples. He will not linger as a ghost, even if he were to be struck down by a fierce corpse this instant.

He finds himself trying to remember if his mother had ever mentioned having had such a ritual performed on her….

Selfish. You would have your own mother suffer and linger as an unquiet ghost for some sort of twisted confirmation that you were loved? 

Xichen remembers childhood before the death of his parents. The infinity of all of it. It probably never crossed A-Fu’s mind to beg her to stay with him. (“No, no go! P’ease!”) She had always returned before. 

The memory of A-Fu clinging to his hands so tightly he had drawn blood with his nails is inescapable. 

During that final farewell at the Jingshi, A-Huan too had had no idea it would be the last time he would ever see his mother’s face. He didn’t know what creeping death looked like, then. She was simply her, smiling, twinkling at them.  He had kissed her cheek and taken Wangji’s hand and waved to her through her ornately carved window screen as Uncle led them away. Wangji had always been the one to pull back, to fuss over leaving. Uncle had always made sure that Xichen set a good example for him.

The snowy day she had left this world, cold and dry, so far from the warm wet muck he was in now, something in him hadn’t believed it. Hadn’t believed that someone could just…no longer exist, just as suddenly as a storm might blow over the mountain summit with no warning. 

He saw her so sparingly, it seemed impossible that she wasn't just simply waiting in her front room for them to visit with a smile and open arms.

How? he had asked. When? Why?

Uncle had said that it was not for children to know. This pulled it even farther into the unreal, stretching his comprehension. It felt like a dream, a lie. A story. But if he could just see her…if he could just prove that this was some sort of…misunderstanding--

(Xichen had never asked again after that first refusal sat in his gut like a chilly stone. He suspected that Wangji had not either. Even now, decades later, he still did not know how his mother had actually died. 

He suspected enough, however. 

He knew it was sudden. He knew it was unexpected. He knew no one spoke of it. He knew it had broken his father beyond any hope of repair. Uncle had not volunteered the information, even now, when they were both grown. And Xichen will not allow useless rumination. Rule 60.)

 He remembered he hadn’t been able to stop crying. A-Huan had always hated crying--he always tried to hide away and not bother anyone with it, but this had been constant. 

Uncle had squeezed his shoulder and spoken softly, and reminded him after hours of stopping and starting that he must not grieve in excess, that he would make himself sick, that he was agitating Wangji, that he needed to calm himself, death was a natural passing, like the moon or a river, one must not let their emotions control them.

But still, that something in him that just knew it wasn't true waited until it was dark, until curfew set in and the snow lit the night full-moon-bright, reflecting the stars and lanterns. He had pulled on his boots and slipped from his window, cautiously darting across the paths of the Cloud Recesses in just his pajamas and his blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders, shivering from more than the cold. 

This had to be a trick that he didn’t understand; a joke or a punishment for something he had done wrong. When he figured out what to apologize for, he would be able to see her again. 

The fear of being caught breaking the rules was washed away when he crossed beneath the familiar bower wound with skeletal winter vines. His mother’s house stood dark. All around it, snow was churned and broken, as if many people had been there. In all his memory, no one else had ever visited the Jingshi. The door was unlocked. 

It opened onto emptiness and moonlight. 

Everything was gone.  Her plants. The blue cushioned couch. Her desk and papers. Her dragon incense burner. Her tall candlesticks. Her big, thick, round rug they laid on and played games. The pictures he had painted for her.

He had drifted, stunned, through the shell of his mother’s home. The only proof that she had ever even been there were the scratches on the floor from where furniture had been dragged. That, and the scent of her that still lingered underneath the smell of whatever they had scrubbed the floor and walls with. They had erased her completely. Like she was never there in the first place.

Then it had settled on him like a cloak of lead, dropping him to his knees; the understanding, the true deepness of what this meant.

She was really gone. Forever. 

The ‘always’ was gone. The ‘next time’ and promises. That warm, constant presence on the rim of the Cloud Recesses, the visit that marked his days as cyclically and surely as the sun had simply...vanished. In just one moment, the world was made completely lightless. Incomprehensible. It had a hole ripped in its center, cold and inescapable.

She would never brush back his hair and kiss his forehead. She would never pout when she lost a game. She would never squinch up her nose and do an accidental snort-laugh.

If he had only known that it could happen so fast…if he had only known that people could leave so quickly and completely, he would have taken something. A set of her dark, weighty chopsticks, one of her bracelets, a letter; anything. But there was nothing.

Somehow, he had found himself in front of the Hanshi, his feet numb, his face and hands frozen. Thinking back on it, he couldn’t remember what his 6 year old self had planned. He wasn’t sure that there had been a plan. Maybe he had just wanted a parent. Maybe he had been seeking out the one adult that might have cared as much as he did that his mother was gone. Uncle didn’t understand--A-Huan and A-Zhan had always known that he didn’t like her. He was always polite, because that was important, it was in the rules--but he was always stiff and short. He frowned the whole time--every time--picking them up. He hated talking about her.

But the father he had hardly met, that distant, hidden figure--he had married her. He had loved her.

He would care.

The Hanshi, too, had been dark--and he panicked. Had his father left--or died like his mother and no one had told him? He had yanked the door handle--and to his shock, it slid open. He had been expecting a lock like the one that he saw being done up behind them when he and A-Zhan left the Jingshi. (A choice, not a prison, he had realized as he got older. Not in the same way, at least. Other things kept Qingheng-jun bound.) 

It was dark inside, curtains drawn, vague shapes of things illuminated by the light creeping in behind him. He stood in that doorway, frozen in body and mind, unable to trespass that much farther. It smelled unfamiliar and sharp. He had never been in his father’s home before. 

It was so dark.

He had called into that darkness, choked and quiet; “Fuqin?“ 

Silence. 

“...Diedie?”

(“They made choices. These are consequences,” is all Uncle had told him when, younger, he had asked why both of his parents were locked away from him and refused to say more.

Afterward, A-Huan had always been afraid that he might accidentally make those same choices, that he would be kept from his brother and his Uncle and nannies for it. Because no one would tell him what those choices were, he studied the rules obsessively so he could be sure to follow every single one. So he would never be locked up.)

There was a rustle, a clink. A shape had formed in the shadows, someone sitting up from being slumped on a table. A pale hand swayed into the pool of silver moonlight, pointing. The voice that followed had been rough, slurred like a mouthful of rocks. “You are not supposed to be here. Go.”

A-Huan had fled as fast as his numbed legs could go. Stumbling, breaking through the crust of snow, falling and rising and falling, back up through his window to collapse on the floor. His breath had burned in his lungs as he coughed and sobbed as quietly as he could, hot tears stinging his frozen cheeks.

Not quietly enough, though. A-Zhan had eventually crept into his room and curled up next to him on the floor without a word, arm wrapped around his middle.  When A-Huan had rolled over and held him more tightly than he had ever held anything before, he realized that A-Zhan was the only part of his mother he had left in the entire world.

And now, what did A-Fu have left of his parents, of a life he knew? 

A story, at the very least. A reason. A goodbye. The truth. It was all he could offer. It was all he had left for the boy. These other spirits and their wishes can only be passed along to others, if they were attainable at all. But this, this he can do; this, he can set right. To make absolutely sure that her will is found and executed, that the family who cares for her son is told the story of her last farewell, so he will know, too, in time. 

So a son will never have to wonder.

This much peace, he can provide. With those who can bear this place no more and an endless caravan of cloth draped bodies, he returns to Gusu, leaving behind Qishan’s bleeding sky.

-

The quiet of home stuns him. There are no screams, no groans echoing down the mountain. The trees don’t muffle sounds of sword or talisman sizzle, merely birdsong and wind. There is beauty here, something he hadn't known his soul craved like water in a drought until he saw it in rich blues, blooming whites, lush greens. The coolness, the clarity of the water and the touch of leaves. Nothing here is red-brown. All that bleeds is hidden away behind pale bandages and pale walls.

It's almost too much. 

(His hands feel filthy, no matter how many times he scrubs them. Discontent among such blessings is an insult to those that can no longer come home to them. He will kowtow in the shrine for this disrespect later.)

Time has meaning once more. In theory. There are places to eat, to rest. 

(It hardly makes sense to him anymore, despite the schedule being as familiar as the stone beneath his feet.)

Home, in the Hanshi, surrounded by familiarity and comfort, sitting at his desk as the incense burner next to him delicately permeates the air with sandalwood and the trees outside rustle and no one screams at all, he holds Pan Liu’s will in his hands. It is a brief, frail little thing in the face of such sorrow. It must have been hastily written after her husband’s death, as she willed A-Fu and her remaining possessions to the care of her younger sister. Who upon brief investigation of his ever growing list of the dead was found to have been killed in the battle against Wei Wuxian as well. The sister, yet unmarried, had no will of her own--probably too young to have begun to even consider death as a real possibility before life and Wen and war swept their way in. Their house had been one destroyed in the Wen’s sacking of the Cloud Recesses, their personal possessions few. No one else remained of their immediate family.

Pan Liu clearly had not expected to die before she could update it.

In his heart, somewhere, he had known that something like this was the case; that A-Fu was truly alone. Xichen had carried him for days and no one had come looking? No one had wondered where he was, wanted him home safe, with them? 

He had not wanted to look directly at this, at the time, knowing he would have to give A-Fu back to that loneliness, that uncertainty. Even though A-Fu is not the only child in the Cultivation World or even the Cloud Recesses with the same fate, it had been…different. He couldn’t have said why--still can’t--but it had felt like a betrayal to the boy. A loss, savage and personal. Even when he knew any other choice came nowhere close to making sense.

Still. Even he and Wangji had had their uncle and the small, rotating cadre of minders that were familiar to them. He saw his mother once a month and knew his father was there, somewhere, out of sight. There had been a thread connecting them to their parents and the life they could have had with them. 

A-Fu has none of this. 

And yet he still cries, still calls out, because he trusts that someone he knows will come. Of everything in these last few days, this is what is almost too much to bear, a knife stuck in his ribs that gouges with every breath. He does not feel sadness or regret; only pain. Everything else has been out of reach for a while now.

The rattle of his door opening onto seeping sunshine and fresh, bloodless air has him looking up. His Uncle steps over the threshold. “You’re back,” he says warmly by way of greeting as Xichen rises.

“Shufu.” He bows, then offers him his customary seat, more out of habit than necessity; this teatime visit was a familiar ritual in a life not too long ago.

 They take their places at opposite ends of the low, square table at the center of his sitting room as Xichen opens his tea cupboard. “It’s been a while since we have been able to simply sit and have tea together,” Uncle observes, easily.

Yes; nothing has been right or normal for a long time. “Mn.”

When he continues to set out the cool porcelain cups and the dark pot with no further elaboration, Uncle watches him work, expression a thoughtful blur in his periphery.  “...The library is not where I expected your first stop to be.” 

He sounds only mildly curious, but Xichen knows that it is unspoken approval that he had not gone straight to Wangji.

He hesitates, then continues his methodical ritual of movement. “There was a time-sensitive matter that I wanted to attend to.”

In truth, after the bath he had taken upon his return--where he had had to call for 3 rounds of water (Do not be wasteful, Rule 23; broken) before it was no longer clouded dark with dried blood and mud and rot--Xichen had stood on the Hanshi’s front porch, staring down at the blindingly white path before him, forking off through the trees. 

His heart had tugged him one way and his cowardice in the face of pain another. The thought of seeing more bodies just lying there, of seeing those dear to him--Wangji, A-Yuan, those in the infirmary--suffering while he could do nothing to prevent it was….

It was not something he was capable of, at present. Just for now. Just for these first few hours. It was selfish, but true. And so, he had gone to their records room in the library to request Pan Liu’s will. Pain had won. His heart was weak, choosing the easier duty.

Unable to stop himself, though he knows it will cloud his uncle’s relaxed and pleasant demeanor, he asks; “Is Wangji…?” He trails off. 

Awake? Improving? Well? …Alive? A sharp internal rebuke at this last. Do not exaggerate. Rule 671. Uncle would not be so calm if things were dire. He is angry, not cruel. He would have been told.

(A heavy hand on his shoulder. An empty house. Churned snow.)

He would have been told.

Uncle’s face does, indeed, darken. “Hmph.” A mirthless, scornful snort. “He wakes on occasion. He refuses to speak, refuses to acknowledge anyone. He is simply lengthening his own punishment.” Uncle eyes him, adding, “You should be able to talk some sense into him. He always has listened to you best.” 

‘And so how could you have let this happen? How could you have let him do this?’ 

(When will you stop being angry and start being afraid for him?)

Xichen lowers his gaze to the dark wood of the table and scoops the tiny, furled up leaves of the tea into the pot, the smokey green scent tickling his nose

It’s true. Of everyone--their caregivers, teachers, and relatives, Wangji has always responded to him best. He would not always necessarily disobey outright, but he might frown or hesitate before complying or pretend not to hear--especially if he were called to come away from Xichen’s side. “Your class is this way, xiao-gongzi,” the minder would call and A-Zhan would continue his resolute little stride beside him, hand squeezing tighter around Xichen’s fingers the only indication he had heard anything at all. 

It was when Xichen squeezed back and knelt down to straighten his robes, smiling up into his serious face, saying, “It’s alright, ZhanZhan; I’ll ask if I can come out early to pick you up, mn? Go on, be good,” that he would allow himself to be led away with no further fuss.

 He had been the only one who could finally convince him that kneeling in the rocky ground every month when they should have been visiting their mother would not force anyone to bring her out to them. The first time, he had asked him to come in, come home. But knew his brother. He was not surprised when he silently refused to even show he had heard him. 

And so he hadn’t asked again, never having the stomach to fully destroy the hope that he would be let back into the Jingshi if he just waited long enough. 

But Uncle had become frustrated, their teachers and nannies muttering. They were impatient with his refusal, seeing it as disobedience. They didn’t see his mourning, only his stubbornness. So A-Huan had had to protect his brother's soft heart from those that didn’t understand. “We can kneel together, back at home,” he had whispered, his fingers screwed tight around A-Zhan’s cold hand. “I’ll wait with you as long as you want. But niang would--” his throat had caught and he had wrestled his tears from his voice. “Niang would hate if you got sick, sitting out here in the cold all day.”

A-Zhan’s dark eyes had bored into him, thinking. Reason and punishment and demands from adults had not moved his stubborn frame one inch, month after month after winter-to-spring month. 

Then, finally, this second and last time, A-Zhan had listened to him. Whatever it was about him was what finally got his little brother slowly, stiffly to his feet to hobble back home with him. Xichen remembered that he hadn’t felt relieved at all. He just felt like he had taken their mother from him all over again.

“I will speak with him, shufu.”

 Uncle nods, then heaves a sigh. “What news is there from Qishan?”

Mechanically, as if operating his own mouth from across the room, Xichen relays numbers, movements, and times. He almost reflexively scolds himself for lying; the mundane description of dry duty and the lived horror so far from one another that they were entirely irreconcilable. Just words passed across a shining table over fragrant tea, cool wind brushing the sun-pale windows serenely with tree shadows

When he reaches the final fate of Wei Wuxian’s executed Wen contingent, Uncle approves. “It was wise to swear the disciples to secrecy. This has all gotten so inhumane. Denying them burial was an unnecessary cruelty,” he says heavily as he shakes his head, eyes closed in weariness. “I pray that we are done with this madness at last, with that Wei Ying finally taken care of. What a mess.”

There is silence. Xichen cannot fathom what his response to that could possibly be. Should possibly be--as Wangji’s brother, as the Lan Clan Leader, as his uncle's nephew. As Wei Wuxian’s…what. Friend? 

…As one who cannot delight in his death, in any case. 

Despite the period of kneeling before the Jingshi, Wangji had never been a troublemaker growing up. He was always the Jade who grasped the Lan way of life more easily, molded himself to the rigidity of the rules with that same stubborn tenacity. 

It was Xichen who failed in that, who smudged the black and white lines to gray, bent them so they were slightly more comfortable around him; bearable--once he discovered that they could be. 

He was the one who accidentally got drunk trying to see if he could filter out alcohol with his core, he was the one to kiss Mingjue first in the Jin Gardens during a Cultivation Conference. The one to urge his brother to befriend a talented teenager who was gleefully and repeatedly stomping all over their Clan’s ancestral rules.

He was the one who had told Wangji to step outside his rigid view of the world, to see people for their hearts. And then Wangji's own heart had been torn out. As his uncle said; Wangji had always listened to him best. This much would never have happened without Xichen's deliberate meddling. 

All those years ago, when Wei Wuxian had first cannonballed into their lives, Xichen had just wanted Wangji to be happy. To have friends. Alone didn’t always mean lonely, but he knew he saw it in his brother. Saw Wangji with peers who were merely in awe of his talent, who respected but did not like him, love him, know him, want to spend time with him. He knew the difference, no matter what Wangji showed the rest of the world. The older he got, the less he smiled--the soft, secret ones that so many others failed to see. Xichen had missed them, dearly. And so he had pushed.

Everything that has happened sense feels as if it’s unshakably all his fault.

As the tea is poured, they speak; it passes over him like clouds. Which elder is still in which stage of recovery. The smith they called to repair swords and assess the spirits of those now without a handler. 

Something touches him.

 “Xichen!” 

His hand burns. He is on his feet. Shuoyue’s naked blade buzzes, ready in his hand. He does not remember moving. Every fiber of cloth on his skin feels alive and writhing. Blood courses. Scalding tea is cooling, dripping from his knuckles.

The touch had been spiritual, not physical. From the corner of his awareness and the Cloud Recesses boundary wards at once; a warning, tasting of wild metal (close to blood, so close). 

The Western Wards, crossed.

“Do not unsheathe your blade in a residence!” Uncle’s face crinkles from shock to a wince. “And contain yourself, this is not a battlefield.”

It takes a moment. His killing intent is up, streaming from his core like a river of blades, of blood. 

Sucking in a breath, he takes the torrent in internal hand and yanks it back, firmly, like the reins of a horse, winding the silk rope of it over again and again in the palm of his concentration, until the thrum of it eases. The pressure that had filled the room with the promise of death ebbs. Shuoyue hums warm, expectant. When he does finally sheathe her, the connection between them flickers, confused. 

Above his hammering heart, he hears Uncle continue, frowning, “I felt it, too. Was it someone passing outward or inward?”

His tongue, his mind is mud-stuck slow.

Focus. There is no battle here. You are home. Get a hold of yourself.

“...Outward. Less resistance. Nothing powerful.”

Oddly, at this Uncle’s frown deepens, shadows of concern replacing mere puzzlement. “Hmm. Those were in the West…far….” After a moment of thought, he rises.

As he steps out the door and calls for a servant from the Hanshi’s porch, Xichen continues to try to pull in slow, deep breaths.

Have you regressed to being such a novice that you cannot control your own qi? Your own battle intent? Are you a child? Though his uncle's voice is low and his attention is divided, the words ‘searchers’ makes it through the pounding blood in his ears. Strange.

When Uncle slides the door back open, Xichen asks, “Searchers?”

His silhouetted form hesitates, framed by the sunlight that pours in behind him and dazzles Xichen’s eyes, leaving his expression briefly in shadow. “...Yesterday evening, a child managed to wander into the woods alone.” A spike of cold worry threatens to heighten the wild surge of energy within him once more as his uncle continues, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “We have had several teams scouring the backhill and the whole of our land since then. They are young enough that their spiritual signature isn’t strong enough to register on normal tracking talismans.”

“Why was I not told?!” 

It burst from him, harsher from shock than he had meant and Uncle blinks, pausing in settling himself back onto his seat, brow furrowed.

But he cannot bring himself to care about disrespect, just now. Any child alone and lost is terrifying, awful. There is something, though…something about his tone, his expression that has breath caught in Xichen’s throat as slow, glacial horror creeps up from the depth of his gut. He is avoiding specifics. 

Why.

 “It is being handled already; why would I distract you from your duties? You’ve only just returned and you must--”

“Who. Which child.”

He huffs in irritation, brow furrowing further. And he shuts his mouth, lips compressing.

Xichen no longer needs an answer.

Behind him, he can hear Uncle’s voice raised in startled alarm, but he is already out the door, already leaping from the porch onto Shuoyue. The wind howls in his ears as shoots upward, speeding west to where he had felt the wards ring within him. To where A-Fu has just crossed beyond their safety.

He knows. He doesn’t know how, but he knows.

Xichen can barely breathe around the air battering his face and his own terror. The shrieking sky threatens to rip him from Shuoyue’s blade. Everything at once feels heightened, his awareness expanding to notice how chilly it is despite the sun, how the damp of the wind tearing at his hair and clothes tells of rain in the past day, how dark the woods look beneath the thick canopy blurring by below his feet. He had been alone and cold and terrified, out all night. Had the boy been trying to find his mother? Xichen? The thought made his gut writhe within him.

(They peel his little fingers from Xichen’s sleeve as he clutches and screams…)

Please please please please please

How could this happen? How could he have ever allowed this to happen? There were rivers, cliffs, steep slopes of scree, ponds, caves, animals--gods, animals alone would--

He is well enough to move, to cross the wards.

If it was him. If it were not a strong enough spiritual animal to trigger the alarm. 

There is no boy hanging among them THERE IS NO--

The invisible boundary rears up in his senses, mere seconds full tilt sword ride from the Hanshi but so, so far for a tiny child, wandering in the night. Beneath the canopy, before Shuoyue even manages to drop to a reasonable height and speed, he has already leapt off, landing at a sprint. Internally, the memory of the disruption in the web of the spell warps around his spiritual awareness like a broken arch as he crosses in that exact place. The ground is not suddenly more treacherous, the trees no more menacing, but beyond the relative safety of the Cloud Recesses, his hammering heart sees the whole world is a death trap for this little child.

(He cannot bear to see a tiny body, he can’t, he can’t--)

Skidding to a stop, he wheels in place, eyes scouring everything at knee level and below. “A-Fu!” his throat is pinched, his mouth bone dry. “A-Fu?!”

The ground cover is thick with bushes, shrubs, trees both young and fallen. The sun shines spots into his eyes through the swaying leaf cover above, dappling the floor with shadow and light, dancing, blurring. Silence. Even the birdsong had stopped when this strange being had suddenly crashed into their peaceful little clearing. He sucks in a breath to call again--and then he hears it.

There is a small child crying somewhere nearby. 

Quiet and hoarse but unmistakable.

He isn't slow, gentle, or cautious or anything that a terrified child might need right now; something else has a hold of him, now. He blindly crashes through the brush towards the sound, half skidding down a slope until--until! There! 

A blur of white amongst tree roots halfway down, a curled shape and-- “A-Fu!”--a little face, smudged and red cheeked and tear stained raises and his little eyes light with recognition and he scrabbles, fumbling and crawling out as Xichen tears back up the slope--slips, rights himself--and reaches and the boy throws himself off the lip of the hollow and into his arms, colliding hard with his chest like his heart coming home. 

He staggers, momentum and sudden weakness buckling his knees. A gnarled tree catches his side and he slides them down into the huddle of its roots, curled around him. Against his chest, wrapped in his arms, A-Fu is damp and chilly. He is covered in muck and sticks and burrs but he’s alive--alive--safe and hiccuping and piteously hoarse, tangling his hands through Xichen’s hair as he clutches him back, gasping.

He can breathe. He can finally breathe again.

Some unnameable agony, like some wild beast, is thrashing, welling up, bursting from his chest. It shakes him, tearing at his throat, his heart, his lungs, burning. It’s not relief. It's not fear. It’s…

Heedless of stitches cracking and bursting, he yanks his thicker outer robes open and over the child, tucking him deep into the pocket of warmth. He can feel him shivering, his tiny heart speeding.

He had forgotten that his head is so warm, that his hands are so tiny, just how real his weight is in his arms. When he buries his nose in the baby fluff of his hair, under the dirt and musty forest chill is that wild-sweet child smell he remembers from carrying him for days beneath his chin--and long ago from when Wangji was young. 

He tries to pull back to check him for injuries, for bruising, but he latches onto his neck and sobs. Mere minutes before, Xichen had never wanted to hear another scream again--but now he wishes A-Fu’s cries were as loud as the first day he held him, deafening and demanding, sure and strong in their conviction. These sobs are private, weak, exhausted little things. Not calling for attention. No longer certain of a trusted adult’s return.

“P’ease,” he croaks and that pain, that pressure bears down on Xichen and it feels like drowning; it feels like dying.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m here,” he whispers back, thick and choked (that thing inside him that aches, that wails, that loves is strangling him), and he draws up his knees, he wraps his robes tighter and rocks and rocks them both as it breaks--all of it, calving and crashing and surging and molten and ugly and broken--and he wants to beg ‘scream, little love, scream your heart out; someone is coming, someone will always come,’ but he doesn't have enough breath as it tears from his locked throat in silent sobs, because with unworthy hands and heart, he holds this blameless little life that has wandered through the halls of his heart leaving muddy fingerprints, and does the cruelest, most selfish thing he can ever recall doing. 

He realizes that he cannot let him go again. 

[autistic-katara]

icl i would be at least a little happy with almost any ending for stranger things but one thing that would ruin all of it would be an epilogue (of a decade or more later)

[littledesertfox]

Who was Fritz Bayerlein?

I've been planning to make a post like this for a long time, since about August to be precise. But alas, motivation and free time don't always coincide. Last year, I've become very interested in the life of Fritz Bayerlein, former chief of staff of Erwin Rommel and also a close friend of his, and I wanted to share what I learned (and still continue to learn) about him here as well. However, I felt that probably not as many people would even know who he es, as he is not such an extremely well-known personality like for example Rommel himself, or some of the other most famous figures like Göring or Himmler, where you immediately have at least a basic idea of who they were. Hence I first wanted to make a comprehensive post with a short biography to present a basic overview of his life. Well, it probably became a bit more than "short". Of course, this means that I could not touch upon every detail, and I apologise if I've been too unprecise in some matters. As of now, I myself haven't read everything that there is to be found about him either, but very much plan to do so in the future. Now that this big thing is out of the way, I hope to make more posts about him, smaller and focusing in more detail on specific aspects of his life.

Fritz Hermann Michael Bayerlein was born on January 14th, 1899 in the town of Würzburg in Bavaria. He was the middle one of three children between an older brother and a younger sister. While the family was not rich or prestigious, the parents worked hard to provide for their children the best they could. Fritz and his siblings were home-schooled until the age of ten, before he and his brother were accepted into the local Gymnasium - a school type that would allow access to university upon successful completion, and required high performance from students. Fritz was an excellent student who aspired to become a teacher for history, geography and mathematics himself one day - although his father likely wanted him to strive for an education with better opportunities (becoming a primary school teacher didn't require a university degree back then and wasn't seen as a very prestigious job, teaches in higher institutes such as Gymnasiums usually had a better societal standing, but the education was often costly and difficult).

However, these dreams were shattered when the Great War broke out. In spring 1917, his school held emergency exams so that the 18-year-olds could graduate before being drafted. Fritz registered as a Fahnenjunker (officer candidate) into the 9th King's Bavarian Infantry Regiment. Unlike his older brother, who also tried to apply as an officer candidate but struggled a lot more with it (due the family not being rich or influential), Fritz had it much easier now, since a lot of young men had already died and the high command was in desperate need for new officers. After completing his training, he was later sent to the Western front. He received the Iron Cross 2nd Class for successfully holding off an enemy attack on August 30th, 1918. A day later he was wounded by a grenade splinter and sent home for recovery, just shortly after he was promoted to Fahnenjunker-Unteroffizier and assigned to further training on his way to become an officer. By the time he completed his course, the war was over.

After the war, Bayerlein was part of the volunteer battalion "Dittmar" for a while, before being promoted to Fähnrich and being accepted into the Reichswehr in 1919. The regulations of the Versailles treaty only allowed a number of 4000 officers to remain, but he had proven to be a candidate with a lot of potential. The Reichswehr had some very strict rules: officers had to pledge themselves for twenty-five years of service, and among other things they had a strict marriage policy. Officers were only allowed to marry after the age of 27 or at least 8 years of service. Additionally, lower ranking officers usually didn't earn a lot, so unless they were coming from a wealthy background, supporting a family would have been difficult still. Bayerlein had been promoted to the rank of Leutnant in 1922, but still continued to live with his parents during times when he wasn't at the garrison as he couldn't have afforded a place of his own. The financial crisis during the 1920s further contributed to this.

In March 1926, he encountered Erwin Rommel for the first time during a vacation in Kleinwalsertal in Austria. Bayerlein was there with some men of his battalion from Würzburg, and likewise, Rommel was there with some officers from his company in Stuttgart, acting as their skiing instructor. Bayerlein was on a hike one day when he spotted the group on top of a particularly steep and difficult slope, and like everyone else watching he was left quite impressed when Rommel was the first one to go downhill, confident and without any trouble. He had learned Rommel's name at the time (upon asking one of the men that were with him), but they only got to know each other personally three years later. In 1929, Rommel was sent to Dresden to become an instructor at the infantry school there, and Bayerlein (now an Oberleutnant after being promoted two years earlier) was assigned to be his assistant. Over the next years, the men formed a close friendship: they worked together as instructors, but also spent a lot of time together off duty, going on walks in the woods (sometimes for literal hours), visiting some of the local landmarks, or simply spending time together at the apartment that the Rommel family lived in at the time. Fritz had a good relationship with Rommel's wife Lucie as well, and although he never had children of his own, his bond with their son Manfred was probably the closest he got to taking up a parental role.

When the Nazi party seized control in 1933, Bayerlein was currently attending the war academy in Berlin in order to become a general staff officer. Personally, he was politically leaning towards the Social Democratic Party (same as his late father), but as an officer he wouldn't have been allowed to vote either way. However, with the introduction of the Aryan paragraphs and in 1935 the Nuremburg Laws, he suddenly found himself "accused" of having Jewish ancestry, which would have resulted in a discharge from the army. The reason for this was mainly that he could not provide any record of his maternal grandfather's identity (his mother had been born as an illegitimate child and the father remained unknown) - therefore he couldn't deliver unequivocal proof to be of entirely "Aryan" descent by National Socialist standards. Additionally, his mothers maiden name Denkmann, along with his mere physical appearance were considered stereotypically Jewish by the Nazis (although they of course have no rational basis, it was plain antisemitic stereotyping). All of this resulted in Bayerlein being classified as a "quarter-Jew" or "2nd degree Mischling", even though there is no actual evidence that he has had any real Jewish ancestors - the unknown grandfather could have been anyone. Eventually, he was allowed to remain in the army, likely due to being regarded as a highly skilled officer. In the first few years of the Nazi reign "quarter-Jews" weren't as targeted yet (the explanation was that the "Aryan" part of their heritage should be protected), however this would eventually change.

From 1935 on up to the dawn of World War II, Bayerlein (since 1934 with the rank of Hauptmann) held positions in a few different units, mostly as a general staff officer. In April 1939, he was appointed the 1st general staff officer of the 10th Panzer Division, holding the rank of Major since his promotion the year before. With this unit he participated in the Invasion of Poland. He was noticed by Heinz Guderian, who commanded the 19th Army Corps during the invasion. Guderian awarded him the Iron Cross 1st Class for his successes during the campaign, he also liked that Bayerlein was a proponent of modern warfare, and had him eventually transferred to the general staff of his own unit. As 1st general staff officer under Guderian, he then proceeded to participate in the Battle of France and later the Invasion of the Soviet Union. He also received his promotion to Oberstleutnant in September 1940.

In October 1941, Bayerlein was transferred to North Africa and appointed chief of staff of the Afrikakorps - this era of his life is probably the one he's most well-known for, and likely also the one where the most photos of him have their origin. The commanding general and Bayerlein's direct superior at this time was Ludwig Crüwell - Erwin Rommel, who held the command before, had moved on to be the supreme commander of the entire Panzer Army Africa that the corps was also a part of. Regardless, Rommel and Bayerlein were working together very closely on many occasions, as documented by numerous photographs from the time that show Bayerlein at the side of his old friend. In December of the same year he received the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross. He proved once again to be a capable officer, also the type who would sometimes disregard orders and act on his own initiative, similar to how Rommel sometimes did. He was promoted to Oberst in April 1942. Later in the same year, Rommel temporarily appointed him the commanding officer of the Afrikakorps (from November the 4th to the 16th), after the previous commander, General Wilhelm Ritter von Thoma, had been taken prisoner by British forces. In the following month, he was transferred to be chief of staff of the Panzer Army Africa, now serving directly under Rommel.

By spring 1943, the defeat of the German and Italian forces was inevitable. On the 1st of March, Rommel promoted Bayerlein to the rank of Generalmajor, just a few days before his departure. Bayerlein followed him just about two months later with one of the last flights before the surrender of the remaining troops. He also received the oak leaves to his Knight's Cross. After a few months in the Führerreserve, he was appointed commander of the 3rd Panzer Division as was sent to the Eastern Front. Based on his experiences in Africa, he tried to implement a form of warfare that focused on mobility. At the beginning of 1944, he was tasked by Guderian to become the commander of the newly formed Panzer Lehr Division - it was a division made up of training and demonstration troops and the only fully mechanised division in the Wehrmacht. After it was called to participate in the occupation of Hungary for a few weeks, the division moved on to its original destination in France. In the meantime, Bayerlein had also been promoted to the rank of Generalleutnant. After D-Day, he was tasked to lead the division in the defence of Normandy, but was faced with heavy losses and eventually had to retreat. He later had to temporarily hand off command due to an injury, but took it up again once he had recovered, and lead the division in the Ardennes Offensive. In the meantime, he had also received the swords to his Knight's Cross. In February 1945, after the offensive had failed and the Panzer Lehr Division was severely decimated, Bayerlein was reassigned to the 53rd Army Corps. The troops continued retreating until they were encircled in the Ruhr pocket, and on 15th of April, Bayerlein sent a formal capitulation message to the U.S. 7th Armored Division, which was accepted in the early morning of the following day. He was the first commanding general of the Wehrmacht who surrendered his entire corps, rather than just himself and his staff.

Bayerlein spent the next two years as a prisoner of war. During this time, he showed to be cooperative with the Allied forces. He started working for the U.S. Historical Division, helping them document battle histories, later he also took up work as a car mechanic, hoping to stick to this occupation after his release. He never intended to continue his career as in officer in the later formed Bundeswehr, after almost three decades in the army, he had had enough.

The new beginning after his release was rough. Bayerlein moved into a small apartment in his hometown of Würzburg. The house it was in belonged to him, it had been given to him as a reward alongside the swords to his Knight's Cross. Although the other inhabitants paid rent to him, money was tight as it had not been decided yet how to handle retirement pensions for former Wehrmacht officers. However, once these matters were settled, he was able to enjoy quite a decent life. He continued working for the Historical Division, and later also helped as advisor for books and films on WW2 topics, such as The Guns of Navarone. He was also a main contributor in B. H. Liddell-Hart's The Rommel Papers together with Lucie and Manfred Rommel. Bayerlein had a close relationship with the Rommel family even after his friend's death and would remain in regular contact with them for the rest of his life, it wasn't uncommon that he would pay them a visit or invite them over to his own place every once in a while.

During the early 1950s, Bayerlein's name became known to the police as he was suspected to have had sexual relationships with other men. Homosexuality between men was still prohibited in Germany at the time under §175. Multiple acquaintances of his mentioned his name in police interrogations, many of them were suspected of being homosexuals themselves, and were assumed to either be former partners of him themselves or have knowledge about his relationships with other men, as they were frequenting the same social circles. Although there were mentions of having Bayerlein called in for an interrogation, it seems that this never happened, at least there are no documents to be found. It remained at the suspicions, and he was never convicted for a supposed crime. According to other reports from friends and family members, Bayerlein also had multiple relationships with women during this time of his life. Nowadays it is assumed that he probably was bisexual and enjoyed relationships with both women and men. He moved around different town during these years and always liked to keep his relationships separate, with no long commitment. He never got married or even engaged throughout all his life and didn't have any children - by his own choice, he would have had plenty of opportunities to do so as he was considered an attractive and pleasant man who was liked by many women. He simply enjoyed being independent, but it seems he was always upfront about it, not making any promises about marriage or commitment that he didn't keep. The topic of his sexuality might be never fully cleared up. Bayerlein himself never had a chance to be publicly open about it even if it was something he had wanted - only in 1969, a year before his death, the law was loosened to allow relationships between men if both partners were over the age of 21 and not in any kind of dependent relationship (e.g. as employee and employer). Similarly, even the close friends and acquaintances who might have known more likely kept quiet in order to protect him, despite the change of the law, homophobia was of course still quite rampant and could have unpleasant consequences. In the end, he himself was probably the one who knew best about his true feelings.

In 1957, Bayerlein quit his work for the Historical Division, it seems he finally wanted to move on from military matters, though he still served as an advisor for some books, recounting his experiences as an officer. He moved back to his hometown of Würzburg where he and his sister opened an Oriental carpet shop that they managed together. He spent his last years rather peacefully, enjoying his time with friends (like the Rommel family and others) and family members, though his health started deteriorating in his last years. He had suffered from coming and going liver and kidney issues for a long time, possibly since his time in Africa or even before, and had needed to be hospitalised because of it a few times before already, though when he was younger he had always managed to recover again. Eventually however, it had finally caught up to him, and on 30th of January 1970, Fritz Bayerlein passed away at the age of 71 years. His funeral was one of the last public military funerals held in Germany, and aside from family and friends, many of the men who served alongside him in the Afrikakorps or Panzer Lehr Division attended to pay their last respect for their former commander.

Main sources: U.S. National Archives, Box 329, AE 501661, Fritz Bayerlein, 1-155. Spayd, P. A. (2003). Bayerlein: From Afrikakorps to Panzer Lehr : the Life of Rommel’s Chief-of-staff Generalleutnant Fritz Bayerlein. Schiffer Pub Limited. Rigg, B. M. (2009). Lives of Hitler’s Jewish soldiers: Untold Tales of Men of Jewish Descent who Fought for the Third Reich. https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fritz_Bayerlein_(Generalleutnant) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fritz_Bayerlein

[I'm aware that some sources are already a bit older, and that not everything presented in them may be in accordance with more up-to-date research, and tried to keep this in mind while writing. Additionally, I want to note that of course I'm not infallible and can make mistakes, and I'd still recommend you to do your own research as well should you be interested in the topic.]

[shannonsketches]

Every time I talk to a DB fan who doesn't know or doesn't agree that the whole franchise is an adventure comedy first and an action series second I feel insane but then I find an old Toriyama interview,

You made some comedic scenes where you have minor villains Pilaf & co. appear; how did you come up with a balance between laughs and fierce battles? Do you pay attention to the difference between comedy and battle in making a work “entertaining”?

I believe that, when you combine comedy and serious battles, both of them might come alive even more. As for me personally, though, I much prefer drawing dumb jokes to battle scenes.

as a bonus, every time I'm like 'idk I didn't really like most of the DBZ movies prior to Yo Son Goku and Friends Return and BotG,' and get the 'whAAaaT they're so gOOD' (from my brother, tbh askdjs) but they all seemed really Action-Drama and About the Fight Scenes and I'm like 'meh kinda boring tbh' I get to gaze upon,

In the latest movie, Toriyama-san, you participated in the production from the scriptwriting stage for the first time. What is the reason for that? Was there anything you noticed in coming face-to-face with the work after so long?

I was told about a project for Dragon Ball in its first animated film in a long while, and I read the story outline; while the beings “Beerus, God of Destruction” and “Super Saiyan God” (which goes above Super Saiyan) were interesting, the themes were heavy, and I felt that the world was a bit different from Dragon Ball. Rather than telling them about this or that problematic spot, I thought it would be faster if I just wrote it out concretely, and while I had intended just to give them a model―”for example”―my hand wouldn’t stop, and ultimately, I ended up writing almost everything, including the dialogue. I am reflecting on the fact that I did something terribly rude to the scriptwriter.

Akira "It was bad so I fixed it, oops" Toriyama, Absolute Legend

[yourinaudiblename]

oh yeah I made this. Ft: @/elongated-tennis-ball and @/tennisball-wizard ( I don’t want to tag them )

[ropes3amthoughts]

I’m so glad I watched Arcane because I got like 3 posts that were full of gifs of Caitlyn and Vi kissing on my dash in a row and if I hadn’t just watched it I would’ve gotten spoiled lmao

[ruvviks]

his name is ulysses and he's kinda lame | [x]

[pvremichigan]

Whoopsie time

[cheezyharu]

Why dis bitch so bard to make him work

Anyways, um, yeah, happy 8 years release to this guy and AM lmao-

[enhanced-operatives-division]

i would love to hear about the ollie and handler crack ship here’s a silly doodle as well

LOVE THE DOODLE YOU SEE THE VISION!!!

Also this got my ass to design Ollie so:

(Love him - Also redesigned Reggie for this too so thanks!!)

And idk if it's moreso a crackship or a rarepair that only works in an AU (HACKS up Starstruck), but Reggie's line of "...and I hope Ollie made it out too. I hope a lot of things." It's totally me reading into it but like,,,,I want them to talk because Ollie is not dead to me in my heart of hearts.

Maybe the only change is like Reggie taps into the communication on the radio in Hot Water instead of using the earpiece, so Ollie ends up hearing him also? And they end up getting along really well (with Reggie having to jump through a couple hoops to be like "haha what agency..."). There's an Agency base in the South-East coast of Australia and maybe the Agency ends up adopting him after he washes up on the shore with the escape pod (after HEAVY questioning).

Alas take a doodle of my own:

Transcript (it's just canon lines):

Ollie: "She's being controlled, it's not her fault."

Reggie: "Agent, I have 0 experience dealing with giant security squids."

[fukuzawa-armeddaddyagency]

— 🖋️ ; “Papa! I just met Odasaku man!”

(I don't really know what to call Fukuzawa..)

( @little-matchless-poet )

You did?! That's very cool!

*picks him up and settles him on his hip*

Tell me all about him buddy

[whatvioletdoes-blog]

I might have been hit with strong Linksmeet brainrot again

Our AU has the Links and some NPCs (about one per hero) wake up somewhere, paired up with someone they haven't met before (mostly? So far the only exception's Aryll and the Captain)

They don't have their items, but find both some of theirs and of others, and have to try to get theirs back, return the other ones to their owners, and somehow get out of where they are before the week is over

(What happens after the week is over? Don't worry about it)

Here are some possible pairings, with the people we know for sure will show up at least XD

(Iggy's the name we gave to an echo in EOW, we just decided that after the game (which we haven't finished), Princess actually adopts a real Iggy who's not an echo(?) unless the game gives us a better excuse, but we're keeping Iggy) (We're debating if she'll count as an item or not but like, we were missing a character for the last pair)

We take suggestions, except for the Teacher&Secret and Princess&Shadow ones because those are too precious(? I like the Aryll&Captain one a lot but at the same time it's the only one where the characters already know each other even if they've never met in-person before

So yeah I am being so normal XD I really want to draw some designs and like, make a proper list of what items they wake up with...

We know like, 3 items so far. Teacher&Secret have the ocarina of time (don't worry about it), Paint's gotta have Ravio's bracelet at some point for name origin purposes(?), and Red&Cook have Red's fire rod XD

Anyway, thanks to @a-manicured-lawn for helping us figure out the bit in parenthesis on Teacher&Secret's section and if anyone wants to know more about anything feel free to send an ask(?