#memoria accepted

[soultiio]

reference: job, orpen william

[rxqueenotd]

damnatio memoriae: PART III

In the Roman world, damnatio memoriae was used to describe a range of actions taken against former leaders and their reputations. These actions included: defacing visual depictions, removing heads from public statues, chiseling names off inscriptions, and destroying coins.

summary: reader, who goes by 'Prima’, was raised by a powerful Roman consul, under the reign of Imperator Septimius Severus. When it comes time for his eldest son, Caracalla, to marry again, a chain of events is set off, changing the course of Prima's life and the lives around her.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ �� ⟡

warnings: oral m receiving, arranged marriage, foul language, mentions of blood, bodily fluids, Ancient Rome as a warning within itself.

notes: i am tired. no big notes today, just the chapter and a huge thanks to @trashmouth-richie for beta’ing for me even though we’re dying and surrounded by the plague.

⟡ Imperator- Septimius Severus

⟡ Augustus- Marcus Aurelius Antoninus “Caracalla”

⟡ Caesar- ⟡ Publius Septimius Geta “Geta”

III

“Brother,” Caracalla chuckled, surrounded by the finest of the court—his beloved whores, concubines, and every fair face that caught his eye—turned to his sibling, “have you laid eyes on my wife?”

Geta, his fingers entwined with his main flame to his right, shook his head slowly. “No, the better question would be: have you seen your wife?”

A silver platter brimming with powder was offered to Caracalla, who eagerly partook, stumbling backward, snorting and sniffling, until he finally crashed into his gilded seat.

“I thought we agreed to save the Rhino’s Horn for Saturnalia,” Geta shot a glance at the bearer of the silver dish, waving them off.

“Why not seize the day, brother?” Caracalla replied, “Father has departed for uncle’s villa, my wife is… well, lost to me at the moment, but that matters not. Let us enjoy these days of luxury.”

The two had been drunk for much of the day, with Caracalla lost in a haze of whatever was handed to him: Devil’s Breath, opium, Rhino’s Horn—none mattered. If it was offered, it was his. Geta, however, stayed pleasantly tipsy on sweet wine, his cup never empty, his tongue loosening enough to spill secrets like a river.

“Brother, I must share something with you.” Geta’s gaze met Caracalla’s, who leaned in, all ears.

Caracalla clapped his hands, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “At last, something of interest! Amuse me, brother.”

“Gracchus’s wife,” Geta began, “on the night of your wedding, her lips were wrapped so divinely around my cock.”

Caracalla nodded, interrupting, “A wondrous thing, indeed.”

Geta pressed on, “And Prima came to my chambers, asking to help you to bed while you were busy with one of your legendary displays.”

This piqued Caracalla’s interest. He sat up straight, eyes locked onto Geta’s face, lips pressed tight, nostrils flaring.

“And?” he urged Geta to continue.

“And, well, I commanded her to stay, to savor the moment.” Geta caressed the cheek of the woman at his side, who purred in delight, momentarily diverting his gaze from his brother.

Caracalla, though not entirely impressed, was curious. He grasped his brother’s arm firmly. “And she complied? She truly remained and watched?”

“Yes,” Geta affirmed with a nod, “who would dare refuse the command of a son of the emperor?”

Caracalla’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face before he leaned down and whispered to one of the servants who knelt before them, awaiting his command.

It wasn’t long before you made your entrance into the chamber, a mix of confusion and acceptance washing over you at being summoned after a week of silence. You stood before the two brothers, maintaining a stoic expression while disregarding the crowd surrounding them, who now beheld the new Augusta. Most gazed at you in wonder, some wore expressions of intrigue, while others looked as if they were ready to eat you, relishing every moment they stood in your presence.

“Has someone died?” Caracalla asked, his brow furrowed as he took in your appearance from head to toe.

The toga you donned was a careful choice. Its deep black hue a sign of mourning, a garment you had worn through various times of grief. The black veil draped softly over your shoulders, trailing down the back of your dress and nearly brushing the floor, swaying gently with the warm breeze that flowed in from the balconies on either side. You adorned yourself with jewels—a delicate headpiece that held the veil in place, a gift from the Imperator himself, paired with his late wife's stunning collection of rubies that gleamed on your fingers. A golden cuff encircled your bicep, intricately designed with fine lines weaving a lace-like pattern, complemented by matching earrings and your family’s cherished wrist cuffs, passed down through generations.

“No one that I know of,” you replied, a hint of mischief in your voice. “I just figured that if I dressed the part, perhaps the gods would take notice of my urgent prayers and send me off to the underworld with haste.”

A chorus of gasps filled the room, and you had to bite your lip to keep from grinning.

Caracalla staggered over, getting right in your face.

“Everyone, out!” he barked, his eyes locked on yours. When no one moved, he shouted, “Get out or live to regret it!” That was all it took for the crowd to scurry away like frightened mice.

“Tell me,” he said, dragging a finger down the bridge of your nose—an odd move, but on-brand for Caracalla, “did it make your cunt throb to see my brother getting his cock sucked?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him. “Do not talk to me about implied infidelities when you’re surrounded by people the likes of which do not even make a good meal for a dog.”

Caracalla's expression shifted to a dangerous glint, his lips curling into a smirk. “Ah, so we’re playing at words now, are we? You think you can wound me with your tongue? I have better plans for that mouth of yours.”

“Brother,” Geta said, rising to his feet, “don’t do something you’ll come to regret.”

Caracalla pulled a dagger from his belt, pointing it at Geta. “You’ll sit down and keep your mouth shut, brother.”

And there you were, caught in the middle of two prideful men, like a sweet nectar drawing them in.

Geta lifted his hands in a gesture of defense, retreating toward his chair in defeat.

“On your knees, wench!” Caracalla bellowed, fury blazing in his eyes like a stormy sky.

Your gaze flickered to Geta, but Caracalla, with the edge of his sword pressed against your cheek, forcefully turned your head to face him.

“Is it not enough that you dared to speak with him? Must you also look upon him in my presence?” Caracalla whined, his naturally raspy voice sounding even more gravelly in his drug addled state.

“Are you deaf?!” he roared, “On your knees!”

You felt the cold of the sword as it slid from your cheek to your neck, pressing firmly against your carotid. With a heavy heart, you sank to your knees, shame washing over you.

As you gazed up at him, angry tears welled in your eyes. The golden laurel wreath tangled in his wild hair sat crookedly above his brows, as he looked down at you with a wild glint.

“Show me how well Gracchus’s wife treated my dear brother!” he cackled, delighting in the raunchiness of his demand.

“Absolutely not,” you spat through clenched teeth, attempting to rise once more, only to be met with his rough hands shoving you back down against the cold marble.

“Must I flog you for your insolence?!” he howled, spit flying from his lips, “Must I?!”

“Not here,” you pleaded, all pride abandoned as your knees ground into the cold marble, “Not like this.”

“Just like this,” he replied, smirking down at you as he pulled back his flowing robes to reveal his hard cock.

“Come on,” he flicked his tip against your lips, “open up for me.”

With angry tears stinging your eyes, you wrapped your lips around him, his velvet tip sliding past your lips, brushing heavily against your tongue.

“Should you dare use your teeth against me, I’ll have them knocked from your jaw with the hilt of my sword. Rome has no place for a wild, toothless harlot.”

He carelessly rolled his hips toward your face, swaying unsteadily with each thrust as you fought back the bile rising in your throat. When you didn’t please him the way he wished, he fucked your face with such fervor that he nearly lost his balance. You gagged as hot tears streamed down your cheeks, saliva dripping from the corners of your mouth like a hungry dog.

“You must not have impressed her with your little show, brother,” he bellowed over his shoulder, gripping the roots of your hair, chuckling as you gagged even harder, pressing your nails into his thighs for fear you might topple over. “I have had better pleasure alone.”

He continued his brutal assault until finally he pulled you snug to the base of his cock, letting out a guttural groan, his legs nearly giving way beneath him as he released his hot seed into your mouth.

He stumbled back, shaky hands letting you go, but not fast enough to dodge the glob of cum you spat at his feet.

“You stupid whore—” he screamed, reaching for his sword again, but Geta grabbed him.

"‘Enough, brother,’ Geta commanded, gesturing toward the door. At once, two guards rushed in, seizing Caracalla, wrestling the blade from his grip, placing it firmly in Geta's hand.

A smirk crept across your lips as you met Caracalla's furious gaze, his struggles useless against the guards' hold. You wiped the last traces from your mouth, unflinching, while he spat threats of every punishment under the sun. His voice faded into the distance, growing fainter with each step as the guards dragged him away.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

As soon as you stepped into your chambers, you snatched up a decorative vase, your stomach churning from the memory of his touch as you unceremoniously emptied its contents into the vase. A pang of guilt washed over you for the poor servant who would later have the misfortune of clearing it out, but you quickly brushed it aside; purging any trace of Caracalla from your system took precedence above all else.

As you crossed the threshold to the adjoining balneum, the air was thick with steam, a sensation that caused you to groan in pleasure. The gentle sound of water splashing filled the space while the frescoes adorning the walls told stories of playful nymphs dancing amongst the clouds lost amongst a blue sky. The buff marble floor cooled your feet, contrasting with the warmth of your skin.

The bathing area itself featured a large, sunken pool, its waters shimmering under the soft glow of oil lamps. To one side, a small fountain trickled water into a basin, where fresh rose petals floated, adjacent to a nearby selection of oils: patchouli, lavender, rosemary, their scents mingled in the heady, warm atmosphere. A strigil and pumice stone awaited on a shelf built into the wall, along with fine linen towels, and cloths, all carefully placed for your use.

With a soft sigh, you dipped your toes into the inviting water, allowing the robe you had worn in to drop to the marbled floor behind you. You relished the sensation as you waded in deeper, the water rising to your ankles, then your calves. Each step felt like a release, the warmth washing over you, dissolving the tension that had clung to you throughout the day.

As you reached the center of the pool, the water enveloped you completely. You closed your eyes, letting your head fall back as you floated for a moment, allowing the water to cradle you. Everything felt so distant, so unimportant. The world outside faded away, and for a fleeting moment, it was just you and the serenity of the private sanctuary. You let your mind wander, thoughts drifting like the petals floating in the nearby basin.

Reaching for the bottle of patchouli oil resting on the edge of the bath, you poured a small amount into your palm, the rich, earthy scent wafting into the space. With your fingers slicked with the oil, you began to comb it carefully through your hair, taking your time to work out any knots and tame the unruly strands. Once satisfied with your hair, you took a fine cloth, its texture soft as silk against your skin, and began to bathe yourself with the perfumed oil.

With deliberate movements, you sloshed water along your body, enjoying the feeling of it cascading over your skin like a gentle waterfall. When you were ready, you dove under the water once more, the coolness contrasting deliciously with the warmth of the oil. As you rinsed yourself, you felt the excess oils wash away, the strigil waiting nearby for the final touch.

“Domina.” The tranquil moment shattered as one of your newly assigned servants peeked through the ornate doorway, her voice breaking the soothing silence.

“What is it?” you asked, trying to stall for just a moment longer.

“You’ve been summoned.”

Of course you had. It only made sense that your peaceful escape would be interrupted. You emerged from the water, droplets glistening on your skin, and caught the nervous gaze of the servant as she shifted from foot to foot.

“Come inside,” you beckoned her, and she hesitantly approached, holding out a towel like it was a fragile offering.

“Do you know how to use a strigil?” you asked, and she nodded, though her eyes betrayed her anxiety.

“Very well.” You dried your face with the towel, then reached for the strigil and handed it to her. “Quickly.”

With shaky hands, she began to scrape off the excess oils.

“What is your name?” you asked, trying to ease the tension as she glided the strigil along your shoulder.

“Cassia,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Cassia,” you repeated, letting the name linger in the air. “Is it Caracalla or Geta requesting me?”

“Neither, Domina,” she paused, placing the strigil back in its assigned place. “It is the Imperator.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

You quickly slipped into a sleeping gown—something informal yet appropriate for the presence of the Imperator. Cassia’s hands trembled slightly as she helped you into the nightgown made of fine, onyx silk. She draped a matching robe over your shoulders, guiding your arms into the sleeves with a gentleness that put you at ease. The fabric glided down your arms, flowing behind you like a shadow as you moved to comb your damp hair away from your face.

“I believe it would be nice if you left your hair down to dry,” Cassia suggested meekly, her eyes meeting yours through the reflection in the looking glass.

“I can braid it when you return. It is not wise to make the Imperator wait.” Her eyes told a story, hinting at the consequences of such delays, as if she had witnessed them firsthand.

“Very well,” you agreed, sensing the urgency in her tone. “Lead me there.”

Cassia walked quickly ahead, navigating through the maze of twists and turns that made up the opulent palace. The gilded walls shimmered under the flickering sconces, casting warm glows on the marble flooring. You passed by frescoes depicting grand tales of valor and myth, the ornate pieces of art adorning each wall, their beauty almost distracting you from the nervous feeling that swirled in your gut.

Finally, you arrived at an imposing set of doors, intricately carved and adorned with symbols befitting the Imperator’s status. Cassia hesitated for a moment, glancing back at you with a mix of awe and fear. “I’ll wait here, Domina.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you stepped forward. The doors swung open, revealing the dimly lit chamber beyond.

“Prima,” Septimius spoke from across the room, his voice smooth yet commanding. You crossed the threshold, your heart quickening as you made your way toward him. He sat at a side table, a decanter of wine glistening under the moonlight that spilled through the billowing curtains beside the table, casting soft shadows along the table and its contents.

“Thank you for joining me,” he said, standing to pull out a chair for you. You took your seat, the silk of your robe whispering against the chair as you settled in.

“Of course, Imperator,” you replied, keeping your tone steady. You studied his face, searching for clues about his intentions. Septimius possessed an air of authority, his graying hair slightly tousled, and his sharp features illuminated by the silvery light.

He poured a glass of wine, the deep red liquid swirling as he filled it, and then slid it across the table toward you. “A toast, Prima. To new beginnings.”

You accepted the glass, “To new beginnings,” you echoed, raising the glass slightly before taking a sip. As you caught his gaze, a flicker of something unreadable passed in his eyes.

“Tell me,” he began, leaning forward slightly, “how do you find your new role here? The palace can be overwhelming, even for those accustomed to such grandeur.”

You considered his question carefully, weighing your words. “It is… a lot to take in,” you admitted.

“As to be expected,” he assured you, his gaze unwavering. “How are things with your new husband?”

“May I be bold, Imperator?” you asked, setting your glass down with a gentle clink, smoothing the fabric of your robe against your thighs to calm the tension that had begun to build within you.

“Go ahead,” he nodded, his expression encouraging.

You took a moment, drawing in a steadying breath. “I believe I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know how things have been going.” You reached for the glass of wine again, taking a sip to wet your drying, anxious mouth.

Septimius leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look crossing his features. You spotted Geta right away in him, the way his eyes were shaped and how he looked at you like you were the most confusing thing in the world that he sought to understand. But Caracalla was there too—his fingers digging into the armrest, his middle and pointer fingers tapping an offbeat rhythm against the leather. Caracalla's fierce gaze matched Septimius’s as well as his wild curls, both full of intensity.

“True enough. The palace is a place of whispers, and my son’s reputation precedes him. Yet I am interested in your perspective—how you truly feel about your situation.”

“May I ask what brought you back early from your trip to Baiae?” you asked, genuinely curious about the reason for his fast return.

“Word travels fast,” he leaned in, lowering his voice. “I—” he paused, selecting his words with care, “am aware of what transpired earlier today.”

You nodded, a wave of shame washing over you as you pictured someone recounting the scene to the Imperator.

“I also know that you and Caracalla have not shared a bed since your wedding night.”

“I…” you sighed, “truly am doing my best. It’s just that he and I are two very different people, and I’m trying to navigate the ocean of differences between us.” You explained, your tone almost pleading.

Carefully, he slid a familiar piece of parchment your way. No need to touch it; you knew well what it said.

“How did you come by that?” you asked, brow furrowed.

“Never mind that,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Do the words in this letter truly speak to your feelings?”

With a weary sigh, you opened it, your fingers dancing along its edges.

“If you wished me dead, you could’ve driven the blade yourself.” The words were yours, penned to your father a few days prior, when you felt as if being married to Caracalla was a death sentence, when tensions were at a high and you needed someone to hear you.

“It was confiscated before it left the palace,” he replied, his gaze steady as it met yours over the parchment.

“May I ask who thought it wise to spy on me and read my letters?” You laid the parchment flat, smoothing out the creases.

“You may not.” His expression was as stoic as a statue.

“I feel as if I’m being set up to fail, Imperator, as if your son wishes to see this marriage crumble, and I’ll be cast aside when I inevitably fail in my duties.” You spoke the truth plainly, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

“When he was, I don’t know,” he sighed, “seven or eight, we campaigned through Syria and up into the Taurus mountains.”

You leaned in, sitting up straighter, eager for him to continue.

“And I remember him shouting, ‘I’ve found another three!’ I turned around, and there he was, standing among a sea of headless corpses, yelling when he found one with its head still on. He took such joy in it; it became a sort of game for him.”

“Isn’t that what a man wants? A son who isn’t squeamish about death and war?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“Of course, but not one who brings that chaos within his own walls, in his own home.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out with a weary sigh.

“And Geta,” he closed his eyes, “maybe I wasn’t hard enough on him. Maybe I learned my lesson with Caracalla. Maybe Geta is just his mother’s son.” He waved a hand dismissively, letting out a heavy sigh. “But none of this is your worry.”

He stood, and you followed, walking with him to the grand doors.

“Go and rest. After tonight, all will be well.”

You turned to question him, to ask what the gods had happened between the two of you and why it had become your concern even if he had assured you it wasn’t, but the doors swung shut before you could speak. You exchanged a bewildered glance with Cassia before heading back to your chambers.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Not long after, the harsh sound of screaming pulled you from your thoughts. You followed the noise, retracing Cassia’s steps from earlier in the night, until you stumbled into Geta’s chest as he stood by the entrance to his father’s chambers.

“What are you doing here?” he spat. You peered around him, drawn to the chaos behind the door.

“I heard the shouting and got worried,” you replied. “What’s happening?”

“None of your business.” He looked down at you, his expression cold.

“Back to your rooms,” he ordered, waving you away.

“You will take your wife back into your quarters immediately!” came the booming voice of Septimius. A loud crash echoed, and you and Geta exchanged alarmed glances.

“Perhaps you should show me some respect for the title you’ve given me,” Caracalla shouted back.

“Perhaps you should earn that title, boy,” Septimius seethed.

Another crash followed, accompanied by the sound of shuffling.

“You are only Augustus and emperor of Rome by my say, Marcus! I am your father and your emperor,” Septimius continued, his voice cutting through the chaos. “I will strip you of every title and give it to your brother, who might actually appreciate it!”

Geta’s ears perked up, and a flicker of hope crossed his face as he looked toward the door.

But Septimius’s next words dashed his hopes. “Perhaps I’ll take your wife into my quarters and father a son with her. A new line of succession could be just what Rome needs.”

Another crash echoed, and grunts erupted from behind the doors.

“Look at you, bleeding like a woman,” Septimius mocked. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you bled between your legs like one.”

The grand doors swung open, and Caracalla stormed toward you, his face smeared with blood. When he spat a crimson splash at your feet, you instinctively jumped back. He rushed past you, exchanging a quick glance with Geta.

“Do not follow him,” Geta warned, his voice low and tense.

But you didn’t heed his warning.

You navigated through winding hallways, twisting and turning until you reached Caracalla's chamber. He had thrown the doors open, pacing like a caged beast, blood streaming down his face.

“Get the hell out!” he bellowed, sending everything from the side table crashing to the floor.

“I refuse,” you shot back, firmly closing the door behind you.

“You went and lied to my father,” he hissed, stalking toward you like a predator. “You treacherous snake!”

“I did nothing of the sort!” you yelled back, your voice rising with anger. “He knew before he called for me.”

As he approached, the full extent of his injuries became clear. His nose was smashed, blood pouring from it, and his lip was split wide open. You roamed about his room scouring for supplies to clean him with until you found a few plain cloths on his dressing table.

“Sit.” You were shocked when he followed the command, sitting on the side of the bed, brow pinched at the way you had spoken to him.

“We must work together until I’m with child,” you said, as he winced a bit when you pressed a clean cloth against his split lip. “Then, once a son is born, you can send me off to whatever warm rock you fancy.”

“But first,” you said as you settled beside him on the bed, “we need to stop this bleeding.”

He placed his hand over yours, pressing down harder against his lip, a silent agreement forged in a simple touch.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡

Tag list:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

Dividers:

@ghoulbloggerrr

[atamascolily]

Building off my earlier analysis of Kyouko Sakura's original Magia Record transformation, here's her "Doppel Version":

For those who are unfamiliar with Magia Record, Doppels are a game mechanic allowing magical girls to temporarily manifest their witch forms. A later story expands on this by introducing the awkwardly-named "Doppel Version" for Kyouko, allowing her to become fused with her Doppel (as opposed to having it attached like a conjoined twin to a certain part of her body, like typical Doppels) and this is reflected in the transformation.

Kyouko stares into a flame floating in midair, which ultimately manifests into a figure covered in flames (compare with her original MR transformation, where this is a temporary intermediate state between ordinary girl and magical girl forms). Note that Kyouko is already in her magical girl form here; we are basically picking up where her original MR transformation ended.

Surprised to recognize the figure in the flames (it's herself, of course; it's always been herself), Kyouko reaches out to it, wincing at the heat of it. I appreciate the animators' dedication to her little fang, though.

When their hands meet, there is an explosion, and Kyouko is once again surrounded by flames burning away her old identity and reforging a new one. Her spear descends and she reaches to catch it, throwing herself at the camera; when the flames die down, she is dressed in the outfit worn by her Doppel, but still manifestly herself.

From an animation standpoint, this is far from the flashiest or most polished transformation sequence. It's the symbolism, simple as it is, that captures my attention. Magical girl transformations frequently feature doubles (compare Madoka's transformation in the opening credits of the orginal series) and the word 'Doppel' is German for 'Double', so that part isn't surprising--what's new is the merger of the two, and the acceptance of it.

I've written a ridiculously long essay about how this, or something very much like it, where magical girls accept and merge with their witches in some capacity, is both a logical extension of the original premise as well as its ultimate end game and here we see that actually playing out in Magia Record, even if it was only a blip in the grand scheme of things.

For various reasons, I have not watched the entire "Homecoming ~ Three Days of Kyoko Sakura" event in full, so while my knowledge is far from comprehensive, I still want to make a few notes.

First, some words about Kyouko's Doppel. It is based on her witch Ophelia, who does not appear in the original series, only in the PSP game. The name parallels Sayaka's witch Oktavia, as does her elemental affinity--if Sayaka is the Little Mermaid, Kyouko is the Little Match Girl, and her witch is literally a candle flame dressed as a wǔdàn, a character archetype of a warrior maiden from Chinese opera.

In keeping with PMMM's emphasis on performance, her labyrinth is a stage (compare also the labyrinth-like animation, complete with candle flames, when Kyouko narrates her backstory to Sayaka in the original anime). It also is yet another parallel with Oktavia, whose labyrinth is a music hall in which an orchestra plays.

Witch (left) vs. Doppel (right). Note that the body of the witch is replaced by Kyouko, although the two are still represented as distinct entities, with the magical girl "controlling" the witch part.

Also, yes, that is her sister Momo's head attached to the Doppel.

As you might expect from all of the imagery, Kyouko merging with her Doppel goes hand in hand with her accepting her painful past, as the two are inextricably linked. This is vividly apparent in one of the event CGs, which also features mirrored Kyoukos:

This image was also used in one of the event's Memoria cards, the text which reads (translation from the Puella Magi Wiki), which adds some additional context:

I was trying to leave everything in my past behind and become something else. Because if I didn't, I wouldn't have survived tomorrow. ...But I couldn't throw it away. I couldn't just pretend that my past self didn't exist.

Kyouko's past literally catches up with her in the form of herself, who kicks her ass and knocks her to the ground. Seems fitting, doesn't it?

This, as I've said before, is the ultimate "good end" for magical girls--to be able to accept the past that led them to make a contract while consciously drawing on the powers and abilities that they gained from it instead of being consumed by it. To be a psychologically whole person, rather than stuck forever in the magical girl-witch dichotomy. This is is everything I want to see in the PMMM franchise!!

And then, having done this extraordinary thing.... Magia Record steps back from it and, as far as I can tell, completely sweeps it under the rug. Kyouko is the only character to have this experience and there's a lot of shrugging of, "huh, wonder what that's about" in-universe as it's a completely new thing that nobody knows anything about... and doesn't seem interested in exploring.

I mean, I can tell you why on a meta, Doylist level--it's because Doppels are a game mechanic and Magia Record, like all of these kinds of games, requires a certain level of stasis and stability. It's fine for a one-time limited event as a novelty, but changing Doppels would require changing the fundamental structure of the game, which is just not happening. So instead, the plot goes back to reinforcing the status quo in Kamihama, instead of following this new and intriguing development.

It's completely understandable--and yet at the same time, it's infuriating because it's the most interesting thing to happen in the game since Doppels were first introduced--they were literally right there and didn't do anything with it beyond this one event!! And I'd be very surprised if Exedra developed it, for similar reasons--what little we've seen of the game makes it seem like it will be rehashing pre-existing storylines as opposed to completely new ones (at least at first) and if it does, it will likely go in very different directions.

As you can tell, I have a lot of strong feelings about this, as it's both fundamental to my personal interpretation of the show, and a topic I've been exploring in my fanworks for several years now. Suffice to say, I'm very happy that this exists, limited as it is, and I hope they'll do more with this sort of thing in future installments.

[commsroom]

first of all thank you so much for having this blog and sharing your thoughts!! your eiffelposting (and heraposting) has literally got me through the post w359 Grieving Process after running though the whole thing in about 2 weeks and your character insight is. well. chefs kiss. Eiffel Understander Of All Time. 2 things: 1, if it’s ok, you’ve mentioned before about an eiffel version of change of mind, and the idea has (1/2)

(2/2) literally stuck with me since and i’d love to hear your thoughts on that if you have any! 2, are there active w359 discords about bc i got a deep need to yap about all this (apologies if the first msg came through twice, tumblr's being weird)

oh, it makes me very happy to hear that!! your art is a gift, and i'm glad i can offer you something in return.

as for your question... yes! okay. the basic premise is to frame eiffel losing (and regaining) his memory as a catalyst for character growth, as a narrative parallel to lovelace's death and resurrection, rather than a resolution. i think it's noteworthy that the finale has eiffel faced with himself from first a very internal (the final confrontation literally taking place inside his head) and then a very external (hearing his logs as an outsider after losing his memory) perspective and i think the natural extension of this is, well. to confront him with himself.

one of the most key things about eiffel's character arc is that he wants to escape himself. "it's taken me this long to realize that running from everyone else means that you're alone with yourself" but, as addressed in constructive criticism, he's also running from himself. he doesn't like what he hears on those tapes, but the eiffel of succulent rat-killing tar both is and isn't the eiffel of brave new world, and i think that's what's being set up/suggested at the end.

i think viewing eiffel's memory loss as a death is incomplete, while viewing it as a "fresh start" or anything of the sort is incompatible with his existing character arc. but if you think of it as part of this pattern of eiffel trying to escape himself, and ending up still stuck with himself...? if he makes the big sacrifice, "escapes" the person he is as much as anyone can, and then finds he's still stuck with himself, still has to live as the person he is...? then, what next?

(i think this also ties in well with maintaining sobriety; addiction, self-destructive impulses and the desire to not be present in his life, etc. are all rooted in the same things.)

my concept of eiffel regaining his memory would be this sort of... fever dream "life flashing before his eyes" sequence of stepping into significant moments in his life (as a stranger) and interacting with himself, and needing to accept / reintegrating all of these versions of who doug eiffel is and has been. that the question of "am i still doug eiffel?" is one of accountability for his past but that he's always been changing and will continue to grow. i think a key part of this would be him seeing these moments through a pop culture lens / as if it's a movie and then more gradually seeing what they really are. ideally, these would be moments tied to specific songs for him; eiffel's internal soundtrack is well beyond wolf 359's budget, i'm sure, but it's a hypothetical anyway. these would be real memories, in some form, but obviously none of this would be happening for real; it's just how i think his brain would make sense of it (while he's presumably unconscious.) it's like sarah shachat said about eiffel's story in limbo: to tell that story, he would first have to make it a story.

i like this because i think it works well with eiffel's existing arc. i like it because it provides a different angle on self-exploration via memory in the same vein as memoria and change of mind. i like it because it makes a good potential parallel to shut up and listen/constructive criticism, and to mayday (eiffel alone with the voices of others vs. eiffel literally alone with himself.) it feels like a natural extension + heightened conclusion to things that i feel are already implied + set up. and, while i like where wolf 359 ended and would never want to add to it, i like imagining what zach valenti would do with a bunch of different versions of eiffel at different stages of his life interacting; i think he would knock it out of the park with material like that.

i think the real core of identity in wolf 359 is in these moments where people assert who they are, or decide to be who they are. again, in parallel to lovelace... the same way that lovelace decides to be isabel lovelace, "even if [she] never has been before", eiffel would decide to be doug eiffel, all the people he's been, the person he is now, and all the people he's going to be.

(as for discord... i think there are some, but unfortunately i don't know of any that i would personally recommend. you are always welcome to ramble at Me on discord, but i know that's probably not the same.)

[heavenshardware]

thinking about heras and maxwells characters paralleling each other in regards to their autonomy and i just. aughhhh this is gonna be long and incoherent so i’m apologizing now

the obvious, both of them begin their careers at goddard by being forced into a corner. with hera being threatened with lobotomization/“decommission” and maxwell being stalked and harassed by goddard for 6+ months until accepting their offer, there was forethought put into their acceptance of [lack thereof] control over their autonomy. they both share loud inferiority complexes coded (literally and figuratively) into them by society with quiet superiority complexes. they both know they are capable of something greater, but are unable to do so due to social isolation, giving them the inability to ever advocate for themselves. the main reason kepler even brings her on the hephaestus mission is because she is incredible at talking to things that aren’t human (and i believe in an ama Somewhere agresti shares that maxwell forming friendships with People is incredibly rare). hera shares a similar language barrier; she is expected to be able to fully and effectively communicate with everyone around her no matter the circumstance despite having never had any social experience. she’s been isolated and hidden on purpose, to formulate her language in a way that is passive. both of them have also had to fight to prove that they deserve to exist [as women] in the roles that they reserve. maxwell is well aware that she lacks autonomy in field that (as far as i have heard about within wolf specifically) is male dominated which is why kepler is easily able to pull her in with the promise of control. hera, additionally, is also convinced to work with the hephaestus with the promise that she will have control over her existence within the ship.

which is why the second they meet they immediately feel a deep trust within each other. there is an immediate fundamental understanding of who they both are and how they came to be. their whole lives they’ve been playing chess in a world full of checkers, and someone else finally comes to them, sitting down completing their set of chess pieces.

in memoria, even though maxwells primary motivation is to get hera working again, she really spends the entire episode kind of projecting onto her.

being inherently broken is a theme in both of their pasts. with maxwell refusing to share anything about her family outside of the fact that she has a restraining order against them as well as pryce designing hera to have an anxiety disorder to ensure she could never reach her full potential, it is safe to assume they could have trouble asserting themselves. with hera it is internal, but with maxwell it is fairly external. despite maxwells betrayal, they both help each other become better. they make each other feel heard and they have nothing to hide. they don’t have to tone themselves down in order to interact. even though maxwell ends up siding with the si-5 in the s3 finale, her and hera both help each other come to the conclusion of who/what their common oppressor is, forever changing the way they interact with those who suppress them

[bunnybird-afk]

OK, ACABO DE LEER ALGUNAS RESPUESTAS DEL LORE SE SENA Y ME SURGIERON DOS PREGUNTAS

La primera (y la más corta): ¿Cómo terminó Dolly al servicio de Sena y que es ella exactamente?

Y la segunda (en la que amaría que te extendieras: ¿El niño que adoptó Sena antes de perder la memoria era Valen, verdad? ¿Cómo impactó en Valen ver a quien lo cuidó todo ese tiempo perder sus recuerdos? ¿Es apegado a Dolly, Chippy y Hammie en ese caso en tu canon? ¿Cómo se enteró Hogan de su existencia y lo terminó criando? ¿Hogan se siente culpable por enseñarle el camino de la espada, algo con lo que Sena quizás no hubiera estado de acuerdo?

Y una duda que me ha surgido ahora que lo pienso, ¿ese niño sabía de la existencia de Mirael? ¿Cómo reaccionaría ante ella y su molestia por no ser recordada? ¿Lo sentiría familiar o algo casi injusto?

Translation (via google translate):

OK, I JUST READ SOME ANSWERS FROM THE LORE SE SENA AND I HAD TWO QUESTIONS

The first (and shortest): How did Dolly end up in Sena's service and what exactly is she?

And the second (in which I would love you to expand: The child Sena adopted before losing his memory was Valen, right? How did it impact Valen to see who took care of him all that time lose his memories? Is he attached to Dolly, Chippy and Hammie in that case in your canon? How did Hogan find out about his existence and end up raising him? Does Hogan feel guilty for teaching him the way of the sword, something Sena might not have agreed with?

And a doubt that has arisen now that I think about it, did that child know about the existence of Mirael? How would you react to her and her annoyance at not being remembered? Would it feel familiar or something almost unfair?

Hey, Mcnana! Thank you so much for the ask, and holy heck this is a major part of Sena's lore actually! Though I'm gonna split this up into two parts, this one focusing on Sena & Dolly and the next on Sena & Valen.

Sena & Dolly

Sena met Dolly after the Immortal War, soon after getting his divine core shattered and waking up with no memories.

Unsure of what to do, Sena made his way to a nearby village, finding it in disrepair with the people struggling. He later found out that it was because of the collateral damage caused by the Immortal War, with the dust finally settling after the war had ended half a century ago.

Though Sena had no memories of his own part in the war or his identity as Merlin, he still felt an odd sense of responsibility and an innate urge to help people, so he stuck around to help rebuild.

It was during this time that Sena met a headstrong young girl with long red hair and while she was polite and tactful, Sena could tell that she was acutely aware of how the world worked and wasn't afraid to use that knowledge to her advantage (or rather to ensure her own survival and well-being).

Sena later found out that Dolly had lost her parents to the effects of the war, her father to hypofiends and her mother to grief, leaving Dolly to fend for herself, though the people of her village had been kind enough to help where they could, even with resources being scarce.

Eventually, Sena and Dolly grew closer. Sena soon began to see Dolly as a younger sister, and with the way Dolly began to joke with and look out for Sena it was pretty clear she had accepted the role, too.

Over the months spent in that village, Sena's memories slowly trickle in and while he doesn't remember being a god, he does remember being Merlin.

When he tells Dolly about this revelation she's only partially surprised, saying that she had her suspicions after seeing how strong his magic was, even through his amnesia.

When it's eventually time to move on (Sena knows in his soul that there are other people out there in need of Merlin's aid. He feels it), Sena goes to bid farewell to Dolly, to let her now that he's going to miss her and to take care of herself while he's gone.

Instead, he finds Dolly fully packed and ready to follow him on his journey.

"If you think I'm going to let you wander around Esperia with barely any memories and no guide, you're wrong! You may be Merlin, Sena, but you're also way too trusting! Someone's gotta look out for you!"

Sena smiled fondly, letting out a soft sigh, "I guess we'll look out for each other then."

After that, Dolly was Sena's constant companion, holding true to her promise of looking out for him the same way he did for her. And while Sena was skilled with magic, combat and personal interactions, Dolly excelled at the more mundane aspects of their journey (though Sena would often joke that she had the more important job out of the two of them).

It was over a decade later that Sena remembered his divinity, tears running down his cheeks as he traced his hand over the inscription of an old shrine. One of his old shrines.

Dolly watched as he let out a pathetic, self-deprecating little laugh, placing a hand over his mouth to stifle the sobs that followed. She listened as he poured his heart out, telling her about how everyone he knew and loved was gone, how he'd never meant to leave Esperia to fend for itself for so long, how he felt like he'd failed in his duties as both Merlin and as The People's God...How he couldn't believe he had abandoned them...

That was the only time Sena remembers Dolly being genuinely angry with him.

"Don't you dare talk about yourself that way!" she yelled, grabbing Sena's attention immediately. He had never heard her yell like that before at least not at him. But what really caught him off guard was the conviction burning in her eyes like a flame.

"Growing up, my parents always told me stories about The People's God! A god who was kind and compassionate and loved Esperia more than anything! And travelling with you, Sena...I got to see that first hand...you love Esperia just as much as it loved you..."

Sena felt his heart clench painfully at the proclamation.

"And not once did anyone think you abandoned us...We all thought you were lost to us, just like the other gods were...you just being here- coming back to help us! That's a miracle in its own right! You came back to fix things that were never your responsibility to begin with, letting us rely on you when you could have left us to fend for ourselves...you never failed us Sena..."

"Dolly, I-...Thank you..."

She smiled at that, straightening her posture and placing a hand over her heart, bowing her head.

"It is an honour to serve as the retainer to The Protector of Esperia, the great Magister Merlin and People's God, Sena..."

Sena barely had a shred of his old divinity left in him at that point. But it was enough for the title to be binding.

And so Dolly became Sena's official retainer, soon earning the title of Keeper of the Mystical House once Sena had established it as his domain. Tasked with helping Sena keep the peace and in his absence, prepare for his return.

They'd worked together like that for almost a century before Sena had to rest again, discussing the details with Dolly before he left. Planning what she should tell him should he wake up without any memories again. Deciding that it was important he remember his title as Merlin, but that everything else should be allowed to come back naturally so as to not overwhelm him in such a fresh state.

When Sena does reawaken, just as they had anticipated, Dolly can't help but feel an odd sense of protectiveness seeing how young and naïve the mage now seemed.

In a past life Sena had been her guardian, so she supposed that in this life, she would be his.

[kiddysart]

I will draw a character at your request in the super cute style of the anime Puella Magi Madoka Magica!

( •̀ᄇ• ́ )ﻭ✧ I've drawn my friends and me in this style so much is not even funny!:

Head-Shot $25 Head-shot of 1 (one) character, full color, 1000x1000

Half-Body $35 Half-Body of 1 (one) character, full color, 2000x2000

Full-Body $50 Full-Body of 1 (one) character, full color, 3000x3000

Memoria Card +$15 Customize your commission to look like a card from the Magia Record Game!

Reference Sheet $90 Two Full-Body (Back and front) of 1 (one) character, full color, plus color palette 3000x3000

Detailed Background $15-40

What the commission entails:

For the time being, I'm only accepting paypal.

You give me references for both the character and pose if necessary.

You will receive a high resolution PNG File.

The commission prices include five revisions.

The delivery time is estimated between 20 and 30 business days, accordingly to both the contracter and the contratee (moi) timely communication via comment, chat, notes or email.

100% of the payment if required before I get started.

If not provided with reference for a certain aspect of the piece by the contracter, it's by default assumed to be left to the criteria and preference of the contratee, and any future changes in relation to this will be take into account at the time of charging revisions.

What I will draw:

FanArt.

Ocs.

Real people.

Furry.

Gore.

Diverse body types.

Simple armour.

What I NOT will draw:

Porn.

Complicated armour.

Mecha.

Hyper muscular bodies.

Hate speech/iconography.

Thank you for reading, cant wait to take your order! ⋆. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ✲ﾟ｡⋆.

[daedalverselore]

Mors Vanth

As the draconequus Yens inspired many to create more and more, the alicorns began to notice that they were running out of space on Equus. Making Equus bigger was a thought- but so many things relied on the earth staying as it was, that they couldn't do so without causing damage. So it was decided that all things must come to an end.

But many alicorns felt like they'd miss the mortals they grew fond of, so Mors Vanth was made to usher the souls of the dead into their new lives.

While many creatures feared seeing the alicorn, Mor Vanth would kindly remind them that this was just the beginning of a new life. Only the souls of creatures that couldn't accept that would linger.

Conceptualized by Queen Natura, Tempus, and Memoriae, the alicorn of Death and Rebirth doesn't bother chasing those who wallow in their unfinished business. Eventually, every creature starts over.

[leftistfeminista]

The Ayuquelén Lesbian Collective In December 1983, the Ayuquelén Feminist Lesbian Collective emerged, a group of dissident women who dared for the first time to form a protest movement far from the rules of society and in the midst of dictatorship. Without seeking acceptance from the church and other means, their manifesto was about the rephrasing of the social order.

This lesbian organization was the first sexual dissident in the country to be politically constituted. Their founders were Susana Peña, Cecilia Riquelme and Carmen Ulloa, who were motivated to organize themselves against the hate crime of which their friend Monica Briones was the victim of, killed in dictatorship for being a lesbian. Pedro Lemebel, in his chronicle "The Amazons of the Ayuquelén Collective", describes his appearance in full military regime: "And it was so surprising to see in those years of dictatorship the Moroso lesbian strip of the Ayuqelén group. Almost unthinkable to imagine the brave, feminists and combatants fighting, at that time of demonstrations in O'Higgins Park, where their graffiti had a slight drawback of sexual militancy that drew broken hearts from woman to woman.

In June 1987, APSI magazine published an interview made to the collective, being the first media publication about a lesbian group formed in full military dictatorship. "They are the only lesbians grouped and organized as such in Chile. Their point of view is particular. They want to produce self-thinking, a lesbian-feminist thinking, they say. Their lesbianism, which they understand as an option – and not as a defect, disease or deviation – is for them an instrument of social protest, spearhead of structural revolutions. A political matter, at last.” Ayuquelén Collective Interview, APSI Magazine, June 1987.

In the following issues, APSI published two letters that highlighted the bravery of the interviewees and the relevance of the article in a context where homosexuality was invisible. In one of the letters, they referred to the interview as "a step in demystifying lesbianism."

[greenthena]

No sleep. Only Good Omens

Today in 3am theories I don't really believe: All the shopkeepers on Whickber street are angels or demons who've had their memories erased.

My evidence: I have none, your honor. They're just all weird, and I like that.

My reasoning: Whenever an ethereal or occult being gets to be too much to handle, their memory gets erased by Heaven or Hell. Some angels and demons are just too much of a liability, so they get their memories SUPER-erased and sent to live as humans. BUT. They are different and have behaviors that can't be easily explained. They believe they're human, so they act human-ish. But it's sketchy.

So one day, oh say maybe one hundred years ago, The Metatron looks down at A.Z. Fell & Co. in the middle of the neighborhood that was growing up into the Soho we know today, and thinks. "Aziraphale, odd little angel that he is, has managed to blend into this bizarre neighborhood. Maybe I can dump the other reject angels here, as well." Hell catches on and starts doing the same thing. Before you know it, Whickber Street is chock-full of angels and demons who were generally too much trouble for Heaven or Hell to bother with them anymore. These sweet babies have all had their memories erased and, like Muriel who thinks humans often live two hundred years, or so, just accept that they are people with long life spans and go about their lives making coffee, selling records, and "hemming" men's "clothes."

And Aziraphale and Crowley, being the most wonderful and absolute dumbasses that they are, haven't noticed a thing.

Flaws in the theory: Maggie says she inherited the record shop, which was originally owned by her great grandmother. Solution? Ummmm....Heaven just gave her another memory wipe. Problem solved. Deus ex machina memoria.

Is this a hill I am willing to die on?: Abso-fucking-lutely not. I just want to read the fanfic, please and thank you.

For the record, Nina does NOT approve of this theory, at all.

[salubriwrites-blog]

The Amnesia Game

A Mr. Reca/Black Swan romance.

I made the first chapter. This is shaping out to be a 2-3 chapter story, and it's my current palette cleanser, so I hope you enjoy!

I'll be putting this up on ao3 when its complete. Contains 2.6 spoilers, proceed with caution. CW: Manipulation (no matter how consensual)

You can find Part 2 here!

Part 1: Homecoming

Penacony was a beautiful planet, and returning to its orbit always warmed a forgotten part of his soul. One that lay dormant and was only stirred to life by almost familiar sights and sounds on the Planet of Festivities. Reca’s last visit home was at least a hundred Amber Eras ago, it had felt like returning to an empty childhood home. Even the memoria sounded and tasted different when he stepped into his room at the Reverie. What was that feeling called? He asked himself now as he stepped off the lift and into the claustrophobic halls of the habitation complex. To be homesick for a place to which you cannot return? 

“Hiraeth,” he exclaimed, echoing his Assistant Director. “It is hiraeth, a sharp memory.” Reca chuckled and as he juggled his keys in his hand a comforting, more familiar sensation greeted him. The apartment was usually empty, a shell of a home that Reca had to resuscitate every time he returned from traveling abroad. Not this time though, the apartment’s heartbeat was steady and solid as he hurried to its front door. Usually around this time all of the other studios and habitats were alive and breathing with conversation and dinner time aromas. At the welcome mat, the smell of a warm meal permeated under the door and weaved through his feet like a feline. It could only mean one thing, the Memokeeper thought as he patted his hair down.

“You’re here,” he declared musically, swinging the front door open to the sight within. Reca’s heart played monkey bars on his ribs and he felt like a child again, smiling like this for Black Swan. Leaning against his kitchen counters, turning only her head to face him, she was tasting the contents of a pot. Her purple hair was wound up tight into an elegant twist that accentuated her profile, neck adorned with jewelry befitting her rank as Memokeeper. Amber eyes glittered anew as Reca dropped his bag at the still open door and strode inward to her. 

“Of course, it wouldn’t be home without me here,” Black Swan laughed, throwing her head back as his lips reached for her bejeweled neck. Lifting her off the ground, Reca half spun her before setting her back on her two feet. Not that she had to fall far, Black Swan was taller than him by a foot, she held his face and tilted it upwards, admiring his face like she hadn’t been able to for months. Her lips were plump and glistened with gloss when they kissed, warming his shoulders and dragging him in. “Welcome home, Elias dear.” 

“Why thank you, darling.” Elias Reca pressed his nose into her neck. She smelled divine, brushing his lips at her nape before slumping to lean against the counters next to her. “You are absolutely right.” Tilting his head, the Memokeeper watched her pull his oven mitts on her hands and haul the pot from the stove. “You also didn’t have to do all of this.” 

“Nonsense, you are worth all this and more.” She mimicked him before stepping up to the stove. This was not her home, but you wouldn’t know that as the cutlery bent to her will, and the stove never complained of igniting at her touch. Maybe this would be the time she’d accept his invitation to move in with him. “Go shower, decompress, I’ll tell you when it's ready… without me!” She added with a melodic laugh, only half resisting as Reca pulled her out of the kitchen and towards the staircase. 

“I changed my mind,” he sang, snapping his fingers and illuminating the upstairs loft. With a creak the shower hummed to life as Ms. Swan allowed him to pull away her sweater. “I do want all of this.”

“Sounds like you had an eventful visit to Penacony,” Black Swan mused after dinner, readjusting her plush robe as she twisted her legs into his. They had been planning to eat at the table, but after that shower, replaying the sounds of water and soaking sounds bouncing off the tiles, they were left too satisfied. The candlelit dinner was meant to be part of the foreplay, but now that they were staggering back to eat in just their robes, the set table and flowers felt unnecessary. So they put one of Black Swan’s favorite movies on instead and collapsed into the large couch with the coffee table pulled close so that the wine was near.

“Eventful is certainly a word for that,” Elias groaned, rubbing her calves and enjoying how she felt under his hands. “I ended up having to resort to that silver haired Trailblazer to unlock the Galaxy Ranger’s memories after all.” 

“The Trailblazer’s fate is a uniquely entwined one… I wouldn’t let it bother you that that was what came to pass. Not to mention it was a Stellaron Hunter who warned you of this solution.” 

“Yes, but oh! To defy that damned Script and rub it in her smug face,” he sighed, clutching a fist dramatically to the air before letting his hand fall back down atop her thigh. In that reflective quiet, his gaze found hers, and they couldn’t stop themselves from laughing at the absurdity of his attempt to defy Stellaron Hunters and their unyielding mission. “I missed you, and I… needed this quite badly.” He gestured to the empty bowls, the bottle of wine, and the movie that quietly played in the background of his lush apartment. Behind them the auroras from the Garden cast Black Swan in fractured colors like she was a stained window come to life. “I owe you a night like this.” 

“Is there something you have in mind already, or maybe I can make a suggestion?” The Memokeeper asked, reaching to hold his legs as Reca pulled her in. Kissing and swooning, he exhaled the loneliness and inhaled Black Swan. She was right, home was wherever she went, and right now all he wanted was to unravel in each other’s arms and be at home.

“You are the professional on lovely evenings, I’ll hear you out.” 

“Would you,” she started, pushing her legs further into his lap, hugging his hips with her heels. “Like to fall in love with me?”

“Our Amnesia game?” Pursing his lips, Elias worked his hand underneath her robe to caress her legs. The Amnesia Game, as they uncreatively dubbed it, was one that he had come up with to keep their relationship satisfied. Being quasi immortal entities facing time, chance, and entropy’s cruel hands together meant that they were ever on the hunt for ways to stay in love. The last time they played the Amnesia game it had lasted months, almost spanning an Amber Era, and oh what fun it had been. The anticipation, the mystique their chemistry invoked, if he could get away with it he’d graft those moments into a movie to play at Penacony’s Golden Hour forever. However, as Reca ruminated on the idea his body was sinking further into the couch, happy to not be moving.

It had been many, long months in Penacony. The infiltration of his alma mater had been his strongest performance yet, and now that it was over all Reca wanted was to be quiet. Not have to breathe a word, just file paperwork, organize his films, and rest. It was hard to keep that boundary when he was welcomed home like this, brought inside like a hero and treated to wonderful sex and a home cooked meal. More than the quiet, more than the mundane aspects of Memokeeping, he missed Black Swan. How magnificent it was, to be adored and yearn for the charming woman, who was guiding his hand to part her bathrobe. Her energy left Reca feeling electrified and raring to do it all over again. To march back out that door and ruin another evil genius. Except he would miss her, if they played. He just wanted a few days at her side, resting against her while she stroked his shoulders and read her books. 

Still thoughtful, he watched Black Swan unhook her legs from each other and let one drop to the floor, pulling the robe even further apart. Maybe he would make that one of the rules, Reca smiled now as he watched Ms. Swan’s face twitched and tense to the rhythm of his teasing. “I only want to play for a month,” he mused aloud, leaning her to lie back against the couch. At first she sighed and relaxed, but when his shadow overtook her, Black Swan’s eyes snapped open with disbelief.

“Didn’t you say you were too tired?” She giggled, melting into a cooing sigh as his fingers reached for her lips beneath the robe.

“We don’t have to,” he teased, no longer sure if they were talking about playing the game, or his fingers playing over her body.

“Keep going,” the Memokeeper whispered, her face softening as he obeyed her demand. 

“I could be convinced for two months, but no more than that, and I want you to give me hints.” Elias carried on, leaning to sit back on his knees as he pulled her calve to rest on his shoulder. 

“Hints, hm?” Black Swan asked, her hands reaching out to wrap around his wrist, encouraging Reca as her spine tightened and her toes curled. With a wave of her hand the coffee table jutted across the room so that they could slip from the couch to the floor. He didn’t answer again until her sighs unfurled and she came apart like a thing that Reca could pick up and read for himself. Until they were left gasping and reaching for the wine, sharing a glass between them.

“Yes, I’ll reward you extra points if you can convince me up onto a rooftop for our first kiss,” he whispered to her, running half damp locks of purple through his fingers, leaving a trail of wet kisses over her neck. “Maybe this is the time I’ll conquer my vertigo.” Languishing in the quiet, he whispered sweet things into her ears, lips tickling her neck and the roots of her hair as Black Swan held him near. 

“Rooftop kisses and hints, I can work with that… where would you like us to meet?” 

Thinking, Elias snapped his fingers again and the screen mounted on the wall died, casting the pair in blue and green darkness. Together they lay, their fingers searching for the best places to hold one another, reacquainting themselves with how nice it was to be adored like this. “I have an interview at Pier Point about my project, I’ll be there for a week or two, what about then?” 

“Pier Point, look at you,” she teased, pushing her hair out of her face. “That makes things easier… What about starting? Maybe we can begin in a few days? I need some time to scheme,” Black Swan added, letting Reca help her off the floor as they drifted to the spiral staircase. 

Laughing at how they had to rely on the bannister and rails to climb the staircase, Reca crawled into bed beside her. 

“Give me a few more days of this,” he asked, letting her body eclipse him as she pressed herself against his back. Another wanting shudder played down his spine as Ms. Swan’s naked body pressed him, her hips contouring to fit his frame well. Alas, the flesh was in need of a deep slumber. “All of this is exactly what I needed.” 

Pushing his bangs from his face, Black Swan kissed his ears until his tiny snores reverberated against her chest. “I can’t wait for you to fall in love with me,” she whispered to him, knowing her voice would reach him deep in that dreamless place. “See you soon, dearest.” 

Morning always came too soon when Elias couldn’t fall asleep, he tossed to try and reach for a pillow to block out the cool, chiming ambiance that was his alarm clock. However he had tossed all of them to the floor in his restlessness. Rolling on his back, Reca squeezed his eyes tight before opening them to watch the morning light filter through his bedroom curtains. Pier Point was as contrasting to the Garden as a world of color being reduced to monochrome. Where Elias’ home was always lit up with gorgeous hues cast by the archive of memories, Pier Point was cold and corporate grays and blacks highlighted by industrial apathy. The night before Reca tossed and turned trying to fall asleep in this city of lights, longing for the quiet where he was lulled to sleep by only his breath. Though his bad nights sleep couldn’t be solely blamed on struggling to fall asleep in a new place.

“Good morning, Mira,” he groaned, pressing his palms to his face as around him the room came alive. The bedroom curtains opened slowly, and the alarm’s gentle chiming faded into a pair of talking heads yapping about an electrical storm in the Asdana system. It was harder than he thought, Elias’ head felt top heavy and was the last thing to become vertical as he forced himself up. “Kindly give me the briefing for today’s travel table, and start the coffee.” 

With a croak, the Assistant Director powered to life and sent a timetable to the screen in the shower for Elias to read as he began his morning. The IPC’s home planet was a cold place that only really cared for numbers and expansionism, but they knew how to make an exceptional hotel. Little tricks such as these were the ticket to keeping employees happy enough to work to death, and people like Mr. Reca unwilling to challenge their status quo. Stepping out onto the warmed floors of the bathroom, a cup of espresso waited for him as he stared at his naked reflection, where he transferred that data from the table. He felt as awful as he looked, the bags under his eyes were defined while his head and chest pounded as he reached for the bottle of pain relievers to quell this body ache. Squinting to himself as he gulped the pills down, Elias tried to remember if he’d done anything the night before to cause this. 

His heart fluttered in his chest with excitement for seemingly nothing, and his head moved between heavy and light as he checked the clock every few minutes. It was a feeling of nerves, that made sense in a way as he would be meeting galactical superstar Owlbert later that morning for his interview. That was something to be nervous about, but that wasn’t something that would make his stomach heavy with nerves and his fingers fidget as he gripped the gray sink. He hadn’t gone to bed drunk the night before, so he couldn’t chalk this feeling up to a hangover. It was like his body was counting down to a secret that was being kept from his mind.

He wanted to walk back into the shower and sit underneath the warm spray for a little while as he waited for relief to come. Fate wouldn’t have that, and Mira was calling for him from the bedroom. “Yes, yes, I won’t miss the train.” 

Painkillers did nothing to soothe Elias, who dressed incognito for the purpose of traveling to the IPC Studio. A black suit and pair of sunglasses to block the light from the trains and hide his telltale eyes from any possible fans. Mira hid in his breast pocket, peering over the lip of the fabric to take in the metropolitan surroundings before hiding again. He heard a few whispers as he clung to the overhead railing of the train, but they were easy to ignore. Of course, none of this was actually necessary. Mr. Reca could have requested a personal car be sent for him, and he could ride in style over the bustling tunnel ways and train system. He wanted to do it like this, though. It was good for his perspective to see and experience what every day people like these IPC drones went through. Even though he fumbled with payment to get into the station, and had to track down a station attendant to navigate the different lines, it was charming. Charming and engaging enough to help him forget about this heaviness in his body that was decidedly not the result of poor sleep. 

Unlike the rest of Pier Point, the studio had an art deco facade with abrasive bulbs that outlined the edges of the building. The marquis was backlit with bold, black font that read, Today Only! Owlbert’s Live Studio Interview featuring Special Guest Mr. Reca! Even this early in the morning, with still hours to go before his showtime, the line to get into the studio was trying to wrap around the building like an ouroboros. Keeping his head down, the whispers only got louder as he was ushered in the lobby of the recording studio. Inside it boasted plush rugs and comfortable arm chairs. Photographs of prolific idols hung around the front room, looking down on the director as he prepared himself to take a seat, looking for a chance to recline and soothe his discomfort. There was something more to this dull throb, and he wished he had the time to try and understand it. Honestly, it was best that Elias forced himself to ignore it for now, these kinds of things were bad for his nerves.

“You’re right,” he told Mira, dragging his finger affectionately across the frog’s head. “Interview first, we must put on our best performance.”

“Mr. Reca! Welcome to IPC’s Telecommunication Studio,” the receptionist at the front desk stood up to clap her hands together excitedly. “You’re early, would you like to wait in your dressing room?”

“That would be wonderful,” he supposed, dragging his fingers beneath his dark bags as he was taken away. Through the frosted, glass doors she ushered him through hallways that were similarly decorated. More faces and posters beamed down at him, and as Reca passed them he wondered hopefully if he’d be asked to sign his own portrait. 

A small flight of artists waited for Elias in his dressing room, where they helped him into colors and textures that were a little more familiar. That made the nerves flatten a bit, seeing himself in something that - compared to these corporate drones - burst with color and life. Most notably, the makeup artist worked wonders to save his complexion. A true talent, he thought admirably as he touched gingerly at the foundation. He would have to take care to not ruin it until he got home that night, Reca damn near felt alive now. Another cup of coffee and a few magazine articles later, a stage assistant knocked and appeared.

“Crew are ready to mic you up, sir.”

Walking through the back stage, Reca caught sight of the house. It was packed to the brim, not a single empty chair was facing Owlbert’s stage. 

“Go on, get the shot,” he lingered, pulling his assistant director from his pocket. With a lively croak, Mira leapt from Elias’ hand and she disappeared beneath the heavy curtains. He would enjoy rewatching this interview for himself later in the evening.

“Good morning, good afternoon, and goooooood evening!” A familiar, equally dramatic voice hooted from the stage as Mr. Reca held still, allowing the technician to snap his microphone to his coat collar. 

“Break a leg out there,” the crew told him as he fixed himself. 

“One of our guests today is a five time winner of the Galaxy Awards, just returned from the set of his latest and hottest production that will be up for consideration this year. Guests from afar, please put your hands together for-” Owlbert’s words were drowned out as the crowd had already begun to applaud and scream. 

Exuding confidence, but still thankful for the makeup that concealed his flustered skin tone, Mr. Reca bowed deeply to the audience and walked slowly across the stage. He even stepped off into the House and shook a few hands of the front row guests. It was controlled chaos as they screamed and bounced in their seats, but never rose from them to lay hands on Elias. After he had milked that attention from those rabid fans, he turned and held his arms out as if surprised to see Owlbert waiting before approaching a familiar sofa. 

Owlbert rose from his seat to shake the director’s hand before they both took their seats. Mr. Reca was also obviously a fan of the show, and knew just how to sit on the cushions that would make the light fall properly over his shoulders. Resting an arm out across the back of the couch, Reca angled himself to face the host before raising a hand in the air. Waving it and then dramatically closing his fist, like they were well trained performers who had been rehearsing together for months, the studio audience fell silent. 

“Very impressive, Mr. Reca,” the host laughed, applauding the director in turn as the man offered a small bow from his seat. “This is your first time on our stage, and yet you command like it was always yours.” 

 “You know, Owlbert,” Elias laughed, winking to the camera, where Mira was sitting in one of the aisles, completely unseen by the audience members. “Every stage I’m on becomes my stage. Though I thank you for sharing this beautiful space with me.” 

Yes it was true, this was his first time on a stage like this, but it was just another performance. Elias was dreading the pounding in his temple that would come from this. None of the pain relievers that he nor the studio offered him had kicked in yet. Knowing that relief would not come, Reca hoped that he could hold his head to nurse his headache in a way that wouldn’t raise questions or suggest disinterest. The crowd ate up his commentary, while Owlbert was impressed and breath taken by their on stage chemistry. Their easy banter made it difficult for the host to naturally pivot to the purpose of that day’s interview. 

“Now, Mr. Reca,” the host began, finally finding a pause to catch his breath and wrest control from the director. “I want to turn the scope onto your most recent work, which will be hitting theaters later this month, Cosmic Ninjutsu Inscriptions.” The crowd turned to stare at the director expectantly, a normal person may have buckled underneath the weight of all those eyes. Not he though, as Reca leaned back and shifted his anchorpoint, crossing one leg over the other.  “Your newest film follows a young apprentice who has forsaken the path of her master’s, seeking out a colorful - both literally and figuratively - new way of the ninja for herself. While striking out to blaze this trail of hers, old shadows rise up and she must use her new code of honor to defeat them. Tell us a bit about your decision to weave this tale.” 

Chuckling to himself, Elias winked into the crowd, where a handful of audience members swooned, believing that the sweet gesture was for them. “It’s quite simple, Owlbert. Why would I deprive anyone of my talent? By expanding into… nuanced genres such as the gritty fantasy of Cosmic Ninjutsu Inscriptions, I can share my talent with even more fans.” Oh, this was too easy, he thought confidently, watching as Mira zoomed in to capture the awe struck expressions of the audience.

“Of course, that’s a generous approach, no one should be denied a good story.” 

“Indeed - I recently paid a visit to the Planet of Festivities, Penacony. My alma mater - Paperfold University - was hosting their anniversary celebrations. As I’m sure we’re all aware, the Dreamscape is a frenetic and dynamic culture, ideas echo through the memoria and just a whisper,” he emphasized by leaning forward and dropping his voice, though the microphone captured him. There was a thrilling moment as the audience leaned in too. “Just a whisper of a new idea may ripple and expand into a tsunami, affecting the dreamscape. I witnessed one such ripple while touring as a guest lecturer for the college, ninjas! Wayward warriors who stride over galaxies and systems, an army of one in many cases, chasing the wayward gales of evil. I fell in love with my fellow student’s fascination and determination to forge their own mantra, and what better way to spread my alma mater’s motto, ‘color your dreams, free your ideals’?”

Both the audience and Owlbert ate up his response, and once again he cast his gaze out toward the crowd, where he saw Mira. She had taken a seat pressed up against one of the stairs, that way if a guest were to come down the aisle she wouldn’t be stepped on. Except she wasn’t looking at him, the assistant director was distracted by a member of the audience in an aisle seat. Her lens was zoomed in on the guest’s face, and perhaps most shockingly, the guest was looking back at Mira. Large eyes like an inverted sunset, yellow that drained to black, were staring dreamily down at the frog. Seemingly more interested in that than the once in a lifetime interview she must have paid thousands of credits to be here for. A wellspring of thick, lilac curls poured down her shoulders and back, one lock was being twisted around her finger. It was mind boggling to Reca that this strange woman was aware of Mira, and giving her the light of day that he was entitled to-

“Mr. Reca?” His thoughts burst as the director blinked and returned to the present, with Owlbert leaning against his desk with a cheeky smile. “Didn’t stump you, did I?” 

“I- apologies, I was a little star struck by this gorgeous audience,” Elias explained smoothly, and the crowd applauded at his recovery. Notably again, she did not applaud him, instead resting her chin in her hand  and smiling dreamily at him. Now why was that the panacea to his discomfort? The knot in his chest loosened at her gaze, but Elias could not allow himself to be taken by this strange occurrence, and forced himself to look back at Owlbert. “Could you repeat your question, dear Owlbert?” Stealing little glances into the crowd, the man couldn’t quite know what it was because he was forced to continue to engage in the interview. All he knew is whenever he had a moment to lay eyes on her, the pain in his body ebbed away. The hour dragged on with only little reprieves when he could look into the crowd and look for her. For his final applause, Reca stood from his seat in hopes to see her in the ovation, but his heart dropped to see her seat suddenly empty. How could she have slipped away? He wondered as his feet were carrying him off stage as music played him out. 

The applause continued on even after Reca was gone and his microphone had been taken from his coat. 

“Are you alright, Elias?” Owlbert appeared at the director’s elbow after the show, big eyes watching keenly as Reca attempted to swat away the concern. “You got a little spacey in the middle of those questions.”

“No no, everything is fine, you are a wonderful host, thank you once again for having me on,” Mr. Reca clasped their hands together as he bowed once more. “I think I’m still a little travel weary still, I only got into Pier Point yesterday evening.” 

“That’s okay, these are things that we can edit in post,” the show host laughed, and laughed even harder when Elias joined in. “You’re more than welcome to rest in the dressing room before your signing.” 

“My signing?” The director echoed, doing the mental gymnastics to try and remember if this was part of the invitation. “I… I can’t recall agreeing to that.”

“Oh, well let me find your contract for you,” Owlbert said easily, and like magic produced a tablet, handing it to Elias. “During one of the IPC’s charity events, we hosted a silent auction. You volunteered an additional hour of your time to participate in a meet and greet to the highest bidder. Your time is precious, Mr. Reca, and fetches quite a hefty price I might add.” 

“No surprises there,” he mumbled to himself, staring at his flowing signature written on the screen. Thankfully he didn’t doublebook and dispelled the tablet. “I think I will take you up on that offer.” First to find Mira, he thought to himself as he peeked back through the thick curtains to see the studio. It was empty, only the ghost light illuminated the room as the director stepped back onto the stage. His footsteps echoed on the lacquered wood finish, and his shadow was cast long and deathly over Owlbert’s desk. 

“Mira,” he called out, his voice carried into the dark. No answer, well, not the one he was looking for. A whisper of fabric and leather squeezing against each other, followed by a familiar croak rose up from the house. Wheeling around, Elias’ body froze and found a pair of exquisite eyes that accompanied beady ones sitting in the stands. With another croak the assistant director jumped down the steps and toward the stage. 

“Mira,” a cool voice echoed him, and the woman stayed in her seat. “A fitting name: to look, to see. Very romantic of you.” It was her, the woman who had distracted him during the interview, right where he had seen her. Sitting casually she crossed her leg one over the other, the stretch of her skin tight pants was magnified in the quiet expanse. That purple hair was tied back elegantly now, spilling behind her and down the chair like an avalanche. As if it was planned, the lonely illumination from the ghost light cast her shape in exquisite shadow. Neither of them spoke while Mira hopped to his feet, waiting for him to return her to his place by his heart.

“That’s her… model name.” He had enough of the wherewithal to scoop the assistant director off the ground and hold her in both of his hands as he took a cautious step toward the steps. “You are… I’m not sure if you’re supposed to be here.” Reca admitted, giving the studio another expectant sweep, wondering if anyone would come in here and kick her out for sneaking back onto the set. Wondering if he had enough sway to stop them, because he needed to know who she was.

“Don’t you worry about me, Mr. Reca, I’m exactly where I need to be.” The strange woman replied coolly. Reca crossed his arms to seem indignant or impressed, truly though he did it to conceal his shiver. Her voice ran a finger down his spine, making him stand a little straighter.

“Are you a critic?” He squinted at her, watching for her expression to shift. It was a stony one, she had an excellent poker face as she rose from her place in the empty audience to descend the staircase. Goodness was she tall, Reca thought with the clench of his fist against his body as she stepped down to meet him. 

“Of course not, Mr. Reca,” the woman assured him, and it took some godly strength for him to stand his ground as she got close. This woman didn’t intimidate him, not one bit, but as her perfume swam into focus and he had to tilt his head backward to stare up at her his legs trembled with adrenaline. Why the sudden fight, flight, or freeze response? “In fact, you could say I’m your biggest fan.” 

“I’m flattered, truly,” the director lied, holding a hand to his chest as Mira croaked again. “Then may I ask what my biggest fan’s name is?” 

Appearing to think, she pressed a sharply manicured finger to her chin, seemingly not bothered by their striking proximity. Elias liked to think that he was a respectful and mindful gentleman, but could not bring himself to back away from her, even though his neck ached from having to lean back and look up. Maybe it was because of his pride, not wanting to back down from this challenging stranger. Yes, that had to be it. She was audacious and unyielding, she didn’t fluster or flinch at his words or presence. Instead she seemed… amused by him, and that annoyed Reca. Made him want to find what would get on her nerves and tease frustration out of her. 

“You may know me as Black Swan,” she seemed to decide, smiling down at Reca as his eyes must have twisted with confusion. A stage name?

“A pleasure to know you, Black Swan,” he bowed, and before he realized it he was kissing the top of her hand. How did that get there? He didn’t remember his brain giving the command to the rest of his body. Still, the gesture went a long way as her illegible face shifted into a warm smile. “I’d love to stay and get to know you better, but I’m afraid I have an obligation that I need to rest for.” 

Her smile remained eerily as Elias let go of her, pulling himself away from her, half wondering if she would try to follow him. In his time as a director, Reca had no choice but to master evading his fan’s attention. He wondered what kind of slip he would have to give her. Did he even want to?

“Of course, we’ll be seeing each other again soon,” Black Swan promised, twiddling her fingers as he gave the mysterious lady one more glance before slipping backstage again. 

[garmgeyr]

The Art of Remembering

@omnipicureans: OPIA ( . . . ) the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive & vulnerable. Obscure Feelings prompts | no longer accepting

« After that, Gallagher used the Enigmata's power to once again activate this soaring Dreamscape unfettered by The Family's shackles — this is the origin of Dreamflux Reef. »

”Do you see it yet?”

”Bring her down.”

With a roar of the engines, the ship rocked violently. A shrill, out-of-sync cacophony of alarms filled the cockpit in a flurry of red and white flashing lights. Micah had been a pilot for years by then, once a member of the rebellion’s combat fleet, now the newly-crowned heir to the Watchmaker’s name, but no amount of experience could save you in a contest of raw strength. He wrestled the wheel, the points of every knuckle pressed up against the leather of his gloves in sharp ridges, the soft lines of age between his eyebrows darkened into deep furrows of concentration. The stabilizer blinked rapidly just off to his right. His eyes darted to it, but the wheel jerked out from his loosened grip the instant he tried to reach for it. He grabbed it again and pulled back hard, the muscle along his jaw tightening until the blue vein that streaked under the pale, nearly translucent skin near his temple raised.

”I hope you’re holding onto something back there,” he said through gritted teeth, and then all at once the ship settled with one long, metallic groan.

An unsteady stillness overcame the cabin, its sirens still blaring in discordance until, one-by-one, the pilot flicked them all off. Then there was only the creak of cooling metal, and the hum of idling engines over yawning memoria.

”I don’t know what that was,” Micah admitted and hesitantly took his hands off the wheel to twist around and check on his passenger, who was just now picking himself up off the steel floor with the help of the leather straps bolted to the wall.

”Are you alright?”

”Where’d you learn to fly,” Gallagher grumbled as he massaged the back of his neck, but the exchange of relieved, albeit uneasy smiles settled the ripples of underlying anxiety. He was a few years younger than Micah, both of them at this point in time pushing into their late thirties, their faces prematurely aged and worn by the demands of war and the hardship of exile. Although one was fair-skinned, blond and blue-eyed, and the other darker in all features, they were, by all appearances, brothers, and the look that passed between them carried a message understood only by those who’d spent decades developing its code together.

So Gallagher gathered himself and went to the door, where he took its handle in both hands and threw his weight down onto it until it turned. Metal screeched against metal as he pushed the door out and then dragged it back along its sliding track, opening to a vast sea of dense, rolling fog that stretched on as far as the eye could see, blending into the dusty navy of a distant sky. Refracted moonlight cast a diffuse, shadowless glow across the gloom. Slipping his hand into his pocket, Gallagher stepped up to the edge and peered down into the sea’s fathomless depths.

”Is this the place?” Micah asked from the cockpit, flipping a switch and turning around again.

”There’s something under the waves, that’s for sure.”

Uncertain silence fell over the cabin for a long time.

”… Are you sure you want to do this?” It was Micah who broke it first, even though his voice barely crested above the steady hum of the engines. He draped his arm around the chair’s headrest and tried to make anything out from the rigid lines of Gallagher’s back.

”I don’t have a choice.” Emphatic. They’d had this conversation a dozen times before, and as if to make a point of that, Gallagher raised his arm out over the sea of fog, then slowly curled his fingers. Wind began to whistle through the cabin, softly at first, but mounting gradually into a gale that whipped the loose ends of Gallagher’s shirt and brushed his hair back from his face. He stared steadily out over the rippling fog, even as the swirling dust and debris forced Micah to shield his eyes behind him. Heat burgeoned after it and the temperature within the ship swelled until its insides shimmered like an oven, skipping sparks of magenta scoring black lines across the floor. Outside, the fog seemed to boil. And boil. And boil, until it spurted geysers of bubbling memoria that rocked the ship as if by a stormy sea.

Gallagher pulled his free hand from his pocket and groped blindly for the strap by the door, but his fingers slipped limply across the worn leather as he doubled over with an anguished gasp. Biting down so hard he felt he might crack his own teeth, he held his right arm steady even as flesh burned away under strips of magenta flame.

”Gallagher!” Micah shot to his feet, but the ship bucked and he fell back. Clamoring for the wheel, he hauled himself over it to hold it steady.

”Gallagher!” He called again, glancing helplessly over his shoulder. “Stop! It’s too mu— ah?!”

His eyes widened and his jaw slacked as the tops of skyscrapers, waterfalls of memoria cascading from the rooftops, emerged beyond the windshield: one - two - three dozen - an entire city in all, risen from the forgotten depths of the primordial dreamscape. They reached for the stars until they eclipsed the moon entirely and plunged the cabin into sleepy darkness. The rumbling stopped soon after, and the ship rocked gently into stillness.

Something heavy hit the floor.

”Gallagher!” Micah scrambled out of the cockpit and rushed to the back, where Gallagher sat on the ground, pallid and out of breath, arms draped loosely over his knees. Sweat plastered his hair to his face, and with sunken cheeks and the lines beneath his eyes carved out by the red-green lights of the cabin, he looked suddenly quite old. Micah knelt beside him, but Gallagher pushed him back.

”Just gimme a minute,” he huffed and leaned back on his hand. The good one. When he looked at the other, which was crisscrossed with bright red lines from wrist to elbow, he grimaced. Micah saw it then, too.

”You never said it’d be that dangerous—“

”I’m fine.”

”No, you’re not!”

”I’m still in one piece.” To prove it, Gallagher tried to shake out his arm. It burned, and despite how he tried to hide it, his lip twitched. Micah shot to his feet in a furious storm.

”You just did exactly what the old man always did!” He shook his head. “Does. Haven’t you always been the one nagging him about being reckless?”

Gallagher smiled distantly at the dead city in the sea.

”Yeah, he’s more important—“

”You’d really leave me to do all of this by myself?” Micah crossed his arms, and the smile faded from Gallagher’s face. “There are people depending on us. On both of us. We could have found another—“

”Look.” Exasperated, Gallagher heaved himself to his feet to look Micah in the eye, a match lit in a room that reeked of gasoline. A second passed. Then two. Then ten. Until he finally shrunk back and looked out the door with a sigh. Drawing the woolen collar of his coat around his neck, Micah turned away as well.

”… It’s done,” Gallagher said after a moment. He flexed and curled the fingers of his right hand. “The rest doesn’t matter.”

”You’re right,” Micah begrudgingly agreed.

The old city loomed ahead of them, silent, geometric shadows carved out of the star-streaked sky. The ship hummed. An engine turned over. Then, over the yawning emptiness came the eerie echoes of an aria. Both men looked up at the two tallest skyscrapers, each haloed by ethereal white light.

“You can hear the performances at the Grand Theater out here,” Micah noted with muted interest. Gallagher snorted disdainfully.

”Better find another place then.”

”I hope you’re joking.”

[n0tyst4rs]

Presenting a peculiar character: Tim (or Timothy). A rare Marlon clone made of clay and slime :p

He appeared out of nowhere in Manglewood as a sticky mass until he met Marlon (Which was not a good welcome due to how it was presented), who now takes his appearance, only with different details.

He doesn't know how he got there or who he was in the past, but he has the memory of someone he loved and for that very reason he stayed with him to look for answers, which led to a very shocking conclusion (i won't tell what xd)

- His personality changed a lot. He went from being fearful and confused to a happy, friendly and a little crazy man. He usually sticks out his tongue out of habit.

- He likes hot dogs, cooking, his body, his little son (I'll show him later) and knives (he has a collection that he uses for cooking. Only for that!)

- Never dare to push him to his limits because Tim gets... very angry. And you don't want to see him when he turns into a lovecraftian monster.

And we have his little son: Newt! (Just like his father, but it's a light bulb).

This little boy loves his "pwapa" so much to the point that he keeps sleeping with him because he feels better being with his dad.

Tim created Newt unconsciously and the most curious thing is that both he and Tim have a heart (which gives them life. The mini Tims don't have one). I would say that Newt made his dad's life better since he was depressed about the discovery he made.

He managed to give importance to his existence and what he is. Basically, whether Tim remembers or not what he was, he already accepted his appearance. And with Newt he does it 10 times better >:3

/Español/

Resumen: Tim (o Timothy) es un clon de Marlon Random, con falta de memoria sobre lo que era debido a que esa no es su forma original. Aparecio en Manglewood y se encontró con el mismísimo hombre en persona (no fue una agradable bienvenida :/), terminando en quedarse con el para buscar respuestas de dónde viene y se lleva un descubrimiento impactante (no lo diré).

Antes era tímido y confundido, ahora es feliz, alegre y algo loco :p

Adora los hotdog, cocinar, su cuerpo, su hijito Newt y los cuchillos (descuiden, lo usa para cocinar!).

Nunca se atrevan a llevarlo a su límite o el se convierte en monstruo lovecraftiano xd (no es joda).

Newt es el pequeño hijo de Tim, creado sin darse cuenta pero que lo ha hecho ser más feliz por su existencia. Lo curioso es que el posee un corazón como el de su padre (los mini tims no lo poseen) , haciéndolo único en su especie.

Básicamente, Newt ayudo a su papá en el momento cuando descubrió aquel acontecimiento haciéndolo comprenderse y aceptar su forma actual.

Aunque Tim vaya o no a recordar su pasado, el ya ama ser Tim

[princeescaluswords]

Random question, Prince but do you think Victoria or Gerard had military backgrounds? Maybe serving themselves or had parents that served?

I want to preface this answer with a caveat: this might be the most speculative meta I've ever written. While I'm going to try to draw as much evidence as I can from canon, I don't think it would be out-of-the question for people to disregard it on its surface merits.

So, here goes. I don't think that the Argents would join the military and they would strongly discourage their children from joining the military. I'm sure that during the time of the draft there might have been some Argents serving, but it would be under duress. If you accept the same head canon that I do, that Victoria was also from a hunting family, she would not be either. I think the reasons would be historical, practical, and philosophical.

Historical: Of all the characters in the Teen Wolf series, Marie-Jeanne Argent née Valet had the most emotionally true (if not entirely rational) reaction to the discovery that her beloved relative turned out to be one of the most prolific serial killers in that world let alone a terrifying demonic werewolf. As we see in The Maid of Gévaudan (5x18), she reacted with outright condemnation, hunting him down over three years and destroying all trace of him with a damnatio memoriae, which in reality meant destroying her own past, too. We can assume that the Argent Code was written by her, including the part where any hunter who was Bit by a werewolf had to kill themselves. This is extreme behavior (even if valid) and it is echoed in the revulsion non-corrupted Argents like Chris and Allison had when discovering Kate's and Gerard's crimes. It was certainly less permissive than the Hale family's tendency to react to deaths caused by their family which ranged from outright condoning ("But still beautiful, just like the rest of you") to dismissive (after all, how many people did kooky Uncle Petey kill, including the guy he shoved alive into a burning barrel, and still have the keys to the family home?).

Considering that Sebastian became a demon wolf while he was serving in the French king's war with England across an entire ocean in their respective colonies, I don't think it's a stretch for Marie-Jeanne in establishing her code to steer her descendants away from military service. It might even have been a requirement.

Practical: While both the military and hunters use weapons, military service wouldn't seem to bear much resemblance to hunter training. It appears to me to be much closer to espionage or criminal work. Hunting werewolves requires training in specific weapons (bows, tasers, and poisons), technology (hypersonic emitters), and techniques (torture, infiltration, intimidation, and cleaning up evidence). In addition, the soldiers of the Argent family exhibit a level of discernment when it comes to tactics and targets that the military simply would not tolerate. Chris points as much out to Kate in Code Breaker (1x12):

Chris: No one asked you to murder innocent people. There were children in that house, ones who were human. Look what you're doing now. You're holding a gun on a 16-year-old boy with no proof he spilled human blood. 

Later on in Relics (6x04), Chris explains that he should have intervened when he saw how Gerard was training Kate. That implies to me that while Argent soldiers are supposed to follow the lead of the matriarch, they're also expected to do more than just follow orders. While civilization demands we hold individual military soldiers to answer for their conduct, I can tell you from personal experience that military training does not have a goal to instill a sense of individual agency.

Philosophical: In my encounters with real-life military people, it is my experience that they see themselves and the military as a whole as an immanent part of society itself. They enable civilization to exist; they uphold society's laws and mores as one of its pillars. I am sure that many people on this site would disagree with that assessment, but I'm talking about the perception within military culture itself. The military focus on being a vital part of their country, and when they err it is when they come to believe that they are the most important part and thus have a greater right to say how a country and a civilization will behave.

One of the things I've noticed about the Argents and the other hunting family feature, the Calaveras, is that they don't consider themselves part of the greater society. They see themselves as protecting it from monsters that the average person cannot comprehend, and while they certainly do infiltrate law enforcement and emergency services, they don't seek permanent authority over the mundane social institutions. This is one of the significant departures that marked Monroe as different from previous organized hunters, and one that made her more dangerous. Victoria, Araya, Chris and Allison (and when they weren't being selfishly corrupt, even Gerard and Kate) saw themselves as operating outside of it all as a necessity. They work with criminals like the yakuza; they hire mercenaries; and they understand that they will never be fully accepted.

Chris: We're gonna be pariahs in this town. Victoria: We can handle it.

Monroe, on the other hand, organized hunters to protect society, but she wanted to change society as well. She accused the werewolves not only of being monsters by virtue of their natures and by their acts, but by the power that privileged them ("No one should have this power"), and she accused people like Sheriff Stilinski of abetting that unfair advantage. (I will never forgive Teen Wolf for giving up on exploring that difference half-way through 6B.) Since Gerard was only interested in using Monroe, he didn't train to see herself the way he and his family saw themselves: protectors working from the outside.

All these things lead me to believe that the Argents wouldn't have military training, not even corrupt ones like Gerard or Victoria.

[lovingherrscher]

Taenia memoriae

Ft: Dazai Osamu x Reader.

Notes: Happy birthday, my dear love. This is an old work of mine, I decided to translate it for this year bc I lack the time and I'm still working on another fic for him.

Taenia memoriae means "Ribbon of memories"

Warnings: Mentioning of suicide, breaking the 4th wall, slightly angsty. This may come off hard to understand without these following medias:

Puella Magi Madoka Magica - Rebellion

Higurashi no Naku Koro ni - Saikoroshi-hen.

Other keywords: talking to yourself, isekai.

Best with: Taenia memoriae - Puella Magi Madoka Magica.

---------------------------------------

"Please see me again and then, if you dislike me, say so plainly. The flames in my breast were lighted by you; it is up to you to extinguish them. I can't put them out by my unaided efforts. If we meet, if we can only meet, I know that I shall be saved."

-The Setting Sun - Dazai Osamu.

You seal the letter with wax and put it in the drawer, where other letters suffer the same fate. Once written, forever sealed away.

"Now ain't that a waste?"

"Mind your own business. He wouldn't reply them anyway."

With that said, you stood up, stretching a little before glancing at the clock, only to realize it's been three hours since you sat down. Shouldn't you be preparing for dinner? Nah. You ate a little too much at lunch so you can skip dinner anyways.

You are an ordinary person to say, except for the fact that you are a little well, "deluded", at least that's how the world sees you. But no one can forbid you from dreaming, right~? Yet from the world's perspective, you are anything but a sane person. A human being ought to love another human being, then get married, have children, like any other 'normal' human being. But in your case, you had faintly realized that you do not belong in this world. You don't have any connections to it it or whatsoever, like a living ghost wandering.

You love someone who isn't real, to the point you're not only head over heels for him, but you worship him like a god. You once said that you deems yourself very much alike to that Akemi Homura girl. Met someone, and that person completely changed your life upside down. And you will do anything for that person's sake. Even if it means burning down the world.

To you, he's like a drug you can never get enough of. You never know when is it that he captured your heart, all you know was that the moment you realize this, he had you wrapped around his fingers already. You know that this man will be the death of you, but you still chase him like the moth chasing flame anyways. The flame of love started out flickering like a small candle, and by time it gets stronger, to the point it's like a monster lurking around, waiting to strike you down. Yet you accept it nonetheless, for he had became your shining beacon of hope.

There were times you dreamed of him, dreams where you two can finally unite. You know that you and him are like a lost child who keeps crying, waiting for someone to soothe them, to pick them up and take them back to a place they can call home. Your souls are like shattered glass that's being kept together with mere glue and duct tape, unstable and can be broken again any minute now. And you, you have a strong belief that you two are the only one who can heal each other. Or perhaps you two are just licking your own wounds?

"Y'know, sometimes I think you might be someone who got their ass whopped and isekai-ed here."

"Speak some decent human language, would you?"

"C'mon, I'm just playing with you! Don't do such a scary face!"

"Glad that I was able to scare the shit outta you."

"Motherfucker... I wish I could wipe that shit-eating grin out your face..."

You simply smiled at them and put on your headphones. Let's see, what should you listen to today~? Ah yes, it's gonna be his character song. You've been missing his sweet voice after all.

"If I can’t even grasp the meaning of life,

then I’ll say to this worthless night, goodbye.

But even though I think so… I’m still here."

This line reminds you of yourself. You've had countless thoughts about being able to rest in peace from the moment you awared that you've been living a life of shame. The thought of being dead haunts you like a ghost, it keeps whispering to you day or night, sleeping or awaken. But you can't just do whatever it said, because you are one hell of a coward. You're scared of pain. You don't want to bother others. For that you've become a living ghost wandering this world. What a twisted joke coming from fate.

That night when you almost took your own life, he had appeared and gripped your arm. It's natural to say that thanks to him, you had reborn, for the truth that since the day you two met, you've changed so drastically you can merely recognize yourself. And that moment was when you decided you'd give him your life. Until this body of yours wilt away, you shall forever be with him, and offer everything you have to him.

You've gone crazy for love, that's what people say. But to you, it's crazily beautiful. So you'll show the world how great your love is right this moment.

"Ah... The breeze feels so good here."

----------------------------------------

You don't know when did you fell asleep, and all of the sudden you felt an arm wrapping around your waist. You jolted up, looking at the person. It was none other than Dazai, Dazai Osamu. This fluffy chocolate hair, this bandaged hand, and that mesmerizing face you've been looking at all over and over again. You can't stop tears from streaming down your face as you tackle him to a rib-crushing hug, forgetting the fact that he was still sound asleep.

"Ouch! Can you wake me up more gentle next time? Maybe with a kiss~?"

He was going to go on, but the scene of you crying as you cling onto him tightly like this caused his smile to vanish. Instead of fooling around like everyday, he returns the hug and pat your head gently. No words needed as you two kept clinging onto each other for that familiar warmth you longed so dearly.

It took you a lot of time to finally calm down. Dazai decided to break the silence, "What's wrong, (y/n)?"

"I had a sickening dream."

"A dream where I was dead?"

"No. Worse. I saw that I was in a world where you aren't real to begin with, yet I still love you with all my heart and soul nonetheless, and that torments me. I was so close to you, yet so far. Even if our souls are connected, wouldn't it be meaningless if we can't touch nor feel each other's warmth?"

"And then... I killed myself. Hoping that I'll finally be able to see you.", your voice was hoarse, it almost feels like you're going to burst out in tears again.

"It must have been hard for you...", he mutters quietly. It felt like his arms around you squeezed tighter in a brief moments. Does that mean... Your dream was real..?

"Say that you love me, Osamu."

"I love you. I really love you."

"Thank you..."

Your lips met. His lips and embrace feels so soft and warm. They feel like 'home'. And that brings your soul to ease. His hands felt a little rough and calloused, probably from holding guns, presumably from when he was a mafioso, yet to you, they feel softer than any kind of silk, and so gentle, as if he's treating a glass doll.

Love. That's the pinnacle of emotions. Warmer than hope, deeper than despair, that's what love is.

"You know..."

"Yes?"

"In my dream, you were a writer, but you were also a detective, and you even existed as a character in a game."

Dazai became quiet upon the words. "Writer, huh...", you know that he was reminiscing of his deceased friend, who dreamed of becoming a writer, where he can write novels in a room that look out to the sea. He was delving into his own memories, about those days he was still drinking at Lupin with that friend. That was the only place he can drop the facade and expose his true self.

"I don't think that was a dream..." you mutter inaudibly, as you lean your head against his chest, holding him close to you.

[haveyoureadthisfantasybook]

hii you asked for non english fantasy so id like to submit Cien años de soledad by Gabriel García Marquez and La casa de los espiritus by Isabel Allende. theyre magical realism but personally i think thats fantasy so idk. Cien años de soledad is definetly the more fantastic of the two though

hello! as I elaborated on way back in the day (on like day 2 of the blog, lmao), I do not generally consider magical realism to be fantasy as such. here’s what I said at the time:

———

> this will perhaps be a controversial stance, but as a rule I don’t consider magic(al) realism to be fantasy. a text like Alejo Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo / The Kingdom of This World — in conjunction with which Carpentier developed the idea of lo real maravilloso — is using apparently “fantastic” elements clearly within a “literary” and, ultimately, fundamentally realist framework: Carpentier’s contention, explored by later Boom writers, is that aspects of life in Latin America as experienced by Latin Americans cannot be adequately accounted for or expressed within the bounds of traditional European realism. [addition on 7/7/24: this is a fundamentally different theoretical and literary project than genre fantasy or even from gothic or gothic-adjacent texts.]

> this opens a much bigger can of worms re the social construction of “reality” in and by Western literary realism — Daniel Heath Justice, for example, has critiqued the reduction of work by Indigenous writers to the realm of “mere” allegory or simply to unreality. I’m not satisfied with Justice’s solution to the problem (the concept of “wonderworks”), because I think it cedes too much ground to Western literary realism’s claim to a monopoly on the real, but his underlying point stands. I have increasingly found that “magic(al) realism” is used, in popular contexts, less as a serious engagement with the theoretical problems that the authors of the Boom were grappling with and more as

a way to bracket off as “unreal” work by Indigenous, African, and other authors who are writing from within a different baseline realism than Western literary realism presupposes, without seriously engaging with the ways this work interrogates the hegemonic constructed “real” that Western states use to justify, for example, the destruction of Indigenous sacred sites for resource extraction purposes;

alternately, a kind of “fantasy lite” that wants to stay within the realm of “literary fiction” rather than risk being tarred with the genre label “fantasy”; or

a label for things that are simply fantasy, not engaged with any of the theoretical problems that define magic(al) realism as a genre, but are either liminal fantasy or more realism-adjacent than secondary-world fantasy or urban fantasy.

> things in categories 1 and 2 I would generally exclude from the category of fantasy (if you don’t want to be here, I don’t want you here either!); things in category 3 I would probably consider fantasy (and not consider magic(al) realism).

> my second and third questions / points about the gothic are also relevant here, and help clarify some fringe cases. Gabriel García Márquez and Alejo Carpentier were clearly working in the realm of literary fiction and not the “popular” literature that has come to be grouped under the label “fantasy”; conversely, Jorge Luis Borges was heavily influenced by anglophone pulp writers, including H.P. Lovecraft — I am comfortable identifying texts like “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius” as “fantasy” (for all that they predate the genre).

———

while some of Allende’s other work is more definitively fantasy (e.g., the Memorias del águila y del jaguar trilogy, which is currently queued), if La casa de los espíritus is less fantastic than Cien años de soledad I’m probably inclined to exclude it.

ALL OF THAT SAID: I admit to feeling a bit more ambivalent now, having since accepted Kafka’s Die Verwandlung / The Metamorphosis (as well as Haïlji’s The Republic of Užupis, which in some ways I think resembles the Boom writers’ magical realism). my four guiding questions for fringe cases between fantasy and realism are:

does the text contain an unequivocally fantastic element (something that, as Samuel Delany puts it, “could not happen” — some sign of magic or the supernatural)?

was the text composed as fantasy or as literary fiction?

for fiction published in the English-speaking world or other areas where there exists a separate fantasy market, is the text published and marketed as fantasy or as literary fiction?

if someone came to me and said they liked (e.g.) N.K. Jemisin, Patricia McKillip, and Charles de Lint, do I feel I could recommend this book to them and expect them to enjoy it on the basis of some similarity to these other authors?

my feeling is that most Boom magical realism is a maybe on question 1 (accounting for the fact that part of the point of the genre is to interrogate the social construction of “reality”) and a solid no on questions 2-4. but if you or anyone else wants to make a strong case for either Cien años de soledad or La casa de los espíritus, I am open to being convinced otherwise!