#ive been away because of a bereavement

[the-lady-witchitery]

"Well..." Hester mused, rubbing a finger through the dust on the bannister, "maybe it's time I came back."

[oexen]

cw hoarding + mentions of animal and child neglect

is it really gonna take me telling my mother its extremely concerning to have PILES of cat waste just. around. in the house

like i know shes going to flip the fuck out at me in some way or another, be very angry or sad or hurt or some secret other option and like. she misgenders and deadnames me as if i never shared the info with her, the crux of our relationship is financial and thats even pretty minimal. like yeah maybe its sincerely not my problem and i KNOW you cant help someone who doesnt want to be helped, but i dont want to inherit a cat piss soaked infested brick.... thing. no fucking way dude. that shit realistically probably has to be gutted ngl, its fucking awful. shes a hoarder and never really touched my old bedroom so i have some stuff there, stuff id actually like to take even, but the smell is literally pervasive to the point that books smell like it on the fucking inside.

like shes actually at the point her neckbeard nest doesnt register as a problem to her. even with... another person who is not me having to actually go inside of the house??? i like cannot fathom whats going on inside that god forsaken head of hers, she asked me why i was wearing a mask inside and turned around and walked away before i could even say anything, lmfao.

i couldnt spend more than one night in her house and had a mask on the whole time because it fucking blew so hard to be in there. this fucking idiot got 3 huge WORKING dogs (pyrenees and a burmese mtn dog) because its "in her life plan" (news to me lmao!) and tldr she impulse bought them because theyre cute. shes never fucking home, works 9-5 and theyre crated a lot of the time and its fucking horrible to see, i freaked the absolute fuck out on her when i first heard that she had new puppies like what 2 years ago? fucking neglecting the elderly dogs she already had in favor of getting these for some fucking reason, "no more dogs after this one dies" turns into 3 giant stupid fucking untrained, neglected mistakes. the singular saving grace is that they have a big yard to run around in, but that doesn't do a hell of a lot of good when it's hot and this idiot refuses to walk them when shes home anyway. couldn't possibly be because theyre untrained and will drag her stupid ass down the street fr. i think im going to literallt snail mail the next door neighbor or maybe even both of them because like.... what the actual fuck is she doing with these dogs. GET HELP.

ive been telling this absolute knob for YEARS she needs to chill out and do something else (like 3 of her closest blood relatives died in the past several years, 2 of which she was literally caretaking, and she still volunteers at a fucking hospice and has NEVER SOUGHT BEREAVEMENT COUNSELING, LET ALONE COUNSELING IN GENERAL), she keeps saying shes fucking fine and we have LITERALLY had the exchange where she says it to my face and i gesture around and say CLEARLY!!!!!

Anyway. the dogs. shes going to get worse and i know it and im just so disgusted by the prospect of having to like lay it all out probably because no one else will, and i guess i care because its literally affecting me, i sat and wrote all this because im cleaning stuff i took from her house like books and SEALED ITEMS THAT ALSO SMELL LIKE CAT PISS ON THE INSIDE OF THE PACKAGING????????? and got triggered. but whatever. this woman treated me like shit and neglected me for my entire childhood and turns it around and goes WHATDIEVERDOTOYOU if i so much as refuse a hug even this far down the line, its been nearly 10 years since ive lived with her, and like. holy fuck. and she doesnt have a single fucking clue lol like idk its also just like pathetic and sad to see a person go through this, even though she gives me mmmm essentially nothing but feelings of disgust when i really think about it. its just fucked and everyones dying or doesnt care or doesnt feel like they can say anything and im like. idk. i could literally bring this up to lots of people she knows, i could find a damn way, but like yaknow..... it fucking sucks so hard to have to do all this bc this woman is literally severely mentally ill and needs a fucking hand but it sure as shit isnt going to be mine, at least not physically. god.

[clubatsumu]

i got my heart broken lately and ive been thinking about how the word /heartbreak/ does the experience no justice. no justice at all. it’s like this all encompassing form of a constant ache

For Ushijima Wakatoshi, loneliness manifests itself in physical ailments.

He is weaving bereavement into his daily routine; it comes in the most unobtrusive amount, barely trickling water off the bathroom faucet. The way he packs his lunch is a mournful affair, clinically detached in its efficiency. The way he clutches his chopsticks and measures his rice leaves no room for extra movement. Too big hands and too small things, wrapped in a sorrow that hangs over his form.

Sprinkled in between: A headache. A strain of a jaw clenched too tight. Pressure at the back of his neck.

Still not enough to cause alarm. Still — as it always is — unobtrusive.

It says, tap, tap, tap, before washing away down the drain.

.

You dream about knee protectors and rug burns, the stinging ache of a volleyball being slapped by the middle of the palm, stadium lights, meals spent alone, a television program playing in another room, Iwaizumi Hajime – you don’t know who he is, only his name and the unmistakable red circle of the flag on his chest – talking about meal plans. In the middle of it all: the empty swell of chest with something missing, aching and tugging and consuming a person whole, but still so very contained to one corner it suffocates itself, folding in like a collapsing star.

The dream stretches, warps, making a minute and an hour indistinguishable from each other.

Sometime later – or maybe in no time at all – when the pain becomes too deep, a sob rips from your chest, waking you up.

How very typical, you scoff, waking up and feeling one the verge of tears, here amidst the sprawling vineyards of a secluded Italian village where the vision of Wakatoshi is haunting you and your mind is plaguing you with fictionalized versions of his pain being written a world away.

How very typical that Toshi is still this way, you think even though it can’t be true — he can’t be hurting more than you are. Your hair is a tangled nest, and on your neck is a sheen of sweat. Your ear hurts from where it folded in your sleep, soldiering the strait between your pillow and your head. Wakatoshi, you know, is too single-minded to care.

.

Ushijima becomes reticent after he has won the biggest achievement of his career. He is hailed as Japan’s canon after he finishes his first Olympic games, but what he is is a scared man barely halfway through twenty.

The psychiatrist says there is nothing wrong with him. It’s a diagnosis consisting of scattered symptoms that are incohesive. He admits to having trouble sleeping, so he gets a prescription for sleeping pills. He admits to feeling an ache in his chest sometimes, nothing big, just a slight squeeze every once in a while. The results of the echocardiogram come back normal. There are too many voices. Dominant among them is his mother’s, next is his grandmother’s, then -- there among the sea of drifting sirens in a pitch black lake -- is his own.

When all roads are blocked, and there is no diagnosis to come to, the doctor finally recommends he see a therapist and gives him the address on a slip of torn paper.

“Something…” he starts, knowing he has not the affinity with words everyone wants him to have, knowing he cannot say what he means, knowing he never has. “Something is wrong. Missing.”

The doctor gives him a look of sympathy. It’s the first sign of emotion in the hour he’s been sitting in her office, and it is revealing that she thinks of him as some sort of broken object. “Hmm,” she hums in agreement – she can hardly do anything else, he thinks – eyes flitting to the pad of paper. “You already know what it is. Or have an idea.”

It’s not a question.

If someone asked Wakatoshi about the duality of the human condition, he’d tell them that it’s true — that there indeed exists a better half. It’s true because he is like that: he is himself, and you are yourself, and there is a cleaved ether on his left side matching the one on your right. With you leaving, all he has is the company of the more unfortunate piece.

Wakatoshi takes a beat to answer, words clotting in their pathway.

.

There is a wedding band hidden in the third drawer of his desk, untouched and as good as new, worn for less than a year before it was stashed away. Much like your marriage, it is put aside — not necessarily discarded, no, simply… put on hold.

Ushijima likes to think it’s put on hold. He doesn’t know what you think of it; if you still wear yours or if you already threw it away. It’s easy enough to divorce, he knows all too well. It’s easy enough to find someone better. It’s easy enough — moving forward, moving on, forgetting. Moving is easy, motion is inevitable.

What’s hard is staying at an impasse, waiting for something to happen when nothing will. Water cannot be still: the human condition cannot remain unmoving. What’s hard is this. The ring, sitting untouched, unworn. The marriage ripped at the seams with only a few choice threads keeping two fabrics from completely tearing. What’s hard is maintaining equilibrium while the world is falling apart.

He’ll find out soon — your opinion on the ring — whether he wants to or not. He slips the band in his gym bag before he leaves the house that morning, then slips it into his finger after conditioning that afternoon.

It fits.

Much like you did, some lifetime ago. When you were sixteen on a schoolyard, eighteen on the cool stain of the bleachers, twenty in the corner of a living room party. Twenty-one in the departure lounge.

“Leaving early?” Hoshiumi asks, towel on his shoulder and about to head to the showers. “The managers said they’re taking us out to dinner.”

“Hmm.” He packs his bag, mind listless, not really on anything he can see. “I need to fetch someone at the airport.”

Hoshiumi is well-meaning, but he is as abrasive as an untrained dog without a leash. “Who’s it? Anyone I know?”

“No.” Wakatoshi swallows, pries the word from the roof of his mouth and the bottom of his chest, wondering all the while if it’s still true. “It’s my wife.”

.

You arrive in Sendai with a single suitcase, large to an obscene degree, its handle outstretched and your hand guiding it as it’s dragged through the airport upright.

The white-gold metal band makes a sound as your fingers shift to grip the handle.

tbc

[fictive-fodder]

|| Second Sight : I : June 18th, 1996||

Wizarding folk did not understand your work as a Specularri. Most with the gift of Sight failed to be as tenacious and diligent as the training required. But Seers who did were highly sought after by the bereaved, even the Ministry consulted you on mysterious deaths. The night of the new moon was usually ideal for your work, but when it coincided with the death of Sirius Black, nothing went as expected. Read this on A03 here!   

|| Word Count: 6.4K|| Warnings : Implied drug use

Story Chapters -

PART I - PART II- PART III - PART IV - PART V ||Author’s Note|| I've gotta admit- I'm pretty nervous to post this first chapter. If you're here because you read my other fan fiction, Painting- hello! This story is going to feel very different. I've come up with more original fodder for this story and I hope that doesn't disenchant anyone who wants to slip right into the world. I know it may seem disconnected from the world of Harry Potter and the marauders at first, but if you stick with me I promise there is a through line. I probably shouldn't do too much anxious explaining though. For those of you who pine for Sirius Black, for those of you who love a romance hard-won, for those of you who enjoy the slow burn of love when you are not ready for affection- I've began to write this story for you. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you to @thedorkyastra for helping me with this story.  Though many people love the world of Harry Potter, J K Rowling has been making problematic statements for a long time and I am glad to see people taking her most recent ignorance seriously, as the gross, transphobic, hate speech that it is. There is so much beloved content that contains problematic, dangerous or inappropriate elements. Or, the author sucks. If we don’t learn to accept the good content while learning to acknowledge, highlight, and stand against the problematic content, we are throwing away most of the creative stories in our world. And that’s a shame, I’d rather we reclaim it and make it better. So even though this is Harry Potter fan fiction, this story centers around a non binary reader. It is my hope that anyone feels like they can slip into this story, and be apart. I want to make space for all who are willing to salvage this story. Any trans folks and gender queer folks who are here, reading, as I ramble on- Hi. You are welcome here. Thanks for giving me your time. <3 Chapter Note - a phiale is a shallow bowl used in ancient Greek rituals for libations.

|| Tag List|| @hogwarts-1d-drarry-stan  @srhxpci  @loonyclaris

Unlike the rest of St Mungo’s, the Specularii offices were dark, small, private rooms. They were quite bare, except for a table at the center of the room and a chair on either side.

As you walked into your office, you placed your mirror, your candle and your phiale on the table but before you could begin tuning your mirror there was a knock against your door frame. “Yes?” you called out, turning to look back. You smiled when you saw your coworker peeking in.

“Hey!” he said, nodding at you.

“Hello Byron!” you greeted, “Excited for the new moon tonight?”

“Oh you bet, kid!” he chuckled, drumming his thick square shaped fingers against the door. “Hey so listen- I blew it. I went and double booked myself. Is there any way you could take one appointment?”

You raised your brow at Byron, who wiggled his bushy eyebrows back. “Alright.” you nodded, turning back to the table. “Just let me get my mirror tuned.”

Byron gave a hoot of victory, his long silver braid wagged as he shook his head. “I'll tell ya, you are the cream in my coffee! Thank you. I’ll shoot ‘em over to you when they arrive.”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes and sat down at the table. You always prefered to face the door so you could see if anyone was approaching your office. Centering the phaile on top of the table, you unlocked and extended your mirror, carefully propping it upright inside of the phaile so that you could see your reflection. With a flick of your wand, the phaile filled shallowly with water, just coming over the base of your mirror.

As you used your wand to light your candle, you felt excitement grip you. New moons were always very active in your line of work. You positioned the candle between the mirror and yourself so that its flame blurred your face in your reflection, forcing your eyes to focus on the darkness behind you. Light bounced up from the water filled phaile, casting ripples of candle light onto your ceiling.

You took several purposeful, deep breaths, allowing your mind to focus on the crackle of the candle, your office’s reflection in the mirror. All was still and soundless as your breaths continued deep and slow. The candle’s sounds echoed away in your mind. Within the mirror you watched your background’s reflection as it blackened, transforming into a wider, darker space. Tuning had come quickly, you supposed you had the new moon to thank for that.

Dark shapes passed behind you in the mirror. There were so many more than usual- you supposed you had the new moon to thank for that too. You forgot yourself as you watched the spirits wander, lulled by the quiet.

A knock on your office door startled you. You jumped in your chair, sitting bolt upright. “Yes?” you called out, blowing out the candle.

You watched as your door was pushed open with great effort by little, chubby hands. A young girl in her father’s arms. “Good job!” the father chuckled. He was roughly your age.

He smiled over to you. “Good evening!” he greeted as his daughter bounced enthusiastically in his arms.

“Hello, please take a seat.” You stood from your place, pulling out the chair for your first clients of the evening. “Would you like me to fetch another chair?”

“No Daddy is my chair!” the little girl insisted, pulling on her father’s earlobe. “Daddy-” she whispered loudly, “it so dark in here.”

The young man nodded to you gratefully as he took the seat you offered, placing his daughter in his lap. “Yea but you remember why right?” he asked his daughter, giving her a gentle hug.

She nodded, already trying her best to reach over the table and grab your mirror. “Why is your mirror in the water?”

“This is Tansy.” the man introduced his daughter, pulling her arms away. “And I’m Alder.”

“Hello Tansy.” you smiled at the little girl.

“We worked with Byron last time, so Tansy is already a pro.” Alder said, kissing the top of Tansy’s head.

“Perfect.” you said as you took your seat once again. “And who is it we’re reaching out to today?”

“His name was Rowan.” Alder answered, his hands locking around Tansy’s middle like a seatbelt.

Tansy’s fidgeting stopped as you pulled out your wand. You removed the candle you had been using from your candle stick and replaced it with one Alder handed you. You turned the candle in your hands and saw a familiar seal pushed into the bottom; Byron had made this candle for them the last time.

You held your wand out to your side at arm’s length, focused. With a short, sharp flick of your wrist, your wand sparked. The spark bounced and fizzed in midair, you focused all of your concentration on it, the rest of your world blurring over. The spark began to emit black smoke. With a huff you flicked your wrist again, creating a new spark. Black smoke again. Finally, on your third attempt the spark emitted white smoke.

Careful to not let it extinguish, you guided the spark to the candle, watching the flame take over the wick. Your reflection was taken up by the candlelight in your mirror once again, forcing your eyes away from the glaring bright to the periphery of the reflection, the mirrored image of your background, as the office once again faded away and the shadows widened.

“Rowan- '' you called. Within your mirror a shadowy figure behind you paused and turned to you, his teenage face softly coming into the light by the reflection of your candle.

Alder and Tansy both watched you, captivated.

“He is here.” you assured them, smiling.

“I GOT A FROG!” Tansy yelled.

“Tansy!” Alder laughed, putting his hand on the top of her head. “No yelling, this is a hospital remember?”

You watched Rowan’s eyes widen as he recognized Tansy’s voice, and laughed.

“Is there anything more you’d like to tell him? He is listening.” you asked.

Alder grinned at you, his eyes a little wet as he said, "Hey Ro! Just wanted to let you know that Tansy here is doing well. She misses you of course but she's still our happy girl. Aren't you, love?"

"CAN I NAME MY FROG ROWAN, THE SECOND?” Tansy called out, giggling.

You watched Rowan laugh into his hands. "Please tell her I say no-“ he joked. His and Tansy’s laugh were very similar.

“He is laughing a lot thanks to you, Tansy!” you said, “And then he pretended to say no to you, but he was definitely joking.”

“Why can’t we hear him?” Tansy asked.

“Maybe, when you’re older you’ll be a Seer, just like this nice Specularii.” Alder answered, running his hand over the top of Tansy’s head. “Special wizarding folk are really good at seeing and feeling things others can’t.”

“Oh.” Tansy said, reaching over to lazily slap the back of your mirror. She yawned loudly, which made Rowan yawn.

You glanced at the candle, it had burned down quickly. “I think our time is nearly finished, is there anything else any of you would like to say?”

You watched as Rowan’s face wrinkled in thought. "Can you tell them that I miss them? Wait- that might make dad sad- or worried. Tell them I'm alright. That I'm not in any pain. Tell them that I want them to go on and have fun and everything. Please."

You looked up into Alder’s eyes to see him nodding knowingly. You couldn’t repeat Rowan’s wishes before Alder began to speak. “Tell him we know. We miss him too, and we will continue to hold him in our hearts every day.”

Alder smiled at you, quickly wiping away a tear before he gathered Tansy up in his arms and stood. "Thank you." he said earnestly, "You've been a great help." Then he glanced down to his daughter. “What do we say to Rowan, Tansy?”

“Until next time, Rowan!” Tansy called.

Tansy waved at you from over her father's shoulder as the pair left. As the door opened up to the lobby, you could tell that it was already dark outside.

You stood up and stretched, blowing out what little remained of Alder and Tansy’s candle and then carefully picked it up and headed towards the lobby. You turned towards the receptionist desk that was faithfully occupied by the newest Specularri trainee, Aurelia.

“Good evening-” Aurelia greeted in her thick Sardinian accent.

“Evening Aurelia.” you handed her the candle Alder and Tansy used. Aurelia’s attention snapped to it, sitting up as she carefully accepted it from you and set it down gently on her desk. She then pulled a small paper tag out from the desk drawer and wet her quill.

“Session data?” she asked.

“June 18th, 1996 at 9 o’clock in the evening to a Mr. Alder and Miss Tansy Gadifer on behalf of Rowan Gadifer.”

Aurelia took down all that you said, carefully tied the tag around the candle, and then stood up to place it inside of a chest of drawers behind her desk. The chest took up the entire wall behind the reception desk. Aurelia had to use a library ladder to reach the topmost drawers.

“When is my next appointment?” you asked as Aurelia sat back down. She checked her appointment parchment.

“Since you took Byron’s extra appointment, Solonie took the appointment that you were supposed to have next.”

“Oh shoot-” you winced, “I'll have to thank them.”

Aurelia ran her finger down the parchment. “I do not think you had any other patients for the night.”

“In that case, I’ll take some more candles for personal use.”

Aurelia opened another desk drawer- this one quite deep and with many dividers that organized piles of tapered candles into groups. She rifled through them.

“Any kind?” she asked.

“No-” you replied, “Remember, Specularri candles are grouped like this because they are made with different ingredients, which you will need for different types of scrying.”

“Let’s see…” Aurelia hummed, her brow creasing in thought. “Personal use… night of the new moon… these candles are made with asphodel and powdered moonstone?”

“Excellent. Good job!” you praised as she handed you three candles.

You headed back to your office, closing the door behind you as you sat in your chair. You needed to be calm to scry well, meditative. But it was difficult to not feel excited when the new moon was high in the night sky and the world beyond your mirror that much more vast and clear. With a grounding breath you closed your eyes, centering yourself.

You thought of your many years of training. How, after graduating from Hogwarts, you made your way to Rome, where you studied on your own until you met Byron, and the two of you discovered Mount Parnassus and the sacred school within its caves.

It was the only place in the world where you could become a Specularri. The type of diviner that could connect living wizards and witches with their dead for the life span of a flame. It was hard work, the rigorous training deterred most, but once you’d accomplished the title of Specularri, there was always work to be found.

You picked up one of the three candles Aurelia had given you and rolled your eyes as you realized that it was not asphodel and powdered moonstone- but some other type of flower with small pink petals folded into the wax.

Sighing, you placed it onto your candlestick and lit it with your wand. Adjusting your mirror so that the candlelight’s reflection perfectly glowed over your own. You stared into the outside corners of the mirror, your breath slowed as you focused.

As the office behind your reflection disappeared into shadow you frowned, something felt odd. Normally there were many dark silhouettes that passed by behind you, but now there was only one. The figure moved around quite frantically, as if there was ground beneath them. Your heart fluttered with unese as the figure stood bolt upright. “H-Hello?” Their low, husky voice asked, incredulously.

Your breath caught in your throat. This voice didn’t seem like it was coming from your mirror, but actually from behind you. The hair on the back of your neck rose as you watched the dark silhouette’s form grow closer in the reflection, like they were approaching you. Your eyes widened as you swore you could hear footsteps, as if you were scrying into a place instead of a plane.

“Hello?” you finally replied, coughing a little.

“Hah, there is someone there!” The figure exclaimed, “Who are you?”

You sat back in your chair. “Who am I?” you repeated, bewildered. Never once in your time as a Specularri had you ever interacted with a presence that was this emotionally charged, demanding and active. It felt like they weren’t dead. “Um- I am a Specularri. Do you know what that is?”

The presence paused before replying, as if your voice took a long time to reach them. “My great aunt… I believe… was a Specularii. Dorea… Though you sound too young to know any of that lot.” They paused, looking around and then shrugged. “Does that mean you’re not really here?”

You tilted your head in confusion and fascination before forcing yourself to keep your composure. If this entity was so powerful to feel this alive you didn’t want to upset them by giving off the impression that this interaction was unorthodox. “I am not… there. Where is it that you are?”

“I-“ the presence paused again, their hand coming up to gently rub their chest as they stood in silence. “I don’t think I know. I am having some trouble remembering what happened- blimey.” The figure flinched as their hand swept over a certain spot in their chest.

“Are you-“ You leaned closer to the mirror in a useless attempt to see them better. “Are you in pain?”

The presence didn’t reply for what felt like minutes, you glanced down at your candle and your heart leapt to see that it was already burned down half way.

“Can you give me your name?” you asked, failing to mask the urgency in your voice. “So I’ll be able to find you again?”

“Um-“ the figure sighed, you watched as they ran their hands through their shaggy long hair. “Padfoot. That’s all that is coming to mind.”

“Can you not remember?”

“Not a lot, no. I certainly don’t recognize this dump.”

Your mind spun, what could have you possibly glimpsed into? You would have found it fascinating save for the sinking terror growing in you as you realized how very alive this presence felt. “What do you mean…” you sighed under your breath.

Their shoulders bristled when your question reached them. “What do you mean, what do I mean?” they snapped.

You felt the urge to push away from the table as their reflection grew, as if they were right behind you. They reached over and made a tapping gesture. Your stomach flipped as the water in your phaile rippled faintly.

“You're in a mirror? Like black glass?” they explained frustratedly.

The candle was down to about a third now. “Padfoot-“ you called out urgently. “I am at St. Mungos, do you know what that is?”

“Ah, I see.” Padfoot said, now somehow so close to the mirror that your candle light actually illuminated the outer corner of their dark eyes, the haughty slant of their arched, thick brow.

“You think I’m dead, you’re barking, and that’s why you’re at St. Mungos!”

Despite how entrenched in concern and confusion you were, you couldn’t help but burst into a laugh. “What a convenient explanation-“ you sighed, smiling. “Now tell me Padfoot, what do your surroundings look like?”

“Uhh… hmm…” You could hear anxiety creep into their tone as they thought of how to answer your question, you wondered if they hadn’t really acknowledged where they had been before that moment.

“I see… hmm.” Padfoot chuckled, though they did not sound pleased. “I’m not usually one without words but this almost has me beat. A… a temple, perhaps? Stone, with black glass against the walls and frightful black…drapes? Doesn't matter which room I go to, you always sound the same.There are whispers coming from some curtains.” Padfoot murmured, “but I cannot tell what they say.”

A long stretch of silence followed, your ears fizzed softly with the surrounding quiet. A bead of sweat ran down your spine as you listened to Padfoot pace and shivered as you realized you could faintly hear the whispering too. You wracked your memory for any spiritual realm, any divine myth that referenced a place that sounded like that, but could think of nothing.

“Familiar?” Padfoot asked, a bitterly triumphant tone in their voice.

“No…” you murmured, frowning. “Have you seen any…one else?”

After another long moment Padfoot replied, voice low. "Well... yes. But I try... I try to avoid them. I don't get a very good feeling. And I don't think they have seen me." They cleared their throat. "Anyways, you sound far more appealing than whatever lies in those Halls."

Your eyes widened as heat crept over your face. You had endured many unexpected encounters and requests in your service as a Specularii, but being flirted with by a presence, dead or not, was a first.

“Too easy-“ Padfoot laughed, and you saw the water in the phaile shiver again. “It’s a shame I can’t see you clearly.”

“What do I look like?” you asked, clearing your throat.

“You’re behind that dark glass, and all lit up like you’re holding a light.” Padfoot replied, his reflection in your mirror grew as he somehow approached once more.

“It’s that what you’re walking up to now?” you breathed, the hair on your neck rising once again.

“Yes.” Padfoot said, there was an ache in their tone.

The candle was more of a puddle at this point. You knew you only had seconds left.

“You sound tired, Specularri. Go rest… it’s not like I am going anywhere.”

“I’m going to find out what this is and I’m going to help you.” you insisted.

Padfoot chuckled, “Cheers to that!” they said with a little extra enthusiasm. If there was any more to what they wanted to say, you didn’t get to find out, as at that moment the candle’s flame finally extinguished. Light spots danced across your vision as your mirror paled and the office behind you slowly returned in the reflection.

You sighed, unable to bring yourself to move for a long moment. Your hands rested on the sides of the table as you felt the sensation that someone had been standing behind you fade away. You watched as the goosebumps that had covered your arms disappeared and listened to your slow breaths.

What had just happened?

You sat in your dark office for a long time, continuing to think back on all of your training, but nothing came to you. You felt your eyelids become heavy. Padfoot was right- you were exhausted. It was time to go home.

Reaching over, the water in the phiale vanished with a flick of your wand. You folded your mirror closed and locked it into place. Getting up, you tucked your mirror and your phiale beneath your arm and closed your office door behind you. As you walked into the reception area, you jumped as you heard people running down the hospital hall and several alarmed voices.

From the looks of the empty desk, it appeared Aurelia had already left for the day. Byron was leaning against Aurelia’s desk as you approached. His eyes were narrowed as he glanced at the door that separated the Specularri wing from the rest of the hospital. “Do you know what happened?” you asked, glancing at him.

“Some sort of Ministry break in.” he murmured. “Bet you’ll get called in.” Byron teased wryly, you rolled your eyes. You’d come to learn that Specularri work for the Ministry was much more pressure than it was often worth.

“I’ll make you go in my stead, since you owe me one.” you returned, nudging him. Byron grinned down at you.

“How’d it go by the way? Alright?”

“Yea-” you nodded. “You know though Byron, I did have something strange happen after I was finished with your session.”

“What?” he asked, his grey eyes alight with interest.

“I’m not sure I know how to explain…” you looked up into Bryon’s wrinkled, smiling face and felt reassured despite yourself. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t think I was interacting with someone who’s… passed away? They felt very alive, but the circumstance was strange too, it didn’t feel like the sort of plane we usually work within. It felt odd, but also real- or also alive.”

Byron’s bushy eyebrows raised high, he nodded slowly. “Really?”

“Have you ever-?” you started.

“No.” Byron wheezed, shaking his head. “No way, anything other than dead folks wigs me out.”

“I’ve never even heard of something like this, though…” you pouted, already feeling an ache deep in your chest to understand, to help.

“I’ve only ever heard of stuff like that- well-”

“You have?” you pivoted to him, eyes wide. Byron winced, clearly uncomfortable to explain further. “Byron please, I think this presence needs help.”

“Keep your robes on,” he whispered, teeth gritted as he looked over his shoulder to Solonie’s office. “I don’t want our boss to overhear me telling you to go to The Coffin House.”

“What’s The Coffin House?” you whispered back.

“It’s a hack shop in Knockturn Alley- they advertise our sort of service but-”

“Wait, isn’t that illegal to do without Ministry licensing?”

“Mate you’re in over your head if that’s where you’re held up. These people don’t care, they promise they’ll connect you to Merlin if you have the galleons.”

“Why do you know about it?”

“I didn’t start this path with the best of intentions.” Byron chuckled, sighing deeply, “But they aren’t all bad… There’s a bloke there named Asterius. He’s nice enough, he’ll help you.”

“Asterius?” you repeated, glancing at the exit again as more footsteps and shouting passed.

“We better go home and get some rest.” Byron groaned, nudging you over to the fireplace. The two of you walked over, dipping your hand into a bowl of complimentary floo powder mounted beside the fireplace. “And if you go see Asterius, please be careful.”

“Of course.” you assured, squeezing Byron’s elbow as you stood before the fire.

“Good night.” Byron yawned, winking at you.

-X-

Generally, you preferred to sleep in as late as possible since most people made appointments later in the day. This morning however, you were awoken by the multiple owls tapping at your bedroom window.

Grimacing in the faint glow of dawn, you pushed yourself unevenly out of bed and staggered towards your window, pushing your hair out of your eyes. “What’s all this?” you groaned, squinting at the owls. The two of them began hooting at you, tapping the window with their beaks.

“Bloody hell, alright alright alright- stop-” you carefully pulled the window up and watched through half opened eyes as the owls hopped inside your home. One of them you recognized as they usually brought you the Daily Prophet each morning. You untied the rolled newspaper from them and then turned to the other owl. The letter it held looked like an official Ministry letter.

You unfolded it to reveal a brochure. On the top center of the page the official Ministry of Magic seal decorated the title Defending Your Home from Death Eaters. You choked on your breath and sputtered, one hand coming to rest on your chest as your eyes skimmed the page.

Grabbing the Prophet, you unfurled the roll to reveal the title; HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED RETURNS. Sitting on the edge of your bed, you continued on.

In a brief statement Friday night, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be Named has returned to this country and is active once more. "It is with great regret that I must confirm that the wizard styling himself Lord - well, you know who I mean - is alive and among us again," said Fudge, looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters. "It is with almost equal regret that we report the mass revolt of the Dementors of Azkaban, who have shown themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry's employ. We believe that the dementors are currently taking direction from Lord - Thingy. We urge the magical population to remain vigilant." The Minister's statement was met with dismay and alarm from the wizarding community, which as recently as last Wednesday was receiving Ministry assurances that there was "no truth whatsoever in these persistent rumors that You-Know-Who is operating amongst us once more." Details of the events that led to the Ministry turnaround are still hazy, though it is believed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and a select band of followers (known as Death Eaters) gained entry to the Ministry of Magic itself on Thursday evening. Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, reinstated member of the International Confederation of Wizards and reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, was unavailable for comment last night. He has insisted for a year that You-Know-Who was not dead, as was widely hoped and believed, but recruiting followers once more for a fresh attempt to seize power.

You closed the paper and set it down neatly beside you. So, Byron had been right last night. You looked around your bedroom and took long breaths as sunlight slowly brightened your room. You had been too young to fully glimpse the worst of the war the last time. Families were all too happy to get their children to Hogwarts, knowing it was far safer than your average wizarding home. The night Voldemort “died” you were only a 4th year, happily tucking into pumpkin juice and candied apples. That night, you and your friends snuck into the owlery to watch the fireworks coming from Hogsmeade, and danced.

-X-

Of all the days to go walking down Knockturn Alley, today was not an ideal choice. Even in Diagon Alley, everyone was tense and emotional. As you turned down the road in the direction of the Coffin House, you glanced over your shoulder in the hopes that you wouldn’t find anyone who noticed you.

The storefront was as uninviting and sunless as the rest of the street. Brooding, unkempt wizarding folk called out to you to hawk their wares as you passed. As you pushed open the front door, you were greeted by the acrid scent of herbs and tonics. You almost jumped out of fright by the sight of the young man behind the counter. At one point, he may have been quite beautiful but he looked deathly ill, his skin sunken into his features with lesions and bruises. His hands seemed weathered and wrinkled well beyond his age. “Welcome,” he greeted hoarsely, eyes watering from the light you brought in by opening the door. “You don’t seem… familiar.”

“My colleague recommended this place to me, in particular he suggested I speak to someone named Asterius?” you replied, forcing yourself to look into his eyes and not be rude by staring at his afflictions.

One of his eyebrows arched in interest. "That depends on who your colleague is?" he replied.

You opened your mouth to reply, but hesitated. Would Byron be comfortable with you giving his name? The shopkeeper watched you debate inwardly, clearly enjoying your discomfort.

“I work as a Specularri at St. Mungo’s.” you answered, running the pad of your thumb up and down your wand within your robes.

"Oh..." he said, the surprise in his eyes did not reach his sedated tone. "I see... that isn't where I thought this was leading. Well..." He leaned over the counter and looked up at you. His eyes were sickly, glassed over, but still the warmest brown, almost red. "What sort of problems could a professional like you be having? I guarantee we will have something to help."

Your stomach sank as he looked into your eyes and you forced yourself to turn and look around at the shop. You could see well stocked shelves full of various divining materials and utensils. Many of which, you noted from your own expertise, were either highly dangerous and illegal or completely ineffective.

“I take it then, that you are Asterius?” you glanced back at him. He nodded. You looked past him, to signage on the wall that listed the Coffin House’s services. Like your office, the price went by candle size but unlike your office, the Coffin House seemed to have discovered the ability to connect customers to the souls of great, historical dragons, gods of various pantheons, and most notably “fountains of ancient power to enhance your vitality”.

You looked back at Asterius, who was grinning up at you boyishly. You got the sense that, despite his appearance, he was younger than you.

“Did you scry last night?” You asked, surprised by the gentleness of your tone. It was hard to help, as dubious as this place was, Asterius seemed undeserving of the same scrutiny.

“Of course-” he replied, voice scratchy, “I’d have to be a fool to not scry on the night of the new moon- given my line of work.”

“And what exactly is your line of work?” you asked, squinting at him. Asterius’ smile sharpened at this question, he chuckled breathily.

“Listen, I might not have got the fancy training that you had.” he started, “but there is more than one way to skin a cat.”

You couldn’t help but smile, there was something charming about him. “Answer my question.” you chuckled.

“Are you familiar with the work of Ms. Dorea Black?” he asked, his eyes shining.

“Dorea?” You repeated, eyebrows raised in interest. If this was the same Dorea that Padfoot spoke of, that would make them a member of the Black Family. Your heart sank a little at the thought. “The Specularri?”

“Well she was until they discharged her, yea?” Asterius snarled as he spoke. “After everything she’d done for the art, but it didn’t matter. She had me, and others. We learned the Old Ways-” Asterius stopped quickly, a shiver running through him.

“Are you alright?” you asked.

“The- ancient wisdoms of-” Asterius quickly pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it to his mouth. You waited for him to cough, or to pull the kerchief away from his lips, but he held it there. It seemed as if he was whispering something into his hand. When he did pull the napkin away, his eyes were freshly wet and bloodshot.

“You don’t have to explain further-” you assured him softly. It was unfortunate that groups like the one Asterius had described existed, but many did. Since getting trained as a Specularri was so rigorous and selective, there were unfortunately many people, like Dorea, who cut corners and taught a form of scrying that was either completely impotent or very dangerous. By the way Asterius looked, you feared Dorea’s methods may have been the latter.

“I scryed last night too.” you continued, “My services are more… selective than what you offer, and everything went fine for the customers I had. Of course, I felt the effects of the new moon- everything felt easier, faster, the presences within my mirror were more active, there were more of them-”

Asterius nodded along, listening intently as you spoke.

“-but while on my own I seemed to have glimpsed something unusual. I found a presence that… I am certain has not died. But, somehow we were communicating, and I could hear them move, hear the environment. It was unlike anything I’ve seen, anything I’ve learned about.”

"There is much that Ms. Black managed to discern with her Eye.” Asterius said, his voice a little stronger, his pattern of speech shifting into a chant-like cadence. “Much that Seers do not care to recognize, since it is magic so old it predates most of the spells we now use. It is an Ancient Wisdom, far more intuitive and powerful than what most now come to master-" He glanced over several shelves that were stocking themselves and then shook his head, returning his gaze to you. "It sounds like what you are talking about isn't where the dead rest at all, but another place entirely. Another place you are able to reach because you have the potential to become not just a Specularii, but a Teletai... an initiate of her practice."

“A Teletai.” You repeated with unease.

Asterius rose shakily to his feet and flicked his wand in the direction of a shelf full of candles. Two rose and glided soundlessly to rest before you on the counter. They smelled chemically sweet, it burned your nose as you watched them shimmer in the lamplight, as if made from sugar.

Your eyes passed over Asterius’ shaking fingertips as they rested on the counter, back to the candles, and finally to his eyes. “How does it work?”

“Use these instead of your normal stock-” Asterius answered, eyes widening with excitement that you were entertaining the idea. “-to breach the boundary you came to.”

“What do you mean?”

"Burn these until the next new moon and you should be able to feel the shift... From a Specularii who unites the dead with the living of an evening, and a Teletai... in command of the spectral world as well as this one." he cooed, his eyebrows arching upwards in some romance he felt towards his own words.

You stared at the candles. You knew it was an irresponsible idea, a very dangerous idea. You also knew that as a Specularri and as an employee of St. Mungos, you had sworn an oath to help and heal all who came to you. You did not know what Padfoot was, but you had extended them the same promise.

“You will be alright.” Asterius chided quietly, rolling the candles to your side of the counter. “You, who I am sure trained in those ancient tunnels, who’s footsteps have traced the path of Delphi, and earned the rights of a Pythia before being anointed as Specularri. Surely a Seer such as you could handle this.”

You couldn’t tell if Asterius was teasing you or if he was genuinely attempting to comfort. You reached your hand into your change purse, supposing it didn’t really matter what Asterius’ intention was. What mattered was your decision; What was what was stronger, you, or the fringe magic you were about to practice?

“How much?” you asked. Asterius’ eyes appraised you.

He held out his frail hand for your coin. "29 silver sickles for the 29 nights it will take you to be at the gates of that mysterious Temple.”

-X-

You got home late that night, even though there hadn’t been much work to do. St. Mungo’s had been busy and alive with gossip. Everyone wanted to ask everybody else what they thought of that day’s headlines and your heart sank as you recalled what you had read that morning. You had been so caught up recounting the conversation you’d had with Padfoot, and your time at the Coffin House that you’d successfully distracted yourself from reality.

Despite yourself, you couldn’t wait to get home and try Asterius’ candles. It felt like a challenge to your skill, your understanding. So while you stood in front of the kettle as Byron reiterated what he’d heard about the news to a friendly Welcome Witch, you nodded along absently and thought instead about what you would do when you got home. Before you had left St. Mungo’s for the night, Byron had given you two laurels of Gilead Tree. You knew they were used for protection and wondered if he was going to ask you about Knockturn Alley, but he didn’t and you were thankful.

It was nearly one in the morning by the time you stepped through your front door, but it didn’t matter. You wouldn’t have been able to sleep with how curious you were. You set the laurels down on your kitchen table and immediately went to work, pulling over your favorite armchair. You set up your phiale, mirror and candlestick just as you would have at your office. With a wave of your wand the lights in your home extinguished, leaving you only to see by the dull light of the sliver of moon and the stars outside. You could feel your heart race as you carefully took one of Asterius’ candles and mounted it onto your candlestick. The sweet scent of it burned your nose as you filled your phiale with water.

You hesitated, and then pulled the laurels around your mirror. Hopefully, they would help with whatever you were getting yourself into.

You closed your eyes, focusing all of your concentration to yourself, the mirror before you, and the water beneath it, still and cold.

“Padfoot.” you called aloud to your empty, dark home. With a sharp flick of your wand you conjured a spark. White smoke. Fighting the urge to rush, you guided it to the glittering candle, watching the spark take flame to the wick.

The candle hissed like dynamite as the flame slowly began to melt the wax. The sweetness that filled your lungs stung your chest, overwhelming you with an immediate headache. As you breathed a pressure grew in your chest, you could feel your heart flutter faintly as beads of sweat welled up on your temple and ran down your spine. You felt cold wash over you, the hissing dynamite sound of the candle transformed to a strange echo in your ears, footsteps going down a long corridor. You shut your eyes.

Your skin tightened as the ghost of a wind fell over you, sending a shiver over your hands. It felt as if your skin was lifting off of your muscles. It was too much, you wanted it to be done, to be over. A flutter of panic whipped through you before you bore down, gritted your teeth and forced your eyes open.

Your home was still dark, but it looked hazier than it had. You blinked, waiting for your eyes to adjust before you realized that your vision was doubled, and in that haze you saw dark archways superimposed within your room. Faint, indiscernible whispers came from nowhere in particular, and as you shifted your head to look around, black glass caught in an unknown, low light.

It had worked.

-X-

[primasveraas-writing]

Finnpoe- “the wave, to the ocean”

Poe dies after a lifetime spent together. Finn deals with the aftermath of losing his partner and other half. It's the hardest thing he's ever done.

WORDS: 3030

XXX

Poe dies on a quiet summer evening. Their bedroom, packed with children and grandchildren, is silent aside from muffled cries. Outside their home, crickets chirp, overlapping and loud, enough so that Finn is thinking of their noisy chorus when his husband takes his last breath.

Everything and nothing changes- the Damerons have been mourning preemptively, and Poe’s death is not sudden. There is only sorrow in missing him, rather than the opportunities lost with the end of a life. They cry and comfort each other, as they have done for so many days prior, and they do not need to conjure up funeral plans. Poe wrote his first will when he was 19, and since then, he merely edited and revised his wishes as his life evolved.

Finn experiences his first second, night, week, as a widower. He and Poe spent a lifetime together, and then there is nothing.

Nothing is not nothing. It’s the unification of his entire family, of old friends and beings from all corners of the galaxy. Decades worth of meeting, knowing, loving people. That is the relief to the pain, that he may be surrounded by all the lives he and Poe have touched. His children don’t leave his side. 

Distinctly, Finn is aware that he needs them as much as they need him, but this is a role he has always struggled with. He hesitates to ask for help from the people who have just lost their father. They love and know him, but they cannot break through his veneer.

He can hide his grief with a gentle smile or a hug. It’s easier because he means it, but these moments are a droplet of joy amongst an ocean of sorrow. Still, on the surface, all appears well.

When Finn learned the ways of the Force, he became well attuned to the feelings of others. He knows the warm light of happiness, the fire of anger, and the stormy turmoil of pain. He knows that, try as one might, these feelings cannot be hidden or erased. He’s felt the pain of widows and the bereaved. It’s a beacon in the Force, overwhelming and blinding.

Rey can hardly look at him. He can feel her pain, he knows the hurt of his children. Finn knows that Rey must be drowning in his sorrow. He is lost, and he knows that Rey can feel this turmoil just as clearly as he lives it.

Yet she is the last to depart even after duty calls his children away. Weeks fade to months, and although there is no ground beneath Finn’s feet, something like normalcy returns.

It is not quite true that Rey leaves Finn. He examines what’s left of his life before him, and then he cannot stay on Yavin, in a place that still smells like Poe, every inch of their house defined by their life together. 

Finn finds a quiet corner of the galaxy, and he goes. Rey discovers a brief holo explaining why he’s left, and that is all. There’s a few frequencies she and his family can call on, but no coordinates with which to find him. It’s him and BB-8, and Finn is really, truly alone, for the first time since he was 21.

  In his new bed, it’s less strange to wake up alone. The mattress is smaller, and the sun shines in at a different angle than it did in his room on Yavin IV. Sometimes, there is still a phantom warmth next to him, and in the moments before Finn fully wakes, he can feel Poe there beside him. He’s not sure, but Finn thinks that he talks to Poe then. It makes his heart ache when he realizes, like a black hole in his chest weighing him down and sucking him into unfathomable depths of despair, because reality quickly sets in and he is talking to thin air.

He misses Poe. He wishes, more than anything, to hear his laugh, to have a conversation with him about the weather or something trivial, to hug his husband or hold his hand. He misses the warmth of his embrace, and he remembers the comfort that came along with it, but Finn remains cold and alone. Unreachable by design, by space and depression and grief.

Finn will heal by himself, first. He will experience every part of this pain, and that’s how it will be. The tide must swell before it can recede.

In the beginning, beautiful things do not inspire him to live. The sun shines after rain, and Finn thinks to himself that he would be at peace, if he rejoined the Force at this moment. He wouldn’t be without Poe any longer. That would be good. That would be easier.

So he waits to do just that. It has been so long since he’s lived without his family that Finn doesn’t expect to last long without them. He settles down on a small farm by the seaside, and a boy from a local village brings him food every week. He spends most of his days reading or watching the waves crash on the rocks below him.

Finn waits to die and he waits for the grief to lessen in the meantime. It follows him wherever he goes; it is his only companion, aside from a lonely droid and a child who doesn’t ever stay for longer than five minutes.

He misses his children. They are insistent on finding him, on visiting at the very least, but Finn declines every offer. He doesn’t want them to see another parent waste away, or for them to be pulled under by his grief. It is better, for everyone, that he is alone.

Finn weeps more during that period than he ever has before in his life. It hits him suddenly, making his knees weak and crumbling his resolve. He falls to the ground, hands covering his mouth to muffle the sobs. No one is there to hear him, but the sobs fight their way out anyway, and they always stop too soon, before any true release of sorrow can occur.

The beach, which is mostly jagged pebbles scattered below the cliff where he lives, is where Finn goes when he ventures to leave the house. He wonders, more than anything, if Poe would have liked it here, if they could have settled down here like they did on Yavin IV. It rains a lot here, too, but the air is dry instead of humid, and the air tastes perpetually of salt. Crickets still sing him to sleep every night, but they are joined by the rhythm of waves against the shore.

Finn likes this, though he thinks his husband would have never quite adjusted to this change. It’s peaceful here, but noisier than Yavin. It’s colder too, which Poe had never enjoyed.

Had never. Poe, in the past tense. This is easier to accept than the reality it belies. Now, he is away from the empty house and the grave. The only evidence of his loss is grief and memory, so perhaps this is why Finn thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could fly back home and find Poe waiting for him.

It is three months before Finn realizes: he is waiting for Poe. If he died, he would be reunited with him; if the grief disappeared, it could only mean a reunion. He is waiting for what may never come.

And he lives. And the grief never goes away.

-

Something like spring happens, half a cycle into his stay. The boy tells him in broken Basic that this means more rain, which Finn is surprised to discover is possible after endless days of downpour. After this comes planting season, which Finn surmised after living on a farming moon, with his husband who was raised on a farm. The boy laughs at him when he says this. Finn smiles for the first time in months.

It rains, and Finn lies in bed, wrapped in the blankets he brought from home, listening to the torrent against the roof. The cadence is different; the roof here is simple and stone, but if he closes his eyes, he can nearly imagine that he’s on Yavin, that Poe is beside him and they’re enjoying a lazy afternoon together.

This type of thinking hurts more than it heals. It happens on the nights that Finn cries himself to sleep. He longs for the past and impossible comforts, and the gaping hole in his chest widens.

His heart is dead weight in his chest, and it is cruel that he lives. There is nothing to live for. His family is strong enough to mourn him and live, and he has already shaped the galaxy into a place for them to thrive. There is nothing left for him in a universe devoid of his soulmate.

The boy and his family are harvesting the first of their crops. In addition to the plain bread and simple staples delivered to him at the beginning of the week, Finn receives a bag of purple berries and some other orange vegetables. He thanks the boy, who cites his mother, so Finn passes his thanks to the whole family. The next week, even more are entrusted to him, and Finn gains the impression that they have a surplus. When he grumbles that he’s only one person, that he can’t possibly eat this much, and that his droid can’t be expected to help him eat, the boy laughs at him again. Finn realizes he hasn’t talked to him beyond a brief thanks every week and a passing conversation once or twice. BB-8 is often powered down, too. It’s been a long time since Finn has heard laughter, or held a conversation.

He’s brought some sort of sweet bread the next week, made from the purple berries. Finn’s never had it before. It’s odd, to have lived so long and to still learn new things, especially in a place so lonely and from a being so young.

He asks the boy his name before he goes. It’s Becke, and he’s eight (this information seems attached to his introduction). Finn hadn’t known before. He hadn’t asked when he first arrived, only inquired to Becke’s mother if she knew anyone who could bring him groceries. She had nodded, and gestured to the blonde boy reluctantly holding her hand. He spoke the best Basic out of their family, and he needed to get out of her house more often.

Becke smiles at him, most of his teeth missing. It reminds him of a young girl, and her children that kept her parents and grandparents perpetually exhausted. Finn understands why his mother appointed him to this task.

Becke leaves that week, and this time, he hollers his goodbye over his shoulder as he retreats.

Finn smiles again.

-

Summer and fall mean that Finn is stuffed with fresh harvestables. Becke tells him about his afternoons helping on the farm, in short, slowly extracted sentences. Sometimes Becke comes in chattering (or complaining) about the work, and sometimes, Finn dares to ask a few questions. A rounded conversation takes a month and a half, but they both readily accept this pace. It’s enough for the attention span of an eight-year-old talking to an old man and the old man in question.

Becke talks about his family, and what he’s learning in school. It’s menial, yet Finn cares in the way that kind people do when a child talks. There are concerns and viewpoints only applicable through the eyes of a child, and it’s simpler than loneliness and pain, and one day, Becke spends an hour showing Finn his attempts at juggling with the fruit he brought that morning. He’s not exceptionally good at it, but Finn encourages him, and it is the lightest he’s felt since before Poe died.

The next week, Becke invites him to dinner with his family. Finn declines, but the week after that, another invitation is extended. He accepts.

Their communication is limited, but gestures and fragments of sentences are enough. They get by; Finn learns that Becke’s father and two older brothers have the same sense of humor as the boy- there is laughter to be found in even the most miserable of circumstances. Finn finds it hard to complain around them, especially when Becke’s mother, Ola, keeps loading his plate up with food, even once Finn starts protesting that it’s too much for him. The other men laugh, and Becke’s father tells him that no one can resist his wife’s will. So, he will be fed, and fed well.

By fall, Finn regularly makes the trek to their house for dinners. He helps Becke with his homework. Ola herself visits Finn, and the next afternoon, Becke arrives with cleaning supplies. Suddenly, Finn is not just looked after, he is cared for. He laughs and he talks, and he does not have to think of the grief and the pain.

He lives.

-

Sunset on the ocean is one of the most beautiful things Finn has ever seen. Orange light weaves through the tall grass on the edge of the cliffs and turns the water below golden. The skies fill with purple and pink clouds, mingling to create colors Finn has never dreamed of before.

He hopes, every evening, that he lives to see the next day’s magnificent sunset.

-

Finn knows that he could stay here forever, that he may live to see Becke grow into a man, that Ola will cook and clean and feed him until the end of his days. He is happy there, after thinking that he could never be happy again. There are simple and wonderful things, and Finn enjoys them all.

But as Becke gets older, and as the years pass, Finn thinks of his own grandchildren, how they must be growing and learning. They are without their Abuelo and their grandpa, and he does not get to see or know them.

If Finn returns, he will be reunited with those he loves most in the universe.

He will also have to face an old life, one that should have Poe in it but does no longer.

The choice is neither quick nor sudden. Becke is twelve; Finn is happy worlds away from Yavin.

But there is more. He misses his children’s laughter and the light of his grandkids. He misses his home and the richness of life in the jungle. He misses Rey and her eternal optimism, her smile.

He is not complete without these things. Infrequent, broken calls are not enough.

If he was meant to outlive Poe, then Finn must face that. He will do it, at last, with his family at his side.

Becke and Finn both weep when he leaves. He’d planned to do so on a sunny afternoon, but became delayed by last-minute repairs, so he hugs Becke and his family goodbye as the sun wavers just above the horizon. Its dying sunbeams illuminate Becke’s face, then the boy scrubs the tears off his cheeks. Finn manages one last goodbye before boarding his ship, and he watches the small family wave goodbye before they go, flying low towards the sunset before taking off to the stars.

He contacts his eldest first and tells her that he’s coming home. She breaks down in tears over the call, and promises to meet him on Yavin. They’ve missed him, she says, and they’re glad he’s coming home.

His children- three out of four who could make it in time- are waiting outside his house. They embrace him, holding him tight, and Finn does his best not to cry too excessively. He’s welcomed home, which matters most, and they’re glad to see him.

It hurts, to be back in the hastily dusted house. There are holos of Poe on the walls. His youngest son has Poe’s mannerisms; his youngest daughter has his same cheeky smile. 

But he loves them, and it’s worth the pain. 

He and the brunt of the grief are together again; he’s only a few klicks away from where Poe is buried. His children cling to his hands, and ask him how he is. BB-8 explains all of what he can of their absence, and when it’s Finn’s turn, all he can say is that he couldn’t stay.

Their acceptance of this fact hinges on Finn’s promises that eventually, he was happy. He was cared for and not truly alone. He came back to them.

His eldest corners Finn and tells him, with her jaw firmly set, that they missed him and in some ways, they lost both of their fathers at once. Finn bows his head and apologizes, but he could not stay. Without Poe, he had to learn to live again. He had to want to live again, and he couldn’t do that while so haunted by loss.

She doesn’t understand, not fully, but she accepts this and tells him she’s glad he’s home. He is too, and the joy of being back with his family overpowers the grief.

It’s storming, hours later, when they hear Rey arrive. She barges through the door, drenched, and wraps her arms around Finn, tears shining in her eyes. She missed him and she loves him, she murmurs, then she pulls back and offers him a watery smile

Finn had forgotten how much her presence lights up a room. Yavin hums with an energy that he has not felt in many years, and it rushes over Finn in excited waves. He can sense all the life nearby, from the frogs in the trees and the vines in the jungle, all the way to the tree standing over his husband’s and his parents’ graves.

There is beauty and life and death and pain. Finn can feel it all, and he knows it well. It’s pervasive throughout his life and his family and his home.

It’s a part of him and part of everything, and Finn understands. It will ache inside his chest then destroy him, and finally build him back up. Finn understands that he lives and will die loving and missing Poe.

But this is not the end.

“Picture a wave. In the ocean. You can see it, measure it, its height, the way the sunlight refracts when it passes through. And it's there. And you can see it, you know what it is. It's a wave. And then it crashes in the shore and it's gone. But the water is still there. The wave was just a different way for the water to be, for a little while. You know it's one conception of death for Buddhists: the wave returns to the ocean, where it came from and where it's supposed to be.” -The Good Place

[emilymaypeck]

Final Goodbyes: My Thoughts

Content warning: cancer, bereavement, grief.

So, this post is going to be something quite personal, and the contents of what I’m going to discuss might be upsetting for some of you - as a warning, I will be touching on on the topic of death and bereavement, and just how life has gone the last couple of days.

So today (12th February, 2022) started off quiet nicely - with it being my best friend’s birthday, as I mentioned in today’s earlier post. I got her “A Million Sloths” colouring book by Lulu Mayo, and she really loves it - and hopefully she’ll show me some of her glorious colouring-in in a few days.

But sadly, this isn’t really about her - this post is more focused on my step-mum. I call her step-mum, even though she and my dad aren’t married - they’ve been a couple for nearly 18 years now, so she might as well be my step-mum. Anyways, in October of 2017, we heard the news that she was diagnosed with Stage 3 lung cancer. That basically means that the cancer itself cannot be cured, and that it’s pretty much terminal.

For the past four and a half years, she’s been through chemotherapy, radiotherapy, immunotherapy... She’s had good days, bad days... Terrible days... Absolutely delightful days, such as seeing her beloved Liverpool FC win the Champions League, Super Cup, Club World Cup, Premier League (which was right before her birthday in 2020!) and she’s been lucky enough to see her two great-granddaughters being born, my dad’s first grandchild (my nephew)...

But this past year - second half of 2021, primarily - her condition had gotten worse, so much so, she became bed-bound, and she had to use a commode in order to relieve herself. Christmas came and went... And this last week, her condition has gone further downhill. A caffita was fitted to help her urinate - despite lack of eating and drinking - and pain relief was fitted through an IV tube. Since last night, she has been basically unresponsive. She can’t talk... She can’t drink, eat, urinate, or anything. But she is not in pain - she is serene, and comfortable. She’s there physically, but sadly not mentally. She’s completely out of it, and... We all know that she will be leaving us sooner rather than later.

We’ve had family and friends come down to my dad’s house for the last couple of days - all saying their goodbyes, and how much they love her, and how they’ll never forget her. I have shed some tears - but I know more will come. I’ve been round Thursday night, and this afternoon... And I do plan on seeing her tomorrow morning. 

I wanted to get my thoughts out because its only been more recently that I’ve kind of accepted the fact that she will pass away soon, and that there’s nothing I can do. Grief and coping with death is difficult enough for a neurotypical individual, but being autistic, there’s been times in my past where a family member has passed away, and someone will say to me: “Oh, how come you haven’t cried yet?” or “Well you don’t seem upset about it.” That’s because it can take me time to process certain emotions - like, when my step-dad’s mother passed away in June of 2017, I didn’t cry until the day of her funeral when I saw her coffin being carried into the chapel... Which was in JULY of 2017. How I describe it is basically the experience of feeling too much of a certain emotion, and not knowing how to handle it, or how to convey it. Grief, and empathy are the main two I struggle with.

Tomorrow is quite possibly the last day I will ever have with my step-mum.. And that is a very strange feeling. Like, possibly, by this time tomorrow, she will have taken her last breath, and she will be gone. After her death, she’ll be picked up, taken to a crematorium, and be cremated - she’s not having a funeral, she’s made that very clear. But the second she releases her final breath, I will no longer have a step-mum in my life. Part of me is kind of relived that she’s not in pain, and that she’s going to be surrounded by loved ones, and she’ll let go when she’s ready...

But part of me dreads that final moment. I dread saying goodbye for the final time. I dread that final kiss on her cheek and forehead, and telling her “Thank you for being in my life for 18 years,” because... I know I will lose my strength and let it all out when that final breath is taken, and that heart stops beating. Its that final moment of seeing her breathing stop... And that kills me. 

As Queen Elizabeth II once said:

“Grief is the price we pay for love.”

EDIT:

My dad just rang me.

8:10pm.

She's gone.

[hinabes]

Hardtack Backstory

A story about requests, the present and value.

I. Stormy Night

“Hey! Stop right there! Yes, you!”

The man huffed and strode towards me while waving his flashlight and baton, the swaying beam of light dispersed and blurred by the rain.

“Restricted area ahead, turn back now.”

His stern voice was betrayed by hints of unease and anxiety; mixed with the intermittent pitter-patter of raindrops, it was almost unintelligible.

I reached for the dagger at my waist on instinct, only stopping myself reluctantly as I remembered a warning I had received. Awkwardly, I opened my mouth to speak.

“Mo… Please move aside.”

If I’d done as I had many times before, I could have silenced a human this fragile and weak with a mere dagger or single bullet.

But I couldn’t that night. Not then, at least.

Frustrated, I tilted my head in the hopes that the rain could wash away those annoying warnings and rules.

Perhaps the rain wasn’t heavy enough, or I really was paid too well; in any case, I suppressed the urge for violence.

I continued racking my brains for a way to get past him without hurting him.

“There are dangerous fallen angels up ahead, got it? Go home.”

The man bent down to look me in the eye. As if he came to the wrong conclusion from my appearance, his voice softened and carried hints of warmth.

The next moment, that warmth was gone, battered by the icy raindrops. A sharp blade pierced the man clean through the chest, lifting him up.

“ROAR——”

A terrifying howl tore through the night sky, echoing further and further even through the veil of rain.

“Ru...n…”

As if the situation only just caught up to him, the man forced a sad smile, arm stiffly lifting up before dropping weakly.

I wasn’t sure if it was because of the man’s sudden death or a fallen angel killing someone right before me, but I became even more upset than before.

It could have been both reasons.

Even if I didn’t care much about humans, seeing such a scene unfold before me once again angered me.

Squinting to glare through the darkness, my eyes locked on the monster on the nearby street. I crushed the biscuit in my mouth as I took out my pocket watch, and with a click, I started the timer.

“Eleven thirty-three, mission begin.”

II. Refusal

“Great work.”

Her pet in her arms, a bereaved White Truffle sat facing me.

“I thank you for your aid, on behalf of the citizens of Lupa City.”

“I don’t need it.”

I didn’t beat about the bush. As I pointed towards the black debit card on the table, a certain man who had long since died came to mind.

“I’m just here for the money. The lives and deaths of humans don’t concern me.”

After a brief pause, I added.

“But if that would get me more money——”

“Miss Biscuit is such a funny person.”

White Truffle’s mouth curved into a slight smile as her expression relaxed. While speaking, she slid a token towards me.

Inscribed onto the token were white feathered wings and black ram’s horns, with an underlying metallic sheen; it was petite, yet extremely detailed.

“I’ve got another mission for you, if you’d be interested.”

“What’s this?”

Picking up the token, I toyed with it in my hand, fond of both its appearance and the slight warmth it gave off.

“It’s the Perigod Institute’s authentication token; display it at any organization associated with the institute whenever you require aid. This is the downpayment for this mission, should you accept.”

“Any organization?”

I stopped toying with it and placed it back on the table.

“Apologies, but I’m not interested then.”

I picked up the debit card and packed up, preparing to leave.

White Truffle didn’t seem to anticipate my decision. She blanked before asking, looking puzzled.

“You’re not going to ask about the mission details?”

“The concept of ‘help’ spans a wide range.”

I took out the debit card and waved it in front of White Truffle.

“It could be simple or complex. If it’s simple, why would I need this? Exchanging favors is always so much more annoying than monetary trade.

“If it’s complex, I don’t need it either, as it implies it’s going to come at personal cost.

“Also, having this card marks me as some kind of authority figure, which I’m not used to. Money is so much easier to deal with.”

White Truffle didn’t expect this answer from me. She pondered silently before rubbing her forehead, apologizing.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have probed you like this. Black Truffle was right, I’m not suited for this kind of conversation.

“So, to put it simply: I want to hire you as a member of the Perigod Institute security department.”

III. Awkward Kindness

“Isn’t this great? That… uh… Parry… Parry something?”

The bartender spun the cocktail shaker skillfully and soon a dark blue bubbling mix was slid across the table.

“Perigod.”

I downed the glass in one gulp. The icy drink slid smoothly down my throat, creating a burning sensation once it reached my stomach, spreading outward swiftly.

I enjoyed this feeling of slight drunkenness where I was still fully conscious.

“You know I’m bad at this type of tongue-twisting vocabulary. I’m not that well-learned after all.”

The bartender shrugged noncommittally, serving up another icy drink.

“It would have been a great chance to rid yourself of this kind of lifestyle. Why did you refuse?”

I sensed a certain something in his voice.

I’ve encountered this type of “something” in the human world many times, some genuine, some false.

I didn’t particularly mind or care, since the intention was about the same no matter which it was.

I’ve known this bartender for a long time. When we first met, that man I called “master attendant” was still around.

These were two of the very few humans I thought were special.

Normally, I would have stayed silent and waited for him to change the subject so that I wouldn’t have to contemplate such cumbersome things.

Alas, this time the bartender clearly did not want to end it here.

“You should think about where you want to go from here, Biscuit. Tang wouldn’t want…”

His sentence was cut short and he fell silent as his mouth was jammed.

“There won’t be a ‘next time’.”

With a poker face, I withdrew my pistol and wiped the muzzle clean of saliva using a tissue.

The bartender’s expression stiffened abruptly, changing many times between breaths before he calmed down again.

Then, as if nothing happened, he mixed another cocktail and served it to me.

“I sincerely apologize.”

His tone was earnest, his expression serious.

Contemplating our past battles together - the three of us - I lowered my gaze to avoid looking at him as I accepted the glass and downed it.

“Give me the newest intel.”

“...Right!”

I sighed silently, sensing the gradually lightening tone of the man, whose name I didn’t even want to recall.

You died far too soon; all these remaining humans are all so boring.

IV. Unexpectedly

Thunderous gunshots rang out; sparks and shrapnel flew.

The man before me paled drastically. The wall to the right of his head was pumped full of smoking bullet holes, but he held a forced smile.

“Please calm down, Miss Biscuit, I’m just a messenger.”

He took a deep breath and politely handed me a name card.

Without sparing it a glance, I flung my dagger and pinned the name card to the ground by his boots.

“Where is... Hu Jing?”

I narrowed my eyes as I looked through my memories, before finally recalling the bartender’s name.

“Mr. Hu is fine. Boss merely hopes to propose a trade with Miss Biscuit.”

“What kind of trade?”

My voice lowered as I suppressed my rising bloodlust.

I didn’t care about humans, and the one who had battled by my side and made me years of drinks was no exception.

“Boss says Miss Biscuit and Sir Tang have killed many back in the day, and one has to pay for the blood on their hands eventually. Alas, Sir Tang is long dead and chasing such old debts isn’t a good look, so there’s just one thing Miss Biscuit has to help with for Mr. Hu Jing to return.”

But I did care about the idiot named Sir Tang, even if he did always make me call him “master attendant”.

“To clear your debt, Miss Biscuit, Boss asks you to kill for him as many men as you have killed his.”

Hu Jing had stayed by Sir Tang’s side for such a long time, after all, I should do him a favor sooner or later.

“...If you investigated me, you should have known that I only hunt fallen angels now.”

I took a deep breath, keeping myself from remembering those bloodstained years of laughter intertwined with pain-filled screams, and enunciated each word.

The man, or perhaps the one he served, seemed to have anticipated my answer and followed up without a hitch.

“Boss says, just as I am but a message, Miss Biscuit is but a gun.

“It’s the same trigger being pulled, be it a human or a fallen angel.”

I stared down the man stock-still. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his cheek.

And then--

I spoke.

“You’re right.”

Before he had the chance to relax.

I continued.

“It’s the same trigger being pulled, be it a human or a fallen angel.”

The gunshot rang out thunderous. Blood splattered and it hit the ground with a thud.

Looking at the lifeless form of the man, I fished out the token from my pocket, White Truffle’s words coming to mind.

“It’s inevitable a time comes when you need help, so keep it with you even if you don’t intend to use it.”

Shaking my head, I chuckled to myself.

“You were right, humans really are so boring.”

V. Hardtack

Gloriville is a big place; glorious and prosperous.

Naturally, there’s going to be unspeakable darkness and filth.

Some say fallen angels are the greatest enemy of mankind.

This may not be true.

For fallen angels only kill.

Not only do humans kill, they tyrannize.

“From today onwards, they’re history.”

As White Truffle cuddled the puppy in her arms, she stood on the rooftop overlooking the crackling flames and spoke calmly to Hardtack beside her.

“Mr. Hu has been rescued as well, with nothing to show for it but scratches.”

“...Sorry for the trouble.”

Habitually, Hardtack spun her dagger in her hands.

“No worries, I’ve got money, lots of money.”

White Truffle turned to “glare” at the girl beside her and said sternly.

“But money can’t solve everything, that’s why I need you. You’ll be at the forefront of trouble from here on out.”

“No skin off my back.”

Hardtack refocused, sheathing her dagger and reaching her hand out to White Truffle.

“As long as I don’t have to deal with humans.”

“Perigod’s security department will only be dealing with fallen angels, I can promise you that.”

White Truffle smiled and accepted the handshake.

Her puppy hopped onto the ground and nuzzled up to Hardtack’s leg.

“Do you want to see Hu Jing?”

As if she just remembered, White Truffle reminded.

“He’s currently at a hospital run by the institute.”

“...No need.” After a moment of hesitation, Hardtack shook her head. Carefully, she removed the old bracelet on her wrist and replaced it with the Perigod token.

“Let’s talk work. What exactly does this security department do.”

“Hunt fallen angels, enforce the security of the research institute, and cooperate with other departments in fallen angel-related matters when needed. Though, of course, you don’t have to.”

“Sounds good.”

The girls stood shoulder to shoulder and walked towards the institute, back facing the flames.

“Right, there’s someone else in the security department, with you, there’ll be a total of two members.”

“A human?”

“No, a food soul. Her name is Braised Noodles.”

Translation Notes

She’s not released or announced in any way but yknow.... I just wanted to do a short one for practice lol

Names

Hardtack’s Chinese name is “compressed biscuit”, that’s why everyone calls her “biscuit” as a nickname

The bartender’s name is Hu Jing, surname Hu.

Hardtack’s (dead) MA’s name is Tang(?). I’m not fully sure, the messenger calls him “Tang Jun”, while the Jun could be part of the name, it could also be the japanese -kun or the chinese “Mr/Sir” honorific, it being more respectful in chinese context I think. Considering how “respectfully” the messenger addresses Hardtack and Hu Jing, and how Tang is likely on the same level of “importance” as his own boss, it’s probably a honorific.

Ch2: “black debit card”

Not debit card as in modern day debit cards, but more like a gift voucher? A card that means money without physically being money? Not sure if credit or debit is the better word to use here, or another word entirely.

Ch3: “His sentence was cut short and he fell silent as his mouth was jammed.”

If it wasn’t clear, Hardtack shoved a pistol in his mouth!

Ch5: “Not only do humans kill, they tyrannize.”

The original sentence translates literally to “Not only do humans kill people, they eat people.”

Googled “eat people” (in chinese) to make sure it meant what I thought it meant, and the definition is “The oppression and exploitation of the poor in the old society”

Oppression........... compression........... compressed biscuit...... aha...

This has nothing to do with anything its just fun thing i found while translating

Ch5: “White Truffle turned to “glare” at the girl beside her and said sternly.”

“Glare”, as in, White Truffle is blind

I really like the parallel of the requests!

White Truffle: paid attention to the token > kill FAs > didn’t anticipate her answer > treats her as a person

messenger: ignored the name card > kill humans > anticipated her answer > treats her as an object

made more obvious in chinese as the word used for “token” can also mean “tablet”, “medal” or “mahjong tile”, but most commonly “playing card”, but I also wanted a word that implied something small enough to be a bracelet charm and it was getting confusing with the black debit card in the same scene

[traditional-with-a-twist]

iv. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || masterpost || AO3 || Next>>

In her deepest moments of loss, Shirayuki would withdraw from the world around her. 

As if the shock had raised raw nerves to the surface of her skin, she shrank from contact, recoiled from discovery.

She hid her wound inside herself, where nothing could expose it, and no one could touch it.

When possible, she hid it even from herself.

...

Between her grief and those who would intrude on it, she interposed a veneer of composure. Under this facade, she continued to perform her daily roles with the promptitude of a marionette.

Shirayuki was no actress. Her ingrained forthrightness prevented her from delivering a convincing performance.

The best she could manage was a semblance of her usual activity.

She drifted from place to place, haunting the castle like a ghost of her former self, sketching the motions of a princess-to-have-been, a bereaved fiancée, even a royal pharmacist, but her timing was off.

She spoke at the wrong moment; she answered questions that no one had asked; she delivered her charge to the wrong recipient. She unmade whatever she had finished minutes before in an unconscious, anxious movement of her hands, left to their own disposal.

Sometimes she trailed off, looking away as if listening to something else.

Her eyes traced the path that led away from Wistal Castle, followed the road the royal knights had ridden east, lingering on the horizon in unanswered expectation.

Although she knew better, it was impossible to shake the conviction that she would see him again.

 ...

Their last good-bye--a public ceremony before the castle gates, enacted before hundreds of watching eyes--was no better than a pause, a question mark in the middle of a paragraph.

Whenever she had needed him, Zen had found his way to her. From the depths of a hidden manor to the endless expanse of an ocean, he searched her out like a beacon.

There was no wall high enough, no cavern deep enough, to keep him from her side.

Any moment now, her heart persisted in imagining, she might hear his voice again, see his smile, feel his hand in hers.

She knew better, but the deception lingered.

It trebled her desire for concealment. A hope spun of wishes and self-imposed forgetfulness could not bear the rough handling of another’s scrutiny.

Shirayuki veiled her longings and her agonies in assumed fortitude, swaddled all of it in feigned equanimity. Brittle as an eggshell, the false poise clothed her, made her fit for company.

When the fragile illusion threatened to crack, she fled.

 ...

That day, with servants thronging the hallways, torches amassed in preparation for the mourners’ march, a walkway of white sand strewn to guide their steps, and wreaths of heartsease ladening the air with their perfume--Shirayuki felt herself unequal to bearing the weight of the public eye.

She flinched from the presence of another human being; her feet turned aside from each chance encounter.

She made her escape without forethought, starting from corner to corner like the quarry in a hunt, retreating deeper into the maze of Wistal’s walls until she found herself alone.

The battlements rose to the height of the heavens on either side of her, uninterrupted even by windows. She had traded blank faces for staring stone blocks, but it was enough.

It would require an eagle eye to spy her out there.

With the bonds of society relaxed, her hurt welled up and overflowed. It burst from the hidden place where she had suppressed it.

It brought her to her knees.

There Obi found her, tossed in the storm of a loss she could not bring herself to name, where she least expected another soul to venture.

There he forgot himself in loving her.

There he left her.

 ...

At first, Shirayuki had felt Obi’s absence as she felt everything good in her life slipping away.

The changes began with the war: research suspended, austerity measures introduced, the brisk predictability of castle life devoured by the hectic pace of impending crisis...and then Zen’s proposal.

Shirayuki set her face to the new path with the same spirit she had always confronted destiny. Determined to do her best, grudging no sacrifice, privately cherishing hopes for the future, she had accepted the offer of Zen’s hand and promised to never look back.

Then the war had ended.

Her love, her work, her friends--they had fallen from her like broken rock, shearing off the cliff and crashing into the sea. She stood alone on a precipice now, swaying before the brink.

 ...

No door was closed to a member of the royal family, even a premature one, but neither was there a place for her in the greenhouses anymore. Her desk was cleared, her uniform packed away; they would conduct trials for a new apprentice soon.

The book of her life as a pharmacist had closed; she might take it down from its shelf and look over the pages she had labored to record, but she would never add another entry.

Nor would she continue training to assume the fullness of her role as Second Princess of Clarines. The office no longer existed.

She was caught in suspended animation, like a creature on the verge of flight, frozen in amber.

 ...

In her bewildered displacement, there were no familiar faces to offer her a kind look or a friendly word.

Kiki and Mitsuhide had ridden away with the royal cavalry, and they had returned as strangers.

They wore different uniforms: black, like the servants’ new livery and the drapes that covered the windows.

The warmth had left their eyes.

They never smiled.

 ...

And Obi? The once callous enemy who had become her shadow, then her guard, and at last her friend?

Obi had gone away for days at a time before, engaged on tasks of some vague and undefined nature, some understanding between him and Zen that Shirayuki had never felt the need to inquire into.

She worked around his absence, as one would make adjustments on a still day for the lack of a breeze.

Her responsibilities in the pharmacy might take longer, her hours might be quieter, but she didn’t mind it, because she knew he would be back.

The gaps in Obi’s attendance made up a layer in the pattern of her days, predictable in their unpredictability.

...

If she wondered what could be keeping him, now that the voice directing his movements had fallen silent, she refused to articulate this question, even to herself.

It tread too near the door in her mind that she was holding closed with all her strength--it was better to think nothing of the incongruity, so that there was no need to remind herself of the circumstances that made it so.

It never occurred to her that those same circumstances might have effected a permanent change in Obi’s position with respect to herself--that even this, his presence in her life, might fall away.

She couldn’t allow the possibility that Obi might not come back.

...

When he appeared to her again at last, she caught hold of him as a drowning sailor would seize a rope in a storm.

He was the last element of her life before the war, the last familiar landmark that hadn’t changed.

When he vanished, she was adrift again.

[fruitysmellz]

Being a nurse is a tough job.

The grunt work is physically and mentally draining, the work environment is toxic (both figuratively and literally), and the pay is abysmally low. Not to mention that the clients can be quite demanding, with only a handful actually grateful for the services rendered by the health team.

Worst of all is handling a hopeless case, where death is inevitable and the only course of action is comforting the bereaved family and/or friends.

Today just so happens to be that day for one Kyoyama Anna, as she finds herself in the midst of another death in the hospital.

Asakura Yohmei was an old man by the age of 93, and when he was rushed to the hospital a few days ago due to a fracture of the hip bone (an accident in the bathroom, the family reported) coupled with fatigue and shortness of breath, the hospital staff took one long drag of breath and prepared for the worst.

The old man managed to rouse two days after his admission, and stayed in the hospital for a week and another two days before hospital-acquired pneumonia got the best of him.

All throughout those days he spent in the hospital, he had been nothing but kind and courteous to the staff, always smiling and chatting with the nurses and doctors about anything and everything.

Anna is especially fond of him, and perhaps the feeling is mutual, since Yohmei dotted on her like a grandfather would to his grandchildren, always thanking her for her assistance and patting her on the head affectionately when she gave him his medications or changed his IV line.

His death, naturally, takes a toll on her, and being surrounded by his grieving loved ones is making it worst.

She wants to leave but can't, because she needs to prep his body for aftercare; however, Yohmei's only daughter hasn't stopped crying and is refusing to leave her father's side, even swatting away her husband and her sons when they tried to pry her away from her Yohmei's corpse.

Anna clenches her fist as Asakura Keiko brokenheartedly wails, and she blinks her eyes rapidly, willing for her own tears to be kept on bay while she is trying to remain professional.

She swallows hard when another sob escapes from Keiko, and she is about to excuse herself out when a hand manages to land on her shoulder. Anna looks up, finds herself face to face with one of Yohmei's grandsons.

"Coffee?" He asks but doesn't wait for an answer. Gently, he ushers her out of the room, sighing heavily once the door's closed. "Sorry you had to see that."

Anna shakes her head.

"It's normal."

He nods, then takes one good look at her. Finally, he manages a lopsided smile. "You're Nurse Kyoyama, aren't you?"

Blinking, Anna manages a weak nod. His smile widens just a little bit.

"I knew it." He exhales softly. "Gramps liked you a lot! He was always going on and on about this nice nurse who was in charge of him, you know?"

He starts to move and, without anything else to do, Anna follows him. They manage to find a vending machine, but Yohmei's grandson merely stands next to it, his eyes vacant. Anna rouses him from his deep thoughts by muttering his name. He snaps out of his reverie, gives her a sheepish smile.

"Sorry," he says again, voice raspy. "It's just that Gramps was always the one who took care of me and... And..."

His eyes begin to water and in a spur of the moment kind of thing, he suddenly grabs Anna by the waist and sobs against her shoulder. Anna lets him, because letting all the tears out is part of the grieving process. She, as well, is impatiently brushing off her own tears, her quiet sobs deafened by his loud bawling.

It takes a moment until his tears are all spent, and he mutters another apology to Anna for using her as his (literal) shoulder to cry on.

"And thanks," he adds through sniffles. "Thanks for taking care of my Gramps and... For everything else. Thank you."

"No problem." Her answer is automatic.

He nods, offers her his hand.

"My name's Yoh, by the way, but I guess Gramps told you about me, huh?"

He did. If there was anything apparent about Yohmei, it was that he had a special spot for his two grandchildren. Twins, he used to say with a laugh, that I love even when they can be a handful.

"The younger twin who used to wear his mother's clothes because he could never win a bet against his older brother?" Anna smirks, chuckling when Yoh's reaction is a mixture of a guffaw and a sob.

"Yep, he told you alright." He scratches the back of his head. "Thanks again, for everything. Gramps really liked it here."

She hums, then gestures at the vending machine.

"Coffee?"

"Yeah. That'd be great." Another soft exhale. "Thanks."

------

Random AU I thought of while talking to a friend. Always be nice to your doctors and nurses, guys. 😊😊😊

[ibmiller]

Introduction

I began researching this topic out of ignorance. After being more or less snookered by Dr. Warren into giving a presentation, I chose one of the first topics that came to mind. I hope you will bear with me as I exhume a body of knowledge that has already had several postmortems: that of Dr. Watson's wife, or wives, depending on your inclination. I attempted to gather every scholarly article on the subject I could find, so that I wouldn't have to do all the research myself. The Interlibrary Loan Department in Swem Library hates me now, thanks to Dr. Warren.

We all know Watson's predilection for members of the opposite sex. He remarks on their beauty and dress an uncountable number of times throughout the canon. We know from him that his experience with women extends over "many nations and three separate continents." We know from Holmes that the fair sex is "Watson's department." I will review the various theories on how many wives Dr. Watson had, and bring you to what I believe is the most logical conclusion. It should be an interesting area for exploration. It is also an area, in my opinion, that has barely been tapped.

In 1944, Dorothy Sayers said:

There is a conspiracy afoot to provide Watson with as many wives as Henry VIII, but, however this may be, only one is ever mentioned by him and only one left any abiding memory in his heart.

Less devout scholars than Ms. Sayers wanted Watson to have multiple wives so much that they invented them for him. William S. Baring-Gould points out that Watson marries the American Constance Adams in Doyle's unpublished play "Angels of Darkness." In 1978, Hartley Nathan purportedly found Watson's will and testament in Toronto, Canada, proving that the good doctor had twin sons (Clarence and George) by his first wife Constance, a daughter (Gertrude) by his second wife Mary, and another daughter (Elsie) by his third wife, whose name we do not know.

Two-Wife Theories

In any case, it is certain that Watson had at least one wife. Mary Morstan is explicitly mentioned in several places throughout the canon, starting with "The Sign of the Four." In 1888, Mary Morstan walked into Dr. Watson's life and swept him off his feet. Watson writes:

She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, however, a plainness and simplicity about her costume which bore with it a suggestion of limited means. . . .Her face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature. (SIGN, pp. 11- 12).

Later in the narrative, Watson says of Mary:

My mind ran upon our late visitor -- her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the time of her father's disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now -- a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused until such dangerous thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology (SIGN, p. 16).

The prospect that the Agra treasure might spoil his chances with Miss Morstan certainly weighed heavily on Dr. Watson's mind. So distracted was Watson that when Thaddeus Sholto bombarded him with trains of symptoms, the Doctor found himself prescribing strychnine in large doses as a sedative. It seems evident that Watson was in love.

At any rate, Watson married Miss Morstan soon after the conclusion to "The Sign of the Four." Watson was 35 and Mary 27 at the time their troth was plighted. The popular view is that Mary died in 1893 or 1894. Holmes rose from the dead in 1894 and took Watson's mind off his "sad bereavement" for awhile with some new adventures. This didn't last forever, as, according to S. C. Roberts, Watson remarried soon after the turn of the century. Holmes himself, in "The Blanched Soldier," remarks in January 1903 that Watson had "deserted him for a wife," so it seems evident that Watson remarried at least once. The identity of this second wife has been conjectured by Chris Morley and George Haynes to be Lady Frances Carfax, and by S. C. Roberts to be Violet de Merville (ILLU).

The fact that Watson married Miss Morstan is well-known and goes almost undisputed. Of course, nothing is so abhorrent to many Sherlockians than a plainly stated, obvious fact. Eminent Sherlockian scholar and author Rex Stout wrote an article entitled "Watson Was a Woman," which, if true, would of course preclude any wives.

On the other hand, there are those who contend that Watson had not two wives, but one. In an interesting twist to the Rex Stout theory, Dr. Robert Katz, in his toast to the Second Mrs. Watson at the 1996 BSI Dinner, held that there was only one Mrs. Watson. Katz's logic was that because Holmes was such an intolerable lodger because of his bad habits and his propensity for getting his roommates into danger, they left him after a short while. This posed a problem for the Literary Agent, who had great success with Holmes and Watson. The conflict was resolved by having several Dr. Watsons in succession, each of whom was married only once.

On the other hand, there are those who claim that our mutual friend had three or more wives. We'll ignore Rex Stout for the moment and concentrate instead on the one-wife and multi-wife theories.

One-Wife Theories

The fourteenth century English scholastic philosopher, William of Ockham, held that assumptions used to explain something must not be unnecessarily multiplied. This "shaving away of multiple assumptions" is known familiarly as "Ockham's Razor." A more simple way of stating the principle is that, all things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the best. This is known in science as the Law of Parsimony. There are only a few published proponents of the one-wife theory, but they claim to have Ockham's razor on their side.

Jane Nightwork, in 1946, made the surprising claim that "Watson's second wife was actually his first wife; and there never was a third." Nightwork speculates that Watson and Mary had a "falling out" in 1894 due to Mary's success in her own dress-making business. Since divorce at this time was all but impossible, it is likely that Holmes was referring to Watson's separation rather than Mary's death when he said, "Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson" in "The Empty House." According to Nightwork, when Holmes says, "The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife," he is referring to the happy reunion of John and Mary in 1902, when the couple decided to have another go at marriage. There is no need to assume that Mary died. This view was later supported by Christopher Morley.

H. W. Starr claimed that the "sad bereavement" doesn't refer to death, but is Watson's excuse to the reading public for moving back in with Holmes after violent marital disputes. Starr blames the switching of residences between Queen Anne St. and Baker St. on Watson's proclivity to go adventuring with Holmes, a habit which caused much marital strife for Watson. The couple finally reconciled in 1902 and left Holmes by himself.

Dan Warren claims that Mary is instead the victim of tuberculosis. Because she must spend so much time in a German health spa, Watson occasionally lives with Holmes. According to Warren, the "sad bereavement" mentioned by Holmes refers to the Watsons' miscarried child, an event which occurred more frequently among women with TB. How much of this has canonical support, I don't know, but it's a good theory, nonetheless. It might be what Doyle had intended all along, as his first wife Louise died after a thirteen-year battle with TB, and took many visits to Switzerland for her health.

Another bit of evidence for a single marriage lies in "The Dying Detective," which occurred, according to Watson, "in the second year of my married life." "The Dying Detective" wasn't published until 1913, eleven years after the presumed second marriage took place. It is evident that Watson had only been married once by 1913 or he would have said "the second year of his first marriage." As he was in his early sixties by in 1913, it is unlikely that he married again.

Three-Wife theories

There is some support for the claim that Watson had three wives. In "The Veiled Lodger," 1896, Watson says he has taken up separate lodgings. Harold Bell assumed that this referred to another marriage. I don't know if I believe him, but Trevor Hall points out that perhaps Watson was going through a mid-life crisis at this time. He was, after all, in his mid-forties. I think far greater evidence for a marriage lies in "The Five Orange Pips," which precedes "The Sign of the Four," and hence Mary Morstan, by a year.

In "The Five Orange Pips," Watson mentions that "My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street." However, in "The Sign of the Four," Mary states quite clearly that her mother was dead and that she had no relatives in England. The statement in "The Five Orange Pips" was later changed in light of this fact to refer to Mary's aunt rather than her mother, but keep in mind that this was a change made after the fact by editors, not by Watson. This instance gives rise to the theory that Watson had a wife in 1887, before he wedded Mary in 1888. A counter-argument is that "The Sign of the Four" is mentioned in "The Five Orange Pips" and therefore must have already occurred. I refuse to admit the late Gavin Brend's assertion that Watson had messy hand-writing or simply had his dates wrong. This happened only three times that I can tell -- once in "Wisteria Lodge," once in "The Red-Headed League," and once elsewhere in "The Sign of the Four." I think it more likely that Watson included the title for publicity reasons.

Four-Wife Theories

In the extreme case, Watson hypothetically could have had at least 4 marriages:

1887 - A short marriage to someone unknown. (FIVE) 1888 - Watson weds Mary Morstan (SIGN) 1896 - Watson takes up separate quarters (VEIL) 1902 - Watson deserts Holmes for a wife (BLAN)

Five-Wife Theories

If we're to trust Baring-Gould about "Angels of Darkness," Watson had a fifth wife in the mid-1880's named Constance Adams. Trevor Hall supports the five- wife theory, citing Watson's wives as Constance Adams, Miss X, Mary Morstan, Miss Y, and Miss Z.

Six-Wife Theories

In his review of the unpublished play "Angels of Darkness," Harlan Umansky claims that the play ends with Watson being engaged to Lucy Ferrier at the deathbed request of John Ferrier. Is Lucy Ferrier Miss X? Or should we add her to the list, making six short-lived wives for Dr. Watson? That is open to speculation, since, according to the rumor mill, the plot of "Angels of Darkness" directly contradicts that of "A Study in Scarlet"--it has Watson working in San Francisco and doesn't involve Holmes at all. It would be nice if the six-wife theory were correct--it would fulfill Ms. Sayers' prophesy of Watson having as many wives as Henry VIII.

Seven-Wife Theories

A case could be made that Watson had seven wives if you juggle the dates around in "The Sign of the Four," "The Five Orange Pips," and "A Scandal in Bohemia." We'll call this mysterious lady Miss Q. The evidence for her existence is flimsy at best, however, so I won't go into it.

Conclusions

Now, given the fact that Watson probably couldn't have divorced any of his wives by the laws in England at the time, this means, unless Watson was a bigamist as some have suggested, that all but the last of his wives must have died, and none of them under circumstances Watson sees fit to describe to the reader. In fact, Miss Q, Miss X, and Miss Y must have died after no more than a year of marriage--Miss Q and Miss X because Watson remarried the next year, and Miss Y because Watson was living back in his old quarters in Baker Street by 1897 (ABBE).

There are two theories we can dismiss out of hand. The first is that Dr. Watson was a deadbeat addicted to gambling.

Look at the facts. Watson is always skipping out on his practice to run off with Holmes. Watson spent a summer at "Shoscombe Old Place" of horseracing fame. He frequently spends half his pension check at the races. Holmes kept Watson's checkbook locked in his desk drawer. Is it any surprise to learn that Watson would be in dire financial straits? Could he have, for instance, had a system of marrying rich women who were at death's door, taken out huge life insurance policies on them, and then merely wait for them to pass on in order to collect and support his gambling habit? Given what other information we have about Dr. Watson's personality, my answer must be "Not bloody likely."

The second dubious explanation is that Watson was a serial killer.

How hard would it be for a doctor to procure poisons or administer deadly infections? Watson does admit to having "another set of vices" in "A Study in Scarlet"--could he be referring to a murderous streak a mile wide? This would make Watson one of the most diabolical, cunning, and daring killers of all time, to stay so brazenly close to the world's greatest detective and yet defy discovery at every turn. One would surmise that Holmes would get suspicious by the fourth or fifth time he was asked to present a ring as the best man.

Or could it be simply that because Watson, as a doctor, came into more frequent contact with women of frail health, he was hence more likely to marry such women? I tend to support this position. Cases could, and have, been made that Watson had as many as seven wives, but I tend to think he had only two: Mary Morstan and the Miss Z of 1903. It is now time to use Ockham's razor to cut through the extraneous theories. There are two strong canonical references to Dr. Watson's wives--Mary Morstan and Miss Z of 1903. The inference that these are one and the same woman is a stretch, and I believe that those who have claimed to have Ockham's razor on their side by saying that Watson had only one wife are misinterpreting the nature of parsimony. 'One' is not necessarily a simpler number than 'Two' when 'Two' makes more sense. In order to play The Game, we must accept what Watson says at face value unless he is clearly, undeniably wrong.

References

Baesch, J. Personal Communication. 20 August, 1997.

Baring-Gould, W. S. (1962). Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.

Brend, G. (1951). My Dear Holmes.

Bunson, M. E. (1994). Encyclopedia Sherlockiana.

Doyle, A. C. (1993). The Sign of the Four. New York: Oxford University Press.

Fink, J. (1992). The marital hoax of John H. Watson. The Baker Street Journal, 42(2), 102-105.

Fitz, R. (1944). A Belated Eulogy: To John H. Watson, M.D., in Profile by Gaslight, Edgar W. Smith (Ed.), Simon and Schuster: New York.

Hall, T. (1971). The Late Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Katz, R. (1996). To the Second Mrs. Watson. The Baker Street Journal, 46(1), 9-10.

Moriarity, D. Personal Communication. August, 1997.

Morley, C. (1934). Doctor Watson's Secret, in Rothman, S. (Ed.): The Standard Doyle Company, 1990.

Nathan, H. (1978). John H. Watson, M.D. Discovered at Last. The Baker Street Journal, 28(4), 204-213.

Nguyen, H. Personal Communication. 22 August, 1997.

Nightwork, J. (1946). Watson à la Mode. The Baker Street Journal, 1(1), 15- 20.

Redmond, C. (1984). In Bed With Sherlock Holmes.

Roberts, S. C. (1953). Holmes & Watson, New York: Otto Penzler's Sherlock Holmes Library.

Starr, H. W. (1946). Some New Light on Watson. The Baker Street Journal, 1(1), 55-63.

Stout, R. (1944). Watson Was a Woman, in Profile by Gaslight, Edgar W. Smith (Ed.), Simon and Schuster: New York.

Warren, D. C. (1991). Mary, the One and Only. The Baker Street Journal, 41(1), 21-24.

Wigglesworth, B. (1947). Many Nations and Three Separate Continents.The Baker Street Journal, 2(3), 273-278.

[dandelionprocrastinates]

💡 Trivia Tuesdays 💡

Moderated by Karuna

Mental health is very integral in our lives as this can affect our daily functions as well as the way we value our own lives. Although many social media users of our generation are promoting a culture of understanding mental health concerns, we still lack information when it comes to understanding the practice that helps us deal with it. With Trivia Tuesday, we will share psychology facts that pertain to mental health and mental illness in order to give each other an idea regarding how professionals discuss. This will be done in order to somewhat demystify the field, along with mental health itself, which is one of its main concerns. Tuesday, being in the middle of the week, is good for learning as people’s minds are usually accustomed to work already compared to Monday or weekends.

August 4 - Mental Health Law in the PH

Have you heard of RA 11036 aka the mental health law? It was the first mental health act legislation in the history of the Philippines and was only signed into law in June 2018-- only fairly recently. This helped guide psychology practitioners when it comes to the legal and ethical aspects of their practice as well as outlined mental health patients' rights more clearly. More importantly, it mandates that psychiatric, psychosocial and neurological services, and basic mental health services should be provided in hospitals for easier accessibility. It also includes a clearer legal definition of mental illnesses, clarifies the requirements for informed consent, and specifies the designation of legal representatives when it comes to supporting the decision making of patients with mental illnesses (Lally et al., Tully, 2019). This is different from RA 10029, which regulates how psychologists and psychiatrists handle their practice, since this law outlines how mental healthcare should be approached by different sectors within the country. What are your thoughts on this? Do you have any inquiries or would you like to add something to the law if ever? 

Link if you're interested:  

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC664684

August 11 - DSM-5

Have you guys heard of the DSM-5? Firstly, the DSM refers to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders compiled by the American Psychiatric Association. So what's with the 5? That refers to the current edition that has been used from 2013 until now. The thing is, you might be wondering why they need to come up with new editions cause like aren't mental illnesses always the same anyway? The thing is, some diseases have to be reclassified (ex. anxiety disorders and obsessive-compulsive disorders are now separate) because I think they decided that lumping them together might be hard if they're not actually related (they maybe just realized that lately) so narrowing down the diagnoses might be harder. Aside from this, other disorders were excluded due to low reliability and validity (ex. the different subtypes of schizophrenia in DSM-IV, which may not even be distinctive) and some were just lumped together based on scientific consensus (Autism Spectrum Disorder recognizes that the four disorders which were considered separate are basically just the same condition but varying in intensity). Also, the bereavement exclusion, which basically says that one cannot diagnose depression within two months after a patient has experienced the death of a loved one, was eliminated. And those are just a few examples. So what do you think about this? Do you think it would matter to you if you became a psychiatric patient or do you feel like the change in the names and classifications of the diseases don't matter because they just refer to the same thing anyway?

Link if you're interested:  

https://www.psychiatry.msu.edu/_files/docs

August 18 - Depression VS Sadness

Depression seems to be the most popular mental disorder since it is something that many people have encountered through the media and their own social circle, or have even experienced themselves. And of course, lots of people express their sadness by saying "I'm depressed." But what is the difference between depression and sadness? Sadness can be viewed as a normal human emotion as a response to difficult or disappointing experiences. Meanwhile, depression is an abnormal emotional state that affects one's thinking, emotions, perceptions, and behaviors in pervasive and chronic ways--so basically when you're depressed, you feel sad about everything. When it comes to clinical diagnosis, one will have to pass a certain number of criteria listed in the DSM-5 up to a certain intensity for a certain duration (Winch, 2015). I'm not sure if this is super accurate as well but what I understood from my mom's psych classes is that basically, something can be considered a mental disorder when it disrupts your daily life to a large extent (ex. like being organized does not take too much time away from you throughout the day but with OCD, you can barely complete simple tasks due to repetition or something). However, if one feels depressed even without all of these symptoms, they may still approach a therapist to help guide them in order to prevent further damage. With this information, do you view depression more differently? Do you have any questions about depression?

Link if you’re interested:

https://www.psychologytoday.com/intl/blog/

August 25 - Comorbidity 

Have you heard of the term comorbidity? It simply refers to the co-occurrence of one or more diseases or disorders in an individual. In this case, we'll be looking more into co-occurrences of mental disorders in an individual. The interesting thing about comorbidity is that there could be many reasons for this--maybe the descriptions of the disorders overlap a little bit, maybe they are both caused by some underlying problem, or maybe one is caused by the other. It has been hypothesized that substance abuse can cause mental disorders, and some mental disorders lead to harmful coping strategies such as substance abuse. But why does it matter? Apparently, comorbidity is more of a rule rather than an exception since this tends to occur frequently. Aside from that, it is important to take note of this when studying specific disorders (maybe kind of like isolating the independent variable or something), and understanding comorbidity could help to prevent the onset of certain mental disorders (in the case that one is proven to actually be a risk factor in developing the other). It is important to also take into account that comorbid patients may experience a worse course of illness overtime since one might worsen the symptoms of the other. Lastly, it also has implications when it comes to treatment since one might need to be addressed before the other, or in some cases that I've heard of, they might have to be careful in giving medications since they might counter one illness but worsen the other (Hall et al., n.d.). From what I have heard, depression and anxiety seems to be a common combination. So what do you think of this new information? What other popular combinations of mental disorders have you heard of?

Link if you’re interested:

http://nceta.flinders.edu.au/files/9012/5004/2

You can look at my friends’ reaction on the pieces of trivia under the cut!

Reaction to the trivia about mental health law in the Philippines: “Today, we learned about the mental health law in the Philippines, and its implications for the people. It was truly interesting knowing that there are existing policies that show regard for our mental well-being.”

Reaction to the trivia about DSM-5: “Who would’ve known that there is a book that records all types of mental disorders? It is rather fascinating!”

Reaction to the trivia about depression versus sadness: “We learned that depression never equates to sadness, and vice-versa. Very enlightening, considering that there are many misconceptions between feeling depressed, feeling sad and having the disorder.”

Reaction to the trivia about comorbidity: “Comorbidity is much more common that anyone would think. Must be very difficult to deal with it.”

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

22nd May >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on John 16:20-23 for Friday, Sixth Week of Easter: ‘I shall see you again’.

Friday, Sixth Week of Easter

Gospel (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)

John 16:20-23

Your hearts will be full of joy that no-one will take from you

Jesus said to his disciples:

‘I tell you most solemnly,

you will be weeping and wailing

while the world will rejoice;

you will be sorrowful,

but your sorrow will turn to joy.

A woman in childbirth suffers,

because her time has come;

but when she has given birth to the child she forgets the suffering

in her joy that a man has been born into the world.

So it is with you: you are sad now,

but I shall see you again, and your hearts will be full of joy,

and that joy no one shall take from you.

When that day comes,

you will not ask me any questions.’

Gospel (USA)

John 16:20-23

No one will take your joy away from you.

Jesus said to his disciples: “Amen, amen, I say to you, you will weep and mourn, while the world rejoices; you will grieve, but your grief will become joy. When a woman is in labor, she is in anguish because her hour has arrived; but when she has given birth to a child, she no longer remembers the pain because of her joy that a child has been born into the world. So you also are now in anguish. But I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy away from you. On that day you will not question me about anything. Amen, amen, I say to you, whatever you ask the Father in my name he will give you.”

Reflections (7)

(i) Friday, Sixth Week of Easter

At the beginning of today’s first reading from the Acts of the Apostles, the risen Lord says to Paul in the course of his mission in Corinth, ‘Do not be afraid to speak out… I am with you’. So many times in both the Jewish Scriptures, the Old Testament, and in the gospels, the Lord says to people, ‘Do not be afraid… I am with you’. Speaking to Paul, the Lord does not make little of the opposition Paul will encounter in preaching the gospel in Corinth. The Lord’s words to Paul, ‘do not allow yourself to be silenced’, presupposes that there are people who are trying to silence Paul, and that becomes evident further on in that reading. Some members of the Jewish community drag Paul to the Roman governor in Corinth on trumped up charges. The opposition is real, but the Lord says to Paul, ‘do not be afraid… I am with you’. This is the message that Jesus gives to his disciples in the gospel reading as well. He acknowledges the pain and sorrow that the disciples are experiencing and that lies ahead for them, ‘you will be weeping and wailing… you will be sorrowful… you are sad now’. Yet, Jesus also says to them, ‘I will see you again’. In other words, ‘I will be with you’. Because of his presence to them, Jesus says to them, ‘your hearts will be full of joy, and that joy no one will take from you’. In both readings the Lord assures us that his presence to us will help us to get through whatever negative experiences come our way. It is good for us to hear that simple but profound message in these difficult days. We are not on our own. The Lord is with us and he will give us the strength to get through these demanding days. Indeed, according to the gospel reading, in the midst of so much that can understandably make us sad and sorrowful, the Lord can give us a share in his own risen joy because of his sustaining presence to us.

And/Or

(ii) Friday, Sixth Week of Easter

In the gospel reading, Jesus is again speaking in the setting of the last supper, the night before he was crucified. He is aware that his disciples are in great distress at the prospect of his leaving them. Jesus compares their suffering to that of a woman in childbirth. The pain of childbirth is for the mother the prelude to the birth of new life. Her suffering heralds the joy of looking upon her new born child for the first time. In a similar way, Jesus is saying, the suffering of his disciples is the prelude to the joy of new life. Their sorrow at Jesus’ departure will very quickly give way to their joy at his coming back to them again as risen Lord and through the Holy Spirit. Jesus is referring here to the joy of Easter. It is more than just ordinary human happiness, which, inevitably, passes away. The joy Jesus speaks about endures. As Jesus says to his disciples in the gospel reading, it is a joy that ‘no one shall take from you’. This is the joy we are all invited to savour in this Easter season and, indeed, every day of our lives. It is a joy which is the fruit of our relationship with the Lord, a sharing in the Lord’s own joy. It comes from the conviction that the risen Lord is with us, is among us and is within us. It flows from the experience of his great love, a love that is stronger than sin, stronger than death, a love that shines brightly in every darkness. When Paul wrote his letter to the church in Philippi from a Roman prison he is full of this Easter joy, in spite of his grim situation. His joy flows from his total conviction that, as he states in that letter, ‘I can do all things through him who strengthens me’.

 And/Or

(iii) Friday, Sixth Week of Easter

One of the greatest of human joys is the birth of a child. The joy of the child’s father and mother at the moment of birth has a unique quality about it. For the mother, the trials and labours of pregnancy and childbirth are forgotten, momentarily at least, when her child is born and she looks upon him or her for the first time. When Jesus looked for a human experience of joy that captured something of the joy of his resurrection, it was to the joy of childbirth that he turned. In this morning’s gospel reading, Jesus speaks in the awareness of the deep sorrow that his disciples are experiencing at his forthcoming death, ‘you will be weeping and wailing... you will be sorrowful’. His death which was to happen on the following day would be a truly traumatic and devastating experience for them. Jesus acknowledges that dark reality, but he also looks beyond that painful experience of his death to the wonderful event of his resurrection, and he assures his disciples that their sorrow will turn to joy. They will experience a joy akin to the joy of a mother at the birth of her child. New life, in whatever form, is always a cause of joy. We are destined to share in the Lord’s new life, his risen life, beyond death, when our joy will be complete. Yet, Jesus assures his disciples and us that we can begin to taste something of that joy here and now because the risen Lord sees us, is present to us. Insofar as we are open to his presence and really take to heart the Lord’s words to Saint Paul in the first reading, ‘I am with you’, we will begin to experience something of that heavenly joy that awaits us.

 And/Or

(iv) Friday, Sixth Week of Easter

In the gospel reading, Jesus tells his disciples that they will soon experience great sorrow, but later on they will experience great joy. ‘You will be sorrowful, but your sorrow will turn into joy’. They will be sorrowful because Jesus is soon to be put to death, but their sorrow will turn into joy when Jesus rises from the dead and comes back to them. Their sorrow will give way to joy. We all know both sorrow and joy in our lives. Sorrow is associated with times of loss and bereavement, loneliness and isolation. Joy is associated with experiences of communion, of togetherness, of being present to those who have become significant for us. In times of deep sorrow it can be hard to envisage times of joy. Yet, the gospel reading this morning suggests that sorrow is not destined to have the last word. Jesus says to his disciples and to all of us, ‘Your sorrow will turn into joy’. ‘The Lord is risen’, and because we live in the presence of the risen Lord, we know that life is stronger than death, and joy will triumph over sorrow. The Holy Spirit is the Spirit of the risen Lord, and Paul speaks of joy as the fruit of that Spirit. This joy is the deep-seated joy which comes from knowing that we can do all things in the risen Lord who strengthens us.

 And/Or

(v) Friday, Sixth Week of Easter

In the gospel reading Jesus acknowledges that what is to happen in the following hours, his passion and death, will bring great sadness to his disciples. ‘You will be weeping and wailing… you will be sorrowful… you are sad now’. They would experience a sense of loss when Jesus returns to the Father and that loss would bring them a great deal of sorrow. We have all known the sorrow and sadness that comes from a sense of loss. It might be the loss of a loved one through death, or having to let go of someone we are fond of to another person, or some loss of health or energy or mobility. Loss in all its forms generates sadness. Jesus makes a very firm promise to his sorrowing disciples, ‘your sorrow will turn into joy… I shall see you again, and you hearts will be full of joy’. The Lord tells his disciples that sorrow will not have the last word; rather joy will have the last word because in and through his death he will be present to them in a new way. The Lord’s presence to us will see to it that sorrow will not have the last word in our lives either. He can fill the emptiness caused by our many losses. He has come full of grace and truth and we are invited to receive from his fullness, grace upon grace. In times of sorrow and loss we can hold on with confidence to the Lord’s promise, ‘your sorrow will turn into joy’.

 And/Or

(vi) Friday, Sixth Week of Easter

We have all known sorrow in the course of our lives. Very often our sorrow will be associated with some loss, the loss of a loved one who moves on from us in one way or another, the loss of some hope or expectation we had, the loss of our health or of some work that was important to us. In this morning’s gospel reading, which is set in the context of the last supper, Jesus acknowledges the sorrow that is in the heart of his disciples, a sorrow that comes from their sense of loss, their awareness that Jesus is moving on from them. Jesus says to his disciples, ‘you are sad now’. Yet, he seeks to encourage them by assuring them that their sorrow will turn into joy because he will see them again. Jesus looks beyond his death to his resurrection, when he will begin to be present to his disciples in a new way. That promise has come to pass for all of us. The risen Lord sees us; he is with us. In the first reading the risen Lord says to Paul, ‘I am with you’. In all our losses the risen Lord is with us. In the sadness which all those losses bring us his presence to us can keep us strong and even joyful.

 And/Or

(vii) Friday, Sixth week of Easter

In the gospel reading this morning, Jesus is very honest about the impact which his death on the following day will have on his disciples, ‘I tell you most solemnly, you will be weeping and wailing... you will be sorrowful’. The death of someone close to us always generates strong feelings of sadness and loss within us. Jesus speaks to his disciples in the awareness that they will experience all these feelings when he is taken from them in death. Yet he also assures them that these feelings won’t last forever. Their sorrow will turn into joy, a joy that no one will take from them, because Jesus will see them again when he rises from the dead. He reassures them that because his death will be an opening to new life, their sorrow and pain will be a prelude to joy, just as the pain of a pregnant woman is the prelude to the joy of new life. Jesus is assuring us all that sorrow and pain and death will not have the last word in our lives either. Because he has triumphed over death and has passed from death to new life all our sorrows, pains and losses will be ultimately transformed by him. Because he is present to us here and now in the power of his risen life this transformation can begin to be experienced here and now. Because he journeys with us as risen Lord, he can say to us, ‘your sorrow will turn to joy’, not just in the life beyond death but on our present life journey. This was something the two disciples on the road to Emmaus discovered, and that we can all discover for ourselves.

Fr. Martin Hogan, Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin, D03 AO62, Ireland.

Email: sjtbclontarf@eircom.net or  revmartinhogan@gmail.com

Parish Website: www.stjohnsclontarf.ie  Please join us via our webcam.

Twitter: @SJtBClontarfRC.

Facebook: St John the Baptist RC Parish, Clontarf.

Tumblr: Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin.

[kenrik]

For those who anti-/rivamika...

Hi. (Because, I like procrastinating.) 

I. My shipping history! When I was in college, I never would have dreamed shipping or even myself liking a guy 5 years older or younger than me. Yuck. Gross I thought it. Which is why the first time I encountered the ship (Community, Jeff x Annie), I cringed at myself because I thought it was weird for shipping a pair at least 10 years apart in age. 

When I was 14, I shipped Sakura and Sasuke because they were perfect together. Cool guy. Sweet (albeit annoying) girl. Plus, they were in the same age group! And they’re so damn cute together. And Sasuke’s so hawt. 

When I was 12, I shipped Sakuno and Ryoma because Sakuno was so sweet and docile. She is so perfect for the cool Ryoma. 

Looking back, my biases really affected my choice of ships. I thought the cool guy should end up with the cute girl who is so obviously in love with him. Pretty telling of how I saw my gender, isn’t it? (Always protected by the strong guy. Always so in love and sacrificial. No own motivations, no own battles.) But damn, I was a starry-eyed girl. Sue me. 

Then, as does everyone, we grow up. Saw the world. Met loads of people. (Both online and in person.) No one can really tell what makes a relationship. So, regardless of what you ship, it all boils down to personal preference. There is no need to beat the other down. I ship RivaMika because of the potential. (Like all my other ships and my non-existent love life... TMI!!!) hahaha! 

II. How I started. a. EreMika Like mostly everyone else, I sailed the EreMika ship. (See my bias towards straight pairings!) It was the cutest thing seeing these kiddies together in the first episodes. Also, I shipped them because I wanted the girl to get what she wanted - the affection of Eren. 

But gradually, as the story progressed - you have to ask, is that really what’s beneath Mikasa’s overprotective attitude over Eren? You know, amid Mikasa’s great strength, she’s still a kid. Immature and rash. It’s not obvious because as a soldier; she follows direct commands. So, these faults of her character are not that obvious. (It became blatantly evident when she had to act on her own in retrieving Eren from the Female Titan.) 

b. Female Titan - Rivamika Entry. HOOKED. I only came to ship Levi and Mikasa following the events of the Female Titan encounter. Of all the rescue operations I’ve watched, this was the most incredible and badass. I instantly had to ship them because of how awesome they were together. (That was my initial thought. After re-watching/re-reading, I realize that Levi did most of the work...)  III. My misunderstandings. a. Levi and Mikasa's characters. i. How Levi really is. Levi is not an abusive maniac. He does not like beating up children. (He does have a hard hand - but that’s a crutch he got for living most of his life in the depths of the underground hell which threatened to kill every ounce of humanity in him.) 

This character has an incredible backstory. (Just like everyone in this remarkably created universe.) But, his is sadder. He never had a moment of happiness. And that instant, that second he did, it was snatched away from him so easily, so quickly. All his life he’s been surrounded by people who couldn’t care any less about those around them. So, don’t you think it’s remarkable that this man who exudes the overused stereotype of “I don’t give a rat’s ass.”, keeps the patches of his fallen comrades? Helped Mikasa save Eren. (Other than helping Mikasa, he did it so willingly because Eren was a part of his squad. He wouldn’t hold back to rescue whatever tinge was left of them.)

It’s incredible that, with what little this man has, with all that he’s lost (and I’m crying just thinking about how a man who never had anything could lose so much), he continues to fight for humanity. 

So, that’s how Levi really is. He’s a tough guy, no doubt. But those that matter - the traits that count, they’re in him a hundredfold. And this is why I admire his character so much. All the humanity that Erwin and the other’s have lost. Levi gained. It’s a remarkable contrast, isn’t it? I will cry an ocean’s fill the day they kill off Levi. (I say when because I believe they really will.)  ii. How Mikasa really is. Regardless of how much we admire this child, she is what she is - a kid. “Gaki.” as Levi so lovingly puts it. 

She is strong, filled with incomprehensible potential. But, she is immature and rash. She lets her emotions get in the way of her duties. (But as you continue into the plot, you see how she’s developed. She’s more toned down. She is able to distance herself from Eren.) 

But, if you were to rate Mikasa to Levi. Mikasa does not even compare. Mikasa is heartless when it comes to those who are not Eren and Armin. Especially in the first season/first arc of the manga. Remember - she had the gall to blame Levi for Eren’s taking during their chase for the Female Titan. 

“If you did your job, Eren would be safe.” She says something like this with so much spite and loathing - to a man who just fucking lost his entire squad in the most horrendous of ways. This is a man who immediately locked up his own remorse, his own feelings of guilt, to get on with the next goal: Save Eren. 

SO. IDK WHAT THE FUCK YOU SHITS ARE SAYING. I’ve tried locking up feelings before. And trust me, that is not a good practice. SO. Who the hell could fucking understand what’s going through Levi’s head? He doesn’t seem to have a confidant. Nor does he seem to be looking for one. 

Mikasa has Eren and Armin. The 104th. She practically had and has a family. She’s been surrounded by love her entire life. So, to blame Levi. To injure him. 

I gravely think we fans aren’t giving Mikasa the shitloads worth of how horrible she’s been to Levi. From promising to beat him up after what he’s done to Eren during the latter’s trial. To blaming the bereaved man for losing Eren. Those may be two incidents. But, both were crucial to Eren’s well-being. Plus, taking into account that in the first parts of the anime/manga - Levi and Mikasa had little to no interactions to begin with. 

I love Mikasa’s development in the manga. But, considering the fact that Levi saved her ass from getting killed by the Female Titan. That he saved her fricking boyfriend/brother loads of times. That he continues to respect her and mentor her. LEVI is obviously the better character. So, no, in the Rivamika ship, you are not allowed to say Levi is the lucky one. Mikasa is the fortunate one; that Levi understands where her anger/rage came from and is able to move past it. 

b. Rivamika. When you have a wrong understanding of the characters, you tend to have a wrong understanding of the ship as well. Initially, I thought Levi was uncaring. I thought Mikasa was cool and just incredible. I thought Levi would beat Mikasa up - hence my previous fanfics. But damn was I mistaken. 

In the anime, there seems to be zero Rivamika. That’s because it’ll happen in the later arcs. But its there more or less. 

Also. The damn art in the anime (first season) is incomparable to the manga. In the 1st season anime, Levi has a baby-bod. Which is... effin not his dang body. In the manga (as seen above), he’s basically a muscular man. They fixed this in season 2. (Yes!) And in the manga, Mikasa looks younger, less mature than her anime version. --- So if there needs to be a Rivamika image that pops into mind, keep in mind the one on top of this post. 

IV. Rivamika (see: appreciation post)

V. Conclusion: Why I Rivamika. a. Potential i. Caring Levi and a maturing Mikasa I just adore Levi. And I love Mikasa. 

Since I adore Levi - I want him to be happy. I want him to lead a life that has been contrary to what he’s been through his entire life. I want him to gain rather than lose. I want him to live for someone, to fight for someone special to him. I want him to stop seeing himself as an instrument for humanity’s survival. After all, if you’re not fighting for something concrete - then why the hell are you fighting? (Right, Jean? LOL.) I have a penchant for sad characters, for the ‘bad’ characters. I believe they are misunderstood; that they aren’t given the development they need. 

But Levi has everything good in him. So, why shouldn’t he be happy? (This is why I ship him with everyone. LOL.) 

Mikasa, I love. She is just incredible. And, most compatible to Levi. She’s uber powerful. She is most likely to understand Levi. (Remember - Levi has no confidant. I doubt Levi/Erwin/Hange talk about their feelings.... They’re people who get the job done after all. So, no need for the mushy stuff.) But as she is, I think the best bet for her to shed off her feelings for Eren and have her affections swayed by someone else is - maturity and distance. 

In the manga, we already see her development. She’s become Levi’s right hand. She back-ups the man. And she understands him. 

I don’t like thinking my ship as “here’s a Levi.” and “here’s a Mikasa.” now fall in love sort. The way I think Levi will fall in love with Mikasa is companionship and understanding. Tea time talks maybe. Being there when he needs a helping hand. Levi as he is, is and has never been in search of romance. Levi is a simple man with zero input on the topic. He only has this vague idea of love and family in the corner of his mind. Something he doesn't think about because for him, it isn't necessary. It isn't what's in front of him. That being said, I think he's one that could grow affection quietly and be satisfied with this alone. He yearns for nothing, he wants for nothing after all. Heck, the man isn’t in search of a friend even. He’ll grow the affection for certain. But, Rivamika sailing will all be in Mikasa’s wheelhouse. 

And, I think Mikasa will fall for Levi once she freaking matures. I say mature because we can hold it as a fact that she already understands Levi in the manga. So, she needs to mature to shed her old feelings. We slowly see this in Eren and Jean’s brawl, where she just lets them fight. (Good times, good times.) Mikasa will fall for Levi only when she realizes how much he’s done for her, for everyone. She’ll fall in love with him after she realizes how much there is to admire in him, after she reassesses what it means to fall in love with another. 

I don’t understand how this will work in canon. But just imagine the possibilities. One headcanon is - they embark to unknown territory. The protagonists are in separate teams. I see Armin in HQ, dealing with military strategy. I see Mikasa training her own squad. I see Levi and Eren joining the frontlines. (This is where the distance I mentioned could develop. - Mikasa can grow, reassess her feelings.) (But crap, I think she’ll only end up missing Eren... :( ) 

(Speaking about Eren. I don’t think he’ll fall in love with Mikasa. From his character - he obviously isn’t looking for one. And second, he never seemed to be attracted to Mikasa at any point of their relationship. He always saw her as a friend, an unwanted nuisance at times. Annie, I’m pretty sure he fancied at one point or the other. - This works with Rivamika because it gives me room to believe that Mikasa will have to move on.)  (But then again, you can never be certain. He could come out one day saying, “Of course I love you. I always have.” I think his relationship with Mikasa opens this door to a frank and casual confession. :O )

ii. The Indefeasible Ackermans The Ackerman line will certainly continue. It’s impossible to think those genes will be lost to humanity forever. One of the two (assuming there are no others) will procreate with someone. So, why not just put them together? 

(Kidding aside.)

I say potential because of the inherent capabilities of these characters. The trajectory of their stories will reach heights unknown. They’ll be doing remarkable feats, journeys, battles. They will save humanity. The thought of their finding love through all it is so damn romantic, I can’t even begin to describe it. It will just be so incredible and heart-wrenching. (To find love in a hopeless place. HA......... ha. Sorry.)

b. Biases i. How I appreciate my gender. It’s easy to pinpoint flaws in depictions of your gender. So in my ships, I quickly take note of this. I love how in obvious ships (EreAnnie, RivaMika), the women are equally or even stronger. 

I love how confident the men are in their own abilities. That Levi doesn’t give a rat’s ass about his height. That the men’s frustration with getting stronger doesn’t stem from jealousy towards their female counterparts, but the struggle to win a life-long battle. 

When I was younger, it’s so obvious that I liked the girls in my ships to be the under in more ways than one. Although I wanted them to develop, they were never allowed to grow more than their male counterpart. In Rivamika, Mikasa could so easily surpass Levi any day now. I also like the fact that Levi is shorter than Mikasa. That’s how you know a man is confident - that he doesn’t mind living up to such an incredible partner. 

(Oh yea, look! For the first time, it’s the man who sacrifices his time and effort for the woman’s sake.) Love RivaMika so gosh darn much.

ii. What I look for in a relationship. EQUALITY AND RESPECT. (including attraction, love, admiration, trust... all that jazz of course.) You get this in Rivamika if appreciated properly. 

All points taken, Rivamika is awesome. If you don’t think so, it doesn’t matter. Just make sure to ship and let ship. If a ship doesn’t suit your taste, look the other way. Don’t be immature and show us how much time you can afford to waste by ranting about a pairing you hate. (And like that, I just wasted a butt load of time... oh no.) 

END. 

[prussianvenom]

Embraced by the Iris

Genji feels unease, he searches out his master in hopes to be comforted, to get his mind off things, to relax

Zenyatta certainly gives him this

It has been a good while since the younger Shimada has come to me.

A good while it's been since I've gotten to enjoy the other's presence.

Of course Genji still has a way to go before he reaches true inner peace and that does require some time to himself. So it is not unusual for me to be bereft of the other, even if it causes some longing in me. Though that is not unusual for me either.

My life has lightened up considerably since the other came into my stead. At first it was frustrating trying to deal with the other, but now that he had calmed down some he was an absolute joy to have around. The ninja is as playful as he is skilled and often will engage me in childish games like hiding my orbs or doing something foolish in an attempt to get me on my feet.

His youthful nature was something I desperately needed when I found him. It was not too long after I had lost my brother that the other started to lighten up around me. I believe he has given me as much peace as I have him.

We have had healed together.

In each other we have found tranquility.

Though I wonder if he realizes this.

I care for him deeply. With the resurgence of his brother I hope I can grant him that last bit of peace he craves, he needs. Unfortunately, now that I’ve met Hanzo I can see why it might be a difficult journey for the both of them. Hanzo talks about wanting redemption but seems to be a very difficult and stubborn person to deal with. It doesn't help that he's at ends with Genji's current being. I want him to see past that, that his brother still remains, even if his form is different.

“Master?”

Ah, speak of the devil. The man enters my room, almost shyly despite his usual confident behavior others.

“What is it my student? Are you feeling alright?”

“I do not think so master. I have that feeling again. That's something off, wrong...misplaced...missing.”

Oh, how unfortunate. Dysphoria. Angela had explained it to me when I told her I was going to be caring for Genji.  I cannot say I understand, being mechanical all my life. That being said, I can emphasize why the transition from flesh and bone to mesh and wire can affect someone's psychological health as such.

“Aaa, perhaps your mind and soul tire. Would you perhaps like to meditate with me? Or would you like to talk about it in depth? I will try to consult you the best I can.”

“I think...I think I would like to discuss it with you master.”

“Of course. What specifically feels off? What feels misplaced?”

“I've….Ive always been at odds with accepting my new body. I thought, or perhaps hoped, that the other members would understand my plight on some level seeing as a majority of them are fixed with mechanical limbs, but…...They don't. I don't know why I thought they would/ Missing a limb and missing one's entire being are very different. To feel a phantom pain of one's arm is nothing compared to feeling the phantom pain of your chest, your legs, your stomach y-”

“Genji.” I cut him off, I do not wish to see him stir himself up needlessly.

“I...I want someone, I want to to talk to someone who…”

“Understands?” I offer.

“Yes.”

“Do you think your teammates do not sympathize?”

“Sympathy and understanding are two very different things.”

“I think you misunderstand sympathy.” I say playfully and the other relaxes some, even chuckles quietly, though still tightly for my liking. “We all live different lives, and we don't always experience events as others would. Some of your teammates might be able to understand you more than others and others might not understand at all. That does not derive from their sympathy to you and your condition either. Imagine it this way my student, picture any of them going through the same thing you did. Do you think they would react the same?”

Genji silently nods and waits.

“What I'm saying Genji, is that, you may never meet someone who truly understands your plight because no one has gone through what you have, and even if they did there's a good chance they would experience it differently than you did.”

The other takes a moment to take in my words before he sits down within arms reach and removes the metal plating covering his face. He is handsome and scarred, inside and out, and thank the Iris that I am lucky enough to see him exposed and vulnerable.

“Thank you master.” He smiles at me before turning his gaze away. “There is something else I wish to discuss, to help ease me, if you will.”

“It would be my pleasure my student.”

“Even surrounded by my friends, people I've known for years and would consider my family, I still feel uneasy, like I don't belong, lonely.”

“Lonely?”

“Yes. It feels contrived, but there are still things I desire, human things, that I desire in my heart. Desires that I feel will go unfulfilled.”

“You are still human Genji,” He smiles “ Could it be you are speaking of romantic desires?”

“Yes, I suppose,” his face is slightly pink, how cute. “I never had any serious relationships when I was younger. I didn't think about love, about being with someone closely until it was too late. Now a man in his thirties, I would like to find someone.”

“What is the problem then? You are quite the catch.” I'm a little disappointed to see that the scowl that began to form on his face only further etched it's way onto his features.

“I'm this. Nobody wants this.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I imagine those who are interested in robotic beings are only interested in full on omnics, and I don't know many others that want a machine of a man.” He jokes, he smiles slightly, tight, trying to and failing in hiding the pain he feels in those words.

“You feel undesirable.”

“Yes.”

“Do you trust me Genji?:

“With my life master.” He does not question the change of subject. His outright devotion to me has me reeling sometimes.

“If you'd like, I can give you a special massage. It might not wipe away your feelings of inadequacy, but perhaps for a moment I can ease the pain. I want you to relax, to feel at ease, perhaps if we put the body at ease than the mind will follow.”

Genji looks at me as if he wants to question my motives. I do not blame him. My motives feel unclear to myself at the moment. I do want to help him. I do want him to be calm and relaxed, and I do want to get rid of his feelings of self-loathing, but I fear that my true intention might veer regardless of how pure hearted it started out as.

He nods, accepting my offer. I pat the ground in front of me and he moves to sit there with his back facing me. I doubt any other person but an engineer could admire this sight like I do. Even if mechanical, you can see the power in his form.

I reach out and carefully push against his spine. As I bring my other hand to press against his shoulder blade I hear a content sigh leave marred lips. The material is strange. Armor and flexible metal mesh combined in a beautiful humanoid form. I can feel the artificial strands of muscles relax under my fingers as I continue across his back and along the sides of his neck. My curiosity gets the best of me as I push a finger underneath the armor plating of his shoulder blades, my fingertips dancing along the wires that lay there. Genji flinches and his breath hitches but otherwise he says nothing. My other hand pushes under the opposite shoulder blade. The mechanisms are warm and the wires appear to be receptive if Genji's small restrained reactions are anything to go by.

I can't help but wonder what I'm doing to him. If I was causing him pain I'm sure he'd tell me, same goes for if I was causing him discomfort. Yet he says nothing about my exploration. I push deeper until I'm able to massage the wires steadily with my hands. Mindlessly, or perhaps not, I let a little spark of static flow out from my fingers. Genji jolts, the noise leaving his throat foreign. He stays in place. His breathing is deeper, erratic. I cannot tell if I'm easing him or unintentionally riling him up more. Seeing him like this has stirred something inside me as well. Consciously or not so, again, I'm not so sure, I blink into another state of mind, arms forming a ring behind me. Only when one of the hands touch Genji's sides does he move away. Only then do I become aware of the hands, manifested in my desire to touch more. His face is red and he looks shocked when he sees the multitude of arms, some of which are already fading back into nonexistence.

“Is something wrong my student? Have I misstepped our boundaries?” I certainly hope not. I would be horrendously bereaved if destroyed any chance of seeing my student so open again.

“N-not exactly.” His face gets redder and he looks off to the side again. I regard him for a moment, studying him carefully. He refuses to make eye contact with me and he seems embarrassed.

Oh…

Ohhhh…

Oh my.

This certainly wasn't what I intended when we started.

“Are you aroused Genji?”

“Master!”

“Am I wrong?” Genji laughs brokenly and hides his face in his hands.

“You are horribly blunt.”

“Have you known me to beat around the bush?”

“No I suppose not. You are as brazen as ever.”

“You are avoiding my question Genji.” He goes quiet, he removes his hands to fidget at his sides.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I was not aware your body was outfitted to do such things.” Genji smiles and awkwardly scratches his neck.

“Angela wanted to make me as human as possible.”

“Did they succeed?”

“Master!”

“Was that inappropriate? I apologize for my curios-”

“No! It's fine.” His face is as red as my sash at this point.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying teasing the other. He's in a better mood now, so regardless, I'm thankful.

“I do not mean to embarrass you Genji.” I lie.

“ Of course, I, I understand master.” there's a moment where we just behold each other quietly before either of us speak.

“Master, if I may?”

“Yes Genji?”

“While we’re on this subject. Can...can omnics engage in sexual activity? Or is that another thing that makes me unlike you?” I chuckle deeply.

“There are a great many things that make us unlike each other. That is not one of them. Omnics can, if they so desire, engage in sexual contact. If they are not already, they can be outfitted with  genitalia of their choosing.”

“Are you?” Hm? How unexpected.

“Outfitted for such activities I mean.” I had not expected this. What does he hope to do with such knowledge? Is he interested in me? Though that could be wishful thinking on my part and he is just as curious of my form as I am of his.

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh,” He gives me a heated look.”Have you felt arousal?”

“Yes,” I pause, “ I feel it now.” His eyes widen and he stiffens.

Perhaps that was the wrong answer. I know my bluntness can be embarrassing for the other. We share another tightly wound silence before I offer him a seat before me again.

“Would you like to continue our massage? Or have I made things awkward?”

Genji doesn't answer, he considers something before sitting in front of me again. The arms knowingly manifest themselves this time and I get back to work once more. My actual hands traced up the ridges of his spine, the golden ones pushed under various plates to grope at sensitive wiring underneath. Genji sighs breathily and leans back into my embrace. With him closer I can feel more of him.

“I-it's hot.”

“The hands?”

“Yes.”

“Is it bad?”

“Oh god no.”

Genji moans and I feel the urge to see something else parting those lips. It's a shame I do not have lips because I greatly desire to press them to his. One of the hands reaches up to gently push against the cyborg's lips. They're soft, plush, warm. He gasps at foreign contact. I let out a wave of electricity through my limbs, shocking him, jolting him in my arms. The nonphysical hands push deeper into the wiry mechanisms of his body. His voice gets louder and I get more reckless with the Iris. For a moment I touch beyond physical and Genji lurches forward and out of my touch. Genji turns around quickly and stares at me with wide questioning eyes. For someone as old as he, he looks younger than I technically am. Innocent even.

“W-what was that?”

“My apologies, with the Iris I touched what can be considered your soul.”

Genji crawls back into my embrace, facing me now.

“It felt...I'm not sure...I..”

“I understand Genji, being embraced the Iris is, indescribable.”

“Master..” He inches closer, I can feel his breath against my face.

“I think such titles are inappropriate at the moment Genji.” Genji smiles slyly and looks his age for once.

“Zenyatta.”

I feel an electrical trill, something akin to a shiver, run up my spine. It isn't the first time he's said my name, but this is the first time I've heard it said so….lewdly.

“Zenyatta, can I kiss you?” I laugh.

“I do not see how, but feel free to do as you wish.”

He smiles and presses his lips against the golden plating of what would be called my face. I can feel the heat as he pushes closer until his chest is pressed to mine. I fell a bit ridiculous on his part. To kiss unmoving metal has to be strange? Wouldn't it?

I put the hands forth again, now massaging and caressing the inside of his chest and torso. He breaks his kiss to pant and moan wetly against my face.

“Genji.” I try to get his attention. I run one of the hands up his thigh. “Genji would you like to experience it first hand?” He looks confused, eyes dazed and hazy.

“Experience what?” “Omnic love making.” His eyes take on a dangerous glint in the low light and he wraps his arms around my neck.

“I would love nothing more Zenyatta.” The hands flicker brightly in conjunction with my excitement and Genji chuckles. “And it appears you do too.”

The hands are removed from his chest, at least a majority of them are, and replaced on the man's thighs and posterior. With my real hands I grope the metal plating caressing the conjunction of his groin. Genji gasps and grinds into the palm of my hand.

“Genji, have you used these parts before?” He shakes his head pathetically.

“I was busy finding peace. I did not think to-”

“You didn't even think of trying it out? As a human man, especially one like yourself, I thought you would have at least given it a try.”

“A-Are...Are you making fun of me?” He chides playfully.

“Of course not my student. I just thought, surely, in the lonesome of the temple you would have relieved yourself of your frustrations.”

A fluorescent hand crawls down his back into the seam of his backside. With the material hand I find the switch on the groin plating to release it. Genji squeals as his genitals are exposed for the first time. He looks down to inspect himself. I give him a moment to take this unknown part of himself in. He moves his hand off my shoulder to travel in between his thighs. His eyes widen when he finds that he is equipped with both genitals. I give him another moment to take that in. It's probably shocking as a man. So I say nothing and caress him gently with the hands of the Iris.

“I….I-i have a vagina?”

“It is not uncommon to be outfitted with both.”

“Angela-”

“Probably did not want to assume your preference.” He whimpers quietly as he pushes a finger pass the wet lips of his synthetic vagina.

“I-it's so sensitive.”

My patience is being tested.

I want to touch him, to replace his hand with my own. I want to give him pleasure beyond belief.

“Do you need a moment?” His eyes snap back to me as if he had forgotten I was there.

“No...I want to see you too.” His hands grab mindlessly at the sash around my waist.

“Impatience is unbecoming.”

“Don't lecture me on patience,” Genji smirks. “Especially when you are so close to losing it. Not to mention you're the one who initiated it.” He can read me so well. Pity, I thought I was doing a fine job trying to hide my excitement.

I lean back and let the sparrow do as he pleases with my clothes. He sits back for a moment to inspect me the same.

“You have both also.”

“Yes I fig-AHhh!” He cuts my sentence short by plunging 2 whole fingers inside me.

“You're so wet and warm~. So hard master~.” My hips lift subconsciously. I grab his wrist weakly in an attempt to stop the sudden onslaught on my body.

“Genji, my sparrow, this is supposed to be about you. If you, ah, if you please, I would like to c-continue my massage.” Genji pouts and retracts his fingers and he leans back.

“Ok then, how should I be? Or rather, how do you want me?~” Genji winks.

“For your comfort I would suggest you lay down.”

I'm absolutely mesmerized as his lithe body stretches and lays itself before me. Once he's situated I smooth my hands down the expanse of his torso and lay them on his hips The hands manifested take place on his thighs, soothing and caressing, searching for every sensitive node hidden in the mechanical intricacies of his body. Two hands press closer in between his thighs as I inch another closer to his cock.

“Z-zen please.”

“Please what my sparrow? You have to voice your thoughts clearly for your desires to be heard.”

Genji groans and tosses his head back in frustration.

“Touch me, please.”

“I am touching you Genji.”

“Master.” Genji glares at me, though it hardly has any heat behind it.

“Yes my sparrow?”

Genji grabs my silver wrists and placed my hands on his cock, hissing in relief as he does so. I feel giddy at this man, 14 years my elder, impatiently struggle to get off. I wrap one hand loosely around his cock and move two of my other hands to pull his pussy wide open with my thumbs. He moans high in his throat and bucks against me. A material hand and a golden hand press his hips down against the wooden floor. With the last 3 hands  I caress every imaginable inch I can of the cybernetic body. Genji's crying, moaning, sweetly and openly, struggling so sweetly against the hands holding him. Carefully, gently, teasingly I push the tips of my thumbs into the entrance of his pussy. He whines and tries to thrash about more.

“How does it feel my sparrow? To have both?”

“I,” He laughs breathlessly. “I'll have to t-thank Angela later.”

“Good?”

“I-it's so good m-master.” I accidentally push a thumb deeper than intended. Genji gasps and smiles brightly up at me.

“Saying master is inappropriate huh?”

“Chirpy little sparrow aren't you?” Genji laughs, a laugh which bites off into a groan as I pull apart the wet muscular walls of his pussy.

“I-it's not e-enough master.”

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“I want you inside m-me, I-i want you to fuck me.” Genji tosses and whines.

“How blunt of you my sparrow.”

“Not o-one to beat a-around the bush.”

“Are you sure? You don't want to be stretched first?”

“D-don't imagine a-artificial flesh can tear that easily and besides,” Genji moves to push a couple fingers inside with my thumbs. “Look how wet I am.~”

I retract my hands. Does this man know the power he holds over me? Years building iridescent patience is crumbling quickly at his hands, crumbling at the hands of a simple broken man.

“Genji, you are far too flippant with your body.”

My words betray my actions as my fingers push deeper inside his pussy along with his own.

“Just imagine how Angela would react if I had to bring you in because of your excitability. Imagine how she would look at us. How upset she would be if I destroyed such a beautiful creation of hers. Do you want that?” Genji throws his head back against the floor.

“Master pl-please.” Genji whines and pulls my wrist, gagging to have my fingers deeper.

“Does it feel that good my student?”

Even in his haze he still nods his affirmation and mutters praise to me in his native tongue. There are not many times where I wish I had a more humanoid shape, but this is certainly one of those rare moments where I desperately crave.

I want to kiss him, to trace the crevice of his mouth with a tongue of my own. I want to mark him. I am not granted many possessions, but I want him to be one of them, I want to own him. I want him to be mine and mine alone. Only this creature of metal and flesh can incite such dark and powerful feelings inside of me.

All hands join where my fingers are inserted. Genji's eyes widen and he is struck mute when he sees 8 golden hands approach his dripping opening.

“Ze-Zenyatta?” His voice is trembling with excitement bordering fear. Maybe this is not the best course of action but even my own mind is hazy and I cannot find it in myself to care.

“I would not fret sparrow, after all it is as you said,” fingers from all hands, from all sides, press slowly against his cunt.” I don't imagine artificial flesh can tear that easily.”

Genji's jaw falls slack as 8 fingers very abruptly enter his wet, wet pussy. Its secreting a green luminescent fluid I assume is his body's natural lubricant, and i find myself weirdly entranced by it. Entranced by the way it leaks out and down the seam of his ass and puddles onto the floor. Entrance by the stream crawling down my fingers to my wrist all the way down to my elbow.

I believe I'll have to extend my gratitude to Angela as well.

Genji choked on his tongue as his hips twitched sporadically, unsure whether or not to rock into the fingers or flinch away.

“How does it feel my student?” Genji lifts his head to stare at me with bright gleaming eyes. I can see tears brimming at the edges.

“T-too much~.” the cyborg chokes out.

“I thought you wanted more sparrow.” I tease a ninth finger around the spread edge. Genji tenses and sobs out a broken sound.

“F-f-fuck p-please Zenyatta.” A tear finally cascades down the scarred cheek of my precious bedmate and I feel shamelessly proud.

“My sweet, sweet 緑のスズメ.” Genji cries out and throws himself back against the floor. “You have to use your words or I cannot give you what you want.” Genji pauses and looks at me, truly looks at me, as if he were looking into me.”

“म तिमीलाई चाहन्छु”

The energy that surges through my body fizzles the luminescent hands and travels through Genji's body. We both gasp and groan at the sensation.

I had no idea.

I feel a warmth not attributed to arousal bloom within in the wires powering me. I am awash with endearment as the harsh Nepali is repeated through my mind.

“Of course, I apologize for my teasing sparrow. I had briefly forgotten that this is to relax you.”

I allow the hands to retreat from his stretched entrance to hold him. They pull him closer, cares his thighs slowly, gently. I let my own hardness rest against his entrance before I slowly press the head of it forward. Genji sighs and wraps his legs around my waist loosely. I take a moment before pushing in completely. The heat is something I don't think I could ever have imagined, the only thing comparable would be the Iris itself.

“How is it Genji?” The nin shoots a half-cocked smirk up at me and shifts hips closer to mine, wiggles his ass against me.

“You, you were built well.” I chuckle and start a slow pace.

I treat my movements like a gentle wave, and receive pleasure as like. It feels like an ocean of molten heat running through my body and lights up my circuits.

The embrace of the Iris heightens every sense and covers us both with a warm light. More hands begin to manifest and cover the cyborg in tantalizing and fleeting hot touches. Genji braces his hands on the floor and tries to set his own pace, faster his body begs. I am all too happy to appease. Hands lift his waist, angle him, pull him forward for a faster more desirable pace. Genji bites his lip and claws at the floor.

Metallic slaps join his voice in the broken rhythmic song our actions are creating. I lose control of pace and very quickly my own awareness. Things began to blur at the edges with blinding light. Genji appears in the same state through the haze. His hands curl around two of the many hands covering him. He's sobbing pleasure and I can feel deep inside him that he is close.

“Genji are y-”

“H-hai! A-a little more.~”

I curl over to press my face against his. it's the closest sentiment I can get to a kiss. Genji latches onto my neck and pulls my face closer, pressing sloppy wet kisses against it as he jerks violently in my grasp, panting hotly against my face as his insides clamp almost painfully around my length as he stills and rolls through his orgasm.

My vision burns and blacks out as I follow quickly after. When it comes back to I'm greeted with the sight of Genji, now free of the golden array of hands, panting and looking up me dazedly. He is, he is perfect and I've never been so happy in my life. This moment is precious, it is precious and everything I could ever desire in this world.

“愛する人よ、いかがお過ごしですか” The green hair tussles as he laughs. Most likely at my subpar Japanese. His hands trace the slight scratches left in the metal of my face.

“म शानदार छु, धन्यवाद”’

“Your Nepali has improved drastically. When have you been practicing?” The other giggles childishly and kisses me gently.

“Whenever I could find the time, I may have put off some meditation to do so.”

“Mm? For my sake? Genji you s-”

“I shouldn't have? It paid off didn't it?” He grins impurely. I laugh and pull out carefully, not wanting to touch anywhere too over sensitive. He sighs happily and pulls me to lay next to him.

“Do omnics get tired too?”

“Yes, I am anything but though.”

“Ah, a reinvigorating massage for you, a tiring one for me.”

“Genji.”

“Yes my master?”

“I know my feelings are not so easily understood but-”

“I understand your feelings Zenyatta. I know that you wouldn't have done something like this unless you harbored well,” He turns onto his side, the setting sun behind him, like a halo. “The same feelings I did. I wouldn't have asked such things if I didn't think this would be the outcome.”

“So am I to believe this is your way of confessing?” Genji laughs lowly.

“This comes to me a lot easier than words do.”

“I hope that doesn't stay the case, I wish you to be able to talk to me freely.”

“ I already do.”

“A lot of that is my interpretation of what you're trying to say.”

“And you interpret me so well.” I snort and run a hand through his hair.

“I hoped I helped?”

“Oh definitely, I'll have to repay you for such a lovely massage.”

“Oh? Do you have something in mind?”

“Wouldn't you like to know.” I laugh.

I shouldn't encourage him. Shouldn't encourage this behavior.

Though….

I suppose it couldn't do much harm….

We all deserve to be selfish sometimes.

[universe-on-her-shoulders]

You've awoken a creative flow. Set after "Name of the Doctor". Eleven pulls Clara out of his timestream, and as she recuperates, Eleven ponders the meaning of what she did. Having been in love with her since the monk outfit, he wonders if what she did had more meaning than just saving him. That maybe more than Rose or even Sarah Jane, maybe this is the one who might just be his soulmate. When Clara awakens, she says she has feelings, but doesn't know if it's love per se. 11 accepts that for now.

Clara is warm and heavy in his arms, but that’s not a complaint. If anything, it’s quite the opposite: a reassurance, an affirmation that she’s still alive. She’s as limp as a rag doll, sure, but he can feel the soft huffs of her breath ghosting over the fabric of his shirt as he carries her out of his own personal hell, past River’s world-weary data ghost, and back to the TARDIS. His muscles scream and his arms complain that they weren’t cut out for carrying nannies across battle-torn planets, but then he reaches the medbay and sets her down on a bed, and his own discomfort is forgotten at once as she becomes his priority.

It’s been a while since he’s needed to do this, to medically treat a companion, but he remembers the motions of it. Check her vitals. Connect her to an IV drip to try and energise her, apologising as the needle breaks her skin. Wrap her up warm, tucking the blanket around her with the utmost tenderness. He’s done that part before, back in her house so many months ago, and he remembers how she’d smiled shyly at the biscuits and flowers he’d left at her bedside, so he fetches those and arranges them on the table next to her bunk. The bright, lurid pink of the flowers is a stark contrast to the cool, clinical white of the medbay and the pallor of Clara’s skin, but he tries not to think about how ill she looks; how she limped towards him; how she fell into his arms, overwhelmed. Instead he cups her cheek in his palm, smiling sadly as he skims his thumb over the arc of her cheekbone.

“My Clara,” he hums, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You’re safe. You saved me, and I saved you.”

What she did… there is no doubt she has saved him, in every possible sense of the words. She acted without concern for herself, diving into the timestream with the intent on saving him from a million deaths at the hands of the Great Intelligence. She had been willing to give up everything she had to save him, and he can’t help but feel his hearts clench a little at the implications of her actions. What they could mean. Because although he can scarcely admit it to himself, he loves her. When she steps into the TARDIS and smiles at him, it’s like nothing else matters: not Gallifrey, not his past bereavements, not anything outside those doors. The universe narrows down to Clara Oswald: making her smile; making her happy; holding her in his arms. And maybe flirting, not that he’d ever admit to that, but it’s something that he does sometimes, and he wonders if she notices.

He sighs, sinking into a chair that the TARDIS has helpfully materialised next to Clara, and he takes her hand in his, intertwining their fingers. “Be OK,” he half-prays, half-asks. “Please.” 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he realises he must’ve, because someone is squeezing his hand and saying his name weakly.

“Doctor?” 

He remembers where he is and whose hand is in his and snaps to attention at once, opening his eyes and smiling at her with tearful relief. “Hello,” he tells Clara, who looks exhausted but somewhat more human. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” she mumbles, looking down at where their hands are still linked. “That’s…”

“Sorry,” he says at once, and goes to let go, but she shakes her head. “Is that… OK?”

“Of course it’s OK,” she assures him, closing her eyes and curling up on the bed, whimpering as she does so. “Ow. Everything hurts, Doctor.”

“The Time Winds can do that,” he tells her, getting to his feet and fumbling for the sonic with his free hand, scanning her apprehensively. “You’re on the mend, though. Thank Rassilon. You gave me quite the scare.”

“Don’t be daft,” she looks up at him and arches an eyebrow in defiance, but he can see the fear in her eyes. “Big scary Time Lord worried about one tiny human?” 

“Very worried,” he admits, and the teasing look on her face dies in an instant. “Terrified, in fact. I can’t… I can’t lose you.”

“You’re not going to.”

“I almost did,” his voice cracks, and he looks away in embarrassment. “And it…”

“Doctor, what aren’t you telling me?”

“How do you…”

“I always know.”

“Clara,” he sighs, knowing he needs to be honest. “Clara, I just… I can’t lose you because I care about you very deeply. In a way that is more than friendly. And I suppose I hoped that because of what you did… that maybe…”

“I do,” she interjects. “Oh, I do, I just…” she yawns, and he understands at once. “This might be a conversation to have another time.”

He can’t think of a coherent response, because his hearts are racing out of control, and she’s smiling at him exhaustedly.

“Can you…” she looks a touch embarrassed as she scoots carefully over in the medical bed, patting the space beside her. “Could you just lie here with me for a bit?”

“Yeah,” he manages, after a moment, clambering up and arranging himself beside her, feeling her cuddle into him and lay her head on his chest. “Comfortable?”

“Mm. Safe.”

[whaq]

How Do You Write Like You're Running Out of Time: Hamilton and Me

I. Just You Wait

Hamilton was alright. Not the best opener is it? I’m not referring to the show, I meant the opener to this verbose verbal vomit. The musical was typical fare, all things considered. Lin Manuel Miranda is the farthest thing from a good singer. I believe anyone singing his praises should take a listen to his rendition of Jesus Christ Superstar’s Gethsamane. Talk about taking your shot… to the gut.

It still kinda baffles me how a show so unexpectedly and unremarkably unprovocative found such a huge cult following; the likes of which the musical world has yet to match since. Overlooking the novelty of a Founding Father finessing like the Fresh Prince, the musical fits the mold of presenting the concepts of rap and immigrants for the first time to the aristocratic white people (y’know the ones, they probably called it “hippity-hop” and are currently collecting their stimulus check amid the pandemic) who could actually afford it.

There’s a lot to be said when it comes to meta-textual analysis. Contrary to the marketing’s emphasis on “The Room Where It Happened” seemingly depicting a story meant to peek behind the curtain of politics, the eponymous song actually does present a better alternative to House of Bars (alternative jokes include: The West Side, Bars & Recreation, and The Fire).

II. The Room Where It Happens

There’s an element of mysticism that surrounds the number ‘The Room Where It Happens” thanks to the inconsistently charismatic narrator of the show: Aaron Burr (Sir--). With only the three gentlemen involved with that day’s events being in that room, much of the going-on’s details are shrouded in mystery. No servers, no stenographers, spies, nor sluts, to witness history in the making. It’s any wonder how history gets recorded at all! Question of the hour...

Hamilton’s downfall in the play, all leading up to his descent into the proverbial ‘Hurricane,’ would not be as impactful if not for his most precious desire. We’ve seen it first-hand, all politicians need to do during a scandal is to “talk less, smile more.” Although... $130,000 in hush money excluded from your tax returns should do the trick-- [President Obama complete remarks at 2015 White House Correspondents' Dinner (C-SPAN) 16:48 - 16:59] No, not if you want to protect your legacy.

III. Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?

There are many perspectives on the subject of how one lives on well past their time on Earth, and Hamilton has its fair share. Aaron Burr references a fallen colleague of his being given a street named after him and how it makes his “legacy secure.” Making idols, commemorations, names on a parchment, the epitome of memorability. You may be gone, but your name remains physically engraved on plaques and local parks.

At first, it seemed like Alexander also subscribed to a similar outlook. By imprinting himself on literature, legislature, and ladies, he found a way to almost literally leave his mark on everything he’s had his hands on. Hell, the show left out the relevant factoid that his 2nd freaking son was his junior. He’d rather die than let the Hamilton name Burr away, and that’s exactly what he did.

That being said, it doesn’t take a keen eye to realize that the self-destructive behavior these men exhibit isn’t exemplary by any means. The play depicts the consequences of the paths these men take. Burr ends up being painted as an apolitical squirrel, Alexander a self-indulgent tomcat. While their legacies remain, they’re tarnished by shame. If these great men still strived and struggled to cement their legacies, then what chance do we have?

Many of us, if not most, will barely be but a footnote in history. We can’t all be president, the same book can’t be written twice, there is no solitary thought that has yet to be thought of. However, even with all this in mind, it never stops us from trying, does it?

We still attempt to paint like Gogh, write like Tolkien, or waste human space like 6ix9ine (this was written in July of 2020 and it was dated then too), for life has little meaning or value without purpose; that’s exactly what’s been on my mind: Who will tell my story if I have nothing to leave behind?

IV. Palaces Out of Paragraphs

How do others do it? How do they just snap their fingers and… well-- do? Do what, you ask? Nothing in particular, it is the act of doing that I refer to. With hustle culture being the trend, many people like me have found that making the most out of their existence is a more daunting task than it’s cracked up to be. When others are so good at doing, are you doing nothing in comparison?

I’m not one to judge others so I’ll only be doing so for myself: I believe I have not been doing anything productive with the time I’ve been given. Every waking moment of mine has been spent either attempting to maximize my time and energy to do something worthwhile or bereaving on the lack of my drive to execute. This, however, is obviously an uphill battle for me.

When everything , your mind, your body, and even yourself, are against you, the last tool in the arsenal of human perseverance is the ability to do what one wills. The phrase shouldn’t be “if there’s a will there’s a way,” for many of us have found ourselves in no-win scenarios. Instead the phrase should be “if there’s a will, there’s a way out.” And there is a way out of the rut that is dissatisfaction.

Most conflict within one’s self is the disconnect between our ideal self, who we want to be, and our actual self, who we currently are. One may find themselves longing to become a strong-willed scribbler of scripts like Hamilton, it takes no more than a glance at your reflection to see that, when the rose tint decays, you’re a sniveling Burr. This is where the pain stems from, my pain.

Ambition and reality will always be at odds with one another. When one desires to leap over skyscrapers, actuality reminds you that you can barely skip over an anthill. That’s kind of what has been bothering me. For years I’ve seen those capable of what I could only dream of doing, and that has always bothered me. Not my pride, but my sense of who I really am.

I desire to leave a legacy that depicts me as larger than my life, what I leave behind being greater than what I have done; a kingdom left prospering after my reign. My lofty aspirations extend to being renowned, and contract to being remembered fondly. But the sad reality for I, and many others like me, presents itself: we can’t all make leaps and bounds that impress, most people aren’t so easily enamored.

Not having this in mind has resulted in my complete inability to create and finalize. For a person with each of their toes dipped into a different pool of expertise, I can barely muster up the strength to continue to submerge, much less immerse, myself into any of them. Looking into the dark Mariana Trench of inadequacy one sees as their skillset will induce aquaphobia in many.

Beyond all pretension and rhetoric, my issue is this: I can’t make anything because I fear I will make nothing worth making. This is already the 5th rewrite of this maligned monotribe, that in and of itself exemplifies how I’m not quite past that hurdle. That being said, I’m looking forward to and deciding on taking steps to amend that.

V. Taking Back The Narrative

This text marks the beginning of another attempt at reinvention. With limit tests spanning over the course of two years, involving stressing the definitions of human minimums and maximums, I am content with commencing continued coercion with my consciousness (translation: I’m letting the process of improving continue despite my fear of the absence of such). I took back to writing once more because I needed something to stare at that convinced me I’m capable of the things I want to do, but also that there’s no rushing or forcing things.

It is honestly kinda silly how someone like me, who has made it their life goal to show that passion and wit is enough to get someone through the typical things in life like work, school, and relationships, had to be reminded of that very mission.

I’m not blessed with any genius in particular, and I’m not nerdy Casey Neistat who runs at the speed they can create meaningful and worthwhile content. Holding myself to higher standards was supposed to be a healthy way of preventing stagnation, not a destructive process to kill my motivation.

After going through the Hurricane of my own inner turmoil, realizing that being ‘Lucky to be Alive Right Now’ doesn’t have to come with survivor’s guilt, and that there is no such thing as ‘Running Out of Time,’ for all time cannot be wasted, I’m once again going back into the swing of things. Just like my last relaunches, all beginning with varying degrees of premature declarations, I’ll be doing the same right now.

I have made something

for all intents and purposes

I wrote my way out