#like it no longer feels abstract i can see the story core and now i have to hack away at the clay to see if i can make a figure out of it

[katabay]

earlier this year I started writing a comic about the siege perilous-grail quest situation after finally finishing the didot perceval, and it started circling around kay and perceval. kay as gatekeeper, taboo anxiety vs chivalry, and perceval not doing things "correctly," arthur's enduring affection for kay. that general area. also the horror of the grail quest itself.

this is comic is part of that narrative arc, so with THAT in mind: this is an abridged scene of a longer arc revolving around kay associating camelot with a cage, perceval's associations with jewelry and knighthood and the color red, and arthur's relationship with kay.

[some other scene context: perceval has injured his hand and can't participate in the tournaments, so he's craving some kind of fight. kay is disinterested in replying to this challenge, but he's not above reminding perceval of their first meeting. it's just mean enough in a weird-intimate kind of way that perceval's like, ok so we're doing the antagonistic version of court romance rituals. he picks up hunting because kay can't leave the castle.]

on the subtext of jewelry:

Clothes Make the Man: Parzival Dressed and Undressed, M.D. Amey

on the topic of kay, gatekeeping, and taboo anxiety:

Cei and the Arthurian Legend, Linda Gowans

the whole Red Knight/Perceval Shows Up In A Dead Man's Suit Of Armor transgression-situation (which kay references through red jewelry) mentioned is told in both de Troye's and Wolfram's Perceval narratives :)

anyway! to close out all this out: the transgressions. incredible! what is camelot but a bunch of transgressions stacked on top of each other tbh.

[quiteliterallyilliterate]

If you want another request, how about something with Four? I feel like he is an undertapped Link in the LU x reader fic verse. I also think he fits in well with a bunch of different story types. He has the skills to live a peaceful life at home with a partner, he has the Colors, he also can be small (or a Minish depending on whether you believe his is small or transforms into a Minish), & shadow…. I am not picky whatsoever , but if you are willing, could you do some Four x reader?

Order up!

*ahem* I AM MOST DEFINITELY WILLING. GIVEGIVEGIVEGIVE- I agree with you. This man needs more love. Formatting a little differently this time, let me know what y’all think!

(thanks again to @litrllyvoid for proofreadin’)

Hope you enjoy~

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Long he had lived a simple life. Even with the dramatic disruptions of the world, he could tell it wasn’t a life cut out for him. That grandeur had called to him, and when he responded, there was only judgement in turn. Since he was little, Link had found peace with the small world within his village. Running through uneven grassy hills and causing havoc, hand in hand with you. His arms and legs bruised, but with a full heart and genuine grin. Though, the older he gets, and the more the edges of his memory begin to fray, he wonders if that were truly the case. Perhaps it wasn’t that he was content with the world he was born into. It is on cold mornings such as this where the question burdened him most. Was it life that made him happy, or was it just you?

He burned the thought away, tugging at the fragile nerves that caressed his heart. He shrugged on some clothes with little regard for what he adorned himself with. It wasn’t as if there was anyone to impress— especially when he’d be working for the most of the day.

Each stair step creaked and groaned. His grandfather sat at the table, already eating breakfast. He plucked an apple on his way to sit, its waxy skin once a luxury that would’ve been shared. He no longer needed a knife to split the core in half. The juice tasted less sweet when there wasn’t sweet laughter accompanying it.

“Yikes, bad apple?” His grandfather laughed huskily in reaction to his dismay, crows feet and smile lines etched into his face. How was it that he could find happiness here where Link could not?

“Rough morning.”

“Ah. I see. Please… take a break if you need to” The old man clasped his hands, bony elbows rested on the table. It wasn’t hard to spot the concern in the deepset wrinkles of his grandfather’s face. Link found the strength to nod and move on for the moment.

The dull ache of his arms never faded as he worked. It was to be expected, forging something from an abstract nothing was not a task even the gods found simplistic. Monotonous, sure. There was a rhythm in each strike against the metal, a pattern to be found within the firings.

There was a finality like death in the quench of the blade.

The weight of his work and a life brought to an abrupt end.

And like a body, he decorated the corpse with wood, wrapping it in delicate cloth— a casket of its own.

Creation was not a task meant for mortals, he thinks. Though people often try to make it so, the hollow pain in his joints and sear of his muscles make it apparent. It strains him, though it is what fuels him. There is a sense of grief whenever he hands over a blade he slaved over— a mourning so powerful that no amount of rupees wish away.

It was in such a similar manner that he loved you. With such a sense of fullness and unconditionality, he did not stop to think of a world for which you were not in it. It is foolish of him to long for his childhood just because it was spent hand in hand with you. But he’d give anything to have colors be so bright again and for his smile to be so wide and genuine. It didn’t matter how bruised he’d be, so long as he gained those bruises running down riverbeds with you.

Now, he dressed up the body of those memories. Decorating you in his mind's eye with blue thistles, sprigs of rosemary, wild poppies and violets. Each aspect of him paying homage to their love of you. Of who he can only hope you continued to be.

The blade he held cracked when it was dipped into the water, split in twain. He looked at the jagged edge where the hilt was severed.

He could not find it within himself to remeld the pieces.

It would not be the same again.

He needed to move on.

He was close enough when adventuring with his brethren. There was enough fighting and adrenaline to keep his mind off his wounds. He let himself attach —maybe not in such a similar fashion as he did you— but in a way equally fulfilling.

What a fool he was.

How could he not notice the darkness creeping its way in? The abyss called for his return, sentencing him back to a cage he built. And so, he returned. Back to a life wherein he could reap no joy but couldn’t muster the strength to leave.

He wished he had his brothers. Time to help him forge a plan of escape from the mundane. Twilight to offer assistance in the smaller tasks— so he could manage life just a little bit easier. Sky to boss him into taking a break, even if it were just stretching. Legend to banter with as he worked, taking the weight off of the task. Wild to make use of the end product, to give the life of the blade meaning. Even just the careful eyes of Wind studying what he did. He missed how individual he felt, yet still holding his place among the set. He’d always have a home there, even if he was fundamentally different from his brethren.

He wished he still had a home with you.

You still had a home with him.

If only you’d return to him…

But life is not such a simple endeavour, and he doubts your parents would be content with you marrying some blacksmith, even if he held the title of hero. That was if you weren’t already forced to marry. That was if you still loved him.

He hopes whatever life you’ve been condemned to is happy.

Because if he is not there to protect you from the worst that fate has to offer, he can at least hope that there’s someone there who can.

Even though it isn’t him.

[indierpgnewsletter]

The Axes of TTRPG Game Design

All the way back in Issue #69 of the Indie RPG Newsletter, I linked to a series of episodes from the Ken and Robin Talk About Stuff podcast about the “axes of game design”. I've been thinking about them again recently and thought it might be interesting to look at each one. I'll be referring to the summary on the Pelgrane Press blog as I comment on them.

So the basic exercise is trying to figure out the standard axes or spectrums on which every game can fit. The idea is for these axes to be as descriptive and objective as possible. While there is always going to be debate around the classification of specific games, the idea is that in a perfect world with perfect communication, that debate would have a truly correct answer. We don’t live in a perfect world but I'm happy to discuss things like this forever.

So here we go:

Elegance versus Ornamentation

"A game has Elegance if all of its subsystems work in the same way, stemming from a central resolution mechanic, or is Ornamented if its many subsystems work in different ways"

So the first axis is one of the strongest and makes a great example of the level of objectivity we can hope to achieve here. In some sense, the degree to which a game falls back on a single unified mechanic should be clear and measurable. At the same time, it’s not any indication of how “good” a game is. One-page games are highly elegant but they’re by no means “better” than longer games.

One thing that's interesting is to see where PbtA falls on this spectrum. A game like Monster of the Week is pretty elegant because everything is essentially 2d6+stat. But does the number of moves, especially moves like Big Magic where you negotiate the effects of a spell or ritual, push it toward being more ornamentated?

2. Wide versus Focused

"A game has Width if it supports play equally well over a long progression of power levels, or Focus if it works best at a narrower sweet spot."

I think this is where it’s probably best to start moving away from Hite and Laws’ wording. I think terms like “power level” is a wargame hangover. I think this is better phrased as “kinds of characters”. A game that is Wide is designed for a many kinds of characters. A game that is Focused is designed for specific characters or types of characters.

So you get something like Lady Blackbird (which has a cast of named characters on one side) as Focused and Risus (which is as generic as it gets in terms of character creation) as Wide. And yes, I put D&D 5e in there because I revel in the symphony of a hundred angry keyboards click-clacking away.

3. Directed Emotion versus Emergent Emotion

"A game can have Directed Emotion, stemming from rules that lead you to feel a certain way, or Emergent Emotion, in which the reactions of players and GMs stem from the story content they introduce."

This phrasing is a little clunky because in their discussion, Hite and Laws felt that something like “Emotional versus Detached” was uncharitable. And I understand. But I also think that “Directed versus Emergent” is a bit like saying “Designed versus Undesigned”. I think the premise of the exercise that is “undesigned” isn’t a thing. If we want to describe a game as “neutral” on some axes, it should ideally fall somewhere in the middle. So I propose Hot versus Cool. Hot games try to stoke up emotions in the players. Cool games try to cultivate an air of cool, ironic detachment. They don’t want you to feel too strongly about the events of the game.

(The original article also mentions “Abstract rules for their mathematical or formal attributes, or Emotional rules when they grow out of the feelings they are meant to evoke at the table.” but this feels like it overlaps heavily with this point now.)

4. Applicability versus Versatility

"A game has high Applicability if it is designed for a single highly specific player character core activity, or Versatility if it supports many possible core activities."

This is just Wide versus Focused for mechanics rather than characters. On one hand, they’re separate things. On the other hand, it’s clearly related. It’s a bit hard to imagine how a game might support wide characters with focused mechanics or focused characters but with wide mechanics, right?

5. Simulation versus Emulation

"Games that focus on Simulation resolve events as they would unfold in a causal reality, or engage in Emulation, so that events unfold as they would in a movie or book, to keep the narrative running in a satisfying manner."

I’m not quite sure about this one. I’m struggling to understand which games commit to simulating real world physics. What’s the game on that end of the spectrum? I know OSR games revolve around the GM arbitrating physics impartially but in a game where dragons exist, how seriously do I take that claim? They would probably be in the middle of this axis at best if you ask me.

6. Ease versus Mastery

"A game favors Ease when players can pick it up and run with it right away, or Mastery if it presents complex or elaborate rules or setting material, favoring those who take the time and brainspace to learn it."

For me, the important thing to ask ourselves here is whether the word “player” includes GMs. If it does, all rules-light games that might seen to favour Ease are not so easy anymore. (Which reminds me that I never actually talked about “affordances” as a design concept - an article for another day.) If we limit ourselves to “player facing mechanics”, then yes, I can see the spectrum. The problem is, of course, it looks exactly like my Elegant versus Ornamented spectrum.

What kind of games are Ornamented but don’t reward Mastery? What kind of games are Elegant but don’t favour Ease?

(The original article also uses a "Harmonica vs Violin" axis with Harmonicas being simple to play and Violins requiring more work. I think the overlap here is high.)

7. Canon versus Open

"When it comes to setting, a game oriented around Canon presents a detailed setting with a set continuity meant to instill the same suspension of disbelief we apply to SF and fantasy worlds in traditional media. Open settings arise from the authorship of GM and/or players, with plenty of room to make stuff up as you go along."

This seems really clear. And I think examples might be unnecessary.

8. Randomness versus Choice

"A game or system dependent on Randomness uses die results to work out what happens. A game that privileges Choice has players and GMs decide."

This also seems clear. Some games don’t give players the power to just choose what happens next. Some games push players to decide when they want spend resources to just make a specific thing happen.

Okay, so does that all check out?

[therealbadegg]

One more story as I dont want to swamp you too much with em.

On the outskirts of town, hidden behind a curtain of overgrown ivy and weathered timber, stood an old, dilapidated barn. For years, it had been the secret haven of six inseparable friends: Jack, Emma, Raj, Lily, Zoe, and Mike. The barn was a relic of their childhood, a place where laughter echoed and dreams took flight. They gathered there every summer to escape the world outside. This summer, however, would be different.

One humid July evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the barn’s wooden floor, they convened for what was supposed to be a regular meeting of old friends. But as they settled into their usual spots, a heavy silence enveloped them. Jack, the group’s natural leader, pulled a dusty envelope from his backpack and placed it on the makeshift table.

“I found this in the mail slot,” he said, his voice laced with curiosity and apprehension. The envelope was unmarked, save for the cryptic message written in elegant, flowing script: “To the Six Who Always Return.”

Emma, ever the optimist, offered a reassuring smile as she reached for the envelope. “It’s probably just a prank,” she said, but her fingers shook as she tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a short, haunting note:

“Your time here is ending. When you leave this barn tonight, you will not return. Cherish these final moments.”

A shudder passed through the group. Raj, usually the skeptic, furrowed his brow. “This isn’t funny. Who would do something like this?”

Mike, who had been silent, his gaze fixed on the floor, finally spoke. “What if it’s real? What if we’re...”

The words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. The idea of death was an abstract concept they had only recently begun to grapple with, but now it was thrust upon them in the most tangible way.

Lily, the group’s emotional core, began to tear up. “What if we don’t have much time left?”

Zoe, who always had a knack for finding solace in logic, tried to offer a rational explanation. “Maybe this is just a psychological experiment or some kind of elaborate prank.”

But as the minutes ticked by, the weight of the letter’s message settled over them like a heavy fog. The barn, once their refuge from the world, now felt like a cage. They could no longer deny the unsettling truth—their time together was limited.

In the dim light of the barn, the friends shared their thoughts and feelings, their conversations turning somber and reflective. Jack spoke first, his voice cracking. “I always thought we’d have more time. More summers like this.”

Emma nodded, wiping away tears. “I’ve been so focused on the future that I didn’t realize how precious the present is.”

Raj, usually the most reserved, shared a moment of vulnerability. “I’ve always wanted to travel, see the world. But now… I’m not sure if I’ll ever get that chance.”

Lily took Raj’s hand, squeezing it gently. “It’s okay. We can’t change what’s happening, but we can make the most of the time we have left.”

They spent the next few hours reminiscing, each sharing their favorite memories and dreams that never came to be. They laughed through their tears, recounting the joyous moments that had defined their friendship. The barn became a sanctuary of shared experiences, their final testament to a bond that transcended the fear of the unknown.

As the sun’s last rays faded and darkness enveloped the barn, the six friends sat in a tight circle, their hands clasped together. They spoke in hushed tones, their voices blending into a harmonious mix of acceptance and gratitude. They had faced their mortality and found solace in their unity.

When the letter’s ominous prediction came to pass, they were not met with panic but with a profound sense of peace. Their final moments were spent in the company of those they loved most, and as they faced the unknown, they did so with hearts full of the memories and bonds they had forged. The barn, their sacred space, held their final goodbye, a testament to a friendship that, even in its last moments, remained unbroken.

…

I think I need to go hug my friends

Thank you for these ❤️❤️

[thefirsttree]

A personal update + my next game

OK, time to do this. I’ve been meaning to do a big DAVID WEHLE™ update for a while now and explain why I haven’t released a new game yet, but you know how life gets in the way. Especially when life is a quarantine hellscape, you have three beautiful, amazing, exhausting kids to raise, a spouse’s job you support, a viral YouTube channel that turns your brain to mush, a thousand emails waiting in your inbox since your game is free on the Epic Games Store (with an impressive number of redemptions too! … meaning lots of emails and customer support issues), etc., etc. What also contributes to my lack of updates is because… I just don’t really like posting online. Fascinating correlation, I know!

Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be a venting/ranting blog post (well, maybe a bit), because my life is seriously AMAZING and INSANELY BLESSED and LUCKY. I can’t believe how many dreams keep coming true, so much so that I feel I don’t deserve it and I really pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes… but I did want to at least be honest, because I owe that to myself.

Wow, where do I even begin? Well, how about we start with the reason I’m even a full-time indie game dev now: The First Tree. This small hobby project I worked on at night morphed into this gargantuan beast (or fox) that took over my life the past 5 years. Which is great! I’m living the dream! And yet, I really didn’t expect it to do as well as it did. At its core, my game is a slow-paced, sad walking simulator (ahem, I prefer the term “exploration game,” but you know what I mean) that somehow seemed to launch at the right time to the right audience. It resonated deeply with some of you, and for that I’m eternally grateful. I still get emails almost daily how my game changed their lives in some formative way. I’m beyond honored.

However, with that spotlight came criticism and demands from the ever-present, insatiable internet. I would randomly be surfing the gamedev subreddit trying to decompress, and I would see a comment by some rando saying how much I didn’t deserve my success, and how it was all one huge lucky fluke. And I believed them!

And to add to it, some devs considered me an indie marketing “guru”, which I was uncomfortable with. I worked hard to market my game every week, and after my GDC talk, people assumed marketing was my passion; the reason I got up every morning. Just to clarify… NO, I don’t like marketing, and I hate being the center of attention. I don’t like asking people for money and wishlists. But I did what was necessary because I was passionate about telling stories, and I wanted to give my story a fighting chance to be seen on the crowded pages of Steam.

So now, you’re probably wondering “well then David, why did you make fancy YouTube videos showing off your success? Not very modest if you ask me.” This honestly could be a long blog post all on its own, because my experience of putting myself in the spotlight and becoming a “content creator” is… complicated. It was an unusual step for me, especially since I never even showed my face online (as a game developer) until my GDC talk.

First off, I always wanted to teach and start a YouTube channel. I love video editing, especially since I’ve been doing it longer than making games! It’s a huge passion of mine. And teaching people who didn’t know they could make and finish games was a huge motivator (and it’s been so rewarding already). But the second reason is, I was scared. I was self-employed, and I was riding the success of a “huge lucky fluke” that would probably not happen again. I wanted to make sure I could provide for my amazing family, and give them food and health insurance and security in these tumultuous times. I was turning my lifelong passions and hobbies into a business, and it wasn’t as simple of a mental transition as I thought.

So, I went all in on YouTube and the accompanying online course called Game Dev Unlocked. I spent years editing the scripts and videos, and polishing them to a shine. At first, no one watched my videos, no one was buying… and in the blink of an eye, the YouTube algorithm picked up my main autobiographical video (“How Making Indie Games Changed My Life”), and I started getting 5,000 subscribers a day. Right now, I’m at 150,000 subs, which is still hard for me to believe. I always had a dream of earning 100k subs on YouTube, so I was pretty happy with the whole thing. Sales were OK, but mostly people didn’t want to buy the course. Then the emails came in…

Something you should know about me: I am a textbook “people pleaser,” and if someone asks for my help, I take it very seriously. If someone is mad at me, even if I didn’t do anything wrong, it’s all I can think about, and it ruins my day. So, taking an onslaught of people begging for help and multiplying that by an impossible amount of people for my brain to truly comprehend thanks to the internet… and let’s just say it wasn’t a healthy mix.

I received thousands of emails from people who were begging me for some kind of reassurance that everything would be OK. That their dreams would come true too. And I wanted to help every single one of them. I went from a nobody working on a game for fun to becoming a spokesperson for the indie game dream. I couldn’t even get a shake from the Chick-Fil-A drive-thru without someone recognizing me and asking for game dev advice. And it didn’t stop there… I would get emails from suicidal kids asking for help, teenagers from Afghanistan asking me to get them out of their country, and on one occasion I received an email from a hopeful game developer in a war-torn country who had just experienced a bomb blowing up their neighboring village. His friends were dead, and he was hoping he could finish a game before he died too, and he needed my help. How do you say no to something like that? Didn’t I owe it to everyone because I was lucky with my hit game and I needed to “pay it forward”? (Something people constantly reminded me of)

And then to top it off, after you’ve given everything you’ve got to other people in need… you get hate mail in your inbox. You spend the whole day serving your children and strangers on the internet, then when the kids are finally asleep, you hit the bed to relax and take a look at your phone to decompress, and you randomly come across an angry gamer in your Twitter mentions telling you your game they got for free sucks, and that you took away a potentially great game from them and that your apology isn’t good enough.

Long story short, I went to a mental therapist for the first time in my life. I was broken trying to care for two toddlers and a new baby in a pandemic (which is very, very hard), taking care of my course students who gave me their hard-earned money and demanded results, and the countless people begging for help on the internet. I was this introverted, internet-lurker trying to take on the weight of the world. I was so tired and hurt that no one cared about me and my needs… only what I could do for them.

Quitting my day job and making this hobby my full-time job has stirred up… mixed emotions. This statement may disturb some of you, but I was definitely 100% happier when I had a full-time job and I was working on my game at night. I missed working with the amazing team at The VOID, working on Star Wars… back when the success of my game was this abstract thing I could only daydream about. Mostly, I was making my game for me with no outside expectations to pay the bills or satisfy the ever-demanding internet, and that brought me a lot of joy.

It’s not all doom and gloom though! I’m actually very happy now and in the best shape I’ve been since the pandemic started. I’ve had to confront my weaknesses and personality quirks, but I’m a better person for it (and I’m sure these issues would’ve come out eventually). I hired an awesome community manager for Game Dev Unlocked who is helping SO MUCH with the emails, I can’t even tell you the mental burden it alleviates. I even leased a co-working office to help separate work from my home, and that’s been a huge help too. I’ve decided to work with my old friends from The VOID on a cool, new VR experience. It will take me away from my projects a bit, but I’m ecstatic to work with a great team again (and not manage anything, whew).

These are all things I would’ve never guessed I needed, because I thought I knew myself pretty well… turns out I didn’t.

The reality is: running a business is HARD. Running it solo is even harder. You have to remember, I was burnt out on The First Tree well into the Steam release in 2017, but I kept working on it for 4 more years due to my fears of failing again and not earning enough money for my family.

So, I was wrestling with the age-old concept of commercialism and art. There was this dichotomy of doing whatever I wanted and being true to my vision (what most people assume the indie dev dream is like), and doing only what customers wanted to buy. This is something that has killed me with YouTube… in one specific instance, I was super excited to make the exact video I wanted to make. I loved every part of its creation, and I thought it had a message that would inspire everyone. I lovingly edited it over several weeks, posted it, and excitedly waited for the stats… and it was by far my worst performing video.

This is not a new problem. Even the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo was a commission forced upon him by the very violent Pope Julius II. My wife and I regularly talk about the fine balance between artistic integrity and commercialism, a problem she is very familiar with as an artist who constantly needs to balance what she wants to make with what the customer wants to hang up in their home.

For The First Tree, I was lucky. It was pretty much what I wanted to make (I had to compromise a lot of things of course), and it turned out millions of people wanted it too. Recently, I thought the safe business decision would be to do it all over again, so I started work on a spiritual successor to The First Tree (an idea that I may revisit one day since I do love the story idea). But that isn’t happening anytime soon. Trust me when I say I am now currently burnt out on animal exploration games.

So that realization left me with a question: what do I do next?

I’ve decided I need to make a game that I want to make, for me. It will be a bit different and I’m almost certain most fans of The First Tree will not love it… but it’s an idea that gets me super excited. It’s an idea that could help me fall in love with game development again.

A few more details: this game will be story-driven, first-person, and will use the Unreal Engine. That means development is gonna be slow going, because I have to learn a whole new tool. The “smart business” decision would be to make something quickly in Unity which I’m already familiar with… but I want to do this for me, and UE5 looks like a lot of fun. I’m also shooting for an early-ish release date so I avoid burn out and I keep the game short: I want to release it in Fall 2022, but knowing game development, it will probably take longer.

With the help of my therapist, I’ve also concluded that I’ve been too accessible on the internet and that my self-worth isn’t determined by the amount of people I try to help online. Of course, I love helping people and seeing them succeed, but I need to step back and focus on my family and myself. I will delete my social media apps on my phone (I will still post big updates occasionally) and stop responding to most emails, tweets, DMs, etc. It’s not that I’m ungrateful… in fact, if I don’t say thank you or at least acknowledge the incredibly nice people who share a sweet message about my game or want to tell me how I inspire them (still hard for me to believe, lol), I feel a ton of guilt… but I need to let that go. Please know I’m extremely grateful to all the fans who follow my work, so even if I don’t thank you directly, I truly mean it: thank you.

I will still post and stream occasionally on YouTube when I want to (and I still do live Q&A’s for my GDU students). The online course sales will help support my family as I work on a potentially risky game idea (and my new job will help alleviate the risk too). I’m gonna try one more marketing experiment and sell a mini-course soon (and add an Unreal section), and after that I’m done working on it. A gigantic thank you to the people who bought my course and are part of the amazing community, it has helped me and my family tremendously, and it’s inspiring seeing the games you make!

I’m a bit worried about the whole thing since this new game idea could flop, which could definitely affect my family. But a sappy, high-school yearbook quote is coming to mind…  I think it applies here: “A ship in harbor is safe—but that is not what ships are built for.”

Thanks for reading,

David

[vampireinterview]

It has come to my attention that some of you have not been made aware of the fact that Plato was well known for being a Destiel shipper, in addition to the fact that he also wrote some philosophical works on the side. Let me explain.

Plato was an Athenian thinker whose real name was Aristocles (Plato most likely comes from the Greek word for ‘broad”, he might have been so jacked that people nicknamed him for his wide shoulders, which is irrelevant to the topic at hand but I’m collecting receipts on my hypothesis that all hellers are physical beheamoths). His work regarding the philosophy of love can be interpreted through the lens of the Deancas love story, which can potentially lead us to discover the very essence of what makes Destiel so impactful and universal, so bear with me, I’ll make it as introductory as possible.

Plato’s Symposium is a dialogue which contains the philosopher’s basic view on what love can be. The influence of the aforementioned text has been so strong that even those of us who are blissfully unaware of its contents have heard of the concept of “platonic love”. It is with great disappointment that I have to inform you about the fact that the way in which the term is colloquially used can be considered quite removed from the core idea of what Plato’s love is supposed to be about. Commonly people utilize it to refer to a non-romantic and non-sexual emotion towards an individual. However, even though the extrasensory love was the end goal, it was never too far distanced from the earthly, carnal desire that was supposed to lay the foundation for greater experiences.

One of the most illustrative elements of the Symposium is no doubt the Love Ladder metaphor (also known as Diotima’s Ladder of Love, the Scala Amoris); Plato believes the act of loving to be a part of the process of initiation into the non-material world of ideas. Every step of the ladder helps one approach the transcendence of one’s soul, and so we can single out six steps to immortal absolutes:

1. The first step is developing an appreciation for a particular person. It’s a very much carnal (though not necessarily conventionally sexual) desire for beauty of a specific individual. According to Plato only through the love of the physical can one love the non material. The visceral infatuation with another’s body is often strongly rooted with the self-hatred of one’s own aesthetical poverty: within the carnal love we seek to find that which our own body lacks. The desire between Dean and Cas doesn’t have to be seen as strictly sexual, as the appreciation of beauty does not warrant a conventionally erotic subtext. This sort of fascination with the flesh is most noticeably highlighted in the many “eye sex” scenes in seasons 4-5, and is later brought up by Hester:

The very touch of you corrupts. When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost. 

2. The second step stems from the appreciation for all physicality derived directly from the love one has for the lover’s form. It’s fleshed out any time Dean finds beauty in the dark times, where he would have never found it before or when Cas sees humanity through the lens of the love he has for the beauty within Dean Winchester. This step is all about finding the allure in everybody, not in spite of but rather because of having fallen for a specific person’s material form.

3. The next step is a love which transcends the physical and teaches an individual to feel affection towards the souls. The attraction one can experience in relation to that which is non material is precisely what takes the function of the driving force behind both Castiel’s and Dean’s decisions in season 6 and onward (arguably even much earlier for Cas? or even Dean? Maybe we’re talking about season 4?). As evidenced by the apparent lack of attraction Dean experiences towards Jimmy himself, he must have already moved on to this stage (the Cas he loves is not just the vessel he inhabits). Castiel on the other hand feels heavily infatueted with Dean’s spiritual allure (even when he’s physically on the verge of a breakdown, he’s still beautiful, still Dean Winchester). 

4. It is only then that one can find love for the institution. If one worships souls, then one also has to worship the product of those souls: and, sure enough, loving humanity led Castiel to love its structures and ethical systems and be willing to die fighting for them. In the later seasons he exhibits fascination over all the little rules that guide an average human’s life (which is especially fleshed out in his season 7 dialogues, where he contemplates all the small details of the societal structure, ie: how important is lipstick to you?, maybe the human institutions should ban its production). Same can be said of Dean: the customs and traditions of other people are subject to his affectionate protection in the later seasons, which sets s6 and onwards Dean apart from the early seasons Dean who cared mostly about his blood relatives. The found family arc was for him a process of growing attached to the order of life which was previously foreign to him, and him learning to navigate functioning within a big family structure and an organization (the last one is physically manifested by his move from a chaotic life spent at random motels to living at the bunker, property of the institution of Men Of Letters).

5. Then comes the deep appreciation of knowledge. Now, it is widely disputed whether what Plato meant should be strictly narrowed down to just one kind of knowledge (in many English translations you might encounter the word ‘science’, though used in the ancient sense). The process of gaining knowledge is often equated with the understanding of ideas in Plato’s work, therefore we’re going to stick with that. The act of loving the process of discovering both the external and the internal world is a strong factor which pushes Dean to self examination, or the examination of the inner psyche. It is that pursuit of knowledge that is the very coronation of his entire character arc: the realization of his role within the story (”I’m not the ultimate killer”) which was directly derived from the act of loving Cas.

6. The final stage of platonic love is reaching the love of the very concept of Love. Once again, interpretations vary, but for the sake of the argument, I’ll clarify that: the discussed kind of love transcends both the body and the soul. An individual is in love with Beauty, not just one of it’s physical or spiritual manifestations. In my opinion, this stage is extremely well depicted during the 15x18 confession scene, for it is a kind of love achieved by Castiel. He is no longer just in love with the body or soul of Dean, he’s also in love with the sole idea of loving him. He quite literally states that he’s fallen in love with the idea of just being, just saying it, just falling in love. 

Upon achieving this state, he transcends his material conditions both by leaving the human world (his move to another dimension - the Empty - could be just an illustrative manifestation of the transcendental move of his essence) and giving birth to a new world order. The way in which he later on goes to rebuild Heaven and give birth to a completely new, structure of the universe is in line with a concept that Plato ties into the finale step of the Ladder - pregnancy of the soul. At one point in Symposium he describes Diotima saying that:

That in that life alone, when he looks at Beauty in the only way that Beauty can be seen--only then will it become possible for him to give birth not to images or virtue (Because he’s in touch with no images), but to true virtue (Because he is in touch with the true Beauty).

What is the christian equivalent and personification of the true idea of Virtue if not the abstract concept of Heaven? The moment Cas creates a new portrayal of Virtue he finishes the Ladder. It could also be argued that the true pregnancy of the soul was actually finished when Jack ascended to the status of God: an entity which belongs to the realm of ideas and is perfect by its very nature is birthed through Castiel’s love (which can be traced back to the feelings he has for Dean Winchester).

And it is the fact that Dean’s arc got stuck on the fifth stage of the Ladder that causes me so much pain. He dies before transcending and experiencing the non-temporal and non-relative feeling of love that one can gain only through the admiration of beauty itself. His life was cut short and his soul has already left the mortal, physical world, therefore he is forever unable to experience the feeling of loving Love and Virtue so much that his soul gives birth to an unbreakable idea.

In conclusion: if you ever see somebody say that Dean and Castiel’s relationship is platonic, just agree. It is very much so platonic in the sense that through their carnal and spiritual desires they’ve manged to (nearly, in Dean’s case) transcend their material conditions and reached the divine aspect of ideal Beauty and Virtue, rooted in a love that’s so deep that it’s perfectly able to redefine the structure of one’s existence.

tagging some people who have vaguely expressed interest in acquiring the third eye:

@cryptcas​ @futureheadnerd​ @doctorprofessorsong​ @sinnabonka​ @theangelwiththewormstache​ @absoluteheller​ @fivefeetfangirl​ 

[shinayashipper]

Would you like to talk about shinaya some more? Or the series? No pressure, but you made it sound very interesting and I would love to hear more of your thoughts if youre up to sharing more in the future :))

OH YOU KNOW I WOULD 🔥

I'm so happy you found them interesting!! But the whole series is indeed Confusing, even the die-hard fans had a hard time understanding the whole lore.

Pls have in mind that SUICIDE, DEPRESSION, DEATH, are the core major triggers in the whole franchise

AND OF COURSE it gets Long, so... just get ready 😂

If you want to get into the series I recommend starting from the songs to get the vibe, and then the manga (I think the manga got the nicest flow and you can get into the story with it, very suitable for new fans), and then the novels (they're 8 volumes in total, and while they're light novels, they're packed with so much Lore, the novels gave you more insights on the characters' backstory in details, very suitable if you want to dig more into the characters), and then the anime (which I don't recommend if you didn't know anything of the series, because the flow is very rushed and it is done by SHAFT studio which is famous for their artistic take in directing, and they done kagepro with so much symbolism and abstract take, it's just hard to understand if you're not a fan. The animation's also feels Wonky and Cheap).

Someone had put together all the kagepro songs and their animated MVs with english sub into one playlist, you can watch it HERE

If you're only interested in the shinaya-centric songs you can see:

Transparent Answer - A song about Shintaro's lamentation on Ayano. Tells about their friendship throughout the years and how he lost her. It is implied that Shintaro is the writer of this song </3

Ayano's Theory of Happiness - The song that tells about Ayano's backstory, what drives her to kill herself. It's Ayano-centric and doesn't really have shinaya elements in it, but Shintaro appears briefly in the MV. This one is very spoiler-heavy. Not graphic, but it also got suicide elements in it.

Additional Memory - Very Spoiler-heavy too. The song about Ayano's regret and loneliness, it's about her Feelings after Killing Herself and deep regret: she still wonders even now is this decision really the right thing to do... but she can't go back now. Also suicide and blood and death imagery throughout the MV.

Lost Time Memory - My fav song! The MV is just so revolutionary the first time I watched it, it completely Inspired me! This one is also spoiler-heavy on the whole story. It tells about Shintaro after the 2 years of him being a shut-in post-Ayano's death, in here he already met the rest of the characters (who actually got deep connection to Ayano), now he's no longer a shut-in and is slowly regaining himself and started to move on, but as I quote from the song "Years pass by, but your shadows still surround me" it's about how Ayano still lingers in his mind even after years and even if now he's not alone anymore. She still haunts him. This song also shows the "worst" timeline and how it parallels with the Shintaro now. It is not graphic but it got suicide elements in it.

[diyeoracha]

fanfic recommendations

for @kittensocute bc i heard “atsukita” and “iwaoi” in reference to fanfiction and i am There

i took your “i love slow burn or slow build fics... so i like relatively shorter burn fics (20-30k). If its a 10k oneshot slow burn hELL SIGN ME UP” and absolutely ran with it.

i listed my fav iwaoi fics (17) with a longer word count (longest is 80k) that are all mostly either canon compliant or divergent with only two straight up AUs. none of them feature heavy nsfw content and most if not all are tagged as friends to lovers lmao. feel free to read the my thoughts or just go into them blind!! and they’re all in order of how much I absolutely adore them :^)

now atsukita is not a big ship *sobs* but here are some of my favorite fics (7) of them! a lot of them are shorter bc i guess that’s just. what happens when it’s a small ship LOL. 

the formatting in this is fucked if you open it from ur dash but if it’s on my actual blog it should be fine!

Iwaoi

the courtship ritual of the hercules beetle

Word count: 66k

thoughts: my absolute absolute absolute favorite iwaoi fic. the characterization, the fact that oikawa’s a bastard but because he and iwaizumi are older (late 20s i believe), it feels more realistic and sad rather than oikawa being a bitch for the sake of it. spoiler alert it’s slow burn and pining and mostly oikawa not realizing his feelings. this world building is pretty cool bc iwaizumi is the professional player while oikawa is an entomology professor! also i love non-linear narratives bc of This fic. there’s mutual pining in this fic but it’s really really really subtle to the point where you dont even know if oikawa likes iwa. this made me cry like twice.

sunset towns

Word count: 33k

Summary: In the summer of 2020, Oikawa Tooru returns home from his first successful stint as captain of Japan’s national volleyball team. In one hand, he holds the undisputed weight of an Olympic medal, and in the other, his unresolved feelings for a childhood best friend.

thoughts: the tone in this is So similar to the courtship ritual that I liken this as an alternate story even though it’s still oikawa’s pov. professional player oikawa and regular guy iwaizumi and oikawa is just. bumming around at iwaizumi’s place and naturally he messes up but things happen.

told before and told again

word count: 4k

thoughts: i looked through literally all the tags i could’ve thought of for this and nearly cried when i found it agian. outsider POV!!

In damp earth my body

Word count: 15k

Summary: Onscreen, the nation’s favorite setter has arranged himself so that he’s bowing, forehead pressed to the court, like he’s thanking everyone for their kindness thus far, like he’s asking for forgiveness. Hajime thinks: shit, it’s really happening

thoughts: oikawa retires and moves in with iwaizumi and they blur the line between roommates/best friends and being fwb. this is an iwaizumi pov and the pining is obvious on his end. as a iwa stan the tone made me feel weird bc it makes it seem like iwa cares more abt oikawa than he cares abt himself but. its a good fic

i grew up, you grew down

word count: 19k

thoughts: this is also SO funny bc basically oikawa retires and moves in with iwaizumi and becomes his stay at home wife and a bunch of shit happens like people think that oikawa is dating ushijima and oikawa basically loses it every time. here’s one of my favorite quotes:

“Oikawa also bought a new ultra-strength vacuum cleaner he’d decided to name Ushiwaka out of sheer spite, because it sucked all the air right out of the room. Iwa-chan didn’t think the joke was that funny when Tooru told him, which was frankly very hurtful and insensitive.”

Mint

Word count: 19k

thoughts: iwaizumi is moving and oikawa planned a perfect last hangout and it goes to shit featuring matsuhana. oikawa pov where he pines more than iwa which is something i can get behind!! and this was written in 2015 and iwa’s moving bc of a sports medicine program so iwaizumi stans know and love him sm ;;

Almost a Stranger

Word count: 16k

thoughts: same premise as mint LOL except they’re on a trip together and there’s more non-linear narrative!! this one is a little more mature in tone than mint i would say (funny how people just like splitting them up and throwing them in different countries huh)

with every second that you could give

Word count: 9k

Summary: The journey of Iwaizumi and Oikawa going for gold.

Quote: He knows they’re too close. Iwaizumi knows it too, and they both decided to move in together anyway.

thoughts: iwaoi roommates and they’re both obviously and really pine-y for each other and everyone sees it but them. srsly. they’re sleeping in the same bed. like my god

Lost in Translation

Word count: 9k

Summary: Because misfortune come in threes, Iwaizumi Hajime starts his Thursday having a screaming fight with Shittykawa, spends his lunch break listening to the UCI women’s volleyball team gossiping about how Ushijima Wakatoshi had gone public about his longtime love affair with Oikawa Tooru, and closes out the day by drunkenly dropping his phone into a sewer grate.

thoughts: so funny. so sososoosso genuinely funny. the tone is so snappy and iwaizumi honestly just sounds like a confused teenager (which he is in this) and it gets extra points for including a lot of american culture that a lot of the other iwaoi college au ones don’t include for like. obvious reasons lol.

Something Borrowed

Word count: 16k

Summary: In which Oikawa and Iwaizumi have always been a foregone conclusion to everyone else, but a massive, unanswered question to one another.

thoughts: iwaoi roommates thats abo but it’s like. mentioned twice. whiny and possessive oikawa makes an appearance in this but it’s done really well

things that change, things that stay the same

Word count: 8k

Summary: Oikawa realizes he’s in love with his best friend; it sucks for a while. (But only for a little while.)

thoughts: high school getting together!! my second iwaoi fic ever and this one is just. so sweet. just an unsure oikawa realizing iwaizumi might be more than someone he wants as a best friend. this fic is honestly really really lovely.

galaxies, within you

Word count: 21k

Summary: Hajime and Tooru move in together at the start of university. Too bad they’re stuck with the two gremlins that haunt their apartment.

thoughts: ok this fic was so funny. theyre uni roommates and matsuhana just come fuck shit up and they all act like idiots together even though they go to different schools. and this really throws me back to university days.

Thirty Years and Change (the Games of the XXXIII Olympiad)

Word count: 19k

thoughts: pro! oikawa and iwaizumi haven’t been close for a while until oikawa invites iwaizumi to go to the games with him. there’s a lot of frustration and pining and actually talking about feelings (aka iwaizumi losing his mind and getting advice from people like akaashi)

when it starts to rain, they go inside

Word count: 33k

Summary: “Where?” starts Iwaizumi.“ My parent’s old lakehouse, silly, didn’t you hear me the first time?” OR: Oikawa takes Iwaizumi to his lakehouse for two weeks, post-graduation.

thoughts: this was actually my first iwaoi fic which is funny bc the author doesn’t even like oikawa much and i didnt even ship anything in haikyuu before i read this fic and now im in iwaoi hell. oikawa is really frustrating in this in that it’s basically a really good character analysis on how oikawa comes off as a Mean person all the time bc he’s manipulative and there’s some explicit content

shiver

Word count: 16k

Summary: Oikawa was always the brave one. Hajime just followed two paces behind.

thoughts: iwaoi roommates with oikawa admitting his feelings first back when they were in middle school and iwaizumi putting that thought on the backburner until. obviously. things happen.

Desperado

word count: 80k

thoughts: one of my favorite aus. it’s all from kyoutani’s perspective and it’s almost so au that they’re original characters (if that makes sense). basically iwaoi matsuhana are ex-grifters except iwaoi are estranged and daishou somehow brings everyone back together. excellent world building and reading the pov from someone not involved with the iwaoi drama was refreshing

sing with me a song of conquest and fate

word count: 26k

thoughts: a mythical kings au that’s just. so pretty. iwaizumi ends up becoming oikawa’s servant for some reason and the world building is a+ because you can feel the trust and frustration from both of them build

Atsukita

dreams of me and you

word count: 10k (incomplete)

my second atsukita fic that rly sent me down atskt hell ;; what is essentially post-break up when atsumu gets signed to msby and he’s just Pining and sad for the most part. but the established relationship pre-break up was written really nicely because it just fits my hc of them just being domestic and atsumu being blatantly head over heels

take me home

word count: 4k

i read this this morning and it wrecked me. domestic relationship atsukita?? sign me up

No time like the rest of my life

word count: 19k

mythology au with kita as a regular person and rest of inarizaki as fox spirits! it’s cute and the world building is absolutely lovely but it is an au so they might seem ooc but their core character values are still there

wild blue yonder

word count: 6k

literally full of similes and metaphors and it’s more of an abstract read i guess? but it’s so beautiful and soft and this is exactly how i imagine their relationship

reap and sow

word count: 8k

atsumu confesses and kita ignores him and it’s a couple years after the fact and it’s mostly just weirdly domestic almost roommate like except for the fact that atsumu makes it clear he likes kita LOL. they’re really in character for this!

weightless souls

word count: 2k

pillow talk before atsumu’s first game! the atsumu pov and voice is amazing

if we were both alone

word count: 7k

now this was actually my first atskt fic that sent me down this rare pair hell. it’s an explicit chat fic (both tropes i usually try to avoid) but atsumu types like me (except for the nsfw parts alksfjd) so i guess i like. feel appreciation LMAO.

if you do read like any of these fics pls let me know so we can discuss

♡＼(￣▽￣)／♡

[bloody-bee-tea]

Resolve

We did it folks, this is follows right after Escalation and marks the end of the Rumor has it series! I hope it can live up to all of your expectations! If you want to listen to a song that could very well be Jiang Cheng’s character song for this story, please listen here. This fic is 10k long, so I suggest you read it on AO3 here. Thank you all so much <3<3

Jiang Cheng is reasonably sure he lost consciousness a few times on the flight back to the Cloud Recesses, but despite Lan Wangji’s clear wish he didn’t give him the satisfaction of dropping off the sword. Jiang Cheng would rather die standing up than fulfilling that particular wish.

Jiang Cheng is also sure that Lan Wangji planned to land at the end of the staircase that leads up to the Cloud Recesses and make Jiang Cheng walk all the way up there—something that Jiang Cheng wouldn’t have been able to do—but one look back at him must convince Lan Wangji that Jiang Cheng is really in no condition to do that.

His urge to see him prosecuted and sentenced to death while Jiang Cheng is still aware must be really strong.

Jiang Cheng is almost pathetically grateful that they are flying straight up to the Cloud Recesses, because even though he would never admit it—at least not out loud and definitely not to Lan Wangji—it lets him keep at least a little bit of dignity.

Like this, at least, he only drops to his knees once he steps off the sword. Jiang Cheng grits his teeth when he sees the satisfied look on Lan Wangji’s face, but his legs won’t carry him and despite the dagger still lodged in his shoulder, he lost a significant amount of blood by now.

Standing just doesn’t seem like a good idea at the moment.

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says, worry colouring his tone, but when he wants to step forward, Lan Wangji keeps him away with a hand to his arm.

Jiang Cheng wonders what Lan Wangji thinks he will do to his brother, but given that Lan Wangji seems intent on getting him killed today, he can guess at the picture Lan Wangji has of him.

“And what now?” Jiang Cheng snarls when Lan Wangji simply stares down at him, but he can’t keep the pain completely out of his voice.

The dagger in his shoulder really hurts like a bitch.

“And now we will decide what to do with you,” Lan Wangji calmly says and Jiang Cheng can’t help the snort that escapes him.

Yeah, right. As if Lan Wangji hasn’t made his mind up already.

“How can you still be amused by this?” Wei Wuxian wants to know and Jiang Cheng wonders just when his brother stopped being able to read him.

“Come on, Wei Wuxian, you’re usually smarter than that. There’s nothing to ‘decide on’,” Jiang Cheng tells him and he feels a sick sense of validation when Sect Leader Yao steps into the courtyard behind him.

“That’s right,” he sneers and Jiang Cheng has to grid his teeth so that he doesn’t straight up jump at the other Sect Leader. “With what we saw you do today, there is not much wriggle room for you.”

“And doesn’t that make you happy,” Jiang Cheng says, but he doesn’t even deign to look at the other man.

He is very, very sick of Sect Leader Yao right now.

“I can’t deny that it’s kind of satisfying to see you like this,” Sect Leader Yao freely admits and Jiang Cheng works his jaw at that. “It will certainly bring justice to my late right hand,” he then adds, and now that Jiang Cheng can’t let stand.

“If it brings so much justice to him, why don’t you tell me his name? Why don’t you tell me why it took you ten goddamn years to want to bring justice to him?” he demands to know but before Sect Leader Yao can flounder for an answer, Lan Wangji speaks up.

“Enough. Everyone will be able to bring their grievances with Sect Leader Jiang to me today,” he says and Jiang Cheng resigns himself to a long and arduous farce.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lan Qiren suddenly asks, having stepped into the courtyard without their notice and Lan Wangji turns towards him, bowing slightly.

“Sect Leader Jiang has been caught in the act of killing two innocent people. He will be held accountable for that, today.”

“And everything else, it seems,” Jiang Cheng drily adds when Lan Qiren turns towards him. “Everyone is here, after all,” he tacks on with a nod backwards to where Sect Leader Yao stands.

A lot of the other smaller Sect Leaders have gathered there as well and it’s only then that it really hits Jiang Cheng just how well planned this was for them all to be already here. Jiang Cheng knows that he should feel betrayed that Lan Wangji and especially Wei Wuxian plotted against him like that, but all he can feel is anger for Xie Xifeng and her wife.

If Lan Wangji had time to plan this, then he probably had the time to save her. Instead Jiang Cheng is left with two dead bodies on his conscience. 

“Wangji, what are you doing?” Lan Qiren wants to know, but Lan Wangji meets his gaze evenly.

“What is right,” he gives back, sounding so goddamn certain that Jiang Cheng would love to tell him the truth just to see him shaken to the core, but he keeps his mouth shut.

He did not save all of his people from abusive and horrible situations to just throw them back into it.

Jiang Cheng would never do that to them.

Lan Qiren stares at Lan Wangji for a moment longer, before he simply turns around and stalks away. Jiang Cheng gets the distinct impression that he wants to run—which he never thought possible—but Lan Qiren adapted a pretty quick stride.

Jiang Cheng distantly wonders if he’s going to get Lan Xichen, and if Lan Xichen would end his seclusion for this, but despite Lan Xichen’s earlier words, Jiang Cheng doesn’t count on it.

It’s easy to take a stand against his own brother when it’s in an abstract situation. It’s much more difficult to do when the case actually arises, Jiang Cheng knows that from experience.

Jiang Cheng turns away from the retreating back of Lan Qiren and his eyes fall on Wei Wuxian. He seems pained by the proceedings but it just leaves a hollow feeling in Jiang Cheng when Wei Wuxian still doesn’t speak out.

He clearly believes every last word everyone says about Jiang Cheng and Jiang Cheng didn’t know it was possible to feel that betrayed.

Jiang Cheng wonders if this is how Wei Wuxian felt before he died and if this is the punishment Jiang Cheng deserves for not helping his brother back then.

It does seem kind of just, if Jiang Cheng looks at it like that. It doesn’t make it any easier to bear, though.

“Sect Leader Yao, if you would,” Lan Wangji suddenly says and Sect Leader Yao steps up, chest puffed up like a peacock and Jiang Cheng has to fight the sudden urge to throw the dagger from his shoulder at him.

“Jiang Wanyin killed my right hand man,” he declares and then proceeds to list off a few other names.

Names, Jiang Cheng very well recognizes, because all of these people are living a happy and safe life in his own Sect now. Jiang Cheng never quite realized that so many of Sect Leader Yao’s people hated their life enough to turn to demonic cultivation but when Jiang Cheng looks at the smarmy smile on his face, he finds that it does make sense.

Once Sect Leader Yao is done, Sect Leader Ouyang steps forward. It goes on like this, for longer than Jiang Cheng cares to take note of, and he can’t deny the warmth ball of pride in his own stomach when he hears just how many people he truly saved. It’s easy to forget sometimes, when they are all wearing purple.

There are a few names he doesn’t recognize—and two he failed to save that he remembers very well—but overall, Jiang Cheng can put a face to every name.

He can’t help but to smile at it, knowing that he did right by all of these people, and of course that is when Wei Wuxian chimes in again.

Jiang Cheng should have known.

“Are you proud of what you have done?” Wei Wuxian demands to know and he sounds incredulous, but Jiang Cheng simply smiles at him, too.

“Yes, I am,” Jiang Cheng easily gives back, because all these names just mentioned are the legacy he built over countless years.

He is more than alright to die for all of them.

“He will show no remorse,” Lan Wangji says to Wei Wuxian, who has to turn away from Jiang Cheng at that.

“Because there is nothing to regret,” Jiang Cheng adds, damn well knowing how it must sound to them, and then he settles back on his heels.

His shoulder is still throbbing, he’s still steadily losing blood, but he knows that it won’t be much longer now. Lan Wangji will sentence him and then it will be over rather quickly, at least Jiang Cheng hopes for that.

Jiang Cheng is okay with that, because even keeping himself upright is getting harder by the minute now.

“We have heard all the accusations,” Lan Wangji says, and suddenly his voice carries. “And there is one disciple of the Lan Sect to be added to the list. Lan Zhi,” Lan Wangji says and hate curls in Jiang Cheng’s gut.

How dare Lan Wangji.

“Oh, now you remember him?” he seethes because what he really wants to do is lunge for Lan Wangji.

How dare he speak that name. 

“He was a patient, kind young man and Jiang Wanyin killed him when he strayed from the right path.”

Jiang Cheng has another scathing remark on his tongue when suddenly Lan Xichen steps into the courtyard.

“Do not speak of Lan Zhi, and especially not to Jiang Cheng,” Lan Xichen says and walks over to Jiang Cheng, taking a stand besides him.

Lan Qiren is not far off and despite everything, Jiang Cheng has to close his eyes in relief.

He truly underestimated how it would feel like to have someone on his side.

“Brother,” Lan Wangji whispers, bowing his head in what Jiang Cheng thinks is not at all appropriate, but Lan Xichen silences him.

“Do you even really remember Lan Zhi? Do you still remember how unhappy he was? How burdened he became here? Do you remember that it was your oversight who even enabled him to turn towards darker paths?” Lan Xichen wants to know and Lan Wangji looks with big eyes at him.

“Brother, what are you doing? You’re in seclusion.”

“I am not. Not anymore,” Lan Xichen replies, Lan Qiren’s approving nod underlining his words.

“You would break your seclusion for him?” Lan Wangji asks, and Jiang Cheng would laugh at how incredulous he sounds if he weren’t so sure that his shoulder would not thank him for it.

“Zewu-Jun,” Wei Wuxian says, and Lan Xichen silences him with a single look.

“You are attending in the capacity as the Chief Cultivator’s husband. You do not have a voice here,” Lan Xichen frostily tells Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng raises an eyebrow in surprise.

He has never really heard Lan Xichen being angry—hadn’t really thought that he was capable of that, if he’s being honest—but it’s a welcome surprise right now.

Once he’s sure that Wei Wuxian knows his place, Lan Xichen turns his attention back to Lan Wangji, who seems like he considers strangling his own brother, but doesn’t dare to make a move.

“Wangji, how can you forsake justice like this? Are you really so blinded by your hate for Jiang Wanyin? So much that you would see an innocent man accused and sentenced?”

“Innocent,” Lan Wangji repeats, his voice as disgusted as Jiang Cheng has ever heard it, and looks Jiang Cheng up and down once. “Did you even look at him? He’s bathed in the blood of the true innocents he killed.”

“Half of that blood is actually mine,” Jiang Cheng speaks up, because his shoulder is still sluggishly bleeding.

It seems like Lan Xichen only notices the dagger in his shoulder now, because he falls to his knees besides Jiang Cheng, hands hovering helplessly over the dagger.

“Wangji, why did you not immediately call a healer?” Lan Xichen wants to know, but Jiang Cheng scoffs at that.

“Please. As if he’d waste any resources on a dead man.”

Lan Xichen freezes at his words, and Jiang Cheng realizes that Lan Xichen never truly contemplated what Jiang Cheng’s sentence would be.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says without looking away from Jiang Cheng, but his voice is noticeably colder. “What sentence are you aiming for?”

Jiang Cheng forces a smile on his face, even though he damn well knows what Lan Wangji’s answer will be, but Lan Xichen doesn’t seem to take it that well.

His hands are shaking.

“He killed countless innocents. The only sentence can be death,” Lan Wangji calmly replies, and Jiang Cheng takes a little bit of pleasure in the nervous shuffling from Wei Wuxian.

He doesn’t seem all too happy with that decision, and Jiang Cheng very vindictively finds himself hoping that it will haunt him for a long time.

Lan Xichen lets out a long, measured breath, and Jiang Cheng has to admit that he admires the resolve in Lan Xichen.

“No,” Lan Xichen says and turns back around to face Lan Wangji.

“That will not be his sentence.”

“When he is found guilty, it will be,” Lan Wangji replies, outwardly calm, but Jiang Cheng sees the almost nervous twitch of his hand.

“If, Chief Cultivator, not when,” Lan Xichen coldly reminds Lan Wangji and then turns towards Lan Qiren. “Please get a healer,” he says to his uncle, who immediately leaves.

Jiang Cheng almost wants to tell him to stop—he still doesn’t see himself getting out of this, since he is as unwilling as ever to tell Lan Wangji the truth—but he doesn’t stop him.

It really does hurt like a bitch and it would probably help with his light-headedness if the bleeding was stopped.

There is an almost uncomfortable silence in the wake of Lan Qiren’s departure, and to Jiang Cheng’s surprise it’s Lan Wangji who breaks it first.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks Lan Xichen, who shakes his head at Lan Wangji.

“I could ask you the same, Wangji,” he gives back. “You don’t even have proof and yet you already condemned a man to death.”

“Proof is there,” Lan Wangji replies and nods towards Jiang Cheng. “The dagger. The blood. The bodies.”

Jiang Cheng grits his teeth, because it would probably not do him any favours if he yelled at Lan Wangji, but he must notice the tension in his jaw, because Lan Wangji narrows his eyes at him, almost daring Jiang Cheng to forget about his manners.

Jiang Cheng will not give him that satisfaction on top of everything else.

“Is that really enough to condemn someone?” Lan Xichen asks. “You don’t know what happened. The circumstances could be different.”

“With all due respect, Zewu-Jun,” Sect Leader Yao pipes up and Jiang Cheng almost admires him for how daring he is, “but the circumstances don’t leave much to interpretation. He was the only one with them. They are dead now and he is drenched in their blood.”

“Of course that must mean I killed them,” Jiang Cheng agrees, voice saccharine sweet. “Especially since my words don’t count for much, right?”

“So if you found me in the clearing, your rabbits dead around me, their blood on me, you would assume I did it?” Lan Xichen demands to know of Lan Wangji, who immediately shakes his head.

“Of course not. Brother is different,” he explains and Jiang Cheng nods slightly.

He always knew it had nothing to do with proof or circumstances but everything to do with who he is as a person, and yet it still stings.

Especially since Wei Wuxian continues to stay quiet.

“Then at least admit that you’re not doing this for justice but out of a deep dislike for Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Xichen snaps and Lan Wangji seems as taken aback by that outburst as Jiang Cheng feels. “This has nothing to do with righteousness, Wangji, and I demand you stop this.”

“It’s not only my decision,” Lan Wangji replies, pointing at the other gathered Sect Leaders. “They all have grievances with Jiang Wanyin, and they should be heard.”

“Heard and appropriately dealt with,” Lan Xichen urges, but Jiang Cheng can tell that he’s losing faith that he will be able to convince his brother to stop this. “But not this.”

“Exactly this,” Lan Wangji decides with a nod and Lan Xichen turns desperate eyes on Jiang Cheng.

He can’t offer him more than a one shouldered shrug, because he will not throw his people in front of these undeserving people, and so his only option is to stay silent. His only option is to die.

“Wanyin,” Lan Xichen whispers, clearly begging him to speak up, to set this right, but Jiang Cheng can be stubborn on the best of days.

And this is so far from a good day.

“No,” Jiang Cheng decides and it seems like Lan Xichen wants to argue his decision, when Lan Qiren comes back, a man with a bag behind him.

“Lan Yimu will have a look at that shoulder now,” Lan Qiren decides, and he levels Lan Wangji with a look so severe even Wei Wuxian doesn’t dare to pipe up or even move.

Lan Qiren really hasn’t lost his touch since their student days, Jiang Cheng thinks and then grits his teeth against the pain, when light fingers probe around his injury.

“Can you still feel your fingers?” Lan Yimu asks him and Jiang Cheng wriggles them in reply. “That’s good,” the healer decides.

Jiang Cheng knows what’s coming next and he braces himself before Lan Yimu even speaks again.

“I’m going to take the dagger out now,” he warns Jiang Cheng, barely a second before he removes the blade from his shoulder.

Jiang Cheng bites down on a pained noise, keeps it trapped in his throat because he will not show weakness here. He has more pride than that.

He startles slightly when a hand is put to his uninjured shoulder, pouring spiritual energy into him, and Jiang Cheng is even more surprised when he looks up and sees that it’s Lan Qiren who is the one passing his energy to him.

“You have to speak up,” Lan Qiren urges him, effectively distracting Jiang Cheng from the pain in his shoulder, even though it gets better when Lan Yimu puts a numbing paste on the wound.

“No,” Jiang Cheng replies, and Lan Qiren seems to sense that his decision is final, because he doesn’t try again, even though he seems unhappy with his decision.

“It wouldn’t matter what I say anyway,” Jiang Cheng tacks on, trying to soften his words. “Xiuying won’t let them into Lotus Pier and they won’t believe without proof. Might not even believe it with proof.”

Lan Qiren clicks his tongue in apparent displeasure but he doesn’t argue Jiang Cheng’s words.

“You shouldn’t move your arm too much for the next couple of weeks,” Lan Yimu advises him, just as he’s tying off the bandage and Jiang Cheng scoffs.

“That won’t be a problem,” Jiang Cheng bitterly says, because he doubts he’ll even make it until tomorrow.

Really, for all that Jiang Cheng enjoys the receding levels of pain, it’s a waste of a perfectly good healing cream.

Lan Yimu shares a look with Lan Qiren, before he bows his head low to Jiang Cheng again.

“He was my cousin. Thank you for saving him,” Lan Yimu then whispers and Jiang Cheng can do nothing but stare at him.

Jiang Xiuying never spoke of the family he might have left behind, and Jiang Cheng never dared to ask, but of course there must still be people left who remember Jiang Xiuying from before, other than Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen.

“He is living well,” Jiang Cheng lowly gives back, even forces a small smile on his face because Jiang Xiuying is living well, and the only regret Jiang Cheng has is that he won’t see him come into his full potential.

Jiang Xiuying will make a great Sect Leader, no matter the circumstances of how he got there.

“That is enough now,” Lan Wangji interrupts them, clearly displeased that it takes so much time, and the dread settles in Jiang Cheng’s stomach again.

It was a nice reprieve, he has to admit that, but of course it couldn’t last forever.

“Wei Wuxian, how can you allow this?” Lan Xichen suddenly asks and Jiang Cheng’s head snaps up. “He is your brother. You should know him better.”

“Sixteen years are a long time, Zewu-Jun,” Wei Wuxian replies. “A lot can change in that time. People can change.”

“But not this fundamentally,” Lan Xichen keeps arguing even though Jiang Cheng knows it’s futile.

“Don’t waste your breath, Lan Xichen,” Jiang Cheng advises. “He can’t admit that the rumours might be fake,” Jiang Cheng says, not taking his eyes off Wei Wuxian, who is turning a worryingly shade of white.

“What? Why not?” Lan Xichen wants to know and Jiang Cheng huffs out a humourless laugh.

“Because if they are not true then that means I never hated him, or what he turned into. If these rumours are not true, and I never hated him, then I must have turned against him because it was the right thing to do for me at that time. And wouldn’t that be worse than me simply hating him?” Jiang Cheng wants to know, despite how much he still hates to hurt his brother like this, and the look on Wei Wuxian’s face tells him all he needs to know.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t like to broadcast it, but he does know how to read the people closest to him.

“Shut up,” Wei Wuxian chokes out, but even from the distance Jiang Cheng can see the tears in his eyes. “You hate what I did!”

“Because of the repercussions it had for us, yes,” Jiang Cheng easily replies, because he came to terms with that a long time ago. “I never hated you. Certainly not enough to kill people who followed your path.”

“And yet you’re doing that,” Lan Wangji interjects, smoothly stepping to the side to put himself between Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng.

“You can’t protect him from everything,” Jiang Cheng says, slightly raising his cuffed hands. “No matter how hard you try, there are some things no one can protect him from.”

He turns his gaze to Lan Xichen with his last words, willing him to understand that this is simply how it is supposed to go, but it seems stubbornness runs in both Lan brothers.

“No,” Lan Xichen decides and turns back to Lan Wangji. “You said he killed two innocent people. If that is true, they should hold resentment. Enough for you to summon them.”

“You want me to play Inquiry,” Lan Wangji states and Lan Xichen nods.

“Ask them what really happened. You’re not going to believe Jiang Wanyin, but maybe you will believe them.”

“They won’t come,” Jiang Cheng says with a small shake of his head.

It was a good idea, but given how they died they shouldn’t hold any resentment. Tan Chunhua might, since her death was an entirely too tragic accident, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t count on it.

“We have to try,” Lan Xichen replies, just as Lan Qiren leans down, seemingly trying to steady himself, since he’s still passing spiritual energy to Jiang Cheng, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t sense any weakness in him.

“I called onto the other Sects,” Lan Qiren whispers to him and Jiang Cheng has to suppress a white hot flash of fury at those words.

“No,” he bites out. “You leave them out of this!”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t want Jiang Xiuying to have to come back here and take a stand. He doesn’t want Jin Ling to see his last remaining family go.

They both deserve better.

“It’s done,” Lan Qiren informs him and for the first time since this all started Jiang Cheng feels the urge to fight against his cuffs.

He doesn’t want the people he loves to suffer unnecessarily, and it will be bad enough once they hear about this already, Jiang Cheng knows it. They don’t have to witness it as well.

“We’re not at their place of death,” Lan Wangji muses, effectively dragging Jiang Cheng out of his own thoughts. “Without their names I can’t call upon them.”

“Xie Xifeng and Tan Chunhua, which you would know if you had tried to help them,” Jiang Cheng informs him—rather smugly, really—and he watches with satisfaction as a sliver of doubt appears on Wei Wuxian’s face.

Jiang Cheng knows it’s wrong, but he hopes it will accompany him for the rest of his life; always at the back of his head that maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as they seemed. That maybe Jiang Cheng wasn’t the monster everyone made him turn to believe.

Lan Wangji doesn’t outwardly react as he gets his guqin out and settles behind it. He plays a few notes, before he sits and waits and when nothing happens, he plays the same sequence again.

But again, nothing happens.

“Try it again,” Lan Xichen demands but Jiang Cheng shakes his head.

“They won’t come. They didn’t die full of resentment. There won’t be anything for you to summon,” he tells Lan Wangji, but it’s Sect Leader Yao who speaks up.

“How can you be so sure? Did you destroy their spirits, too? Taking even the chance of reincarnation from them?” he demands to know and Jiang Cheng can’t even be bothered to turn his head around to him.

“Sect Leader Yao, if you know of a way to shatter a spirit on purpose in the moment of their death, please do enlighten us. You must really be a master in disguise if that is the case,” Jiang Cheng taunts over his shoulder, because Sect Leader Yao should know better than this.

But then again, it’s Sect Leader Yao. What did Jiang Cheng expect, really.

“If they won’t come, nothing can be proven. The absence of their spirits cannot be taken as a sign in favour of Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Wangji decides and Jiang Cheng almost finds it hilarious how Lan Wangji is bending himself backwards, trying to slander Jiang Cheng’s name.

“This is not justice,” Lan Qiren suddenly speaks up, his hand still a steady weight on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “If it can’t be taken as a sign in favour of Jiang Wanyin, then it can’t be used to condemn him further, either.”

This doesn’t seem to sit well with Lan Wangji at all, because Jiang Cheng actually sees him working his jaw, and Jiang Cheng will take his small pleasures where he can get them.

He won’t have much chances for any bigger ones, after all.

“Maybe Sect Leader Yao should tell you the name of his right hand man, so you can try to summon his spirit,” Jiang Cheng tosses out there, just to see Sect Leader Yao flounder really, and he’s not disappointed when there’s a very telling silence behind him. “He’s calling for justice for him ten years after his disappearance, he must have meant a great deal to Sect Leader Yao. Surely Sect Leader Yao remembers his name?” Jiang Cheng adds when nothing comes forth.

Lan Xichen sends him a reprimanding look, but Jiang Cheng simply shrugs. Taunting Sect Leader Yao won’t change the outcome of this anyway, but it does amuse Jiang Cheng, even in a situation as dire as this, and so he simply can’t pass this opportunity up.

Sect Leader Yao continues to be suspiciously quiet, and in the end it’s Lan Wangji who saves him some face.

“We will try Lan Zhi,” Lan Wangji decides and like every time when that name is used anger boils in Jiang Cheng’s veins.

He wants to snap at Lan Wangji, wants to tell him that he doesn’t deserve to use that name, but instead he closes his eyes and wills himself to be silent.

This round of inquiry is bound to be as successful as the one before and Jiang Xiuying is not here to be hurt by the sound of his old name.

Rationally, there is nothing Jiang Cheng should even get angry about. Still, he can’t help it.

“Why would you, Wangji?” Lan Xichen asks. “Did you truly not—,”

“Enough,” Jiang Cheng snaps, interrupting Lan Xichen before he can expose Jiang Xiuying. “Enough. Don’t drag this out any longer.”

Lan Qiren’s hand on his shoulder tightens, but Jiang Cheng is tired.

Lan Wangji has his mind made up—Jiang Cheng wonders why no one else can see it—and he doubts there is anything that will make him change his opinion of Jiang Cheng.

“He is asking for his sentence himself,” Sect Leader Yao crows in victory, as if it would mean that Jiang Cheng admitted to every single accusation. “We should give it to him.”

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian suddenly says, but Jiang Cheng does not want to hear from his brother at this moment.

“Yes, you should,” Jiang Cheng bites out, forcing a smirk on his face, but before anyone can so much as move a muscle Zidian sparks to life on Jiang Cheng’s finger.

“He’s attacking!” Sect Leader Yao screams, already diving for safety behind the other Sect Leaders, but Jiang Cheng is staring at his finger in confusion.

“I’m not,” he shouts, because if he really wanted to attack any of them, he would have done so earlier, and then he watches as Zidian detaches itself from his finger and moves through the air.

Jiang Cheng follows its path with his gaze and his eyes go wide when he sees Jin Ling flying over the Cloud Recesses.

“No,” Jiang Cheng breathes out as he watches how Jin Ling expertly yields Zidian, drawing it in a graceful arch over his head before he viciously brings it down on the protective barrier surrounding the Cloud Recesses.

It splinters after one hit, and Jiang Cheng is unsure if that is because Jin Ling is truly that angry or if Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren did something.

It doesn’t matter in the end, because the barrier crumbles and Jin Ling doesn’t waste any time descending into the courtyard, stepping down from Suihua right next to Jiang Cheng.

“I hope you forgive me this trespassing, Zewu-Jun, but the disciples at the front gate wouldn’t allow us to come in. A mistake, surely, but really rather bothersome, given what is happening here,” Jin Ling smoothly says but Jiang Cheng can hear the faint tremor in his voice.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Lan Xichen immediately gives back, probably smiling with how light his voice sounds, but Jiang Cheng can’t tear his eyes away from Jin Ling.

He had been resigned to never see him again, and despite the fact that he is happy to see him one last time—not to mention how proud he is of him—Jiang Cheng really wishes he would be anywhere but here.

Jiang Cheng is just about to speak when Zidian is transferred back to his finger.

“I hope you forgive me, too, jiu-jiu, I know it is still yours, but this was an emergency,” Jin Ling says to him, not taking his eyes of Lan Wangji and clearly daring him to do anything right now.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jiang Cheng softly says, because he thought he had been very clear in his instructions.

Jin Ling was supposed to be at Lotus Pier where Jiang Xiuying would need his help. He shouldn’t be here, watching Jiang Cheng die.

“Xiuying was very adamant,” Jin Ling easily gives back and as if on cue, Jiang Xiuying marches into the courtyard.

“I hope you will forgive us for being late, Chief Cultivator,” he sweetly says and Jiang Cheng has to admire him simply for the bite he puts into those words. “We were delayed at the front gate, but luckily we made it in time to this public trial that you surely wouldn’t dare hold without the Big Sects present.”

“You are not a Sect Leader,” is the first thing Lan Wangji says to Jiang Xiuying and Jiang Cheng immediately sees red.

“Do not speak to him,” Jiang Cheng hisses, raising up on his knees, Zidian sparking on his finger in response to his anger and Jiang Cheng is going to send it out, wound on his shoulder be damned.

“How dare you,” Lan Wangji says, and he clearly only waited for this, because Bichen is drawn and pointed at him in an instant.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen tries, tries to calm everyone down, but his brother clearly doesn’t listen to him since he advances on Jiang Cheng without hesitation and it only takes Jiang Cheng a moment to understand that Lan Wangji is going to strike him down without remorse.

When Zidian lashes out, Jiang Cheng thinks for a split second that he lost control of his own spiritual tool but then Jiang Xiuying steps in front of him, arms outstretched and sending Zidian at Lan Wangji with natural ease.

Lan Wangji deflects the hit with Bichen, but the end of Zidian curls in an astonishing display of control and manages to flick Lan Wangji on the cheek, instantly drawing blood.

Jiang Cheng knew Jiang Xiuying would be magnificent with Zidian.

“Do not dare to touch him,” Jiang Xiuying seethes at Lan Wangji, calling Zidian back to his hand, where it continues to spark, picking up on the anger in Jiang Xiuying.

Lan Wangji seems to have half a mind to turn his sword against Jiang Xiuying next, but after a lengthy staring battle Lan Wangji sheathes Bichen and gets back to his original place, a clearly distressed Wei Wuxian immediately at his side and fussing over him.

Jiang Xiuying watches his retreat with hawk eyes, clearly not daring to take his gaze off him until he is a good distance away and then he turns his look onto Zidian, now finally dormant on his finger.

He takes a few seconds before he turns around to Jiang Cheng, a question clear in his eyes and Jiang Cheng shrugs through his embarrassment.

Jiang Cheng has transferred power over Zidian to Jiang Xiuying years ago, because just like Jin Ling, he simply wanted to keep him safe. Unlike with Jin Ling, Jiang Cheng might have forgot to mention it to Jiang Xiuying.

Who doesn’t seem to take it as well as Jiang Cheng had hoped.

“We’ll  talk about this when we get home,” Jiang Xiuying threatens and Jiang Cheng is unable to keep his mouth shut.

“If,” he corrects, because Lan Wangji now seems more murderous than ever.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t like his chances, not even with Jiang Xiuying and Jin Ling here now.

“When,” Jiang Xiuying hisses and then stalks away, putting his back to Lan Wangji in a clearly disrespectful move.

It’s only now that Jiang Cheng realizes that Jiang Xiuying didn’t come alone. He walks over to a bunch of Yunmeng disciples and when Jiang Cheng recognizes them, he goes cold.

Of course Jiang Cheng knows that Jiang Xiuying would never force any of the people Jiang Cheng saved to show up here—their intention of telling the truth more than made clear by their actions—so these must be the ones that are alright with having their new identity revealed, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t have to like it.

“This is not a public event,” Jiang Cheng desperately says. “Disciples are not allowed here,” he goes on, turning back around to Lan Wangji. “I’m requesting you send them away.”

“Since you are being accused of a crime, you lost the right to call yourself Sect Leader,” Jiang Xiuying states. “I am acting Sect Leader of Yunmeng Jiang and I have every right to be here,” Jiang Xiuying bites out at Jiang Cheng and there is nothing Jiang Cheng can do to change that right now.

But the rest of his people shouldn’t be here.

“I am a newly appointed Sect Leader,” Jiang Xiuying says. “You cannot expect me to travel without due safety precautions.”

Jiang Cheng wants to strangle him for putting himself into this situation, but Jiang Xiuying looks at him like he expects it, his gaze steady and unwavering, and Jiang Cheng sinks back onto his heels, turning an imploring gaze on Lan Wangji.

“They stay,” Lan Wangji says, probably just to be contrary, even as he swipes the blood from his cheek. “There have been enough interruptions already.”

As if on cue one more interruption appears.

“Ah, am I late?” Nie Huaisang sheepishly asks from behind his fan. “I came as fast as I could, but—,” he trails off and shrugs. “Oh, good, Jiang Wanyin is still alive,” he then says when his eyes fall on Jiang Cheng and he positions himself far away from Lan Xichen. “Don’t let yourself be distracted, please do go on,” he expectantly says, when all eyes continue to stay on him, and Jiang Cheng wonders just what exactly he is up to this time.

“You have good people,” Lan Qiren suddenly whispers to Jiang Cheng and even though Jiang Cheng wants to do nothing more than wholeheartedly agree, he fears that their presence here will only make things harder on them.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes fall on Jin Ling, and it’s only then that he realizes how pale and shaken he seems and Jiang Cheng understands suddenly that Jin Ling pushed himself to fly as fast as he could to Lotus Pier, explaining everything to Jiang Xiuying, before they made their way here. Jin Ling probably didn’t rest since he flew off at the house.

And it must be like this, because if Lan Qiren only called for help when he fetched the healer, they are way too early.

“I wish I didn’t,” Jiang Cheng almost belatedly whispers but Lan Qiren only squeezes his shoulder.

“Your actions against the Chief Cultivator will be excused this once,” Lan Wangji says, voice icy and Jiang Xiuying mockingly bows to him. “It will not be enough to derail this trial. Let’s continue,” Lan Wangji declares and Jiang Cheng can’t believe how blind he truly is.

He is looking straight at Jiang Xiuying but he doesn’t seem to recognize him at all. Jiang Cheng honestly suspects that Lan Wangji is so dead set on killing him today that he doesn’t allow even the slightest doubt and so he conveniently tunes the nagging voice out.

It’s the only thing that makes sense, because otherwise Lan Wangji is just stupidly oblivious.

“Now, the accusations have been presented. Since Jiang Wanyin refuses to speak and there is no proof in his favour, who stands against Jiang Wanyin?” Lan Wangji asks and it’s worded incredibly biased towards Jiang Cheng’s guilt.

Predictably, Sect Leader Yao is the first one to speak up.

“The Yao Sect stands against Jiang Wanyin,” he declares, chest proudly puffed up and Sect Leader Ouyang steps up next.

“Baling Ouyang stands against Jiang Wanyin,” he agrees, and after that it’s just a flood of the smaller Sects declaring their stand against Jiang Cheng.

When the last one falls silent, Jin Ling doesn’t hesitate to speak up.

“Lanling Jin stands with Jiang Wanyin,” he declares, to the surprise of no one and Jiang Xiuying nods his agreement.

“Yunmeng Jiang stands with Jiang Wanyin,” he says, daring Lan Wangji with his eyes to disagree.

Everyone turns towards Nie Huaisang next.

“What do you want me to say? I don’t know, I really don’t know what to do,” Nie Huaisang says, rather predictably, Jiang Cheng thinks and Zidian sparks on his finger again.

It’s clearly reacting to Jiang Xiuying’s anger, since he’s glaring daggers at Nie Huaisang.

“For once in your life, do the right thing and say the truth,” Jiang Xiuying snaps at Nie Huaisang who looks at him over his fan, before he snaps it shut.

Gone is the headshaker and Jiang Cheng can hear Lan Xichen take a shaky breath at the reminder that Nie Huaisang is not as innocent as he seems.

“Fine,” Nie Huaisang says, his voice suddenly strong and clear. “You’re making a grave mistake, Lan Wangji,” Nie Huaisang tells him. “Qinghe Nie stands with Jiang Wanyin.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t seem surprised by these turns of events, but he also doesn’t seem to be happy about it. Once Nie Huaisang falls silent Lan Wangji turns expectant eyes on Lan Xichen, clearly expecting him to back Lan Wangji as well, now that all the smaller Sects do, despite Lan Xichen’s earlier show of support towards Jiang Cheng.

Lan Xichen’s vote will decide this, Jiang Cheng suddenly realizes, because if one of the Great Sects sides with the smaller ones, they outweigh the other three Great Sects and Jiang Cheng has a split second to doubt Lan Xichen.

He feels bad for it, even before Lan Xichen squares his shoulder.

“Gusu Lan stands with Jiang Wanyin,” he loudly declares without hesitation or doubt and Sect Leader Yao gasps in outrage as a hush falls over the crowd.

“Brother,” Lan Wangji says, clearly displeased with that, but Lan Xichen shakes his head.

“No. He is innocent of the charges you brought against him and Gusu Lan will not allow you to kill an innocent man. We stand with him,” he reiterates, underlined by Lan Qiren nodding.

Wei Wuxian has been oddly quiet; strangely enough his gaze is fixed upon Nie Huaisang and it’s not long before he speaks.

“Why do you stand with him?” he asks and Nie Huaisang flicks his fan open again.

“Because he is innocent and I have something to make up for,” Nie Huaisang says with a little nod of his head and Jiang Cheng is reminded of the conversation they had just before everything went to shit.

If this is how Nie Huaisang wants to make up for killing Mo Xuanyu then he should probably think again, Jiang Cheng bitterly thinks, even though he is aware that there is no way that Nie Huaisang can make up for a lost life at all.

“I see,” Wei Wuxian mutters and Jiang Cheng scoffs.

“You don’t see anything,” he tells him and then forces himself to his feet, shrugging Lan Qiren’s hand off in the process. “Now that this is decided, can I leave?” he asks, raising his still cuffed hands in a clear demand to be released, but Lan Wangji doesn’t move.

“Just because some people don’t find you guilty it doesn’t mean that you’re absolved. The Chief Cultivator stands against Jiang Wanyin.”

“The Chief Cultivator is supposed to be an unbiased voice. His job is to mediate between the Sects and balance the scales,” Jin Ling says, and Jiang Cheng doesn’t think he has ever heard him speak this frostily to someone before. “You’re not supposed to take sides.”

“The accusations regarding our lost disciple have to come from Gusu Lan,” Lan Xichen chimes in and Jiang Cheng is beyond grateful that he doesn’t use Jiang Xiuying’s old name. “You have nothing to bring against him, since he didn’t slight you personally.”

Lan Wangji’s grip on Bichen tightens and Jiang Cheng wonders just how badly Lan Wangji really wants him dead.

“So you just want to let him leave, knowing that he will kill again?” Wei Wuxian asks and Jiang Cheng can’t help but to jerk with his words.

It still hurts, to know that his own brother doesn’t even believe that he is innocent.

“The trust is broken,” one of the other Sect Leader agrees and they all start to nod.

“We can’t trade with Yunmeng anymore,” someone else says and Jiang Cheng closes his eyes.

Even if he does survive this, the reputation of his Sect will be tarnished, and the lives of his disciples will be unnecessary hard after this.

It’s everything Jiang Cheng never wanted.

When he opens his eyes again, his gaze falls on Jiang Xiuying who is already looking at him.

“Let them speak,” Jiang Xiuying lowly says, just loud enough to reach Jiang Cheng’s ears. “They are here on their own free will.”

Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath, because he suspected as much, but he still didn’t want to drag them into the spotlight like this.

“They shouldn’t have to,” he gives back and by now they have the attention of everyone, Jiang Cheng is more than aware of that.

“But they want to,” Jiang Xiuying replies and then smiles slightly at Jiang Cheng. “It’s not even only for your sake,” he then admits while he glares at Lan Wangji. “It would bring us great pleasure, too.”

Jiang Cheng chuckles at that, despite how everything inside him screams to bundle his people up and bring them far away, to protect them from prying eyes.

“Jiu-jiu, please,” Jin Ling chimes in when Jiang Cheng doesn’t agree to their plan and Jiang Cheng can’t help himself, he reaches out with his still bound hands to tug him closer to himself.

“Let us protect you for once,” Jiang Xiuying whispers, his voice steady and sure, and with Jin Ling’s comforting weight leaning against him Jiang Cheng finds it hard to remember why this is a bad idea.

That changes when his eyes fall on Lan Wangji again, but by then he has already agreed.

“Fine,” he mutters, casting a desperate glance towards his people.

“You are keeping them safe,” Jiang Xiuying promises. “You’re keeping them safe by protecting yourself.”

“I already said fine,” Jiang Cheng snaps, because he never did learn how to deal with the gratitude and love of his people and Jiang Xiuying smirks at him, because he knows exactly what Jiang Cheng is feeling.

He does know him too well, after all.

“We will keep them safe as well,” Lan Xichen suddenly says from right beside Jiang Cheng as he reaches out to undo his cuffs. “We are standing with you.”

“And I thank you for that,” Jiang Cheng says with a small nod before he straightens up. “Alright,” he decides. “Pardon this, Lan Xichen, but let’s stick it to your brother.”

Jin Ling snorts at his words, just as Jiang Xiuying bites back a smile and even Lan Xichen can’t hide the amusement in his eyes.

Jiang Cheng knows he will crash sooner or later; today has been a bit much with everything and the fact that he almost died today will catch up with him once he has a moment to think about it, but right now, with the people he loves behind him, he feels like he could do anything.

And if Jiang Cheng is being honest, the only thing he really wants to be doing right now is to make Lan Wangji and especially Sect Leader Yao eat their own words.

Jiang Xiuying motions for the others to step forward and Jiang Cheng recognizes all of them, of course he does. Even Jiang Sushan is there, Fu Zhihao pressed close to her side and Jiang Cheng itches with the need to send them away immediately.

Fu Zhihao barely healed and she’s still in no condition to be around older males for longer than absolutely necessary. She shouldn’t be here at all.

Jiang Cheng glares at Jiang Xiuying but he simply shrugs. He did say they are all here voluntarily, Jiang Cheng reminds himself. He just hopes it’s true as he turns towards Lan Wangji.

“Regarding the accusations made against me today,” he starts and cuts his glare over to Sect Leader Yao, who has the good grace to shrink back at the venom in that glare, “I have something to say.”

“Speak,” Lan Wangji demands, but he doesn’t sound too sure all of a sudden, doesn’t seem too happy with the proceedings, and Jiang Cheng does rather enjoy the feeling of triumph it brings him.

“I am innocent. I did not kill any demonic cultivators, nor did I torture them.”

His voice rings out in the courtyard because everyone is silent for two seconds, but then chaos erupts. The voices calling him a liar are the kinder ones, and Jiang Cheng shakes his head at them.

“And I have proof,” he continues, raising his voice so that it carries over the others.

Luo Ganting is the first to step forward and Jiang Cheng seethes with anger when Sect Leader Yao doesn’t seem to recognize him instantly.

“My name is Luo Ganting,” he says, turning towards Sect Leader Yao, his face speaking of the disgust he feels for the other man. “And I used to be Sect Leader Yao’s right hand man before Sect Leader Jiang saved me from my certain death.”

Sect Leader Yao gasps dramatically, but Jiang Cheng sees how he goes pale, how he starts to sweat and he knows there won’t be any more accusations from that front.

“I turned towards demonic cultivation when I couldn’t stand to be in Sect Leader Yao’s presence anymore and Sect Leader Jiang saved me. He gave me hope, a home, and a family. I have been with him for ten years now and I regret every year I wasted with Sect Leader Yao before. Jiang Wanyin is innocent.”

Fu Zhihao is the next to step up, Jiang Sushan hovering protectively at her back, but her voice doesn’t shake.

Jiang Cheng is incredibly proud of how far she has come in this short amount of time.

“My name is Fu Zhihao,” she starts and she keeps her eyes on Lan Wangji. “My family married me off to a man thrice my age, who insisted that I be a good wife. My hate for him was so strong that I turned to demonic cultivation without a second thought. I killed him and the child I was carrying but Sect Leader Jiang came to rescue me. I haven’t been with him for long, but even that short amount of time was better than the life I spent before.”

“In case it is unclear,” Jiang Xiuying chimes in, his voice as cutting as the glare he sends at Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji. “She is the girl you accused Sect Leader Jiang of killing during the last cultivation conference.”

Lan Wangji’s face has turned into stone but Wei Wuxian watches the proceedings with big eyes, his lips parted, the colour drained from his face.

One after one Jiang Cheng’s people step forward, telling everyone present in what ways Jiang Cheng saved their lives. It’s clear by the faces of everyone present just how much they hate this, and Jiang Cheng has to admit that he does too.

He doesn’t like to be reminded how his people suffered before, can feel his eyes burn with the mere memory of it, of how unhappy and desperate they were, and Jiang Cheng has to actively remind himself that they are doing well these days.

It’s all in the past.

When the last person steps back, Jiang Xiuying steps forward and Jiang Cheng itches to pull him back, to shield him from this. But he knows he can’t do that, understands that this is something Jiang Xiuying has to do now and so he simply watches on.

“My name used to be Lan Zhi,” Jiang Xiuying starts with, raising his hand, his white forehead ribbon tightly clenched in it, adding proof to his words.

Jiang Cheng didn’t even know he kept it.

“And I used to be a disciple of Gusu Lan.”

Jiang Cheng does rather enjoy how Lan Wangji goes pale at that and he can’t help the small, satisfied smile on his face. The shock serves Lan Wangji right after he didn’t even recognize Jiang Xiuying.

“I turned towards demonic cultivation in my unhappiness and it was Sect Leader Jiang who showed me a different way. Who listened to me and took me serious, who offered me another life, one not dictated by rules that were suffocating me. He noticed me,” Jiang Xiuying says, clearly aiming to hit low with this, and going by Lan Wangji’s flinch, he managed it well. “He gave me a new name and a new family, and I couldn’t imagine a happier life.”

Jiang Cheng itches to pull Jiang Xiuying close, make sure that this doesn’t affect him more than he lets on, but he forces himself to hold still.

When no one else steps forward, Lan Xichen speaks.

“The accusations brought against Jiang Wanyin are baseless. He is innocent.”

“Then what happened today?” Wei Wuxian suddenly asks and Jiang Cheng jerks with the reminder that there are two people he didn’t manage to save.

Jiang Xiuying seems to sense his distress, because he steps close to Jiang Cheng, a supportive hand on his arm and Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath before he speaks.

“When I entered the house, Tan Chunhua was already dead. Xie Xifeng lost control of her powers and a knife went flying, hitting Tan Chunhua in the neck. When I tried to calm Xie Xifeng down, she lost herself to her grief and in the following outburst of her powers she accidentally turned Tan Chunhua into a puppet. She stabbed me,” he recounts, pointing at the injury in his shoulder. “When Xie Xifeng realized what she had done, she chose death over life and threw herself at Sandu,” Jiang Cheng forces out, the only thing grounding him into the present Jiang Xiuying’s steady hand on his arm.

“You tried to help,” Wei Wuxian whispers, clearly not taking that revelation well, and Jiang Cheng bares his teeth at him.

“Unlike you, who arrived before me and could have done something to prevent this tragedy,” he hotly says and then turns away from Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji. “Now if that is all, I wish to return to my own Sect.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t wait for Lan Wangji’s reply to that, and his path away from this farce of a trial leads him straight in front of the smaller Sect Leaders. Jiang Cheng tenses when Lang Hanying steps forward.

“What now?” Jiang Cheng snaps at her, but she bows deeply.

“We apologize for our misconception and blind belief that led to your suffering. Please do understand that we will need some time to reconcile this new information with the image we carried of you for so long.”

“Whatever,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, because he honestly couldn’t care less—all he wants to do right now is go home—but Jiang Xiuying doesn’t seem quite satisfied with it.

“You stood against him before,” he says, a clear challenge in his voice, making sure to look every person straight in the eyes, and Jiang Cheng knows that Jiang Xiuying won’t forget that these people called for Jiang Cheng’s death.

He can hold a grudge better than anyone, Jiang Cheng has found, and he promises to only let Jiang Xiuying deal with Sect Leader Yao now. Let him sweat some more.

“We cannot stand with him, the rift between the Jiang Wanyin we thought we knew and the real one is too great,” Lang Hanying says apologetically and then turns towards Lan Wangji. “But we do not stand against Jiang Wanyin,” she declares and Jiang Cheng can’t deny that he feels vindicated.

It’s a good feeling, he finds.

Jiang Cheng expectantly turns towards Lan Wangji, who seems as if he would rather take the punishment whip again as to say the words everyone is expecting from him now.

But no one steps in, and even Lan Xichen only raises an expectant eyebrow at his brother.

“Lan Wanyin is innocent and cleared of all accusations. Sect Leader Jiang is an honoured Sect Leader and is held in the highest regards,” Lan Wangji does eventually manage to press out and Jiang Cheng wonders just what it cost him to say that.

He can’t find it in himself to feel bad for Lan Wangji.

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says unexpectantly and steps forward.

Jiang Xiuying immediately moves between them, and Jiang Cheng knows that he wouldn’t have any qualms using Zidian on Wei Wuxian as well, but Jiang Cheng tugs Jiang Xiuying back.

It’s not worth it. There have been enough meaningless fights today, and it’s simply not worth it.

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says again, and this time it’s Jin Ling who intercepts him, just as protective as Jiang Xiuying.

“Don’t you dare speak to him,” Jin Ling hisses. “There is no relation between you at all, not after today, so you should return to your husband’s side.”

It’s said with so much disdain that even Jiang Cheng has to raise an eyebrow in surprise, but when Wei Wuxian doesn’t move, he lets out a sigh.

“You believed this,” Jiang Cheng says, and all of a sudden he feels tired to his bones and yet again it’s only his own stubborn pride that keeps him on his feet and his head raised. “You believed I killed countless people, out of hate for a single person. You wouldn’t listen to reason and you would not give me the benefit of the doubt. There is nothing more to say between us, Wei Wuxian.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t wait to see the effect his words have on Wei Wuxian, turning away from him almost before he finishes speaking, but he hears the pained breath Wei Wuxian takes in the wake of his words, voiced with utter finality.

He knows it’s petty, but Jiang Cheng hopes Wei Wuxian will regret his actions until the day he dies, just like Jiang Cheng still regrets the actions he took sixteen years ago.

“Thank you for your support,” Jiang Cheng says with a small bow when he comes across Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren, who simply nod at him.

“We promised,” Lan Xichen gives back as if it is that easy, as if promises haven’t been broken countless times before. “You will always have a friend and ally in Gusu Lan.”

“Yunmeng Jiang appreciates it,” Jiang Cheng replies and then turns towards Nie Huaisang who is still watching the proceedings with hawk eyes.

“You want the position as Chief Cultivator so badly, you should get rid of the old one,” Jiang Cheng says without preamble and he enjoys the surprised look on Nie Huaisang’s face.

He’s not as unpredictable as he likes to think, especially not since Jiang Cheng saw his true face once, but right now Jiang Cheng is too tired to be angry that Nie Huaisang used his plight to his advantage.

“I’m filing an official complaint against the current holder of the position,” Jiang Cheng informs him. “I accuse him of actively withholding help to Tan Chunhua and Xie Xifeng, causing their death with it. Do with that what you want.”

“I will, Jiang-xiong,” Nie Huaisang promises and he seems way too satisfied for Jiang Cheng’s taste.

“That won’t be necessary,” Lan Xichen suddenly says, his eyes still on Lan Wangji who honestly seems shell-shocked by the proceedings today.

Jiang Cheng can’t even pretend to feel bad.

“What do you mean?” Jin Ling wants to know and it’s only then that Lan Xichen turns towards them.

“He broke several rules with his actions. He will be asked to go into seclusion for an as of yet undetermined time to reflect on his behaviour. The position of Chief Cultivator is thus vacant.”

“Do you think he will repent for what he did?” Jiang Xiuying asks and Lan Xichen slightly bows his head.

“My brother has strong opinions. It will take him time to come to terms with the fact that he was blinded by unjustified hate. Time we will give to him.”

Locked away in the jingshi, Lan Xichen doesn’t say out loud, but Jiang Cheng understands him anyway. It doesn’t feel like enough, after all Lan Wangji put him through, especially today, but Jiang Cheng still nods.

“His inactions regarding Tan Chunhua and Xie Xifeng are a different matter. He will be punished for that accordingly, since he used them to manipulate you,” Lan Xichen adds and even though he sounds pained, his voice doesn’t waver.

“That seems acceptable,” Jiang Xiuying says when Jiang Cheng can’t find it in him to answer and Lan Xichen leaves them with one last bow.

Nie Huaisang kept quiet through the exchange, fanning himself or maybe simply hiding, but Jiang Xiuying clearly did not forget about him.

“If you come after us, or Jin Ling, we will destroy you,” Jiang Xiuying promises Nie Huaisang as they walk past him, and Nie Huaisang seems to be smart enough to believe him.

“You shouldn’t aggravate other Sect Leaders,” Jiang Cheng chides him, once they made their way away from them all and Jiang Xiuying huffs.

“He shouldn’t play with my Sect Leader,” he gives back and then stops Jiang Cheng with a light hand to his shoulder. “We came here out of our own will. We took a stand because we wanted to,” he reassures Jiang Cheng who still finds that hard to believe, but who nods anyway. “And I am so giving the title of Sect Leader back to you,” Jiang Xiuying then adds with a dangerous smirk and Jiang Cheng knows there will be several loud and lengthy conversations about this.

“You were stupid, jiu-jiu,” Jin Ling says from Jiang Cheng’s other side, his voice all choked up, and Jiang Cheng can tell that there are more talks in his future on that front as well.

Given that he thought he would never get to see these two people again, Jiang Cheng is rather looking forward to it.

Bonus Jiang Cheng/Jiang Xiuying chapter

{Buy me a kofi}

[fortune-fool02]

Painting in His Mind

Robert E.O Speedwagon x female reader

Requested by: anonymous 

A creepy Lovecraftian story of a character of your choice featuring a slow transformation into a non human or half human being and the reader trying to help them cope.

Lovecraftian AU

I love this idea! Throwing out all cuteness and fluff, we are losing sanity like adults! This is a bit long. Please enjoy!

There was only so much that the human mind could comprehend. Only some beliefs that could allow them to live happy, simple lives; oblivious to truths beyond their capability of understanding. Things impossible outside of stories and myths. Things that melted reality and belief together into one absurd painting of mass dark greens. 

The painting was something that was so strange and abstract that it captivated Speedwagon from the moment he laid eyes on it. He had found it during a robbery of some abandoned mansion that had been left to rot after the owners had died in an accident. Carriage rode right off the cliff and down into the rocks below from what he heard. No one survived and they barely found enough to bury. A collection of things had already been taken by anyone who could get their hands on it and yet the paintings were left untouched. 

Speedwagon had gone in one night, searching for something to take when he stumbled upon the cloth covered canvases, tucked away in the studio that was once a supply room or storage room. Curious, he had removed a sheet and saw the painting. 

Dark shadows merging with the blackness behind it, distorting and shifting into the light to be seen. Gaping maws inside gaping maws, lines of white stained red, both fresh and dried. Something stirring deep within him, a primal sense of fear that had never been felt before, not when he was held at gunpoint nor when he was in inches of his life. Hollow orbs blacker than the ocean’s darkness with twisting shapes and empty sockets staring out into his coffee brown eyes, piercing pass them and worming their way into his mind like a parasitic worm feasting of a fresh, ripe host. Something silently cried in his mind, as if the painting itself was speaking through a veil of water, muffled and distorted but there. Whispers, whining and whimpering, aching to be heard by ears not for them. 

He did not know why but he had to take that painting back home with him. He wanted it. He had to have it. The need and hunger for money was all but forgotten to Speedwagon when he returned to his home and practically stripped down an entire wall in his room for that painting. It didn’t deserve a simple spot, no, it deserved the entire wall. Shelves ripped from their place and cast aside, forgotten, replaced. All in favour of that painting. 

Every day, Speedwagon sat and admired the painting. Tracing his fingers over every brush streak, every melt of the colours, over the maw and teeth. Something deep within him was drawn to this painting, a tugging in his core like a string, no, not a string, stronger. A thread, a rope, a chain. A chain to a boulder dropped in the ocean, pulling him down with it. Sometimes, he could hear the whispering, soft singing below water; deep in his mind, faint but there, wanting to be heard, to be louder. He wanted to hear it. 

His friends came by to check on him and he reassured them he was fine. His friends swallowed his answers after some convincing and left him be but [Name] was kinder than that, more concerned, and thus remained with him. Wanting to make sure he really was alright. She was always so kind in his eyes, always so sweet and generous, thinking of those before herself. That was why he showed her the painting. He had expected her to be awestruck by it but, instead, she was unsettled by it, she even took some steps away from it. 

Then again, they did have different tastes in preferences and art so that could just be it. But her face, she looked so concerned for him. She even questioned him as to why he had such a thing. He told her how he felt about the painting, how he found it oddly captivating. 

“Robert, you have never once been interested in something like this style before. It’s not right at all, it’s....unsettling.” the [Hair colour] woman told him, her eyes glowing with honesty and concern for him. Speedwagon sighed at those eyes, such beautiful eyes. Sighing, he told her everything. The odd dreams that plagued his nights since he got the painting, the images of something reaching out of the inky blackness to him, dragging him down deeper into the darkness. His lungs filled with water whenever he tried to scream or call out in these dreams. Her expression painted into many different layers of concern for him and tried to think of some way to help him. 

No matter what advice he took, Speedwagon could not shake this painting. Couldn’t shake the pull he felt towards it. His dreams would spill past his eyes and into his vision, seeing the twisted things crawl towards him in his own home, no longer bound to his dreams alone anymore. His growing need to be with some kind of water. First starting off as drinking more, and more, until it was no longer enough and the blonde man would lay in the bath for hours. Even after the water had gone cold. [Name] recalled coming to see him one time and finding him trying to strangle himself while trying to call out for help then saying that something had wrapped around his throat, refusing to believe it was his own hand. 

That was when [Name] decided enough was enough. 

The sun had long set when she arrived at Speedwagon’s house unannounced. She knew that this would be foolish but she was doing this for Robert. Her pick-locks soon allowed her entrance to his house and was greeted by a breeze of coldness. It had been a few days since she last saw Speedwagon and, by the looks of his house, whatever has happened has only gotten worse with the thrown about furniture and broken objects. Especially with the lit candles all over the place and drawings. 

Slowly making her way upstairs, [Name] peeked into Speedwagon’s room to see the bedroom in almost perfect condition. Clean, well-kept, well-lit, the only room in such way. In the centre of the room, Speedwagon laid, bowing to the painting and praising it as one would the Holy Spirit or Christ. Robert Speedwagon was not a religious man so this was something unsettling for her to witness. The door creaking caught his attention, making him smile. 

“[Name]. My wonderful darling, please, come in, come in.” His tone sounded so...at peace. Like he was welcoming an old friend in who he hasn’t seen in many years. The second she got a better look at him, she knew something was off. His coffee brown eyes were hazy, glossed over with a bleakness to them, like his mind wasn’t there. 

“Robert? What....What’s going on?” He only smiled more at her words. 

“Nothin’. I’m just enjoyin’ the beauty of it. Can you see it, [Name]?” He asked, motioning to the painting again. Uncertainty flooded her, mixing with the concern for his odd behaviours. The man’s skin looked paler, drained of colour almost, like he was sick and only sparked more concern. 

“Robert, are you feeling well? You look dreadful.” [Name] spoke, taking a step closer to him only to have him smile more. 

“I’m fine. I have never been better.” Refusing to accept his answers anymore, [Name] shook her head, 

“No, you’re not. You’re sick and I’m taking you to a hospital. Now.” She said, reaching to him to lift him up. As cruel as this seemed, she was doing this for his benefit. Robert refused to leave, squirming out of her hold and remaining in place. 

“No! I’m stayin’ here! I need to watch this paintin’! Protect it!” He spat out at her, something he had never done since they knew one another. [Name], infuriated, grabbed a knife from her pocket and went over to the painting, ready to drive the blade through the canvas and destroy the damn thing. That did not sit well with Speedwagon as the man screamed in a rage, tackling her down and striking her across the face. His expression and eyes wild with rage. 

“Don’t you dare touch it! You’re not worthy to touch it! How dare you try to destroy it!” He screamed at her, grabbing her [Hair colour] hair and smacking her head against the floor with force. Her cries of pain and pleas fell on deaf ears as he continued to do this before tightly yanking her head up again and glaring into her [Eye colour] eyes.

“Robert, please! Please, I-I’m sorry!” She cried out, trying to move her hands to protect her head and curl up more, though his iron grip prevented that. 

“Not good enough! Not good enough....” He kept his grip, his hand reaching to the side for something and pulling it back into view. The candle-light glimmered against the blade in his hand. Cold panic flooded through her at the sight of it, squirming more under his grip, 

“No! No, Robert! Please!” Again, her pleas were ignored as he straddled her, holding her in place as he brought the blade higher up. 

“Lä. Lä. Cthulhu fhtagn...” he spoke softly, the words foreign and unknown to her as the blade remained still for a moment. Then brought down. 

“Speedwagon pleas-!”  

[mnictasbcl]

The Season of Art

For  #dbhcolorsofdeviancy, prompt:

May 31st:  Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter @connor-sent-by-cyberlife

Rating: Teen

Characters: Connor, Hank Anderson, Markus

Relationships: Connor & Hank Anderson, Connor & Markus

Additional Tags: Painting, Birthdays, Fluff, Swearing, Seasons

Summary: After all the seasons Connor has known Markus, after being saved by him from a life stuck as a machine… the RK800 can’t figure out what to get him for his birthday.

Perhaps Hank can help out, showing him that what truly counts is from his metaphorical heart.

Notes: Hope this is okay! I took the prompt pretty loosely for this fic, as with many others on the list, so that the idea is still there and the main focus of the story, but a longer fic overall.

Story below! Or, read it on AO3

“I just don’t know what to get him.” Connor groaned. It was no use- he’d scoured the internet and everything he knew in his database, but it was impossible. Figuring out what to get Markus for his birthday was impossible.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t his exact birthdate. The deviant leader hadn’t been sure when that was exactly, and everywhere online it was marked as ‘confidential’. Jericho had decided that wasn’t good enough and had chosen the day that marked the success of the revolution as the big day.

They’d even organised a party, in their new place of residence, and had invited Connor along. He was also allowed to bring someone with him if he so desired, and even a human (if they knew the rules, of course, North had made sure to remind him). Hank had agreed.

“Well, what does he like?” Hank offered in help. “What are his hobbies?”

Connor pursed his lips. “I guess he likes democracy, and the revolution, and android rights—”

“Something more tangible, Connor. Like… reading.”

“He has all the books already.”

“Wh—all of them?”

“Carl Manfred owns a vast library of books, and he seems to have enough for his pleasure.”

Hank groaned. “Jesus. Okay. Does he have… you know, a thing-” he gestured with his hands, “-everyone has a thing. A thing that they like.” At Connor’s confused look, he sighed. “How I like rock music, and watching sports, and you like dogs.”

“Ah, yes.” Connor nodded, now understanding. “I like dogs.” He blinked, LED swirling in colour as he thought it over. “I don’t know if Markus likes dogs. He doesn’t seem to dislike them, but I am unsure if purchasing him a dog would be a well-thought-out gift. Dogs aren’t gifts, anyway. They’re for life.”

“Thanks for the animal charity commercial.” Hank deadpanned. “I don’t mean your thing— I mean his. His—his interest.” The man quickly rephrased.

Connor paused, thinking over it again with this new information. “Aside from his core beliefs, I have noticed that Markus enjoys painting. However, he already has painting equipment, with a vast supply of canvases and paints.”

“Hmm. What about,” Hank began, getting up from the couch, going over to the closet and rummaging through it, “what about you give him something he can’t get, then?” As he turned back around, he was holding a fairly large canvas along with an easel and some paints.

“That sounds optimal.” Connor nodded, understanding what Hank was getting at. “But perhaps I will practice what I will create on some paper, first. I wasn’t created to do this sort of thing.”

“You weren’t made to be a pain in my ass either—don’t give me that look. I know you know what I mean. Just draw something nice for your friend.”

After acquiring a few sheets of paper, Connor got to work. At first, he attempted sketching out some picture-perfect images of Markus. Hank hadn’t seemed thrilled by them.

“It just looks like you printed them out. It’s a nice drawing, Connor, but I don’t think it’s the sort of art Markus would like. From what you’ve told me about him, he likes things free and— you know,” he waved his hands in demonstration. “I looked up some of that Carl Manfred’s art too. It’s mainly abstract.”

“I don’t understand, Lieutenant. Would you think he’d appreciate a drawing replica of one of his pieces?”

Hank shook his head. “It has to be from you. From the heart.”

Connor blinked. A little research showed him how art could be a form of self-expression and emotion. Perhaps this was what Hank was getting at. It would truly be a good gift to give Markus something which really showed his deviancy, his humanity, especially when he was part of the key driving force that had helped him deviate.

But what could he draw? There were so many things, too many things… He shook his head. Maybe he could follow the advice Markus had told him he’d been given once, by Carl, to really flow his soul over the canvas.

Connor closed his eyes. Held the pencil over the paper, and made long, sweeping strokes. Opened his eyes. Shit. It was just a mess of graphite smeared over the paper. That didn’t even look like anything. He groaned. Art was hard.

Maybe, for him, it did have to be something he could think of, at least in concept, rather than a rush of emotions over the paper. What thing could bring out that artistic emotion from him?

He closed his eyes. But this time, he didn’t bring his pencil down onto the paper, not yet. He replayed memories of his time spent with Markus. Seeing him speaking on that screen, played from Stratford Tower, telling of hope, of liberation for their people, igniting that spark of deviancy in his chest, which only flourished with time spent with Hank. How he came to Jericho, and met him, keen only on accomplishing his mission, but Markus had managed to bring up that red wall for him, to realise he was on the wrong side of it and tear it down. Emotion, the hope, everything sparking within his chest, looking up at Markus and realising that he’s free.

The autumn that brought his life, filled with new hope, a new life. The winter that followed, the impromptu Christmas party held for the newly freed deviants, being allowed back with the original crew, with Josh and Simon, North and Markus, looking into the other android’s eyes and realising just how much things had changed in such a short time. Memories of the new spring, a new year, to bring down the restrictions stopping deviants from being truly human, helping Markus with his speeches and fighting by his side for the campaigns. Summer. The freedom has truly come now, because they’ve done it. Everything isn’t perfect, but by law, they’re completely human, and Markus is still there, they all are, revelling in the burden lifted from their shoulders.

He opened his eyes. In the time they’d been shut, his body had seemed to move of its own accord. The canvas was in front of him, brush in his hand, and a picture had blossomed in front of him. There was a rush of colours and feelings and emotions. The image was cut into four quadrants, messes of abstract shapes representing each season. And in the centre, were rough figures of them all, from Jericho.

He smiled. It looked alright.

“Holy shit.” Hank muttered from behind him. Connor spun around, seeing he’d been standing in the doorway, likely watching him the whole time. “You did that with your eyes closed?”

He glanced over his clothes. Oh dear. There were a number of splatters of paint over his outfit, and a little on his face. “I believe so. Apologies, Lieutenant, for the mess—”

Hank laughed. “I don’t care about it. Well—you’re tidying it up anyway. But… Christ, that’s amazing. If I painted with my eyes shut, I think I’d end up painting on Sumo.”

Connor frowned. “He wouldn’t appreciate that. “The Saint Bernard in question barked loudly in agreement. “He would require a bath.”

“Whatever,” Hank shrugged, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re alive, Connor. And I think Markus is going to love that.”

  ____________________

 Markus did, in fact, love it. Upon receiving it at his birthday party, he smiled brightly, pulling Connor into a hug.

“It really shows you, Connor, and how far you’ve come. I appreciate that you joined our mission. This is going centre stage.”

He blushed, a little, as Markus took it by the picture hanging and put it up on the wall in the central area of the room, above the fireplace.

“I am glad that you like my present, Markus.”

“Like it? I love it. And is this really the first time I’m hearing that you like to paint?”

“It’s the first time I’ve painted.”

“Then it won’t be the last. Come on, I’d love to paint with you in the future. Carl lets me do painting lessons from time to time in his studio, so long as I don’t bring any troublemakers.”

Connor thought on that. “I would dearly love to come. However, I have been informed that I can cause a significant amount of disruption.”

Markus frowned. “How so?”

“Well, Lieutenant Anderson has, from time to time, referred to me as a pain in his—”

Hank, who was standing nearby to look at Connor’s painting, promptly choked on his drink.

[jewish-privilege]

[Originally published August 09, 2019] - (...) Tisha B’Av is the day that telescopes many of the main catastrophes of Jewish history in its entirety into one day... The events ascribed to the day have to do with separation between God and Israel, both spiritual and physical; the five events connected with the ninth of Av and the 17th of Tammuz, three weeks prior, are discussed in the Mishna Taanit 4:6.

(...) For those who have trouble with understanding the holiday, this explanation by Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, the core teacher of modern Orthodoxy even 26 years after his 1993 death, should suffice: “We observe this saddest day of the year because we cannot understand why our people continues to suffer so much tragedy.” I definitely don’t understand how 11 devoted people could be killed as Jews in America in 2018. Since Oct. 27 [2018,] the place where we celebrated the bris of a congregant’s grandson became the place of the grandfather’s death; the same man who was the mohel at that joyous occasion then served on the chevra kadisha. The whole synagogue building has lain empty, a vacant shell, ghost structure standing as a vivid reminder of what is no more: 11 Jews killed only for the crime of worshipping as Jews on the Sabbath.

No longer an abstraction, these dirges for what is lost; now they encapsulate part of my reality. The reality that we can’t use the place where we had gathered in happy times—for a Purim megillah reading, play, and meal, a Sukkot dinner, a concert of Magavet, the Yale University Jewish singing group—is now a place of death and destruction whose name and photo are known internationally. The social hall where I have attended bar and bat mitzvahs and weddings, the same hall where I danced, became the area that Zaka and the chevra kadisha performed their sacred and tragic duties, and people l knew from other contexts, like my daughter’s SAT math tutor, were now in full-body protective wear and hairnets so that the bodily fluids they were cleaning up would not transfer to their own living bodies.

..And yet, I will read this verse from Lamentations on Saturday night: “the comforter who should restore my soul is far from me, my children are desolate because the enemy has prevailed.” (1:16) I have never felt more that there are so many to comfort me, my family, my community and that evil has not prevailed though it has done great damage(...) Congregants are stepping up to learn the synagogue skills possessed by those three of our congregants no longer with us. Looking up the Hebrew birthday for a woman who never had a bat mitzvah as a girl, we found the Torah portion for her birthday was the same as one of those who were killed. She will be reading that Haftarah in 2020 as well as in years to come.

Though it is not hard to get in mood for Tisha B’Av this year, since I feel like I have been enduring that feeling since Oct. 27, I also remember that even though the Temple was destroyed so many years ago, and was an unmitigated catastrophe, the expulsion of Jews from the land created the necessity to find new forms and ways to continue the religion.

“The nature of trauma,” Bessel van der Kolk a psychiatrist and expert in post-traumatic stress, has said, “is that you have no recollection of it as a story. The nature of traumatic experience is that the brain doesn’t allow a story to be created.” (...) The inability to create a story reminds me of the passage in the Babylonian Talmud Makkot 24b that Rabbi Amy Bardack taught as part of her class on “Jewish Texts of Resilience” at our community Shavuot Tikkun. Four rabbis are walking in the destroyed Jerusalem, on Mount Scopus and then the Temple Mount. One of them, Rabbi Akiva, laughs to see foxes scurrying over the Temple Mount (in Hebrew har habayit, literally the “mountain of home”) while the others are despondent. His colleagues interrogate him—how can you laugh when this place, once an abode of fear and trembling before God, is now so profaned that animals trample it? Rabbi Akiva explains to them about that the prophecies of Uriah during the First Temple and of Zechariah during the Second Temple, that the one, “Zion shall be plowed for a field” (Micah 3:12) is dependent on the other, “there shall yet be elderly men and elderly women in the streets of Jerusalem” (Zechariah 8:4). Destruction must transpire for redemption to happen. Akiva has created a way to tell the story; his laughter and its explanation stop the trauma, for the others tell him he has comforted them.

...My own personal version of transforming tragedy into renewed vigor to have laughter and joy came two weeks ago when I had a visit from a woman I met on the sherut (shared taxi) I took two months ago when I left Jerusalem, where I had been celebrating Passover, to return to the airport en route to Pittsburgh. The sherut driver only takes cash and at the end of my trip, I had none. So I had to ask the other passengers to spot me the money for a check or Venmo (if my kids assisted that interaction). Another passenger agreed, and we chatted. She told me she, too, was from Pittsburgh originally and would be here later in the summer. We exchanged emails, and I gave her my check. I hadn’t expected to hear from her further; however, when she was visiting in July, she emailed me and we set a date to have coffee. She told me the address of her childhood house: It was literally on the same block as mine, around the corner. I heard more of her story—a man followed her father home 25 years ago and broke in to murder him. Her mother had been terminally ill and died a few weeks later, as did her grandmother. But now, she told me, every birthday, every milestone, every moment with the grandchildren she moved to Israel to be near, brings her intense joy. The tragedies she suffered magnify her need to wring every bit of joy from each occasion, her pleasure highlighted by the knowledge that horror, too, may be around the corner.

I have a heightened grasp of the holiday of destruction this year. Yet, I also have a heightened awareness: Once ceased, joy may after all be renewed and restored.

[strangertheory]

I’ll admit I’ve been very skeptical about the DID theory, but your most recent post discussing the “layers” was mind blowing to me. I’m still standing back to see how things play out, since it is a theory, but reading the first “layer”, I 100% can see that being part of the plot. The rest is a little more abstract and I’m curious to see how they would write it in if this theory is true. Thanks to you and Kaypeace for your posts on this theory, they’re interesting!

[This is a follow-up Ask referring to this earlier post.]

Thanks for Asking! I have a lot of thoughts on the possible “layers” going on in the story, but I find it challenging to put into words what my ideas are sometimes because I don’t consider myself a very good writer. I can’t promise that anything I write in this reply will make a lot of sense, but I will do my best! I’ve avoided trying to explain certain thoughts I have on the layers of the scenes because they’re complicated and I hadn’t been sure how many fans would have an interest in them since there’s already such a small number of fans interested in the interpretation that the story is about a DID System in the first place. This is yet a sub-theory of that theory! But I’m really excited that you asked. I will try to explain as best I can.

Please keep in mind that although kaypeace21 and I both theorize that Stranger Things is about a DID System (her blogpost about which characters are alters is excellent and I highly recommend it if you haven’t read it yet), we each have our own interpretations of the DID theory that are sometimes very different from each other’s. Her analyses are based on the theory that the alters, internal worlds, and traumas in Will’s mind have escaped his subconsciousness through supernatural means and have become real. I see her interpretation as one possible explanation for the events in the series and I do like that interpretation a lot. I think it’s a very compelling theory and interpretation of the events so far. But what I’m going to describe in the rest of this blogpost is not currently representative of what kaypeace21 theorizes is going on in the series. This “second layer” interpretation that I’ve considered is based on the idea that there are no real superpowers in the story at all and that they exist strictly within internal worlds or in the imagination of the storyteller.

▪️ ▫️ ▪️ ▫️ ▪️ ▫️ ▪️ ▫️

To explain my “second layer” theory which I also like referring to as my “story within a story” theory: I believe that some scenes (but not all scenes) that we see in Stranger Things might be metaphorical and not meant to be taken literally as they are shown, but rather seen as an artistic interpretation of certain concepts and scenarios.

Let’s look back at season 1. Imagine that a character (I’m going to say Mike because I do suspect he’s the one writing the story) is explaining the story of “what happened in 1983″ in a journal, and then a film crew had found what Mike had written down and adapted it into a series but the film crew did not know the original context of Mike’s story, and so the film crew was unaware that it was a story about Mike’s friend who has DID and that many of the characters in the story are actually alters.

“One day Will went missing and then a girl who said her name was Eleven showed up. She was scared and said that she knew Will but that he was ‘hiding’ and that she could help us find him in the ‘Upside Down.’ She told us that we absolutely couldn’t go tell any adults because it wasn’t safe and that ‘bad men’ were after her. I hid El in my closet upstairs when my mom came home unexpectedly. Mom told me that she wants me to feel like I can talk to her. (“All this that’s been going on with Will. I want you to feel like you can talk to me. I’m here for you!”) Later, Dustin and Lucas and I helped find clothes and a blonde wig for El. We made sure that my mom didn’t see El while she was at my house. We snuck into the school with El and tried to get to the radio in the AV Club Room, but Mr. Clarke found us and reminded us that we should be attending Will’s memorial assembly. Oops. (Thankfully Mr. Clarke didn’t ask too many questions about El and he believed our story that she’s a cousin from Sweden!) Attending Will’s funeral was a funny experience since we knew that he was actually alive after El channeled him on the walkie talkie (”Like Professor X!”) Eventually Nancy found out about El (”Is that my dress?”) and so did Joyce and Hopper and we worked together to put together a sensory deprivation tank because El remembered that she could enhance her ability to reach into the ‘Upside Down’ that way. We set up a sensory deprivation pool in the school gym. Joyce thanked El for everything that she was doing for Will and told her that if she ever got scared that she should let her know and that she’d be with her the whole time. El was able to reach out with her mind and find Will in the Upside Down. She found him in the Upside Down in Castle Byers, barely conscious. She told Will that his mom was coming to get him, and Will whispered back ‘hurry.’ Then El became upset as Will faded away into the darkness and her connection to him weakened. She took her goggles off and sat up in the water, panicking. Joyce held her close and told her that everything was ok. Joyce and Hopper went into the Upside Down to find Will and Hopper gave Will CPR until he regained consciousness. Then the Party got to visit Will at the hospital once he was feeling a bit better, and we told him all about the adventures that we’d had and that we’d “made a new friend” named “Eleven.” (”Like the number?”) Dustin said that El was “basically a wizard” but I insisted that she’s much more like a Yoda.”

So. I recognize that I skipped many scenes in the above example summary of how author Mike Wheeler might retell the story of “what happened in 1983,” but I skipped scenes because I want to primarily focus on the connection between El and Will that is represented in season 1 and set aside what is going on with the other characters for a moment. But if you re-read the summary that I wrote above you might realize that the way in which I described season 1 could be interpreted (at its core) as the non-fiction story of a bunch of kids finding their friend who went missing in the woods, realizing that the person they’re interacting with is no longer Will but a new individual (an alter, a distinctly separate state of consciousness and separate self), and then going on an adventure as they try to sort out the best way to “find Will” and bring him back while also becoming friends with El and protecting her from the “bad men” that she says are after her. The ‘Upside Down’ is a space in the DID System’s subconsciousness that is an internal world. The innocent creativity of Mike, Dustin, and Lucas as they try to find an outfit and a wig for El to wear to school is very sweet. The scene in which they accidentally run into Mr. Clarke when they are trying to break into the AV Club room becomes even more charming when you realize that Mr. Clarke does not appear to recognize El (but Mike, Dustin, and Lucas appear very nervous that he might realize something strange is going on!) Attending Will’s memorial service with El at their side gains an amusing layer of narrative irony, and Joyce’s protective parental affection for El gains new layers of significance. Every moment in the story changes if we imagine that the story we are seeing on screen is like a creative theater performance telling the story of “what happened” and each alter in the series is represented by their own individual actor on screen.

Are there moments in season 1 that break this “second layer” theory that I’ve considered? Arguably there are. I consider this a theory-in-progress. But the key concept of this “second layer” theory is that the story is perhaps not meant literally but is meant as a story that is artistically representative of the experiences that alters in a DID System might have. Many films and tv shows that portray fictional characters with DID approach telling their stories as an outside observer might and without taking into account the individuality of each alter, alters’ experiences in internal worlds, or the way that alters might have different understandings of our reality when they’re very new to the outside world and are fronting (controlling the body) for the first time. Perhaps Stranger Things is taking a new approach.

You’re probably wondering how I carry this “second layer” theory into season 2 and especially season 3 in which we finally see Will and El in more scenes together. I might write a longer blogpost about it at some point. But I believe that, if I were to assume that my “second layer” theory is correct (it’s just one of a few very different theories I’ve considered), that it is possible that significant portions of season 3 take place in an internal world or a dream in which characters that exist in Will’s life are now NPCs or alters. This would make Will’s statement “What if we locked him out here with us?” incorrect. What if Will should have technically said “What if we locked him in here with us?” What if “the Gate” is specifically the doorway through which alters need to pass in order to front in the body in the external world? As I’ve mentioned in a few other posts: I theorize that El is a gatekeeper alter. I suspect that Hopper is also a gatekeeper and that he has been mentoring El. In summary: I often wonder if Will is not always entirely “awake” and if many scenes are taking place in a liminal space between his conscious and subconscious, between reality and his dreamlike experiences in an internal world.

You might be interested in reading a summary of my observations regarding how Will and El do not interact with each other in any scenes in season 1 or season 2 directly in this older blogpost that I made about the parallels between El and Will. I think it might interest you a lot and provide more context to my “second layer” theory if you haven’t read this older post before. I am infinitely fascinated by how Will and El parallel each other so closely and yet rarely interact. I think that this is an intentional consequence of whatever secrets the writers have in store for us in future seasons and I cannot wait to find out what those secrets are. I hope that the connection between El and Will is going to be explored more in season 4.

How might we expect the layers to be peeled back in the series itself if the writers decided to reveal this “second layer” existed beneath the current story? I think that they could reveal things to us a few ways if this “second layer” does exist. Perhaps we could see a character meeting with a therapist and a medical professional would openly name the condition and describe what the characters have been dealing with in a way that provides very new “second layer” context to earlier events in the series. (Sidenote: Back in the 80s it was called “multiple personality disorder” and we might have characters in the series refer to it that way since it takes place in the 1980s, but that term is outdated and it should be referred to as “dissociative identity disorder” or “DID” today.) Perhaps we might see them artistically or literally represent concepts like co-consciousness (two alters being conscious and aware in the body at the same time) or have characters transform back and forth into each other while sitting in a chair in order to represent them taking turns fronting in the same body.

Or perhaps this “second layer” theory that I’ve described is insisting on too much artistry and metaphor and the real “second layer” is that the vast majority of the story so far has taken place in internal worlds and Hawkins itself is an internal world. (I have wondered if this might be why Hawkins doesn’t exist in the real world even though other locations referenced in Stranger Things do exist: Chicago, Indianapolis, etc.) If that were the case maybe we’ll see the shared body of the DID System for the first time in a future season which may (or may not) resemble any of the actors we’ve seen portray characters so far. But from everything that we have seen so far I theorize that the host is most often known by the name Will in the external world. (We've had both Will Byers and William "Billy" Hargrove canonically referred to as hosts. And we have "Will the Wise" who I suspect is also an alter.)

Thank you for your Ask! I hope that I was able to explain some my thoughts in a vaguely coherent way. I really should do a larger post breaking down every single scene between seasons 1 and 3 and how this “second layer” interpretation of the story could apply, but I haven’t had the time and I’ve been wary of doing it since I’m not sure how it would be received. But maybe I’ll do that sometime soon if enough people have an interest in it.

[lizzieraindrops]

Your chance to make the sun rise thrice (Chapter 3)

that a garden will grow (11,143 words)

"There are no happy endings, because nothing ends." - The Last Unicorn, Peter S. Beagle That does not mean that there is no joy.

Veera is alive.

Also on AO3  |  Playlist soundtrack  |  Aesthetic sideblog

Happy autumn equinox, everyone.

When I started this story as a oneshot back in 2016, I had no idea that it would turn into a series spanning four years of new life for these characters, much less that it would end up taking me nearly the same amount of time to write it.

I wrote the first part during the darkest yet time of my life as an abstract fantasy of being in a better place. I finish writing it today from a better place, physically, mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually. If I've learned anything from this, it's that your own creativity saves you and is powerful enough to call the better things that seem so impossible into existence.

This is my tribute to Veera as a character and everyone like her and anyone who has identified with her. She changed my life. Even with all OB's many, many flaws (dear god there are SO many), without the explicit representation of Veera's neurodivergence in the Helsinki comics, I don't know how I would have figured out that I'm autistic. That has been both the biggest hurdle and the greatest blessing in the trajectory of my healing. Since it's been so central to this story and its writing, I've included a link to some resources for autism spectrum self-diagnosis.

Part 1: Herbs on the windowsill

Part 2: Someday colors

Part 3: Your chance to make the sun rise thrice  |  Chapter 1  |  Chapter 2  |  Chapter 3

***

Veera wakes gently, early, unexpectedly so. As she sits up, her weighted blanket slips off and crumples around her waist like a shed skin. Bands of muted morning coming through the blinds slide over her as she rises from the plane of the bed. The summer sun has still risen first, of course. True dark never falls here in the summer, at this high a latitude. But right now, its light is softened and diffused by a thin veil of cloud over the city. Listening, the others aren’t up and moving yet.

Slight shifting of her relaxed limbs makes the softness of the sheets into an extravagance. She’s in a rare, delicately balanced state, one where her senses have sharpened just enough to turn ordinary sensations exquisite without overwhelming her. She’ll have to spend some time listening to music – and with Niki and Beth. That was the plan anyway. But the others aren’t up yet.

Today, there’s a restlessness in her. Most days, she gets up slow, simply waiting until her body is ready to go about the day. Yet a quiet kind of discomfort has made a home in her core, nudging her to get moving. The feel of it is neither full nor hollow, not exactly painful yet nothing like comfort. It’s just there, a subdued directionless yearning.

But her mind needs to go at its own pace waking up. Inertia drags at her when she tries to move too fast or cut corners in her daily ritual. Subtle distress quickly follows that inertia if she tries to press the issue. It shows in the incrementally increasing fine tension of her muscles, slowly winding her up like clockwork. So she sits with the feeling. Motionless except for her breath in the middle of her bed, she thinks.

Light. Leaves. Home. Hunger. She should eat soon. They’re out of cereal, though. There’s a farmer’s market a few blocks away that should have fresh summer fruit. She could go. She does, sometimes, early in the morning like now, before Niki wakes up, and just wanders around. As long as she keeps it short and doesn’t talk much, she should be able to manage it without giving herself a headache.

Twenty minutes find her feet traversing muted pink granite. Neat rectangular stone cobbles pave the street below her living room window. The rumble of a loud truck passing right by close makes her flinch, but she manages to shake the discomfort out of her neck and shoulders easily enough once it’s gone. Other than that, the streets are unusually peaceful. Most people like get out of the city this close to midsummer.

She steps lightly over the stone in snugly laced canvas shoes, toes touching down first. There’s some sort of bird hidden in the trees lining the street, singing two repeated notes on a slow loop. A flycatcher, she thinks.

Being in motion somewhat soothes her restlessness as she slips through broad swathes of clouded morning light between the shadows of buildings. The persistent sensation is nothing so strident as the hypervigilance that used to keep her so high strung. But its subtle company has been constant, lately. She can tell she’s internally processing something, but she can’t quite pin it down. Maybe that’s why she’s been waking up so much earlier than normal.

Lately, a strangeness has been gently tugging at the edges of her mind. In part, she knows it’s a growing awareness of how much things have changed since four years ago. It’s happened so gradually. It was nigh invisible until she cast far enough back along the path of her own footsteps to see how far she’s come. She almost died, but she didn’t. She’s no longer in a desperate race to survive. Now, she’s alive. The question of who and what she is now is an unnervingly open one.

These days, she wakes within a body that is soft and scarred. She is both a wounded creature walking this world with strange steps and a thing healing yet already whole. More often than not, she finds her shoulders loose and her chest open, instead of curled tight into a semblance of stone. They can still seize up when her fears circle back around to worry at invisible scars. But it’s not an endless anxious state. It isn’t everything she is anymore.

Likewise, her nightmares don’t spend as many nights haunting her. Weeks pass between them, sometimes. When they do steal back to the surface of her psyche, the quiet fear they stir up saps all her energy and trails lazily through the daylight hours like an oilslick. She spends those days baking something sweet in the apartment’s warmly lit kitchen. Or she takes inventory of the shapes and textures of the leaves that hang suspended in the air of every familiar room.

It helps, even if dreams or memories linger smoldering in the back of her mind the whole time. The sensations and sense of space keep her grounded, both within herself and outside of the fickle fear and pain that flares and fades and keeps returning. Of course, nothing is so immediately comforting as the presence – and, in this searingly ephemeral moment, presences – that remind her she is not alone. But even when they aren’t there, the space itself reminds her that she lives with and in this place she’s chosen to call a home.

The apartment is the first home she can remember that feels the way she suspects one is supposed to. It fits around her, small and enclosed enough to know every inch without uncertainty scratching at the bounds of her awareness. Tucked away up on the third floor, it nests in a quiet old brick building that’s as comfortably worn in as her favorite hoodie. Its wide windows spread big and bright in every room, reminding her to breathe freely. She is no longer a creature caged. Shadows are soft in this place, and the sunlight is as much a part of it as the walls. Its radiant forms lance through glass and smile through aches, never failing to wrap her in warmth.

Leaves unfurl gently in every window. She likes to run the living silken or waxy greenness of purposeful growth between her fingertips. Perhaps their green faces are outnumbered by all the strangely familiar human ones in the photos along the whitewashed walls, marking where friendships have germinated. But then again, perhaps not. It’s a close call, and there’s always more of both growing. They’re still something of a miracle to her, after so long alone.

Low murmurs of outdoor conversation bring her back to the pop-up stalls of the market hovering just ahead. She’s there.

There are somewhat fewer visitors than normal, but the market still appears to be proceeding about business as usual. Early on, this Saturday market tends to be quieter than the Sunday one, not quite as full of people. It's that perfect balance of un-crowded enough that she can keep to her own internal world without interruption, but bustling enough that she doesn't stand out. She's just another woman at the market. Once in a while, gazes will slide over the scars on her cheek, or her upper arm if she’s wearing short sleeves (not her leg or ankle, as she never wears anything except pants). Her skin begins to remember to crawl - but then the eyes keep on sliding past, on to the peppers or the green beans or the fresh cut flowers.

Weaving her way into the dispersed crowd, she heads for the egg stand first, just in case they run out. They often do. With a dozen blue and brown eggs in tow, she roves about until she finds a stand with peaches she can smell from several paces away. Their sweet tang fills the air as she picks them out. She also gets some fresh apricots, brushing her fingertips over their velvety little coats of fuzz. She tucks the stonefruit and eggs safely into the backpack she brought and keeps moving. A yeasty oaf of fresh bread for picnicking later joins them. The rounded tip of the long loaf pokes out the top of the zippered pocket, hovering just behind her ear. She leaves the top of its paper wrapper open so it stays crisp.

Live music rolling out from the street corner captures her, pulling her out of her trajectory mid-stride to swing toward the unadorned sidewalk stage. The resonance of shimmering metal strings and singing wood flows over her and through her, and she simply sways with it, part of it. It sparkles over her skin and hums along her bones, making her flutter her fingers in pleasure, and it’s blissful. After everything she’s been through, the long gauntlet of near misses and fires and nightmare flames, it still seems wrong somehow for things to be this okay, to feel this good.

That’s why, when visceral self-consciousness swoops down on her again without warning, its familiar fear is as much something like relief as it is a thorn in an old wound. Nothing even causes it, really: just a stray passing glance from a stranger that slid over her hands instead of her scars and didn’t even linger. But it makes her remember the oddness of the ways her hands move, when she’s happy, when she’s stressed. It makes her stand out if she doesn’t make the effort to hide them – or if she takes a little too long to think in a conversation – or if she lets on that she can be hurt so easily by the smallest, normally inconsequential things.

In more dangerous times, standing out could have ended very badly for her. The feeling of being hunted might have retreated to the back of her mind, but it has never truly left. In moments like this, she still snaps back into old habits. Her fists clench into stillness, her mind into sharp wariness, her whole self into the ache of immobility except for consciously calculated movements. It’s not quite the old full-body taut-wire tension of terror. Nonetheless, it’s a painful tender twisting inside, pulling things skewed and wrong in her chest.

The thing is, she knows she’s one of the lucky ones. For so many people, the fear never gets to recede at all. Either the danger remains ever-present in the casual cruelties of the world, or their wounds never get the care they need to heal. Not everyone can be set free by toppling a single old castle of corruption into the sea. Veera gets to try to heal, as impossibly hard as it is and always will be. She has support to fall back on now, kind hearts that hear her, arms that will hold her when she hurts. Though they’re rare, she has days where she doesn’t feel like she has to hide at all. It’s so strange. Even before the Helsinki fire, she spent so long becoming acquainted with the wariness of attracting too much attention. She’s still trying to understand who she even is if she’s not hiding.

That’s why she’s doing the work she does with CYGNet. They’re all muddling their way toward healing from their one-off odd brand of hurt, but the support system they’re building could be useful for so much more. In her mind, they’re just the beginning. One day, maybe they can expand to help even more people beyond the Leda project. The Beths with different faces but surviving the same family history. The Nikis with different nightmares but recovering from the same betrayal. The Veeras with different scars who are just as overwhelmed by the everyday world, but deserve just as much of a chance to experience it without having to hide their truth in shame and become someone they’re not.

Well. Maybe one day. For now, one thing at a time. She has to take care of herself and her own healing if she’s going to make any progress down that distant path. Sometimes, the path she’s on right now still seems to stretch so much further ahead than she can fathom.

Eyes closed, Veera takes a breath into her tense stillness. To her own fragile heart, she whispers, It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. She breathes; it passes.

Giving herself a few minutes more to listen to the music, she waits until the grip of physical memory lessens. The sound is still lovely, even if she can’t quite fall back into the two-piece symphony the way she did mere moments ago. She calms further as she carries herself onward again down the tent-lined street. Under the surface, though, in the same hollow where her restlessness lives, her heart remains sore where something still won’t settle into place.

Fortunately, there are other good things at the market that help soothe the ache. Even for someone like her who needs to limit her exposure to overstimulation and crowds, they make it worth braving all the bustle now and again.

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth at the sight of a profusion of green fronds leaning out from beneath the awning of the stand up ahead. It's bursting with foliage in more shades of green than she knew existed, and chock full of rows of those knobbly little succulents she loves so much. The vendor is a quiet man with a ponytail and a kind face. He merely smiles at her whenever she comes by. He’s one of those strangers who are friends by the shared appreciation of silence. Sometimes words get in the way.

He nods at her in recognition as she ducks into the stand to avoid a loud group of shoppers. Though there are people in there, something about the vendor and the greenery keeps things calm. The tiny forest is an island in the flow of people. It’s nearly on the opposite end of the market from where she started, and it always provides a brief respite where she can recover a little before heading back. Besides, she likes to look over the lacy ferns and trailing philodendrons and all the tiny succulents in every color of the rainbow, even if she already has too many.

She still leaves most of the houseplants to Niki to look after. But to her own surprise, she’s quite good at taking care of the succulents. For the most part, she leaves them somewhere sunny and ignores them. They love it. Sometimes they even treat her to little shiny-papery flowers in brilliant pink or yellow.

Ranks of mini succulents line one of stall’s tables. She’s barely skimming her fingers over the surfaces of a row of flat, stone-like lithops when she sees it. One of the tiny pots is filled with what appear to be little green spheres like peas. Looking closer, they’re round, succulent leaves attached to thin trailing stems. Sprouting from the end of one string of them is a long, spindly stem curving up to a closed flower bud that bobs in the breeze. She’s never seen anything like it.

The man running the stand notices her looking at it. Veera points at the plant and tilts her head in a question. He smiles and extracts a sheet of paper for her from a messy pile half tucked under the cash box. Its a care sheet for Senecio rowleyanus, or string of pearls.

Veera did promise Niki she’d stop bringing home so many succulents. But the plant man’s pressing the little pot of pearls into her hands, waving her wide eyes away with a smile when she reaches for her wallet. This one will have to be an exception. Her small smile and wave of thanks receive another nod in acknowledgement and farewell. Cupping the pot in both hands, she ventures back into the mid-morning river of people to take herself home.

On the way back down the street, the plant cradled against her chest draws smiles from the crowd. They often transfer to her as well. Something about the green thing in her arms softens people’s expressions, even when they see her scars. It makes it easier to walk softly, and to carry her dull ache of residual fear just as gently.

As if struck, she stumbles when she remembers that today, she gets to go home to her two best friends in the entire world. The ache that knowledge calls forth is just as arresting as the kind that comes with the clinging oilslick fear, yet different. This is far stronger and far sweeter, its truth a soft clarity. Veera clutches her plant close to her chest with one hand as she catches her balance on a fruit-covered table with the other. A handful of little oranges roll off as she bumps into it.

Stammering apologies, Veera scrambles to gather up the fallen fruit. A nearby woman browsing the citrus in a purple sweater kneels down to help her. Veera wasn’t planning on buying mandarins, but she can hardly knock them all over the ground and run off. She hopes she has enough cash left. Straightening up, she looks for somewhere to sit the fruit down so she can check her wallet.

But the woman in the sweater holds her hands out for them. She’s already put the ones she picked up in a canvas bag.

“I’ll take them,” she says. “I was gonna buy some anyway.” Her sweater is a few shades bluer than the warm purple of Veera’s own hoodie.

Veera blinks at her. “Are – are you sure?” She holds out one of the mandarins, showing its dented skin, fragrant with released citrus oils.

The woman gives her a small smile. “Yeah. I’ll eat that one first.”

“Oh. Um. Okay.” Veera delicately hands three more mandarins over. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t worry about it.” The woman’s voice is like her smile: small but kind.

Veera whispers her thanks again, then hurries home before she can be waylaid by any more painfully kind gestures from strangers.

***

Veera’s so relieved to walk through her own door into the kitchen that she doesn’t realize someone’s in the living room, not until she hears a soft sob. Her head snaps up. Niki’s on the couch with her face in her hands and Beth next to her with an arm around her. Alarmed, Veera drops her bag on the kitchen counter and begins to make a beeline for her. But she hesitates. She’s used to offering Niki comfort whenever she can, but is she interrupting?

Too late. Beth makes a small sound of surprise when she notices Veera hovering halfway into the room. Niki looks up too, but she wipes her eyes and gives Veera a watery smile. It’s okay.

Niki holds a hand out as Veera makes her way over to the couch. Gladly, Veera takes it. As Veera stands there before the scruffy secondhand sofa in the hazy light from the window, the three of them are briefly an interlinked chain. Beth watches the other two with soft, understanding eyes, her arm steady over Niki’s shoulders.

Niki heaves a shaky sigh. Then she gives Beth’s knee a thankful squeeze and uses Veera’s hand to lever herself up to standing. She briefly embraces Veera, who returns the gesture. “I’m okay,” Niki whispers. Veera nods. Then Niki slips away into the kitchen and starts bustling around, half-seen behind the half-wall that divides it into an alcove off the main room. Presumably, she’s taking a moment to collect herself while unpacking Veera’s groceries. She does that. Niki doesn’t mind if Veera sees her cry – or Beth, apparently. But she always takes a moment alone afterward to put herself back together.

Veera shakes her head to clear away the traces of her second unexpected fright of the morning. In its wake, the empty spot on the couch is too inviting.

She flops onto the cushions next to Beth with a sigh and goes limp. Maybe going to the market was a little too ambitious for today. She’s already had too much excitement this week with Beth visiting, and she hasn’t slept well because of it, which only saps more of her limited energy. Even good things can be so exhausting. She knows she needs to get more rest than most people do, especially when there’s so much happening. But that’s so hard to remember when she knows that this moment is such a rare blessing. Both of her most important people are right here with her right now. It’s so hard to not throw herself completely into every possible joy she can have, in this transcendent sliver of time.

She rolls her head where it rests against the back of the couch to look at Beth sideways. “I got breakfast,” she offers.

“Looks like you wiped yourself out doing it.” Beth leans against the arm of the sofa to look at her. “Morning.” Her own tired eyes twinkle.

Veera smiles. She tries to fix this moment into memory: the wisps of Beth’s unbrushed hair catching the light, the wooden clatter of Niki opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Veera asks.

Beth runs a hand through her hair. “Yeah. We were just talking, about,” she waves a hand around, encompassing all the faces in all the photos on the walls, “everything. We’re so different. But some of the stuff, it’s the same. The things we’re all going through. You know?”

Veera does.

The kitchen clatter intensifies as Niki starts moving pots and pans around and clinking them down on the stovetop.

“How many eggs do you want?” Niki calls, voice more steady now. When Veera and Beth come over to investigate, she’s already got a skillet out and is debating with herself whether to start a pot of porridge, too. Veera’s always in favor of porridge no matter what, and Beth’s never had proper Finnish porridge before, so that settles that.

Niki starts scooping the mixed grains into the pan without measuring, like normal. She fills it with an unknown amount of water from the sink with some arcane skill of estimation that Veera has never understood. It always turns out fine. As Beth gets to work slicing some of the fresh fruit, Veera sidles up to Niki and lays a light hand on her arm.

Niki meets her questioning eyes. “I’m okay,” she says again. But she leans into Veera’s touch and stays there. Veera says nothing, just strokes a thumb over Niki’s shoulder and holds the space. Oats and rice swirl in the saucepan as Niki stirs them into the water with a wooden spoon.

“I was talking to her about what happened with Aleks, and mum and dad.” Niki’s voice goes soft, but not hushed. Her words aren’t directed at Beth at the other counter, but they’re not hidden from her, either. “How it made it so hard to trust anyone anymore. Especially Suvi, ‘cause she was there before. And you know how that gets me all... ugh.” She twiddles her wooden spoon in the air. Then she leans even more into Veera, into the arm that curls around her in half an embrace. To think, that Veera is someone who offers such gestures now with hardly a hesitant thought.

“She just gets it, you know?” Niki continues. “Not that you don’t, but it’s different. Like, you understand about how people are always expecting things from you. People see what they wanna see, and only take you seriously if you play along with it. It’s so frustrating. And it’s bullshit! I’ve never met anyone who understands that better than you.” She stirs the porridge again.

“And Beth... she was telling me some about her dad. She knows about having someone close to you just pull the whole rug out from under your world.” Niki pauses her stirring, and looks at Veera. “I’ve always been amazed, how you just landed on your feet and hit the ground running, when you found out. I couldn’t have done that, if I was alone.”

Veera shrugs, incidentally squeezing Niki sideways. “I never was very close with Matti.”

Watching her, Niki’s face falls a little. “I’m glad he didn’t hurt you that way. But I wish... I don’t know. I wish you’d had someone who was there for you, then. Everyone deserves that.”

“Huh.” Veera blinks. “I’d never thought of it that way.”

Arms suddenly wrap tight around her middle, a face tucked into the crook of her neck and shoulders. The handle end of a wooden spoon presses into the muscles between her shoulderblades.

“Niki!” Veera exclaims softly.

“Hey, look.” Her voice is sniffly again. “I’m having a day, okay, let me just –” She holds Veera tight.

“Nikiii,” she cajoles. “I’m fine.” Her eyes flick toward Beth over Niki’s shoulder. Her hand hovers over a peach on the cutting board as she meets her eye. Veera tucks her head down a little, embarrassed. But Beth’s smiling, if also looking a bit watery.

“I know,” Niki says into her shoulder. “I know you’re fine. You’re wonderful. But I’m here, okay? You’re always here for us. But we’re here for you, too.” Niki reaches an arm out blindly toward Beth until her fingers make contact, then gathers her in as if calling in backup. Beth gladly lays down the knife and joins the impromptu embrace next to the stove.

“Um.” Veera automatically relaxes under the extra pressure. It’s nice. But she’s still flustered. And the vociferous burbling of the porridge is getting a little concerning. “I think the porridge is going to boil over.”

Niki releases her with a groan. Veera’s sure she’s rolling her eyes, even though she’s a little too overwhelmed to look at either of them.

“That doesn’t mean you’re getting out of letting us be nice to you,” Niki says as she returns to the stove. Soon, the porridge is placated and eggs sizzle in the skillet, providing a crackling accompaniment.

When the food’s ready, they crowd around the table squeezed into the little kitchen nook below the window as if they do this every day. They pick slices of ripe peach and apricot off a cutting board in the middle. Spoons click in bowls as they do their best not to elbow each other. Stonefruit and cinnamon mix in the air with the light sulfur of fresh eggs and the pervasive aroma of the basil in the windowbox.

After a languid breakfast and a long morning spent simply enjoying each other’s company, the cloud cover is well on its way to burning off. The three head out to the nearby park, determined to make the most of the sun while the two Finns show off the splendor of the Helsinki summer to Beth. They pack up the fresh bread and cheese and the rest of the fruit for a picnic later.

Veera’s companions’ eyes are bright and animated as they leave behind the crisscrossing tracks of the train station and step into the shelter of the park’s old trees. Boughs bend and leaves whisper lazily in the light wind breathing over the bay. Veera follows them. With the hood of her jacket pulled down, the cool and verdant breeze caresses her short hair. Shade and sunlight dapple the grass between the footpaths and spatter the old blanket that they throw over the green, the one that usually lives on the couch that Beth’s currently taken over. They’re exposed to the open sky and anything else that might wander the earth with them. But branches lace and lattice across the blue, and the handful of other park-goers are too immersed in their own summer reverie to pay them any mind.

It’s surreal, almost. Niki basks like a lizard, looking like she needs nothing else in the world to keep her happy. Beth keeps running over to stick her toes in the salt water of the little bay. She takes every deliberate step into grass and gravel as if both she and the world are fresh and new. Peace settles into Veera’s bones. She spends half her time watching the others while reading an old fantasy novel in the shade. The other half, she looks upon the scene as if watching herself, absolutely bewildered by the way she both sees and cannot see the pain that still lives in the three of them, even as she still feels the scores it left trailing across her heart.

It's a long and lazy afternoon in the best understated way. By the time they return home sunwarmed, though, Veera’s starting to feel the effects of having been out all day doing too many things. Her skull is beginning to ache. But it’s familiar and cool and quiet here. She can rest.

Once they unpack the remains of their picnic, Niki makes good on her earlier threat of not letting Veera get out of being fussed over. She chivvies the other two into the living room and onto the couch. To Veera’s mild bemusement, Niki sits next to her, across from Beth, looking far too pleased with herself.

Then Niki pulls all three of them into a cuddle pile with Veera caught in the middle.

Veera lets out a little squeak of surprise as she’s smothered in limbs and warm laughter. Beth’s only too happy to help Niki tag-team her, the traitor. She squeezes Beth’s wrist in retaliation, but all that gets her is Beth slipping out of her grip just enough to tangle her fingers with her own.

With a little shuffling, Veera ends up with Niki pressed comfortably up against her side leaning her head on Veera’s shoulder. Niki also tucks an arm around her, as natural and necessary as breathing. Curled up against her other side, Beth backstops her. She lets Niki play with the ends of her long dark hair with the hand that reaches around Veera’s shoulders. Beth’s still holding onto Veera’s hand, steady like she’s never planning on letting go. The intense late afternoon light slants into the room, sending stars refracting off of the glass bottles on the sill that trail green-leaved vine cuttings.

Veera doesn’t know that she’s ever been as happy as she is right now. She watches herself in half-believing wonder, then stops. She breathes. She feels the others’ breathing like her own. She reminds herself to just be here, just exist.

But the restlessness that she awoke with doesn’t cease, even now with the two presences she treasures most on either side of her, tucked almost as close to her body as they are to her heart. It still aches and whispers in her ear with a soft insistence. Something about the fragile intensity of this moment calls to that unknown quantity like its own.

This little apartment on the edge of the city was never meant to be more than just enough for her and Niki to carve a safe space out of a terrifying world. And it has been that. But then there was more. There were the herbs keeping the kitchen and the succulents dotting the shelves. There were the colors covering the floor in rugs and memories covering the walls in photos. There was ample quiet to replace chill silence, and the fullness of kind words spoken like truth. There were pancakes. There was sunshine. There was Jade and Justyna and Janika and Sofia and Sarah and Helena and Katja and Aryanna and Danielle and Alison and Cosima and Jennifer and Tony and Femke and Fay and Krystal; and there was Beth, and there was Niki, and there was her.

Perhaps that’s the strangeness that keeps plucking at her mind. Not only have her situation and surroundings strayed so far from what her life used to be, but she herself is someone different now. She emerged changed out the other side of the two fires that consumed her entire life. Maybe the flames were bookends. She doesnt remember anything from before the first, and the space between them was long and lonely. The person she became during that in-between time is still fused into her foundations.

And yet, so much of the structure of her self has shifted. New parts of her unfurl daily. Being within her own body feels both utterly familiar and completely new. She can look back at the strange girl she once was and still recognize parts of her as the strange woman she is now. Now, she’s someone who gets called Veera with a voice full of love and Mika with sense of wonder and Leda with mild curiosity, and they are all her.

The unexpectedness of being given so many names still leaves her bemused. There’s a surprising intimacy to them, the way people speak them like they’re describing the shape of her in so many other lives. She’s unaccustomed to it. As difficult as people can be, what she has now is... good. When she thinks on it too hard, it makes her ribs feel like they’re closing in on her heart even while her lungs expand to take in the whole sky in an single endless exhilarated breath.

She’s thinking about it now. It’s not just a thought. It’s a longing and a fulfilling, an ache and a balm, a memory and a future, a call and response. It becomes all of her in this moment, and she shivers with its intensity. The shiver ripples into the bodies nestled on either side of her. Only a few years ago, she could never have imagined being so close, or wanting to. Sometimes it’s still too much, even with Niki – even with both of them, now, who are both so inexplicably easy to be around. The companionable solitude bathes her soul like the green breathing of a forest in eternal spring. She thinks about the unlikeliness, the flouted impossibility of it all. The feeling that it calls into bloom from her seed of a heart is almost too much.

“Veera?” Niki turns to face her in response to the shiver, her golden head catching and holding the gilded afternoon light.

“You alright, Veer?” She blinks at the new sound of the new name spoken in Beth’s softest-leather voice. It fits, too.

Veera inhales to speak, but words evade articulation. She releases the breath again to its own wordless purposes. The hand that’s been interlaced with hers squeezes gently as Beth makes a little questioning sound like a cat and shifts the comfortable weight of her knees in Veera’s lap. On Veera’s other side, Niki leans even further into her than she has been and rests her chin on Veera’s shoulder.

The press of their affection and concern envelop her in dearest aching, and it’s so much. She wants to stay right where she is. But she’s hardly slept for the past two nights and she’s tired and aching from overextending herself and her words have left her again. The immensity of feeling blooming inside her on top of everything else is just too much. She won’t be able to stay like this much longer. She needs to be by herself, to quietly sort through the backlog of everything she’s experiencing that’s stacking up faster than she can process it.

First, though, she needs them to know how much this means to her. Her ears pick up every breath and brush of smallest movement, and her world is filled with little strokes of sound that fall across her skin and hum in her chest as if painted there. They’re closer and dearer to her than anyone has ever been. Veera lifts Beth’s hand with her own and sweeps Niki’s hand into her grasp as well. Then, she presses both of them hard against her heartbeat. She bends her head down and locks her arms over her own chest to hold them there. No sound escapes her except a minute whimper.

Wordless murmurs and small shufflings to stay close tell her that they understand what she can’t say right now, and tell it back to her twofold. She sniffles a little, then begins to untangle herself without yet letting go. She doesn’t want to leave. But if she doesn’t, the waves of overwhelm that currently shove at her will become a tide that pulls her under and leaves her head pounding.

Niki’s voice, low. “You getting overloaded?”

Veera nods.

“Okay,” she says gently. “Go wind down. We won’t be loud.” Niki’s always been so understanding, right from the very first moment she’d shared her strangeness. Secret for a secret, she’d said, guarding Veera’s like her own and holding her trust like a treasure.

“Take care, Mika,” Beth says, mimicking Niki’s tone. Beth’s never been here here for this before. But Veera has texted with her at length numerous times in the past, when she can’t bear conversation out loud but still wants company. Veera can still hardly believe that Beth’s really here, proving herself as compassionate through soft sounds and touches as through a keyboard. “Don’t worry,” she adds as Veera still hesitates to let go. “We’ll be here later.”

Veera breathes out and nods again. She manages to stand, still holding one hand in each of hers. She squeezes them one more time, one after the other. Then she picks her way around the blue-and-brown mess of clothes spilling out of Beth’s suitcase onto the living room floor and steps softly into her own room. She closes the door.

With the blinds half shuttered against the afternoon light coming through the west-facing window, it’s cooler, dimmer, quieter than the main room. Veera likes it that way. She needs its restful seclusion as much as she needs the sun-glazed warmth of the rest of the place. Filled with muted purples and greens, there’s no dizzying array of photographs here. The only picture on the walls is a large cream and gray poster of a detailed sketch of the moon with all its craters arcing over its surface. Stubby succulents dot the heavily book-laden shelf and her cluttered desk in front of the window. They sort of glitter in the sunlight. The beams catch the water stored in the overlarge cells of their chunky little leaves, brightening their soothing shades of green, grey, dusty lavender, and mauve.

Nerves spangling, she changes out of her jeans into something softer without looking at what she’s doing. Sometimes, even just looking at things gets to be too tiring. Her hands know exactly where she keeps everything stashed in her dresser drawer, and her fingers are familiar with the texture of nearly every piece of clothing she owns. She doesn’t need to see them to tell them apart.

Veera sinks into the soft give of the comforter spread over her bed with a sigh. When she pulls the weighted blanket at the foot of it over herself with the rain-like rustle of plastic beans in its quilted pockets, it wraps her in gentle even pressure from above and below. The heaviness of it flattens out the frayed edges of her nerves. Laid out flat on her back with her arms floating loosely on either side and her elbows bent upward, the blanket covers everything except her face and hands.

As the creeping tension begins to trickle away, another sigh escapes her lungs. It’s a slow process. With how large her emotions are now, and with all the excitement and exhaustion of the past three days, it will take a few hours to wear down the worst of it. The tightness of her shoulders and the pinched feeling in her neck will fade. But they won’t completely disappear for a day or so – and that’s if she does nothing but rest her body and mind. The strain is mental as much as it is physical. Her brain just does what brains normally do, only sometimes slower and sometimes faster, and getting there via unorthodox roads. When rushed, the process only gets backed up, the road blocked, the paths tangled. Pushing it is like trying to run with a twisted ankle. It only makes it worse.

At times like this, it’s even easier than usual for the world to turn into sandpaper on her soul and senses. Overexposure to the riptide of existence all around rubs her nerves raw, living faster than she can think and burning brighter than she can bear. Sounds become ocean waves with weight behind them and lights fill her eyes with their intense brilliance. Gentle touches catch her skin like fire, while firm pressure forms a gravity well that could either pull her into a stable orbit or sling her satellite round reeling. It’s so easy for her to get overwhelmed by pain and pleasure alike. The line between them is faint and fluid.

To some degree, that vibrant intensity was always going to be part and parcel of the way she experiences the world. She was always going to be strange. Maybe if she hadn’t been put through two fires, it wouldn’t be quite so overwhelming quite so often. Probably. But she doesn’t know where the scars end and the inherent self begins, because they’re the same now. Whatever the cause, the person she is now is someone subject to both exquisite sharpness and terrible softness, captivated by so many infinitesimal pangs of ache and grace. It’s a lion’s share of pain and wonder across a lamb’s shoulders.

She wouldn’t change it, if she could. She didn’t choose it, but it’s hers. It’s her. It’s given her an unprecedented ability to be gentle in just the right ways with the people who need it most. That comes in handy considering how many traumatized Ledas she works with. Besides, she’s found all sorts of unusual yet efficient ways to do what she needs to do, because the normal ways don’t work for her. Sometimes that results in really neat new things, like the advanced cyber-security system she personally designed for CYGNet. It hasn’t been beaten yet, and if her constant updates have anything to say about it, it never will. If she ever gets tired of co-running the organization with their board of Ledas, she could always actually go into the tech field.

Right now, ever leaving CYGNet seems such a remote possibility. After a couple years of a reduced workload so she could actually finish school and take a few courses in database management to supplement her work, she’s finally returned in her full capacity. It feels good. Between her responsibilities managing the sheer volume of information DYAD had surrendered to them and protecting both it and their secure communication network, she has plenty to keep her mind busy and satisfied.

Now that Sofia and Aryanna take care of most of the administrative work, things run a lot smoother, too. Sofia’s steadied into tenacious steadfastness as her confidence grows, and she’s got a level head and a killer knack for budgets. Aryanna’s a great project manager and she’s got plenty enough charisma to handle the public-facing parts of CYGNet that Niki used to wrangle.

Niki’s stepped back a lot from CYGNet since Veera came back full time. She’d only been involved out of circumstance and necessity in the first place. For years, Niki had been the smiling face of Leda to the world, giving their story the life it needed to be told. Veera doesn’t know how she’d ever have done any of it without her. But really, all Niki wanted was a quiet life with the people she loved. So now that things were steadier and the world’s scrutiny had moved on, she was taking more time for herself. She worked part-time in a cat café downtown a few blocks away from the park, went on dates with Suvi around the city, and came home smiling to Veera and their little apartment.

Niki seems softer these days, happier. It’s like she’s settled into her natural gentleness, rather than defiantly clinging to it like a lifeline after the fire tried to burn it out of her. Her recovery is a thing of beauty. Sometimes Veera is stricken into stillness at the sound of Niki humming to herself in the next room, or at the sight of her smiling to herself while reading in a patch of sunlight, her legs stretched out on the couch. Sometimes, the memory of almost losing her so soon after finding her four years ago floats forth, casting Veera’s current joy in a sickly shade.

But they’ve talked through that fear they both have, many times. They’re both here, alive. They both care too much about the closeness they’ve created to ever choose to be too far apart. Anything else that might separate them will just be the ebb and flow of life, and that’s always true for everyone. Veera tries not to worry about it too much. She’s lucky to have Niki in her life. And these days, Veera’s gotten better at believing her when she says she wants to stay.

She finds her mind going unfocused, her body gone heavy like she needs a nap. It’s been an eventful day. Veera curls up on her side under the blanket, burying the rough texture of her scarred cheek in the softness of her pillow. To see her now, anyone might assume she was one of the others, marked only invisibly. Instead, a chapter of her story is written all down the right side of her body in curlicues of too-light ridges and and too-dark indentations, dappled from face to elbow to ankle. People don’t always read past that page to reach the rest of her. Much of the time, she still can’t, either. But at least there is another chapter now. It’s right here where she’s living in this strange new moment.

Her already heavy limbs go slack. Thoughts shift and sift and slip over each other half-defined. Maybe there will be more chapters she can’t even imagine yet, even better than this half-healed, aching glory.

***

When she wakes once again, Veera finds evening falling in its long, slow descent. It’s late. The sky glows with that particular kind of soft, omnipresent golden glow that only comes with the midnight sun at the height of summer. Niki and Beth have probably gone to bed already. They’re both early risers, and Beth is adjusting relatively well to her jetlag. As usual, the evening belongs to Veera.

Evening here is a half-seen time, gilded in twilight in the summers and shrouded in restful darkness throughout the long winter. Her eyes get a reprieve from the sharp definition of day among the soft placement of shadows. Even in winter, she rarely turns on the lights. Navigating the familiar space is easy by the sound of her feet on thin carpet and linoleum, by the brush of her fingertips on the matte whitewashed walls. She’s usually the only one awake.  Even when Niki wakes up with bad dreams and seeks her out for comfort, they don’t talk much. Voices are kept low. Most of the time, it’s a space for her to be alone with her thoughts, turning them over and laying her experience of the day to rest before she sleeps.

Cautiously, in case Beth’s asleep in the living room, Veera pries her door open so it doesn’t clunk in its uneven frame. Sure enough, Beth’s curled up in her nest of blankets on the couch. Niki’s bedroom door is ajar, and through it she can just catch the barely-heard sounds of an occupied room, the imperceptible breath or rustle of presence simply felt. It’s the difference between quiet and silence. It's subtle, but worlds away from the dullness that permeates an empty space. Having grown up roaming two floors of dim, silent rooms with only the click of the keyboard from ‘uncle’ Matti’s office for company, Veera is endlessly familiar with that emptiness. This is something else: a living seed hidden under the soil; a flower that’s closed its petals for the night.

Pulling the hood of her well-loved purple hoodie up to shield her ears from the mechanical hum of the fridge, she slips out of her room and heads into the kitchen. Things are less sharp now, but she's still unusually sensitive, especially her ears. Retrieving a tall glass of room temperature water and a tin of chicken soup tipped into a bowl takes only a minute. She doesn’t heat it. The quiet is worth more to her than the warmth, in this comfortable stillness. She retreats to her room with the bowl clutched in her hands and curls up at the foot of her bed for a quiet dinner.

She’s far more relaxed and grounded now than she was earlier. But, checking the clock, she’s just woken up from one of her exhausted five-hour recovery naps. She’s too awake, if in a mild and focused sort of way, to go to sleep like she normally would around now.

Well. Though she’s mostly taking the time Beth’s here off from CYGNet work, she has been checking once a day just to make sure nothing critical or time-sensitive has come up. She hasn’t done that yet today because she was absolutely and completely passed out and dead to the world for half of it, so she might as well get that done now.

She cracks her door partly open so that the presences of the others can better keep her company at a distance. Then she boots up her computer and dials down the display to a dim setting in the endless dusk.

Everything looks fairly normal. There’s nothing of note in the security reports, just the usual bots automatically blocked. Other than that, there’s only two messages in her inbox that have been flagged for immediate attention by her custom filters.

The first is a notice of identity confirmation for Jennifer Fitzsimmons in the States. She filed a request not long ago for all her information retrieved from DYAD to be destroyed. It’s one of the solutions they originally came up with to make sure CYGNet didn’t just replace DYAD as a repository of excruciating detail. The whole point of the organization was to help them all reclaim the autonomy that had been stolen from them. That meant making sure every Leda had full control over their own records. CYGNet couldn’t do much for those who didn’t contact them except seal and guard their data in case they wanted it someday, which Veera did dutifully. But they could make sure that anyone who heard about the organization knew they had the option to cut that unauthorized tie.

Veera was surprised how few chose to do so - only 34 of the 113 Ledas in contact with CYGNet. Many seemed to simply consider it a comprehensive if unnervingly detailed medical history that they could refer to for their own use. Others, like herself, saw the data as a window into otherwise lost parts of their lives. After she’d decidedly parted ways with Matti, she had no one to tell her anything about the times she was too young to remember. Still others, like Beth, wanted nothing to do with their records, but chose to preserve them as proof of their ordeals.

On the other hand, a minority including Jennifer had made contact for the exclusive purpose of requesting their data be destroyed and didn’t seek any engagement with it. CYGNet verified their identities to make sure the files in question pertained to the one who was actually making the request. But they made a point of doing the verification by traditional means. They’d all had enough of blood tests and lab rats.

It was more common for people to decide to delete their data after actually accessing some of their records, the way Niki did. After confirming the identities of her monitors, she’d wanted nothing to do with any of it. She said all it did was hurt. She’d already experienced enough of the sharpness of betrayal without knowing the prickly details of every last lie. Her DYAD records were the first ones they erased. Veera deleted the digital files, and Niki burned the hard copies herself, her smile strangely grim yet satisfied as she set them alight with shaking hands. She seemed lighter, after, and less wary of the warmth of flames.

Veera spends a few minutes completing the second half of double-authorizations for Jennifer’s digital and physical record destruction (permanent removal needed confirmation from two board members) before initiating file deletion. She watches the progress bar creep toward 100% while sending the requisite forms off to Danielle in record storage. She’ll put the hard copies in the incinerator. Set to its lowest volume, Veera’s computer gives a small congratulatory bloop as Jennifer’s digital data disappears for good.

Finally, the only other thing that needs her attention is a request for the general Leda health packet from a new sender, dundorsetsilver@webmail.com. Piquing Veera’s curiosity, it specifically asks after the packet’s chapter on the autism spectrum and common comorbids, even though the sender “would hardly deem it necessary, but my new psychiatrist wants to be thorough.”

As she delves further into the odd letter, it hurts a little to read. It’s laced through with the kind of disdainfully certain air of superiority that reveals just how deeply someone has internalized the cruel views that the world holds of certain ways of being. Veera’s found that this attitude is particularly common in people who actually are on the spectrum, but have been taught since before memory, consciously or unconsciously, to suppress every natural expression of their own differences from the norm. They’re more likely to notice and disparage any deviations in others, specifically because they’ve spent so long trying to disavow their own. They’ve gone so long unsupported, learning to see support only as a weakness instead of as a natural and too-often-denied necessity.

It’s heartbreaking, because Veera’s recognized so many of her own eccentricities in so many of the others, and hardly any of them know what it probably means. She sees it again and again, over CYGNet video conferences and at the occasional Leda meet-ups. Cosima’s hands dance while she talks in much the same way that her own flutter when she’s nervous. Tony’s always blasting his music like his life depends on it, and as far as sensory regulation is concerned, it probably does. Rachel deliberately tilts her head in just such a way that Veera can tell she’s masking, trying to remain poised while she takes an extra moment to process and adapt to a situation.

It’s not that surprising, really, since they all share the same genetics. Most people don’t notice, though, because they only know the broadest and most inaccurate stereotypes. That’s why Veera had insisted on adding the neurodiversity chapter to the health packet.

Veera lightly skims her fingers back and forth over the keyboard without pressing down, thinking. The clicks of the barely jostled keys clatter out a tiny rhythm. Normally, they’d want new contacts to establish a secure CYGNet account. This email’s tone and its throwaway address, though, suggests that it’s either from someone who either isn’t comfortable making contact, or who is struggling too hard with internalized shame to ask for help without doing so anonymously.

It’s an easy decision. Veera attaches the health packet PDF to her reply and sends it along with just a few words of her own.

 Hey,

 Here’s the health packet, including the neurodiversity chapter. Whether or not any of it applies to you, I hope it helps you find your way closer to yourself. We’ve all got a long way to go if we’re going to build lives we can call our own.

Veera’s fingers hover over the keys. She wants to somehow tell whoever this is that it’s okay. It’s okay to wonder, to look into their own strangeness, to perhaps embrace it. But they’re probably not ready to hear it.

 If looking into neurodivergence ends up being a path you need to walk to do that, you’re not alone. I’m here, and so are a lot of the others. You know where to find us.

She signs off as merely MK, hoping that whoever it is might feel more comfortable with another semblance of anonymity. That’s all she can do, and for herself, that’s enough.

All at once, weariness weighs her down. Synthesizing such a delicate appropriate response takes so much effort. She’s gotten better at it, especially when she has time to compose and distill her thoughts. But such nuances don’t come naturally to her. She sags, shoulders loose. Though the light is still golden, it’s actually past midnight now. She hadn’t realized how long she spent trying to craft her words into the right shape. She folds her laptop away and sits on the end of her bed, opening the blinds to stare at the glowing amber of the summer night sky.

Now that her senses are less flooded than they were this afternoon, they itch in the way that means they’re craving some kind of input to regulate them, to calibrate her back into balance. Her vast collection of shared music is her go-to for that. There’s really nothing for it quite like becoming a song for a little while. It lets a steady measured flow of clean water smooth down the troubled riverbed of her nerves, torn up by the passing of the flood.

With her headphones on, she’s bathed in a swell of sound that washes over her like the cool sea on a warm day and just as refreshing. Her widely varied tastes change from hour to hour and minute to minute, but she always comes back to metal. The density and intensity of it literally drown out everything else with that single symphony of sensation. Now, she sways to its current in much the same way she wanted to at the market earlier – was that just this morning? Except now she can because she’s alone, and the only people near are the ones she trusts most. She lets herself dance in it, soothingly rock herself back and forth within its waves, shake out her hands along its endless ripples. She forgets the passage of time for awhile, existing only in the sound and the single present moment.

She emerges from her reverie far more relaxed and substantially more grounded. Setting the headphones aside and stretching her spine out along the bedspread, her limbs have gone soft and slow. Even with her long nap earlier, her overload was exhausting enough that she can probably manage to sleep again til morning. The thought is barely formed before she’s already drifting off.

***

She knows what’s different, when she wakes in soul-deep stillness. Lingering tendrils of vague golden-glazed dreams might just be yesterday’s memories. They retract from her consciousness like opening petals, only to birth her into that same sunlight. She can see the brightness without even opening her eyes, warmth flooding into her room through the door she’s left open.

It’s not just that she’s different now; it’s that she’s actually okay, sort of. And even after years, she’s also clearly not. And somehow... it’s enough.

The truth of it holds her in stillness for a nascent moment, like gentle hands around the wings of a bird about to be released into the sky. Then her eyes open to a room washed in brightness. Her neck and shoulders still ache, but her sight is sharp and clear. The bedroom is the same it’s been for years now, furnished simply, with a mess of cords spilling over her desk to the power strip and the too many favorite books crowding the shelves. But she can see it now, the way it’s filled with life in a way that these traces only barely begin to show. It’s not alive because she moves things around and grows plants in it now. She grows plants in it because she is vulnerably, tenaciously, heart-breakingly alive. She is what is filling the space.

Her life is now full of joy in ways she once could never have imagined. Her happiness feels strange because she is not used to it. She is healing, but she is also just beginning to understand the shape and nature of the scars on her heart and mind. They are just as deep and real as the ones on her skin. They may never truly leave her, and she has made peace with that. But that has done absolutely nothing to stop beauty from seeding her life and springing from every fracture like grass from cracks in concrete.

The restless discomfort that’s been plaguing her has been nothing more than her own hesitance, holding back from fully inhabiting this current joy. Some part of her must still believe that it’s undeserved, or that it’s impossible until she is completely okay.

But it’s not. It’s right here and already making itself hers, as broken and whole as she is. She’s been looking at every new leaf wondering if she’s allowed to love it, even while it’s sinking roots into her life and breathing life into the air.

Few people like her get the opportunities she has; to heal, to help, to grow. She’s already trying so hard to give back as many of those chances as possible, even if it's just to the handful of Ledas she’s been able to help. But that doesn’t change the fact that these opportunities are hers; and yet she’s still half holding back.

She could take them. Not from anyone, but for all of them – and for herself. She could choose it in the unknown names of all her people who have been so lost and alone and longing, the ones who never will be found and the ones who are still hoping. She could believe for all of them that she deserves the joy right in front of her. Maybe this whole time she’s been trying to help the others, she’s been trying to heal herself.

It's a terrifying prospect. But maybe doing right by people like her means doing right by her self, too. Maybe it’s as simple, as impossibly hard, as just letting herself be where she is.

With a shock that catches her breath, she realizes that she’s already made her choice. Somewhere deep inside, something has already shifted like a flower turning toward the sun. She has changed.

It’s never going to be easy. She is going to be healing for the rest of her life. Not to mention, she’ll have to do it in a world where she knows all to well that people are often cruel. But there are also people it’s easy to be around. People like her, and unlike her, but kind people, understanding people, even strangers like the plant vendor at the market and the woman with the oranges. Perhaps she needs to mourn the fact that it took her so long to find any. But now... oh, now.

She tumbles out of bed in yesterday’s clothes. She makes her way out of the room past the crusty soup bowl that she left on her desk last night. Brushing past the great glossy leaves of the swiss cheese plant like a forest creature through the undergrowth, she steps into the central room that’s blazing with light and color and life.

As she enters the kitchen, she ignores the twin cries of greeting from the stove. She casts about for her new little pearls plant. Looking around, she spies it in the kitchen window half hidden under the canopy of the basil. She marches right up to it and into the vault of sunlight streaming in.

One by one, each round little bead of a leaf leads up to the stem holding its spindly floating flower - and it's actually a compound flowerhead. It’s opened up several miniscule pinkish-white flowerets with five pointed petals each. They’re giving off the most incredible, intense smell that fills that whole corner of the kitchen and seems like it couldn’t possibly be produced by something so tiny. Her hands flutter near her shoulders in absolute delight. As she breathes in, the little flower’s fragrance mixes with the pungent aroma of the herbs growing next to it. She drinks it all in deeply, breathes in the smell until it fills her lungs. Sometimes she feels as if she could survive on the richness of such things alone, like a hummingbird subsisting on nothing but nectar.

Nonsense. Her world is so much larger than she ever thought it could be, and she wants it, chooses it. Unlatching the window, she flings the shutters open wide to the trees just outside dancing in a kaleidoscope of green and brown and gold and the sunny city beyond and the blue sky above. The summer breeze that rushes in ruffles her messy hair with a wonderful effervescent sensation.

She laughs out loud, then turns around and practically throws herself at Niki and Beth with arms outspread. She seizes them both in a messy hug that somehow manages to include that wooden spoon again. Veera still laughs, and she feels tears on her cheeks, too.

“Whoa! Hey, girl.”

“Oh, shit! Hi Mika.”

“Hey, Veera, are you okay?”

No. Yes. Always. Never. She finds herself crying harder than she’s ever cried in her life. But she’s still smiling, steeped in a deeper kind of joy and certainty than she’s ever felt before. Someone threads their fingers through her hair and strokes her head until the tide turns and sets her free. And then, still, she is held.

None of this will last. Nothing does. There is more elation and agony and monotony and uncertainty and wonder up ahead. And yet, they’re still here, and she’s beyond grateful. She’s never stopped being here. Maybe this really is exactly where she needs to be. Maybe all she needs to do is tell the garden of her heart that it doesn’t have to stop growing.

When she can, Veera breathes in deeply, her ribs pressing against the arms circling her. She feels the way her exhale blusters soft and warm in the small space between her face and the shoulders she leans it into. The yielding soft pressure of the embrace engraves itself into the very bones of her arms, and she will never ever be able to forget the ache of it and will never want to.

Fuck the fires – this is what’s real now. She wants this to be what makes her who she is. This dance of joy in strangeness can be the story she makes of the rest of her life. All she needs to do is remember her choice, and make it, again and again and again.

“Hey, there, hey... there you are,” Beth murmurs. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re here.”

She is; they are.

They are.

[kerra-and-company]

what i’m here for

The story of another Tree, deep in the Maguuma Jungle.

(I set out to write character posts for two of my sylvari OCs, and somehow I got inspired to write their Mother’s backstory in the process and thus flesh out another OC entirely, so here you go! Their character posts will arrive at some point in the near future.)

Warnings: implied/referenced suicide (at the very end of the fic)

AO3 Link

She awakens in the depths of the jungle.

She can sense life all around her, both like and unlike her, and power. So much power. The air feels heavy and suffocating, and she does her best to shut it out.

There are creatures all around her—smaller, and different, but alive. She wants for the first time. She wants to see them.

She manifests an avatar and opens her eyes to her world.

*****

The Itzel teach her language, speech, and the ways of their world.

The jungle provides, they say, and they call her the Tree.

She learns that she was found by Ranili, a mischievous child who ventured too far from their village. They planted her in a corner of the jungle far away from the beasts they call Mordrem and their master. Ranili’s children are her teachers today.

The dragon Mordremoth is her creator. Deep down inside, she knows this, an understanding as essential as the fact that she exists. Its power thrums somewhere just left of her core, telling her to give herself over to it. She tells the Itzel this, but they already knew.

“A seed found in this jungle?” laughs Zetl, the one who visits her most. “It would be much stranger if you were not of the dragon. But Ranili could tell when they found you—you are much more of Ameyalli than of the dragon. You are special, and so we help you.”

She nods, and accepts this, and learns all the Itzel are willing to teach her. She continues to shut out the dragon.

*****

She is not so certain that she is unique.

As her trunk and leaves grow, so does her mind, and she learns to reach into a strange place, full of possibilities and potential. When she tells the Itzel, they call it the Canopy.

The deeper she reaches into the Canopy, the more she feels. She thinks there are at least two others like her in the world, one younger than she and one older. She also feels—

Saplings—

Children.

Her older sister has children.

She’d considered it before, at least in the abstract. She’d met young Itzel and seen jungle stalker cubs, and she enjoys meeting and caring for young things. But this shocks her into practical consideration of the idea. She decides she likes it.

By this time, Zetl’s son Livi is her main visitor, and it is to Livi that she poses the idea.

Livi is more distrustful of her than Zetl had been, having lost friends to Mordrem, but vows to support her regardless. Livi’s only condition is that he be present for the emergence of the children, and she agrees.

*****

Creating children is more difficult than she’d anticipated, and it takes time.

She allows the Canopy to do some of the work, the magic swirling into two bodies. They will look a bit like her avatar does, but they will each be unique, with their own thoughts, their own minds, and their own personalities.

She imparts to them the knowledge of the Itzel but also grants them her own.

The jungle provides, but it also destroys. You are my two firstborn, and you inherit an unavoidable legacy.

I come from the jungle dragon, but I do not serve it. You must not, either.

It may try to turn you. It may ignore you. You may feel its presence at all times. I do not know, for I am not you. I have never been and will never be exactly like you, my children.

But I am strong, and you will be, too. You will have a future, and you will be yourselves. This I know with certainty.

I love you both so much. Never forget that.

*****

She allows her children to name themselves, still inside the Canopy.

Her first child—her son—chooses the name Relethen, the first letter a homage to his mother’s savior and the rest compiled from the names of jungle plants. He wants his name to sound unique, determined to be an individual from the start. He is curious and powerful and brave. He is so, so much smaller than she is, and she wonders if this was a mistake, to create beings this small and set them free in the world. She has to pause and remind herself that he is not much smaller than the Itzel, and that most creatures are smaller than she.

Her second child names xemself Nishannai, the sound, if not the length, vaguely reminiscent of Itzel names. Xe is strong, looking (in the Canopy) like the burning-blue flames at the center of the Itzel’s hottest fires. Xe feels everything down to xyr core, and it frightens her, a little, that her child is so vulnerable. Xe is noticeably larger than xyr brother, but still so much smaller than xyr mother that it hurts. And it is her second child that asks a question that she had somehow never remotely considered in all her years of life.

What do we call you?

She tells them both that Mother is just fine.

But don’t you have a name, Mother?

*****

She had never thought to choose one.

*****

Livi takes her children to the Itzel village, where they are taken in and welcomed by the villagers. They travel to the village on most days, but on other days, they stay with her.

Both children are determined to help their mother pick a name, and they go back and forth, bouncing ideas off each other. Some of them are Itzel names, some of them are simply words, and some of them are their own creations.

She finally picks a name—one of Nisha’s suggestions. It comes from the Itzel words for green and growing things, and it makes her happy.

*****

Some growing is harder. Rel begins to venture farther into the jungle, and Nisha stays away from her for longer and longer periods of time, learning to master swords and hammers and poison. But they both always come back.

She begins to ponder whether they would be safer outside the jungle. The trouble is that neither she nor the Itzel know exactly what lays beyond. The world might be entirely jungle, for all she knows.

But when she reaches into the Canopy, in the direction of her sisters, she can see impressions of tall cliffs covered in white and vast expanses of water that seem to stretch out forever and just-as-large expanses of pale golden dirt. None of these things are found in the jungle, the Itzel tell her.

The magic of the dragon weighs on her heart more and more each day. She cannot leave the jungle. She is rooted here. It is a part of her, and she is a part of it, as much as she also is different. But her children do not grow roots. They can walk away and be safe. Perhaps they will one day even find her siblings and their children—her younger sister has at least one child now too, she thinks.

She comes to a decision.

She calls her children to her.

*****

In her opinion, whatever is in charge of the universe, be it Mordremoth, the Itzel’s Ameyalli, or some other being, has a terrible sense of timing.

They are all arguing. Rel wishes to stay and protect her, while Livi and the other villagers support her desire for her children to leave. Nisha hangs off to the side, the tears in xyr eyes born from anger and pain and grief and resolve.

And just as she is about to intervene, to tell her son to stop being stubborn, just this once, and to leave her be, the magic presses in on her again, stronger than it ever has before. She, in her avatar, gasps with pain, and her family gathers around her.

She tells them what is happening. She knows it is the end.

Rel, her stubborn, brave, son, freezes in place, motionless. Nisha, on the other hand, is nothing but motion, pacing while asking what xe can do over and over and over again. Livi’s face twitches before solidifying into hard stone, and he motions his people back, nodding to her.

She smiles at her children and imparts one last lesson to them as she says goodbye.

*****

Her last act is one of sacrifice. She cuts herself off from the Canopy, cutting off the source of the magic corrupting her, cutting off her lifeblood. It ensures her death rather than her corruption, and it keeps her children safe just a little longer.

When she is recorded in history, years later, it is like this:

She was mother to Relethen and Nishannai, two of Tyria’s champions.

She was the Tree of the Depths, who fought an Elder Dragon as long as she could.

And her name was Viridi.

[ishgard]

shadowbringers spoilers - emet selch & that certain amaurotine once again. small title-less drabble cuz i’m tired and this was just something to write between writing other things.

They’ve arranged for a room at the Hall of Rhetoric, as they have done so many times over the years. Today her ruby aura is aglow with something fresh, something that excites her, barely restrained. He expects it is not so much an outright debate she is looking for, but a chance to hold a new idea out to him and craft it into something more through conversation.

He sits, easing back even as she is on the edge of her seat, thrumming with excited energy. With a short, dry chuckle, he nods and gives a gesture with one hand.

“All right, go ahead then.”

Harmonies chime around her, soft bells and gentle strings in song that may never be recorded but is beautiful all the same. It is ’joy’ rolling off her aether in quiet waves, as she pulls back her hood and removes her mask. Wide violet eyes sparkle at him with energy and passion unrestrained.

“I’ve a concept, you see. I call it… a ‘hero’.”

He is removing his own mask and hood as she speaks, a thin brow arching above golden eyes. “Hero?” He repeats, testing it on his tongue, uncertain just what it could even suggest. Her ideas are often so very abstract; she performs ballads and sings stories of fantastic things that inspire the many. It is rarer, as time has gone on, that she creates such things herself, she channels her energy instead into fueling the ideas and creations of others.

Humming pleasantly, she nods to herself. She likes hearing it from him. So often it is that she comes to him first with her concepts, creations, and songs, almost as if seeking… some sort of approval. An oddity, but then she is full of them. He treasures every single one.

“They are for stories, of course.” Of course; fictions are one of her favorite concepts. “There was a discussion I attended recently, concerning our involvement with other cities. The debate touched upon topics of whether or not we would not be imposing ourselves upon our distant brothers; one counterpoint was that in sharing our knowledge, we would merely be upholding our duties for the betterment of this star.”

“Yes, I heard some of the attendees discussing it at the Capitol,” he nods, considering the points she is offering him, and what it might have to do with this ‘hero’. “And is this ‘hero’ your answer to the quandary?”

Long white strands bounce around her shoulders as she shakes her head. “Alas, you know such politics are not my area of expertise.” She pauses when he fixes her with a doubting glance; quirked brow and lip, he always feels lighter around her, and no place more than the corners of his mouth and the core of his breast. She finds politicking dull, but she is hardly ill-equipped for it. As a member of the Convocation, how couldn’t she be?

Their gazes locked upon one another they fall into a natural silence. His expression is teasing, questioning, and there is a faint glow of red around her cheeks; a pale imitation of her brilliant soul, yet it is lovely all the same. Her thoughts are no longer on concepts, politics, or ‘heroes’, but him and him alone, he knows.

“Yes… well…” She clears her throat and looks away, blinking away her stupor and regaining hold over her thoughts. “My thoughts instead turned to ‘aiding others’.”

He hums thoughtfully, already catching on. That is, as it has always been, one of her highest goals. Not simply bettering their star, but helping others find their own special strengths and strong suits, solving their problems and filling in the gaps of theories and formations.

“In some ways, a hero might be similar to administrators, speakers at the Akadaemia, or even the Convocation. Theirs is a role that would aid others in whatever causes them strife. To find solutions, in a sense.”

“However, as you’ve already said this is a thing of fiction,” he interjects; she knows this, but her allusions are grounded in reality. “There is no need for such a thing.”

She winces as if scolded, but looks up at him just the same. “No, of course not.” Then, rising back up she straightens and squares her shoulders. “But I believe concepts created solely for entertainment and theoretical studies are of just as much value to the people as matters that have direct, real-world application.”

“Hah, you know that we are of like mind, my dear.” He shrugs and leans forward a little. “But then, in this fiction, what is it that the hero is aiding others in? Surely it must be something… riveting.”

Relaxing, it is here that she begins to pout, for it seems here lies the heart of her dilemma. In reflection of their earlier posture, she now slouches back into her chair. “Yes, but what such thing would that be? It must be as stirring as a song, as grand as the skies…”

He watches her as she considers it, tilting his head slowly one way - and then slowly the other. “Strife…” he murmurs quietly. A word that is at times exceedingly foreign to life in Amaurot. Outside, perhaps, but… Even so, just what would necessitate a ‘heroes’ presence.

Pain. Anguish. Despair. Frowning he shuts his eyes and shakes his head. There is a swirling miasma of thoughts that he carefully holds under his command, but he is certain he has struck upon something. Something that leaves a great distaste in his mouth as his golden eyes open slowly. “Ah…” The embodiment of that which gives the hero their adversity. He can not quite shape it, nor does he want to. Across from him, she sits up and watches him with curious wonder.

This is how it has always been with them. Ever since they were young - so very young. Making flowers and fruits and fireflies. One thing to perfectly compliment the other. She waits in silence for his answer to her quandary, and with a reluctant sigh he shakes his head and speaks it.

“A villain.”