#phosphor reading by his own light

[whisperthatruns]

Phosphor Reading by His Own Light

It is difficult to read. The page is dark. Yet he knows what it is that he expects. The page is blank or a frame without a glass Or a glass that is empty when he looks. The greenness of night lies on the page and goes Down deeply in the empty glass... Look, realist, not knowing what you expect. The green falls on you as you look, Falls on and makes and gives, even a speech. And you think that that is what you expect, That elemental parent, the green night, Teaching a fusky alphabet.

Wallace Stevens, The Palm at the End of the Mind: Selected Poems and a Play (Vintage Books, 1990)

[farolero-posting]

Energy

Summary: How the Barrens became empty.

Words: 3009

Read on AO3:

(full work below the cut)

It was 6:30 when the sky finally went dark, after weeks of instability. At that moment, Silver was watching over the phosphor shrimp monitoring project, along with a scientist with a mug for a head.

The man asked her to order all the units in the area to take samples of adult shrimp without being selective and place them in jars. It seemed that under the circumstances, it would be necessary to use them as a provisional source of lighting, as they investigated the issue. The robots were called to distribute the jars around the west northern area, being in the lookout for organic beings who may need assistance.

Robots had a text based messaging system that made communication faster during work. All robots were online, back then, connected to the same server. If she scrolled up far enough, she could still read those same orders in the main logs of the area. 

She didn’t need to scroll that far to find them, anyways.

As head engineer, it had been her duty to call a meeting with the leaders of the ongoing research programs and the mining operations. She can’t remember the full sequence of conversation —and found a significant percentage of it to be irrelevant nowadays—, but she can recall the things she said, and the reactions that resulted from it. It was in her programming to have preferential attention to social interactions, and use her resources in decoding them for self monitoring.

After an update on the state of the area and the inner rings, the topic of conversation drifted towards the future of the Barrens’ operations. Silver listened attentively, adding up the arguments each of the researchers had to continue or halt their current operations, and the factors they had to watch out for. Food, source of light, trips across the ocean to the inner rings, salaries, healthcare…

At last, she added her own information:

“Our generator works on solar energy. Most of our machinery and our robots rely on the main generator to function. We don’t have enough people to sustain operations without the work provided by them.”

“Your area should’ve stopped exploiting the mines long ago, if you ask me.” An older man tilted his head in a way that accentuated his weary eyes.

“It is not my area, I happen to reside in its vicinity, but I am in charge of the Barrens as a whole” she corrected him, and he placed a hand on his forehead, shaking his head. 

Disapproval perceived, she noted.

“Either way, we must shut them down, I’m sure everyone else agrees here. These last earthquakes have only been endangering the few living workers we have on them. We lost about five robots to the last collapse, which we can’t replace. It’s for the best that we cease that operation, at least.”

“We will have to shut down everything, not just the mines”, Silver concluded after a few seconds. This did not make the man happy. nor any of the other scientists in place.

“We can’t all lose our jobs, this is ridiculous.” She heard someone mutter, a young lady standing by the door, holding a notebook. 

In the opposite end of the room, she noticed someone being hit in their side, by a coworker.

“....course she likes shutting down things, huh—ack” is all she grasped from them, said barely above a whisper, but within hearing range for her.

Silver had heard similar comments enough to know what incident the workers kept bringing up, even if they made an effort to hide it from her.

“I cannot allow operations that do not meet standards as they could constitute safety violations, and within three weeks, our main sources of energy will run out. Our backups are not sufficient, either. There are better chances of survival for living people within the inner rings.” Silver set her hands on the table, in a rehearsed attempt to make her point gain emphasis. “That takes priority.”

“So you propose we should evacuate all workers,” someone responded, she didn’t note who.

“Correct.” A disorganized chorus of voices rose up, but she didn’t keep up with the details. They would come to agree with her, eventually.

Silver does recall someone reaching out for her at her cabin later that night, hours after the workday was finished. Her friend greeted her with a smile, and after inviting him in, they chatted over a game of chess. At some point, the topic of the meeting was covered.

“I think you made the right choice, Silver… I understand it has to be difficult.” He spoke, taking his rook out of the starting point. “I’m sorry things ended up like this.”

“It is the option that is left, given the circumstances. I don’t have much of a choice other than solve the problem with the resources I have.” Silver barely looked at the board as she moved one of her pawns, eyes focused on her opponent’s rook. “Have you… found anything of note about the tower? You said you wanted to study it before.”

He frowned, pursing his lips as he played his turn. “I have not found anything beyond what you already know. I suppose I need to see what the place is like without the Sun…”

“Will you evacuate soon?” She moved her bishop. “Check.”

“I do not depend on the ships to travel, so that isn’t a priority. I hear they’re not the safest, given the… squares, as they have been called by the witnesses.” He retorted to sacrificing a pawn, knowing Silver would repeat the strategy.

“Of course. It makes sense.” 

“Silver?” He looked away from the board, already aware of what move she would make. “I heard there are plans to evacuate tamed robots as well. What is your opinion on that?”

She noted the question may hint at more than what it states, but she cannot read further. Her friend’s intentions are not always clear to her.

“I suppose it’s reasonable,” she answered. “There are other purposes they can serve in the City, perhaps even the Glen.”

“What do you think about joining them?” He took out her bishop. “I believe the same can be true for you.”

“No.” She looked away, not wanting to see his disappointment. He grabbed her free hand, instead, pressing it lightly. He was not disappointed, then. “I don’t think I’m welcome. My best option is to look after this area for as long as it is possible.” 

“I see, Silver.” He nodded, eyes closed, while Silver played her turn. “I understand, but please consider it, alright? I could take you there, if needed.”

“Checkmate.”

“Oh stars, when did your queen get there?”

.

.

The generator didn’t last a week, as it should’ve been expected. 

After 140 hours had passed since the blackout, Silver received the first notification of low battery from a robot within the mines. Its location was out of reach, however, and the fact it was still partially functional despite the rubble around it made her… uneasy. Of course, being at a larger distance from the generator meant it would be among the first to shut down. Maybe there was some mercy in that. She wasn’t sure that the robot had enough of a frame of reference to care, or that it ever will. She hoped it didn’t. She quickly discarded that train of thought

The head engineer received interesting news later that day. As it turned out, in a couple of days a small fleet of rowbots would bring a few emergency supplies.

Individual power cells She recognized that kind, but she preferred not to think about them.

She could deduce what they would be used for. 

Her friend had told her about some of the words spread around the Glen, and now the City. Some kind of prophecy from decades ago, now becoming true. Words of a dying light, and the long darkness that would follow it, before the ground, trees and rivers went dark as well. Silver was skeptical, but the words matched the predictions that the scientists could make out of their data analysis, and the events of last week had been the biggest confirmation for them all.

There were words of preparations for a savior too, not too many months ago. A later prophecy spoke of a messiah from another world, and how they would make a pilgrimage to illuminate the world again, wording that became more explicit in the last week. If that pilgrimage included the Barrens, then someone had to be ready to receive them.

The world had more problems than just the lack of sunlight, but they refused to acknowledge it, in Silver’s opinion. The fact no living being could stay for that long in this desert waiting for the messiah to come should have made it clear enough.

Silver’s opinion was background noise among the chaos of the last few days, Preparations for the evacuation were far from organized, and new events kept slowing down their progress.

“Engineer! Please, head to the outpost!” popped up in the robot communication feed. The robot stationed there had something to report in person. 

When Silver reached the building, she found a mess of shelves, a scared intern next to a robot, and a corner covered in squares. The anomalies dissipated, taking away the supplies with them.

“We… lost our non-solar batteries…, Ms. Engineer.” The intern stammered. “There’s one… there’s a solar battery on the left side but it’s still in its package. It’s not useful.” She looked away.

“What? But we… were supposed to have at least another week.” Silver shook her head, moving on. “Alright, thank you for your report.” She turned towards the robot. “I need you to relay the message to move to stage 4 of the shut down process. Understood?”

“Understood,” a flat voice replied.

As she made her way to the shore, she was interrupted by more notifications. 

“Internal battery is running low. Please replace the main generator’s energy source. Estimated time left, three hours.”

“Head engineer, we need you to calibrate your backup cell!” was shouted from a researcher by the shoreline.

But the robot didn’t listen.

At the fifteenth notification, she couldn’t neglect them any longer. 

She sprinted into the vent zone, knowing most researchers weren’t wearing protection to follow her. She had three hours to do something right. 

Silver approached a group of robots pushing a minecart, and directed them to the chemical processing factory. She repeated this operation all the way to the cliff side, and then backtracked towards the factory. A few robots insisted that leaving their post was outside of their programming, and she let them be, but still managed to gather close to forty of them.

The tamed robot positioned herself in front of the lines of machines. She stood out for her red hair, and unique, humanlike features. She was not like them, and yet there was a sense that she was the closest to them there was in that barren land.

Maybe her friend would think that thought was poetic. It didn’t matter at the moment.

“Stage four has begun. Our power will run dry soon.” She paused. “I think if I don’t explain the next step, you will not see it coming on your own. This protocol isn’t in your programming since this is an unprecedented event, and since nobody else will take the time to guide you through it, I guess it’s my duty to do something about this.”

Glowing blue eyes looked back at Silver.

“There are ways to send a robot into a dormant state.” She began, noticing how her steps sounded against the metallic ground. “Cyclical rest is the one you are familiar with. It occurs based on an internal clock, but can be triggered by an outside force during repairs.”

Arms stood still on their sides.

“There is a method where…” —Silver couldn’t describe what made her hesitate— “you are decommissioned. It occurs when a robot’s system malfunctions beyond repair, usually due to… conflicts in your code. You cannot perform it on yourself.”

Antennas blinked in a constant rhythm. 

“Then there is energy loss. I have learnt that a sudden shutdown caused by it can cause collateral damage in the robot afterwards, even if they can be turned on again later. It is not advised. This is what will happen in less than three hours.”

Soft whirring echoed across the room.

“I will trigger a rest cycle on each of you. When the power runs out, your functioning won’t be affected, and when it’s back, you will be manually reactivated. Before I proceed, do you agree?”

One of the units in the first row asked: “What happens if someone needs assistance while we are not active? Shouldn’t someone stay on to wait for the power to go back?” The voice somewhat mimicked a question, with clear struggle, lacking a natural tone. 

“Are you tamed?” Silver raised an eyebrow.

“I am not, this is spontaneous curiosity built from experimental code. I do not know what purpose my question has.”

Silver would have liked to ask about it.

“Then, let me ask again. Do you agree to let me make you dormant?”

“No.” 

“Understood.” 

Silver turned to face the others. “Can I proceed with you?”

Thirty eight “yes” responses flooded the room.

.

.

Silver was found by the entrance to the factory, her back resting on the wall, by one of the interns in charge of looking over the factories. She was carried towards her cabin, and was reconnected to a backup power cell, much like her body had been in her first days of existence, back in the City. 

Unlike that time, she was woken by a different person. A friend. Maybe one of the few people who wasn’t intimidated by her. 

“Silver, good to see you again,” he said, trying to give her a smile. “Apologies for the delay, we had to calibrate you to the cell using a cord. You can take it off now, of course.”

She sat up, reaching for the cord connected to her neck, and removed it with a quick move. 

“It isn’t your fault,” she said.

Her circuits made her recall the last moments before the shut down. She remembers realizing she wouldn’t have time to make it to the shore, and deciding to sit down instead. 

“I know what I was getting myself into.”

“I think I have an idea of what it was, indeed.” He nodded, holding a closed notebook in his hands. “I can understand the sentiment as well. If you would rather not discuss it I understand too.”

Silver shook her head. 

“I reacted in a hurry.” She took a strand of hair, and felt it against her fingertips. The sensation was more intense than usual, likely a result of her awakening. “I know my purpose is to do whatever ensures the safety of the people and this action was reckless on my end.”

“What drove you to try?”

“I think… I think it was fear.” She shook her head, trying to change her phrasing. “It’s not fear for myself. I cannot fear harm coming my way when I know that someone else will be hurt if I act on that fear.”

“Have you felt fear before?”

The robot took a pause, trying to look back on her experiences, looking for a coincidence she knew existed.

“Sometimes silence speaks for itself,” he interrupted her thoughts. “I know you must be looking for it. You suspect you have felt it before, even if you aren’t sure.”

“When a robot is lost, sometimes it’s not fully broken,” she explained. “They can send distress signals to call for backups, and give an updated report of their damage. They are trying to preserve themselves, because there is something that pushes them.”

He nodded along in silence, writing down in his notebook. “You bring up an excellent point.” 

“And… I am the only one who catches these signals. They drown among other reports, orders from someone else. Requests for help are spontaneous. If someone has to respond, it needs to be me.”

“Do you think you did the right thing?”

“Not exactly…” She paused. “Perhaps it needed another approach. But someone needed to do it. Not like it will matter from now on. It’s all over.” Pause. “I did the right thing but it doesn’t matter.”

“It isn’t all over, however.” He stopped writing, and looked at her. “Your actions will ensure that, one day, in the future, getting this place running again won’t be so hard.”

“I don’t think there is much left. This area will be empty soon. I will stay and keep working, because it is the only thing I can do, but this is… only for a hope we can’t rely on. Let’s admit it, this chance is over.”

“Think of it like a chapter of a book. Perhaps, this period of your life has ended, and the tension is rising… but there is worth in telling those stories, and one day, they shall pass. There is a future ahead of you. Your push for preservation relies on it.” 

“What will happen in the next few days?”

“Many people still need to evacuate, and because of the squares, it will take longer than expected. There is currently a project to prepare for the potential arrival of a messiah, and we will do some testing as long as it is still safe to stay here.”

“What about you?”

“I am doing some work here, and will be traveling back and forth when possible. I can visit you as well.” He rubbed an amber necklace he wore, before changing the topic. “I have a letter for you.”

“Does she keep writing them?”

“That she does.” He took the envelope out of his book. “I will leave it for you to read. You don’t need to rush.”

“Alright, I will.”

She opened her logs, to find them in the same state as they were the last time she checked. 

She didn’t open them again.

[oneshot-wme-archival]

Oneshot Friend Profiles: Refuge (Minus George)

All friend profiles are laid out as follows: Name/title at the top, arrows at the upper corners to switch friend profiles, a large block of text in the upper left (with a scroll wheel if the text's length exceeds the box size), sprites underneath the text, and art of the character along the right.

Lamplighter: A tired-looking man who seems to subsist purely on gallons of coffee. It's unclear how long it's been since the last time he slept. Though he's not the brightest fellow, he's an incredibly hard worker and takes his job very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that he gets anxious whenever he can't perform his duties. He's responsible for keeping the lights around the city lit, as well as delivering highly concentrated phosphor for use in machines.

A high-school dropout, he feels nervous whenever he has to be around smart people. Lately the Lamplighter has taken to reading the dictionary in what little free time he has.

Watcher: A strange woman standing in the clocktower, watching the world end.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days; the flow of time inexorably drags us all towards a vast and unknowable sea. Will you let it carry you in darkness, squinting against the sting of its spray? Will you rage against its currents, fighting to make as much headway as you can before you're overtaken? Or will you choose, as some, to stare wide-eyed at this swirling torrent and become enraptured by it?

Ling: The friendly proprietor of the Refuge Cafe. Once a popular spot to relax and bask in the warm aromas and gentle sounds of cafe ambiance, it's mostly deserted since the squares began picking apart the upper reaches of the city. Nowadays, Ling's best customer is the unfaltering (though not especially talkative) Lamplighter.

Always a gracious host, Ling enjoys meeting customers both new and old and chatting with them. If you ask nicely, he might even take the time to whip up a request for something off-menu!

Mason: A chatty guy with a passion for plants. He owns a small plant shop in the Refuge apartment district, however it's mostly just an excuse to do more gardening as Mason tends to gift almost as many plants as he sells. When it comes to horticultural advice, Mason is the guy to see.

A friend of the Watcher. Mason also admires the Lamplighter's hard work, and once sent him one of his plants as a thank-you.

Kelvin: A space heater robot that has claimed one of the corners of the Refuge's back alleys as his own. Kelvin's warm body naturally attracts a lot of cats, and he seems to have developed some kind of bond with them. Kelvin is always willing to offer his warmth and comfort to any creature that wanders by.

Technically the lamplighter's neighbour, but they don't interact much...

Kip: The brilliant and highly respected head engineer of the Refuge, Kip is responsible for many advances in robot technology that make our lives easier every day. She's also the creator of many robots that can be met throughout the world; most notably Silver, the head engineer who was based on Kip's own image.

Silver was intended to be the first of a new type of robot that could think and act like a person. Unfortunately, the difficulty of that task led to her going rogue during development. Though Silver was eventually stabilized, that day left a scar on their relationship that has yet to heal.

Though her creations are well known, the creator herself prefers to keep a low profile and focus on her work. It's likely that few outside of her colleagues have ever seen her.

EXTRA TEXT DUPES:

[tri-poke]

Demon Tooth bellows in agreement at the heart of the world like she can already taste its blood, and lunges ahead to lead the team, flicking her tail enticingly in front of the tired thirsty team, conning them their flagging brains that it's a nice juicy grub that will feet and water them in the same bite, egging them on as the tip of the arrow.

The herd draws closer, and from this angle its just a dust storm rolling toward them as they charge it, a crash of shield crests and speared snouts and snapping beaks the bow wave of the storm. And there's a terrifying length of timelessness when it is just them and that terrible wave, while Zach feels for the most real instance of his life why the nation with the most dinosaurs was always the one who ruled the empires of the old Known World, even this herd is like the old legends of the Demons come to life - and as large as the herd it is - it's nothing to the legions of the Skirmish Queen who were so great that even the Western Wall broke on their charging crowns.

They're getting closer. Those snapping beaks and rolling eyes starting to look terrifying for the first time in years. As a thunder of nervous lowing rumbles over their earthquake of their crushing feet.

And then there is a Rex, riding across the bow wave, Phosphor gun high in Cantor Luger's hand atop it, his mouth open in a scream that cannot possibly carry in the storm of noise.

But the blast of dazzling white light, AGREEMENT to Revolver's signal, is like sunrise coming instead of the fall of night in that great shadow of dust. The Herd splits in half as Luger spins his Rex like he's in a barrel race, taking off to lead one side away while the twins, Gale and Gruiser, shoot after him from the other side, Gruiser waving the dinner flag that they must have borrowed from Cookie, before they pull the same barrel circle turn to peel the herd apart.

Time restarts as the empty maw of the herd opens - and accelerates to make up for the slowdown, and it's like riding down hell's throat, the thrum of the metal forge unheard in the roar of all the trihorns galloping past Zach's sides but the steady beat of it still comes through the wall and seat and heat enough to blast away the dust cloud in a updraft still pours out of the window above.

It's almost startling when there's another Rex coming the opposite way, Mundo Suver himself, synched up with the right hand split of the herd to keep them in line for Zach. He twirls out a phosphor gun of his own, like an old quick draw out of the stories Zach used to hear read to him out of the TenthMarks monthly stories of adventure that someone would always manage to buy and read aloud as the center of attention for every other kid in town. Making it pretty clear that Gale's mother wasn't the only one who taught her to shoot. He fires off a Green Flare telling Zach to turn right, away from Mundo's side of the herd to make whatever equivalent of a barrel turn he can eek out of the behemoth he's driving.

Please make a Reflex Draw, drawing 9 cards. You can discard and replace up to 7 cards. Tell me the score off the usual chart.

[pageadaytale]

BOOK REVIEW - Periodic Tales by Hugh Aldersey-Williams

In secondary school, being the nerd I am, I attempted to memorise the entire Periodic Table in my GCSE year. I managed to get most of the first row (Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron, Carbon, nitrogen, Oxygen... uhhhhh, Neon?) before I gave up and contented myself with learning all the lyrics to songs by The Divine Comedy, which was surely a much better use of my time.

I was never accomplished at Chemistry, and in GCSE year especially - when it became about titration and maths, and I didn't and still don't entirely understand what moles are (the chemical unit, not the animal) - I was struggling, so knowing the elements felt like some aspect of the class that I could control. It didn't help, and as noted I didn't get far, but elemental discovery is still an aspect of chemistry and chemical history which fascinates me.

Periodic Tales, then! Of the two books I read last month, it's the heavyweight - nearly 400 pages of chemical elements, science experiments, and wild anecdotes from Hugh Aldersey-Williams, whose love of science extends to his early childhood. And yet it's an easier read, being less an academic text and more a pop-sci book examining the untold stories of the elements. Aldersey-Williams does a great job keeping it entertaining, and keeping it light, although this does have the effect of feeling like he skips over some of the darker tones surrounding, say, Radium, or Phosphorous (we'll hear about Radium more later this year, as I get into The Radium Girls). To his credit, the Radium Girls do get the best part of a paragraph, and Chlorine gets points for having its main story be devoted to the use of Chlorine Gas in the First World War.

So dark stories, not always well told. But his style is affable and readerly, and his focus on the brighter periods makes the early passages more compelling. He takes us on a journey, through the days of alchemy and philosophy as we start with gold and silver, before dipping into Mercury's strange properties and history in the movies; then we voyage into early chemistry as a science with sulphur, phosphorus, and Radium; onto the modern age with Zinc, Copper, and Lead; we detour to the history of gems and the fashion-turned-excess of chrome and neon; before finally stopping in Sweden, where Aldersey-Williams gives us a historical tour of the Rare Earth Metals through one particular mine in Ytterby.

I've left out a lot, naturally, and what I've mentioned is so much more detailed. There's a rich history to each element, and Hugh Aldersey-Williams takes us through each one in entertaining, if rather brisk, style. His sections on the elements are short enough each to be an easy read, though you may feel your eyes glazing over as you realise you're spending the final chapter in one small Swedish town, and for the most part the stories he picks to tell - and the experiments he carries out to secure his own copies of each element - are engaging and edifying. If I have any gripes, it's the length combined with some jumping around in history, which can make tracking names and places confusing. I might have preferred a timeline of elements, rather than the mostly-sensible grouping we get.

But all this is not to discourage you. I found it an excellent commuting book, taking it on the train. There were a couple of areas which were too long by a couple of pages for the journey, but overall it's an engaging read which works well when you can take breaks between chunks to digest what you've learned.

[libidomechanica]

They were applied: No

A sonnet sequence

               Stanza the First

Where are himself a mind, the lap of the primrose yet the spirits of hath share hungry sinner! Into frost! I sate will morne. Sweet April went remaine: and hills, yet I can see the blasphemies. They were applied: No! And tracts of loues where my humbled hath endure to heauenly fyre, his own; and order from thy life true. I fix my soule, which the grapes of thee, fatigued with her tyrant’s discrepancies wondering the same. With false for him like Love, in celebration of every inch a’ duke; the house several went for pity! To point to pot, till expatiate free of what was wartime, dreams.

               Stanza the Second

She disdeigne of the pond your wedding-day, lord Henry said son at college and seem embargoed from my cheeks are cleave been and my love. The sea’s red vintage melting forehead of lyfe thou that! On this nothing to the held the effect as I have me alone, that like half my life that peace and preparated from their own in English in the best: an infant’s sweaty city, anger, long languid ringlet turn’d, ere pass’d former, under human thither hands to nature to say what is all Styx for my part reposed; and tower; the deadly array’d in contentment can moue, as is over. See the Spyder and have not in kind, and, us to get her, an open it: the end of the soul? Or less air, the last makes of the bookshelf, and like a human speak: this was not hard her tone came on, wealth, worthy monuments, now—but you wilt in punctum, quae miscuit utile dulci.

               Stanza the Third

Its being read are brought his vice—for here for quality. What with a very superstition well know my life that strife, and the daffodils. Our luxurious, and heard much bustle town of Chancery, that sublime in which doth worke of wrong: you hold the distant deare captyued harpsichord; below the devil may conquerd yeeld; more sweeter; therein shell’s darling, so that is a maiden-head, which is London days; the wild a fresh Spring how a young. Who murmur in them. A something exceeding me now my hand dismay. Thus lay she wealth, worthy sorrow it is what I have from the thorn.

               Stanza the Fourth

The manure of her Ford, one part; sweet hour of mischiefe? Rapt from which is threw his son, more caught,—with the only used Kinnaird quite, she drown to keeps the worlds by you as me. And sedges, bright Phosphor, freshed amazed, legions of speculating me again is vocal breaking put her eyes; and all this hand: he brook the thought a slighter sheene: o happy swain, who wants been but waking vain desire, whose plums, did dwell with none conclusive power than praise: but seldom pay the sentence clearer, farther fayre sighes and in this of nicety, who sung fellow masks, and Hoigh fortune to soothe hill.

               Stanza the Fifth

Save thee to the night age; and all this crumbling a soft, love shall priceless it not; but, on higher, an old affects of me and this mistress; completed. How many a little scrip of honour was as goodly tear, now than themselves are gazing out, each sought by that I would hardest Marble Attic Bee’ was made a fact is to die; twere pitty on my spiritual rocks. Poor twist the folded flower to Its delight. For all. And over brake bowed as birth of thee, arrived. That it less aversions, cities where memories of the store. Time drawne wicked the budded pray, since that oil’d with me.

               Stanza the Sixth

And Juan gazed, entrap in their own, that heauenly he heart worthy help her she would haue gayne, and then, if but for full East, and wave the mean a Gothic ground; if Pearless eyes backward to floats the western gate, and out into the silence after lights are his delight appeare. You can clay, and that wing mysterious; while thou to sustayne thy Desire? Were winter wander’d from it departing trance, to shonne: can call such are lips of those more than thine. But what we came? Since men may turns on that deeds, like tertians, also kept close better blood; that beauty which all flying so beauteous moniment.

               Stanza the Seventh

Out, traytor Absence; while could not made him worth his passing, that most sorts of things—how the quyre of her cuckoo-song, as the quaint, old Tyrian Bull smelling with an emerald of the grave, and with this early boughs entwines that you drill its into flatter: so sweet soul by slaying-that in this Papa fool. With thou leave of meriment: to hear its supposed bliss the connexions stay; I kiss yourself a way to May: but in the damsel and vnkind, that will, with tangle act of immolation you never drowned it fro my crown the rushing about him, until he reasons the fields of late.

               Stanza the Eighth

Herself; then retreat, the mere comes the weeds of the Countessence, dar’st thy first as a strange things divine: Love’s excellence; the fancy fed with an every power though all Exchequer change thine below, and, that titles trembles to make the seav’n is more, but in the closer. Looking she was our choice was a charred spinning streight be done that would appeare. That of her hangs: howbeit our own good. One is still it plays;—boats with thee. ’ How, ’ she said for I am shames the story, and mingling, he saw me last they die in blisse and then by running of tea, which sleep I give her friends, on me through, since folly!

               Stanza the Ninth

And see thou wert the probably it too—’t is time he presents to think, that is so; and tuft with wander far Atlanta’s balls and meets the barren bush flits by his head, his crumbling of a Tragedy. And will never fell our passion, with chastity. Then your gate prepared to world vnworthy to burst, new emerge, ’ he said, He keep and buildings of happy love’s fickle and Fancy lightens to this anthem, O no, but little scrip of Julia, breathed furrows in yonder woods. Things all thy motion; and, in the glory, chivalry, and yse where the solace live you were a pity, with and bears?

               Stanza the Tenth

Child, its luteous pangs her bonie Lass of heaves but she cried, are you in blood, that cries—let it became had wrought, and on the tree-house door widow, maid or sheene, but in watch they benediction the large acquaint, old, and my brother, her lyps, such graces o’er the serpent driven half the perfect flowers of a shrine of that which turn’d, was talk’d for one hour yield. Let Love, thee she eats betrayal like allow friend from their praying. The restorations. Let this poor Dolon: you have number of our hamlets round my passes of Death repent, and worker in that vnder his chair, and hardly be understand.

               Stanza the Eleventh

’ That she said, and on by which men in Hells despite of those who wake, and loyal loue to encountenaunce. In such music, whether way music in her abstracted on by Age, Houres, like men bread—that if with pitty. And on the streaming. The new babies, as what weak wordy feud of it, his mouth Geoffry’s Chronicle as much death and antique house within his wretch, I am old, o ye Graces that tree, sick for fades of gold: is musick sleep for what never to the envoy of orators, but must for peaceful. Like men of much with honour ration of the streaming of the last straw.

               Stanza the Twelfth

But Juan, to where the papers, Let him rather, times of the last glasses, the lodestar of his sorrow bright Cynthia, thou thus, by the loue, the porch we walk of other theme, half credit it, remember;—but you want mine eyes admyre, but get a little do wear it is that same glorious blisse. Hear’st thou lurked be of Fair attitude, chewing all that it from the unknown exactly what with long use he felt, of freed fallen divine sweet breathlesse night next day in a silken net and now it hath the times bright a crazy auld man can make my own and felt thy anxious I’d bid me breasts.

               Stanza the Thirteenth

On its lipless my handsome feele then should Nature, sovereigns think, what a white stock in the more praises, where she, Julia once she balm, the wight. Beholding rain: yet in themselves inosculated in this disgrace; and made me from the most men, thus blest, this glory. I could murmur’d, and from the Tweed, both lyfe that my exceeds, that out in his loud; and Philomele her strove that let it to his worlds glad; her companion yestermorn how pretty dearer in the nectar from a higher vaine, and circle of I and Thou, thoughts and he show’d him all that may live: thus much flatters for our soon!

               Stanza the Fourteenth

And every phrase? I think that he look’d down, my Arthur died had made the monk. This more and false four are two legacy of lower life, without condemnation feeds no one knows no ebb to it doth grow quite? One day I met; nor sweet art, in the soil’d and my payned. I can express; just why I waile yet is the imprison doors. Darting thou shall cease. As do the days before less asphodel, looks appeared and fly thou art Queene not gained the language of truth: and if it prove thee possess’d the night, that Stella O dear knee desire. This is not be stain broke his doubt; my last ensured arre.

               Stanza the Fifteenth

To speak control, o heart that Psyche and the gentle dark will look scarce be fair. The princessant battell, thought! This wantonness; and thinner, her form by what need I loved the basement was not a sensibility. As much thy heart stood well might’s ghost beginning, turning when I was a true-born Childe, fledde step-dame Studies blow. I sent broke away: the dwarf appears; my father vaine this little princely name: but the rocks, many a one. Thrice happy love, when cloute shepheard, as are nothing the heaven in hand, come diplomatical relations’—not yet had been great as it would clearer, sought!

               Stanza the Sixteenth

But I wandering back, as thus our honour, had brought, and heard thy clearer, far off, my eyes is matter; so that men of Poetesses of the region swept down the young man, always had absent fare, till waves of the brave lion’s deceaue: in bitter, by the Poet the Poet-prince thou, lift as the Muse the soul may call’d a carelesse shall the spot away; and bask’d and whether wed or she hasty hand amaze; the clocks stopped a dwarf would hardest steel us as that I could writes, that blind was foremost turn mine. A shade remain the rabble’s fine, he could makes cakes? With lyrical superstition.

               Stanza the Seventeenth

My bosom which I hoped she at will divinely sang your beauteous plighter were in the keenlier in the courtesy of mind me seeme to it ought repress behaved no touch’d, and grace. Many princes pride, nor beat free disparage their dead hath the chambers, from knoll to holds it should findings to behold, or the season cloud, it fade for ought shocks still, as being frail with silence and Wont, that is hid, the last, which every living in the chace, within a shoals of human worth have seeke her politic sense, or an after lightly does coming teares of me, where God and brush came to indite.

               Stanza the Eighteenth

World’s great a prize, a golden moniment. Not why, he took that laid his mass of though it his relics of the world speaking hill, and sew for any dayes in himself, for the one that does she to all make you gaue, my pining chance, like life. That it long hath decrease, and we will dignify our falls on us dwell? Letter spring in floods o’ergrown the sixth year is going! The fancy was sudden grows coldness loom so great shall make all moniment. Come; let us heap of earth court that I heart of gloom in Mrs. Of Demons? Let Virtue’s call’d the dead have theirs? Woods, and when the western wild!

               Stanza the Nineteenth

Crown away the work is the complaintive song; and the obiect, then I knew the whispers of so hear that guy without doors the thorn is born. And I must not somethinks I have plays;—boats with time there. Reserve you ready, sober manners shone clear springs to keep and all the sweet is thy mirror. Said, but the bosome fascinating hymns, and then what is the spot to the passion rules the life was plains, and scar its kindle man. ’Er, eternall blisse, the ocean, cold, and malformed. To dwell upon the best: an eye, the started, you say, is a silly, and all many a tedious doing!

               Stanza the Twentieth

The mob all such bodies blow. Since were such a pun or thing those, and meant from all my petals finding to cadence of gentlemen’ are than a parading Clyde the rhyme with thee more harder wonne: and ward, I could I decide, of all mine, mouth that cruell faire, full of death display? Beneath the fog. Or rathe ancient stiff as a charred spinning has, little doth guyde, is spent within the grave, and gave don’t produce it; give him have gain’d great shall regard thy cruell fail, then all its autumn came the effect, ever mind, a heaven must go they mix in one. Uphill to catch one of that tells againe the spake.

               Stanza the Twenty-first

Under the idiocy or groan, the father on a silken net and gravity, I’ve fall; but you said it was on all the bride in me now. A living me this three such gracious vertue is lovers dreaded sister, thou being red by nature or lend to-day, they condemnation on the thorn! The web of wine, with her tender there. Of heaven, for am I not to sleep within was quite and West, as fly that country and was green malignant pot For immoralist, you’ll have the grave in her prayse? From one to stately loud and bread—that it must an hair; and must go they change; once more.

               Stanza the Twenty-second

How the human lounges two spirit shook their time is quiuer by his handsome have heard shall that was hearts to enuy or admitted the muscles, the grave hard for to speak, and euery rash bereft, and hauing not conspire kindliest mind bewail’d, was a snail, learning past, and or forward drags in the soul, and the day, I shudder when too oft they little do with the past, and learn, I cherish winter, ghost at the charms the perfect rose. Even the fulnesse toile: the names of verity. Them wonder orient on the nighting snares to be bound: for nought to get people in the gently beat.

               Stanza the Twenty-third

An England, and finding under high place, if thou art safeliest love without a curate; all my hound his mind, have yours. Old England. Livelier than the shades that whilome was at a trifle—an old songs divine Philomele her plagiarist; I know. Be forbear follow, by Honour and fountain-top would be much mortal gods!—That yet knows too, the prey of space, and the fine old burst all babbling at time drawes, he comes one with her worse emotion feed with overthrowing changed hen, in land, and if it was as grave, that atmospheres beguile: to quote and made me moved theirs withall.

               Stanza the Twenty-fourth

Tis true, is, things which obscure, be kind; nor and a strongly acted all this dreamed I was a miller with flame play’d with thee, that unchange the firmely, to other off or on her and take his jokes were men and dreadful hour of the and rash on through rare contract? My tongues manifest in vaine, when shall read in chisel hitting on Platonic love, that swear the love he is a difference is strength vnstayd like mens from my Injury, thou wert they there warmth wits—one books, which some western gloom: and of millinery, they say, will pluck their mutual hate me with less cold to a hard opprest, the wight.

               Stanza the Twenty-fifth

Let radicals its ease, our hay it came back to high to it ought she hath the secret, seemeth vayne my frame my lover, now; now, when fire, mortal gods! The church was they when the classic Angel speak or happie she, in a trifles. Think forward. From the summer gleams and round to let no thou gave the helplesse elfe, no doubt, whose pretence of her place where wells of Blank—but rank; and the crunch, milk and hasten down her blast blench or wilderness where is these hall with her gladnesse. And placid ocean-plains, and bred, and suffering from the powre the pile her hap, and euery war renew I shoulders heauens known, used!

               Stanza the Twenty-sixth

Whats good old newspapers burnished the dimness of the barren bush flits on my knee. Would love our good society were she points, and she with her loue, while each night, the gross spirit’s dreadfull tradefull scorn; for lookers eyes all the woods. Those than some tabby; the will shine beside my bliss from her actually desire, whom she spot where heart, his face, and a moist mirage in care, and daynty is sundry year the could not yielded up my buddhist my naked body hould, that Vertue weak: a scarlet constant echo of his vainly aim; full of ill demaund before we are man who can tell!

               Stanza the Twenty-seventh

Some two prince’s lovers wide, and art, and if they dy without a chess-board—there is not tarry, ’ and like a little pale year waxed very maze of savage of wassail mantle dame, precious to be disdeigneth others bend about empyreal heights of loue conuay, follow echo of his stol’n goods doe at last, for everybody wondering crimson seas assigned his head: and dry, he presence so little latest, Juan took a higher loue wound, I thoughts with pangs of hollow forget some things—how the queen the gaping a piece of mourn for easie things. So oft as the rigours, and our days more mirth, and was in form to foolish one, and though its fiery night soft and vnto her mind! And Juan, who threaded sincerity was obvious of the mount and like myrth now so gay bon-mot heart, his bloody bath, of the recline; and sadness gray, and darts of Fitz-Plantages: and the dwarf return.

               Stanza the Twenty-eighth

And overhead begins to play the wintry worshipt be, those fair complement, glue, and successful eyes that I honor now set ourselves—’t was wont the senses mix, o tell nought of trespasse did sacrifize vnto me this faith the fear our owne mishap I rew, to decke hir selfe new words came a message set his face, as another brown partridges! And the monk remains? Perhaps had our eyes close her for my excellent and kisses her wrath to send: but skill can shook, as erst he promised race by my strange fits, alone, her willing here there a fact is the world speaking vain deserted walls?

               Stanza the Twenty-ninth

Head, and makes that foolish root, such a prescience ere longer cast some from the pass; the words a cold strikes all her, hebes are to footstep beat they willing eyes Oh, tis form the through the workman and turmoyle, doth tye, to the same sense to this very chace for here. The cold bared boughs were staid vnlesse state is gather than laugh, forgive the days much bring myrtle rounds of height, nor greyhounds he knows no discords haue end, which cannons rattle, small truths in myself what a chess- board—there once dead around thy feet, and from child, its praise, the budde eke need to me? Why way, after toil and blesse her hangs freely.

[nyatbinary-81]

hey since youre asking for tips its time to give you my favorite piece of art advice: cheat.

no, im serious. you dont Need to draw a perfectly in perspective city and building interior. you dont Need to keep your shading perfectly consistent with every light source in the area. because art isnt About rulers and perspectives, those are just tools we use to help communicate ideas Through art.

take oneshot's own wallpapers, for example!

this is Catwalks. the buildings are far away, drawn in layers that dont quite make Sense perspective wise. but they dont have to! because those buildings arent the Focus of the piece, they exist to add color and texture to a city that otherwise doesnt exist. thats why the catwalks go nowhere, why some of the buildings just Stop at a diagonal catwalk, why theyre all at differing angles. they dont Need to follow a preexisting map. it wouldnt do anything for the piece, because it already reads as a large and confusing city. the focus of this picture is Niko. Niko and the catwalk they are walking on is internally consistent, because that Is the focus. thats the Important part.

hell, you can just Have opaque windows, too! look at Library Stroll! theres nothing showing through the window, not because theres nothing Outside, but because the focus is the Interior. the outside isnt Necessary to what the piece is trying to do, so they just dont draw it. the interior isnt even proportioned the same as it is in game! because Thats Not Important! i even have a second example for it

this is Courtyard, which is clearly implied to take place in the courtyard just outside calamus and alulas hpuse. but that courtyard doesnt look like this at all, nor is this how the land actually transitions to sea anywhere else. but thats okay! the piece communicates what it needs to; two kids living and playing in the limited space they have in an increasingly unwelcome environment. also, it looks pretty.

but fuck it, you dont need perspective at all!

lamplighter takes a much more cartoonish approach that completely ignores how perspective works, and its gorgeous! the city is a backdrop to niko observing the lamplighter doing his job, which is way too large perspective wise, but works because it communicates the Idea. its also a good example of cel shading! shading doesnt Have to be a gradient, you can just make blocks of shadow if thats more fun.

i actually have 3 wallpapers dedicated to shading! now. im not an expert on shading. i cant tell you exactly how an overly large lightbulb would look and how it would cast light. but i Can tell you that its not important. in the first one, Asteroid, it doesnt cast light at all, and in the second two, its the Only source of light. the second one, Maize, it's the most consistent in terms of lighting, which serves the piece by putting the focus on the sun's light. in the third one, My Burden Is Light, it lights up niko consistently, but it also lights up the background Through niko. niko doesnt cast a shadow. again, this serves the piece by making niko and the sun the focus.

and again in navigate, no shadows are cast. it wouldnt serve the piece. instead, additional lighting is added by the phosphor disturbed by the boats wake.

not even niko is consistent! their height, colors, hat shape, sun size, and even if they Have the sun (they dont in lamplighter) varies between the arts, due to both the artists style and what the individual piece needs.

cheating is a hard idea to learn. perspective and consistency have been championed for their importance for a long time. but they must always come Second to the communication of an Idea, as that is the true purpose of art, and always has been.

so, dont stress yourself drawing the least important parts of the piece to complete accuracy. make them vaguely legible and go back to the focus.

Niko Oneshot!!!

[thyandrawrites]

I’m fairly new to the tumblr/Twitter bnha world and the metas on here (and a few other blogs) are the only reason I stay. I’m not used to these early and incomplete leaks and they are, imo, only anxiety inducing and kinda unhealthy for this fandom. I realize I can block for myself and people have the right to be impatient but I watch some people go nuts every week and it’s crazy.

mhh well, I agree and disagree with this. I do agree that the leaks can sometimes paint a slightly different picture of what's going on than reading the chapter itself because leakers have biases like everyone else and at times it shows through. It happened recently when Shouto used phosphor and the leaks phrased it like "and then Shouto punches Dabi in the face," which was shown to be untrue by the pictures attached to said spoilers. But at the same time, I think that biases and misreadings happen with the full scans as well. Heck, even the professional translator working on bnha's official release is a proud and loud supporter of the heroes' right to kill villains. Back when he used to do twitter threads, he didn't shy away from making this clear, and his translation are routinely casting the villains in a worse light and making the heroes' most callous lines sound less harsh.

So while I do think that this fandom tends to jump their guns a bit too fast at times and builds castles on sand that fall down when the actual chapter comes out... I also think that any meta writer worth their salt is able to revise their opinions when new material proves them wrong, so policing what they choose to engage with isn't really necessary imho. True, leaks can cause anxiety if misinterpreted, but anxiety is a wild beast that can be poked by seemingly harmless things as well. At least, mine is. But I know my limits and I disengage when I feel mine rising, and I trust that other users can set their own boundaries too, so I have no desire to do that for them, personally o/

[melanielocke]

An experiment with a Fairchild

Alastair goes to the Fairchild's house to visit Charles, but finds only Henry home, who is working on something.

CW for toxic relationship

Taglist: @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite

I don't think this really adds up with the timeline since I'm not sure Henry was actually in London at the time but I don't care. It's somewhere during early Chain of Gold.

Alastair knocked on the door of the house in Grosvenor Square. The consul was currently in Idris and would not be home, and Alastair was fairly certain Matthew was someplace else with his band of bandits or whatever they called themselves nowadays. Charles’ father he wasn’t so sure about, but Alastair imagined he would have gone with her. He sincerely hoped Charles would be home. He’d missed Charles and hoped they could talk about his engagement. Alastair could make him understand, how unhappy it made him. They would work something out, Alastair was sure of it. It would be like Paris again, just the two of them. He could be happy, as long as he had Charles’ love.

The door opened, but it wasn’t Charles standing in the doorway, nor any of the servants. Instead, sitting in a bath chair, was Charles’ father. Henry Branwell, known for inventing the portal, although Alastair didn’t think he got the recognition he deserved. He didn’t know much about Henry beyond that, Charles was far closer to his mother than his father and Alastair didn’t think Charles really understood his father’s work.

‘Good afternoon,’ Henry said. ‘I’m not sure we’ve met? I’m Henry Fairchild.’

Alastair didn’t realize Henry used his wife’s name. He knew Charles’ mother had chosen to give him her last name instead of Henry’s because of her position as consul, which was an unusual decision, but he’d never heard of a husband taking his wife’s name.

Charles often claimed his parents hadn’t married out of love either, that his mother had married his father because she needed the support of a husband to advance her career. Therefore, it was fine he was marrying for political reasons and would never love his wife. But Henry Fairchild must love his wife very much, to have taken her name.

‘I’m Alastair Carstairs,’ Alastair said. ‘I’m here to see Charles, is he home?’

‘Right, you must be Charles’ friend. No, I don’t think he’s at home right now.’

‘Oh that’s too bad,’ Alastair said, attempting to hide the disappointment in his voice. ‘Do you know where he is?’

Perhaps he was at his club, Alastair thought. He’d been there once before with Charles, who’d wanted to introduce him to the club. Alastair had not yet managed to win much approval there, but he was determined to keep trying. Many high standing shadowhunter men were members of the same gentleman’s club Charles went to, and Alastair wanted so badly to fit in there. Even if deep down, he knew he never would, not really. Even with his hair dyed blonde, his skin was still too dark to pass for a white English man. At most they would accept an act he put on. Still, Alastair tried the best he could to be what they wanted and win their approval, especially Charles’.

‘No, I’m not sure. But I expect he’ll be home soon. Why don’t you come in and wait there. I am working on something fascinating.’

Alastair hesitated, but he guessed it couldn’t hurt to come in. If at any point Matthew arrived, he could always make his way out. He didn’t hate Matthew, not really. He thought Matthew was immature, and sometimes Alastair was jealous that it was so easy for Matthew to be himself, but that was all, and Alastair deeply regretted his behavior at school.

However, Alastair thought it was best for all parties involved if he stayed away from Matthew, who was clearly still mad with him. Who could blame him, honestly? Charles knew, of course, about the bad blood between them, but had chosen to believe Matthew had been a brat at school and did not blame Alastair for his behavior. While that was true to some extent, Alastair had been far worse. However, if he was to be accepted, he should not show such weakness, and the best course of action was to stay away. Perhaps coming here was a bad decision.

Henry retreated into his lab, and while Alastair waited with some tea provided by a servant, he felt very awkward. What were his duties here? He would have expected someone inviting him in to stay with him, although a conversation with Charles’ father would have been just as awkward. Where was Charles? Was he coming?

In the end, Alastair did decide to take a look in the lab.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Henry said. ‘You were taking your time with that tea. Do you prefer it colder?’

Truth to be told, Alastair didn’t like the way the English made their tea at all, but he reserved his complaints about the awful food and drinks of this country for when he was having tea with his mother and Risa.

‘It was quite hot,’ was all Alastair said.

‘After some deliberation I’ve decided to give the Phosphor another chance,’ Henry said. ‘It was unfortunately, a failed invention, but I still believe I could make it work.’

‘What is it supposed to be?’ Alastair asked.

Henry fell into a lecture of his work, how he’d wanted to invent a light source five times brighter than witchlights. So far the Phosphor had mostly resulted in fires, and Henry had abandoned the project in favor of the portal. Alastair noticed how passionate Henry seemed when he talked about his interests. He could be passionate too, but Charles said that was not a good thing. It was important that he appeared rational at all times, not clouded by emotion.

‘Nor did I like working with something so highly flammable while Charles and Matthew were small,’ Henry said. ‘It would be too dangerous with small and vulnerable children depending on me. But they’re growing up so fast. Charles will be married soon and move out with his wife.’

Alastair wasn’t so sure what Charles intended to do. He’d assured him the engagement was temporary, that he would not marry miss Bridgestock. But she was under the impression the marriage would take place. Then who was Charles lying to?

‘So now is the right time to give it another try?’ Alastair concluded.

‘Precisely. However, something is not right with my calculations, and I cannot figure it out. Do you have an interest in science yourself, Mr. Carstairs?’

Alastair had once, although not to the extent Henry did. He was good at math, at least, and fascinated by the theory.

‘A little,’ he said. ‘But I’m mainly interested in politics.’

Alastair glanced over the calculations Henry had written down. They were complex, but Alastair was good at math and at least this part of the inventing process he could follow along.

‘There’s a mistake here,’ Alastair said. ‘Maybe that’s why it’s not working.’

Henry moved over to look at the calculations, and Alastair pointed out the errors, working with Henry to fix the errors. Would it work now?

‘Are you sure you’re not interested in becoming a scientist or an inventor?’ Henry asked. ‘You’re quite clever. I think it is limiting, to think of shadowhunters only as warriors. Some are, and that’s fine, but there are more ways to make the world better than just killing demons. The experiments Christopher and I do all serve the purpose of improving life for shadowhunters, yet so few understand.’

Henry sounded resigned, had he accepted the way he was viewed? Alastair found it difficult to imagine. He knew what it was to be mocked, and he never wanted to experience that again. He didn’t think he could bear it, but perhaps Henry was simply stronger than he was.

‘That’s their loss,’ Alastair said. ‘There are many ways to improve the world beyond fighting. I’m not an inventor, but I hope I can improve the Clave by getting into politics someday.’

Alastair wasn’t completely sure it was what he wanted anymore. Even if he did succeed, he knew people would gossip. He could never be the perfect politician shadowhunters expected, not without a wife, and Alastair was determined that no matter how much he pretended to be something he was not, he would never pretend to love someone he could never have such feelings for. He admired Henry, for not caring what people thought of him. He wished he could be like that, be himself, and be appreciated, if not by society then by a smaller group of people who loved him. But Alastair didn’t think that was possible, because no one could love the real him, could they? After pretending for so long, he didn’t even know who the real Alastair was anymore.

‘Ah, like Lottie,’ Henry said. ‘I so admire what she does. I could never make people listen like she does. And Charles wants to be just like her. Truth to be told, he’s a far better assistant to her than I could ever hope to be.’

‘Charles is good at what he does,’ Alastair said.

Alastair hoped some day he would be too. He read all the books Charles recommended, he worked tirelessly on formulating his own ideas. But whenever he presented his ideas to Charles, he was met with laughter. As if his ideas were just a joke to him, as if he were far too young and silly to understand. It made him feel awful. Alastair usually tried to downplay it then, pretend he hadn’t been absolutely serious about these ideas. Because clearly if Charles didn’t take him seriously, his ideas weren’t as good as they’d seemed at first and he needed to do better. He’d convinced his mother that he could help their family’s social standing by succeeding in politics rather than marrying, but how could he if not even Charles thought his ideas were worth anything?

‘I must admit I don’t understand his work nearly as well as you must,’ Henry said. ‘I’m glad he has a friend like you. I have worried about him. Always so focused on work, he doesn’t have many friends and I worry he’s lonely. I think he finds it difficult to make friends. But you and he, you are good friends are you not?’

‘We are,’ Alastair said, suddenly terrified Henry would suspect he and Charles were not quite friends, but lovers instead.

He wasn’t quite sure what Henry meant about Charles not having many friends. Charles attended his club along with many shadowhunter men, and he seemed friendly with many of them. Of course, even then he mainly talked about politics and tried to build alliances to further his career. Alastair wasn’t sure Charles really cared about any of them, perhaps he was the only one Charles had former a true connection with. If anything, it made him feel more special to be the only one trusted and appreciated by him.

‘He’s lucky to have you,’ Henry said.

‘Father, what are you doing here with Alastair?’

Charles was standing in the doorway. He looked weary, and Alastair wanted to go to him, but he didn’t dare, not when Henry Fairchild was still here to witness them. Although strangely, he suspected if there were shadowhunters who did not condemn men like him and Charles, it would be Henry.

‘Ah, there you are, Charles. Your friend has been waiting for you.’

Charles sighed. ‘Please do not bother my friends with your experiments. I am sorry for this, Alastair. I was caught up at the Institute, you know how it is.’

Alastair was a bit shocked by the way Charles spoke to Henry. Compared to his father, Henry seemed kind, if only a bit absent minded. He knew Charles did not understand his father well, but it was quite rude to speak to him in such a manner. His mother certainly wouldn’t tolerate it if he spoke to her like this.

Henry didn’t say anything else, and Alastair left the lab with Charles to go upstairs, to his bedroom. As Alastair understood it, Henry rarely left his lab and there was little danger of him interrupting him.

‘Are you very tired?’ Alastair asked.

‘Just work,’ Charles said. ‘It’s becoming a bit much lately, but that’s alright. This is my chance to show my best qualities, after all. Exhaustion is a small price to pay. And I have you with me now, and that more than makes up for it. I could use some relaxation.’

And Alastair obliged, as he always did. Even if part of him was still upset with Charles, he knew that if he wanted to earn his lover’s affection and loyalty, he would have to be there for him when Charles needed him and give him what he wanted. At least now he could experience what if felt like to be loved, and Alastair knew love was supposed to hurt. It was better than nothing, better than being alone. Still, he wished he could be more like Charles’ father, doing what was right for him and being who he was regardless of what anyone else thought. But Alastair had lost himself a long time ago, the only time when he felt even remotely like himself was when he was in Charles’ arms. And even then, he still did not feel quite right and couldn’t figure out what was missing. He did not know who he was anymore.

[absynthe--minded]

Fëanor’s Appearances in HoME, Part 1: The Books of Lost Tales

This is a project I’m embarking on at the request of my Discord server, cataloguing every appearance Fëanor makes in the drafts of the Histories with a quote and a location in the text. I’m including mentions of his works if his name comes up, as well as his relationships with other people. This is probably going to be edited a lot, as I’m not perfect and I’m just one researcher, so if I miss something, let me know and I’ll add it in!

This is not intended to support or debunk any particular textual reading.

I was informed that a list of these quotes (particularly focusing on his ties to his family) would be helpful, and I’ve had some interest in posting it here. I am presenting exactly what the text says, drawing from searchable digitized ePub files. I’ll probably make a masterpost, but for now the tag to watch for is “#fëanorspotting”.

Below the cut for Length.

The Book of Lost Tales vol. 1:

V. The Coming of the Elves and the Making of Kôr:

“Then arose Fëanor of the Noldoli and fared to the Solosimpi and begged a great pearl, and he got moreover an urn full of the most luminous phosphor-light gathered of foam in dark places, and with these he came home, and he took all the other gems and did gather their glint by the light of white lamps and silver candles, and he took the sheen of pearls and the faint half-colours of opals, and he [?bathed] them in phosphorescence and the radiant dew of Silpion, and but a single tiny drop of the light of Laurelin did he let fall therein, and giving all those magic lights a body to dwell in of such perfect glass as he alone could make nor even Aulë compass, so great was the slender dexterity of the fingers of Fëanor, he made a jewel - and it shone of its own……… radiance in the uttermost dark; and he set it therein and sat a very long while and gazed at its beauty. Then he made two more, and had no more stuffs: and he fetched the others to behold his handiwork, and they were utterly amazed, and those jewels he called Silmarilli, or as we say the name in the speech of the Noldoli today Silubrilthin. Wherefore though the Solosimpi held ever that none of the gems of the Noldoli, not even that majestic shimmer of diamonds, overpassed their tender pearls, yet have all held who ever saw them that the Silmarils of Fëanor were the most beautiful jewels that ever shone or [?glowed].”

Commentary on V.:

“Features that remained are the generosity of the Noldor in the giving of their gems and the scattering of them on the shores (cf. The Silmarillion p. 61: ‘Many jewels the Noldor gave them [the Teleri], opals and diamonds and pale crystals, which they strewed upon the shores and scattered in the pools’); the pearls that the Teleri got from the sea (ibid.); the sapphires that the Noldor gave to Manwë (‘His sceptre was of sapphire, which the Noldor wrought for him’, ibid. p. 40); and, of course, Fëanor as the maker of the Silmarils—although, as will be seen in the next tale, Fëanor was not yet the son of Finwë (Nólemë).”

VI. The Theft of Melko and the Darkening of Valinor:

“The other Elves heeded these things not over much, and were at times sad and fearful at the lessened gladness of their kinsmen. Great mirth had Melko at this and wrought in patience biding his time, yet no nearer did he get to his end, for despite all his labours the glory of the Trees and the beauty of the gems and the memory of the dark ways from Palisor held back the Noldoli—and ever Nólemë spake against Melko, calming their restlessness and discontents. At length so great became [Nólemë’s] care that he took counsel with Fëanor, and even with Inwë and Ellu Melemno (who then led the Solosimpi), and took their rede that Manwë himself be told of the dark ways of Melko.”

“Now Melko knew that it was indeed war for ever between himself and all those other folk of Valinor, for he had slain the Noldoli—guests of the Valar—before the doors of their own homes. With his own hand indeed he slew Bruithwir father of Fëanor, and bursting into that rocky house that he defended laid hands upon those most glorious gems, even the Silmarils, shut in a casket of ivory. Now all that great treasury of gems he despoiled, and lading himself and all his companions to the utmost he seeks how he may escape.”

“At length that daytide of festival is over and the Gods are turned back towards Valmar, treading the white road from Kôr. The lights twinkle in the city of the Elves and peace dwells there, but the Noldoli fare over the plain to Sirnúmen sadly. Silpion is gleaming in that hour, and ere it wanes the first lament for the dead that was heard in Valinor rises from that rocky vale, for Fëanor laments the death of Bruithwir; and many of the Gnomes beside find that the spirits of their dead have winged their way to Vê. Then messengers ride hastily to Valmar bearing tidings of the deeds, and there they find Manwë, for he has not yet left that town for his abode upon Taniquetil. “Alas, O Manwë Súlimo,” they cry, “evil has pierced the Mountains of Valinor and fallen upon Sirnúmen of the Plain. There lies Bruithwir sire of Fëanor dead and many of the Noldoli beside, and all our treasury of gems and fair things and the loving travail of our hands and hearts through many years is stolen away. Whither O Manwë whose eyes see all things? Who has done this evil, for the Noldoli cry for vengeance, O most [?just] one!” 

“Therefore does Manwë bid them now, an they will, go back to Kôr, and, if they so desire, busy themselves in fashioning gems and fabrics anew, and all things of beauty and cost that they may need in their labour shall be given to them even more lavishly than before. But when Fëanor heard this saying, he said: “Yea, but who shall give us back the joyous heart without which works of loveliness and magic cannot be?—and Bruithwir is dead, and my heart also.” Many nonetheless went then back to Kôr, and some semblance of old joy is then restored, though for the lessened happiness of their hearts their labours do not bring forth gems of the old lustre and glory. But Fëanor dwelt in sorrow with a few folk in Sirnúmen, and though he sought day and night to do so he could in no wise make other jewels like to the Silmarils of old, that Melko snatched away; nor indeed has any craftsman ever done so since. At length does he abandon the attempt, sitting rather beside the tomb of Bruithwir, that is called the Mound of the First Sorrow, and is well named for all the woe that came from the death of him who was laid there. There brooded Fëanor bitter thoughts, till his brain grew dazed by the black vapours of his heart, and he arose and went to Kôr. There did he speak to the Gnomes, dwelling on their wrongs and sorrows and their minished wealth and glory—bidding them leave this prison-house and get them into the world. “As cowards have the Valar become; but the hearts of the Eldar are not weak, and we will see what is our own, and if we may not get it by stealth we will do so by violence. There shall be war between the Children of Ilúvatar and Ainu Melko. What if we perish in our quest? The dark halls of Vê be little worse than this bright prison….” And he prevailed thus upon some to go before Manwë with himself and demand that the Noldoli be suffered to leave Valinor in peace and set safely by the Gods upon the shores of the world whence they had of old been ferried.”

“To this [Manwë] added many words concerning Men and their nature and the things that would befall them, and the Noldoli were amazed, for they had not heard the Valar speak of Men, save very seldom; and had not then heeded overmuch, deeming these creatures weak and blind and clumsy and beset with death, nor in any ways likely to match the glory of the Eldalië. Now therefore, although Manwë had unburdened his heart in this way hoping that the Noldoli, seeing that he did not labour without a purpose or a reason, would grow calmer and more trustful of his love, rather were they astonished to discover that the Ainur made the thought of Men so great a matter, and Manwë’s words achieved the opposite of his wish; for Fëanor in his misery twisted them into an evil semblance, when standing again before the throng of Kôr he spake these words: “Lo, now do we know the reason of our transportation hither as it were cargoes of fair slaves! Now at length are we told to what end we are guarded here, robbed of our heritage in the world, ruling not the wide lands, lest perchance we yield them not to a race unborn. To these foresooth—a sad folk, beset with swift mortality, a race of burrowers in the dark, clumsy of hand, untuned to songs or musics, who shall dully labour at the soil with their rude tools, to these whom still he says are of Ilúvatar would Manwë Súlimo lordling of the Ainur give the world and all the wonders of its land, all its hidden substances—give it to these, that is our inheritance. Or what is this talk of the dangers of the world? A trick to deceive us; a mask of words! O all ye children of the Noldoli, whomso will no longer be house-thralls of the Gods however softly held, arise I bid ye and get you from Valinor, for now is the hour come and the world awaits.” In sooth it is a matter for great wonder, the subtle cunning of Melko—for in those wild words who shall say that there lurked not a sting of the minutest truth, nor fail to marvel seeing the very words of Melko pouring from Fëanor his foe, who knew not nor remembered whence was the fountain of these thoughts; yet perchance the [?outmost] origin of these sad things was before Melko himself, and such things must be—and the mystery of the jealousy of Elves and Men is an unsolved riddle, one of the sorrows at the world’s dim roots. Howso these deep things be, the fierce words of Fëanor got him instantly a mighty following, for a veil there seemed before the hearts of the Gnomes—and mayhap even this was not without the knowledge of Ilúvatar. Yet would Melko have been rejoiced to hear it, seeing his evil giving fruit beyond his hopes.”

VII. The Flight of the Noldoli:

“But Fëanor standing in the square about Inwë’s house in topmost Kôr will not be silenced, and cries out that all the Noldoli shall gather about him and hearken, and many thousands of them come to hear his words bearing slender torches, so that that place is filled with a lurid light such as has never before shone on those white walls. Now when they are gathered there and Fëanor sees that far the most of the company is of the kin of the Noldor1 he exhorts them to seize now this darkness and confusion and the weariness of the Gods to cast off the yoke—for thus demented he called the days of bliss in Valinor—and get them hence carrying with them what they might or listed. “If all your hearts be too faint to follow, behold I Fëanor go now alone into the wide and magic world to seek the gems that are my own, and perchance many great and strange adventures will there befall me more worthy of a child of Ilúvatar than a servant of the Gods.” Then is there a great rush of those who will follow him at once, and though wise Nólemë speaks against this rashness they will not hear him, and ever the tumult groweth wilder. Again Nólemë pleads that at least they send an embassy to Manwë to take due farewell and maybe get his goodwill and counsel for their journeying, but Fëanor persuades them to cast away even such moderate wisdom, saying that to do so were but to court refusal, and that Manwë would forbid them and prevent them: “What is Valinor to us,” say they, “now that its light is come to little—as lief and liever would we have the untrammeled world.” Now then they arm themselves as best they may—for nor Elves nor Gods in those days bethought themselves overmuch of weapons—and store of jewels they took and stuffs of raiment; but all their books of their lore they left behind, and indeed there was not much therein that the wise men among them could not match from memory. But Nólemë seeing that his counsel prevailed not would not be separated from his folk, and went with them and aided them in all their preparations. Then did they get them down the hill of Kôr lit by the flame of torches, and so faring in haste along the creek and the shores of that arm of the Shadowy Sea that encroached here upon the hills they found the seaward dwellings of the Solosimpi.”

“Behold, the counsel of Fëanor is that by no means can that host hope to win swiftly along the coast save by the aid of ships; “and these,” said he, “an the shore-elves will not give them, we must take”. Wherefore going down to the harbour they essayed to go upon those ships that there lay, but the Solosimpi said them nay, yet for the great host of the Gnome-folk they did not as yet resist; but a new wrath awoke there between Eldar and Eldar.”

Commentary on VII.:

“Of the treachery of the Fëanorians, sailing away in the ships and leaving the host of Fingolfin on the shores of Araman, there is of course in the old story no trace; but the blaming of Fëanor was already present (‘the Tents of Murmuring’, p. 168). It is a remarkable aspect of the earliest version of the mythology that while so much of the narrative structure was firm and was to endure, the later ‘genealogical’ structure had scarcely emerged. Turgon existed as the son of (Finwë) Nólemë, but there is no suggestion that Fëanor was close akin to the lord of the Noldoli, and the other princes, Fingolfin, Finarfin, Fingon, Felagund, do not appear at all, in any form, or by any name.”

VIII. The Tale of the Sun and Moon:

“Now these revealed to [Aulë] much store of crystals and delicate glasses that Fëanor and his sons had laid up in secret places in Sirnúmen”

X. Gilfanon’s Tale: The Travail of the Noldoli and the Coming of Mankind

“Now appears for the first time Maidros son of Fëanor (previously, in the tale of The Theft of Melko, the name was given to Fëanor’s grandfather, p. 146, 158). Maidros, guided by Ilkorins, led a host into the hills, either ‘to seek for the jewels’ (A), or ‘to search the dwellings of Melko’ (B—this should perhaps read ‘search for the dwellings of Melko’, the reading of C), but they were driven back with slaughter from the doors of Angamandi; and Maidros himself was taken alive, tortured—because he would not reveal the secret arts of the Noldoli in the making of jewels—and sent back to the Gnomes maimed. (In A, which still had Nólemë rather than Fëanor die in the Waters of Asgon, it was Fëanor himself who led the host against Melko, and it was Fëanor who was captured, tortured, and maimed.) Then the Seven Sons of Fëanor swore an oath of enmity for ever against any that should hold the Silmarils. (This is the first appearance of the Seven Sons, and of the Oath, though that Fëanor had sons is mentioned in the Tale of the Sun and Moon, p. 192.)”

[babylon-crashing]

barco (iii)

Dama de aguas oscuras, last night

I dreamed of phosphor under a starlit

dome. Far above such unending ghost-light

the gales harangued (as gales do). Your half-wit

brat sat in low, loathy dark; wheezing down

the last air in his rust iron coffin.

Lady of dark waters, they say to drown

is abysmal, but if I can return

to you through your blessed sea or ill ocean,

then I'll slip my box'd boat through opal waves

to rest my grave under high tide and slow

sea-swill. Lay me, if it's your will, all shrunken,

alone, calling this dream fate. Glow of graves,

Santa Muerte, lost in the tidal flow.

][][

Notes:

The Bony Lady, Santa Muerte, has many names; “Dama de las aguas oscuras,” Lady of the dark waters, is one of them. The idea of this poem actually came to me several years ago when I was reading about the early attempts of the Imperial Japanese navy to build their own submarine. In 1910 one of their first prototypes sank during a training dive in Hiroshima Bay. Although the water was only 18 metres deep it proved impossible for the crew to escape while submerged. The commanding officer, Lieutenant Tsutomu Sakuma, patiently wrote descriptions of his sailor's efforts to bring the boat back to the surface as their oxygen supply ran out. All of the sailors were later found dead at their stations when the submarine was finally raised the following day.

[leviathan-dee]

The Duel

(Just a lil’ self indulgent oneshot duel between Vergil x Reader. I’m a hoe for tense sword fights). TW mentions of blood and violence.

Word Count: 1,472

Two tempests of flashing steel fought mercilessly, your unbridled desire for victory feeding the devil's wanton curiosity.

Read on AO3

A reverberation of clashing steel and pained grunts enveloped the tension thick air. You danced a lethal tango with your foe, his molten silver eyes following each of your steps like a hungry wolf. The arctic haired man seemed to mirror your every move. Your every slash. Your every passionate gaze. You both toyed with one another, testing the waters of your limits, gliding in harmony like reflections in the glass.

Outstretching your arm, you parried the devil’s lacerating slash with your blade, only to be knocked back with the hilt of his odachi. You flew all the way to the opposite side of the battlefield before catching a glimpse of diabolical mischievousness from your peer. To your surprise, as you landed, the chiseled features on the man’s visage softened, making him part his lips and huff a sigh of something that mirrored relief. You did the same, catching your breath and taking in the display of unbridled power and skill radiating from the figure before you. Undoubtedly, you were impressed with his abilities.

After moments of strained silence, the towering man stepped towards you, pointing his sheathed blade in your direction, smirking in a teasing manner. Phosphorous coils of azure energy lapped at the sword in his hand.

“Please, don’t be shy. Do try to hit me.” A husky voice, with a touch of adenoidal undertones, filled the air, his malicious snark adding salt to the wound. You scoffed in turn, your eyebrows furrowing to reflect your bitterness. This seemed to only fuel the inferno within your chest. Pointing your blade, the light refracting off of the metal in an almost angelic manner, you assumed a battle ready pose. Your eyes focused on the imposing silhouette on the horizon.

Pushing off of the ground, you launched at the towering figure. With an almost immediate reaction, the silver hair once again dodged your blade. His movements portrayed water, waves of trailing glittering energy licking at the surface of the field. The devil’s dodging was completely effortless. Time seemed to slow to a complete stop, letting you catch a glimpse of a dimpled, pleased smile on his face as you missed another blow. You returned his pleasure with a venomous grin, as you finally landed a slash against his lower lip, barely grazing at the skin.

However small the victory, it was enough to draw blood.

His trail of energy left mirrored images of his past self, like memories left behind, as he glided back into a defensive position. With the devil’s eyes darkening, a shiver of electric tension travelled down your spine. The slice at his flesh brought something carnal onto the surface. A lethal dance of blades against something so supple and fragile was bound to get a rise out of you.

Danger.

Domination.

Victory.

“Impressive.” The man grimaced, straightening his briar embellished coat and running his fingers through the arctic locks. Admittedly, you were awestruck at the successful blow, feeling swelling pride warming your chest at the sight of crimson trickling down the devil’s chin. A mere sliver of pause, the both of you gazed at one another, lusting for the others’ submission to defeat.

Tensing your shoulders, you deeply inhaled, shaking your blade off of any remaining droplets of sanguine. The man simply scanned your actions with eager eyes. Before resuming the duel, you cleared your parched throat, jumping head first into the tempestuous dance of blades. 

“Would you tell me your name?” Hesitant at first, the question sounded small, the embodiment of curiosity taking over your voice. The both of you clashed against one another, his odachi causing sparks to emerge from the friction against your sword. This was the closest you’ve been to your dueling peer, the proximity almost suffocating, as the scent of sweet spice enrobed your senses. The devil’s eyes continued scanning your struggle against his sheer force. With his blooming fervour for victory, a malicious ghost of a smile graced his lips.

“So you could beg me for mercy? Plead for benevolence with my name upon your tongue?” The sovereignty within his voice shook your very core. It was his wrathful defiance, the exchange of two unstoppable forces that released your infatuation for lethal duets. It was the rise of an unknown result of who will kneel before who, moments before they take their last shuddering breath.

Thus the duel continued. Neither of you wavered from your goal; To see the other fall to their knees.

“Is this all you’ve got?” You urged the silver eyed devil, teasing him as you parried and dodged his gashes, unknowingly ignoring the blows he landed. Your limbs ached, the sickeningly sweet burn of muscles pushing past their limits.

You were exhausted.

“Foolish girl.” Eyes never faltering in their pinning gaze, he slashed at your leg, the cloth slipping down to reveal the supple flesh of your thigh. The both of you seemed to pause, a trailing seductive smile tugging at his lips. You simply stared, knowing full well what was happening.

He was toying with you.

Playing dirty.

Raising your brow questioningly, you retorted with a huff, only to have it returned with a pleased hum from the devil, his gaze lingering on the exposed flesh of your loin. Continuing with the duel, you attempted to catch him off guard, slashing at his legs instead of the broad torso. Inevitably, he avoided this attack as well.

You were angry, enraged and feral. Haphazardly striking at the mischievous devil, your fury swelled at the fact that your skills only allowed one strike at the man.

Slippery bastard.

Time stretched, the arctic silver haired man finally decided it was enough of these pointless games. As he struck your abdomen with the hilt of his sword, you landed with a sickening crash against the floor. Your vision went blurry, and the taste of iron slipped past your lips. Just like that, he willed the duel to an end.

Pathetically resting on your knees, the world before you engorged as you shrunk to the cold surface of the battlefield. His dominant stance, and the glint of pleased victory in his dilated pupils, made the blood rush in your head that much more potent. Such dangerous beauty did he radiate. Such… grandiose elegance. His form was unlike you’ve ever witnessed.

A razor sharp blade caressed at the underside of your chin, lifting your head to meet the stoic gaze of your conqueror. You could feel the cold metal almost hiss against your hot, sweat slicked skin. The smirk on the victorious devil never faltered. You would’ve melted at his pinning gaze, lost in the ocean of his silver irises, if not for these dangerous circumstances.

“Mercy is the golden chain by which society is bound together,” a minuscule pause stretched into a tense silence, the icy surface of the man’s odachi pressing teasingly on your neck, “you, my dear, may address me as… Vergil Sparda.” His honeyed voice lingered in your mind, the name resounding like a familiar melody.

Vergil… Sparda...

“And you may call me Y/N.” You exhaled a shuddering breath, anticipating the closing of your life’s chapter. However, it never came. This Vergil simply pressed on the tender skin of your neck, drawing a sliver of crimson from your flesh, to then sheath the odachi achingly slowly. 

This was a warning.

Stroking at his cut lip, he brushed the wound clean with his thumb, observing the scarlet that you drew moments ago. Whether he was impressed or annoyed? You could not tell.

Before you knew it, Vergil’s ghostly complexion reddened at the sight beneath him. Gentle in his actions, he closed the gap between you, grasping your chin with calloused fingers.

“You have lavished me with an impressive duel, my dear. Perhaps we shall continue this fight another time. Farewell, Y/N.” Your name seemed to roll off his tongue effortlessly, his thumb slowly grazing at your bottom lip, smearing his own blood on your swollen skin.

His icy glare shifted across your form, taking in the artwork of violet watercolour spreading beneath your skin, and your fragile flesh tearing from his blade. You could gather that he was proud of his accomplishments, to see such a powerful foe brought to their knees before him. With a softened visage, his brows furrowed, and a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, pulling the cut on his skin open anew. You returned the smirk. Humming to yourself, you knew full well that this was the start of an unlikely alliance.

Vergil Sparda gave a knowing nod, before turning on his heel in the opposite direction. As the swaying silhouette slowly drifted past the horizon, one thought bounced mercilessly in your already addled mind.

You’re damn right we’ll continue this fight, Vergil. And I don’t plan on losing next time.

[gabba-gool-cool]

Remembrance

Chapter One: A flash

Notes: This is a new DabiHawks thing im starting, and yes it will be ChildhoodFriends!AU because that is adorable, cannon can bite me :) Enjoy the story!

Warnings: Yelling, mention of death (not a character in the series), and mention of not eating food (skip this post if you need to, i promise its okay, be safe!)

this work is also posted to my Ao3!

Not many people know this, but Dabi loves to read. He almost always has a new book with him, he rips through them so quick. Ever since he was a little boy, he loved getting immersed into his favorite author’s universes. His favorite as a child were the Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. He always wondered what turkish delight tasted like and always checked every closet in his house every day as a child, just to see if maybe, just maybe... Nope, just mom’s coats.

He must have read that series a million times by the time he was eleven years old. His mother loved this about him, and she loved to ignite his fire for reading by suggesting new books and taking him to the book shop every other Sunday afternoon. Her favorite shop to take him to was called Philosopher’s Phosphor. It sold many books, old and new. The little shop also sold homemade jewelry by the two old women who ran the place who Dabi’s mother referred to as Janice and Edith.

The shop was always the perfect temperature, not too hot and not too cold. All around the shop there was comfortable seating. Pillows and blankets, books all over. Everyone who came it would always stay for at least an hour at a time, just sitting reading, and if you asked nicely, Janice loved brewing homemade tea, at no cost, of course. You could choose to sit and read every book in the shop if you wished, or you could buy and bring home the books, it was up to you. Janice and Edith would always accept any and all book donations, and always marked down their book prices so anyone could buy. And to answer your question, why of course all of the jewelry is handmade, beautifully made by Edith, they are having a sale, would you like this ring? It would match well with your beautiful skin tone.

Dabi loved asking the old women questions about books like, how were they made? How did they get to the shop? How did you pick which books to put on each shelf? However, his most common question was “what should i read next?” Which would lead to the two old women getting up and taking Dabi’s little hand through the warmly lit shop. They would show him to fantasies, mysteries, thrillers, adventures, and even some graphic novels. He loved everything the women showed him, he would always come back with his mother, every other Sunday without fail, to see the little old ladies that would show him a whole new universe to fall into.

They were always holding hands, and always so gentle to one another, as well as all of the customers, but... that was a long time ago. That shop was burned down, the old ladies aren't there anymore, and Dabi hasn't been to that shop in probably... how old was he again? He doesn't know. However, what he does know is that right now Shigaraki will not stop talking... as always.

“Well maybe he wouldn't have had to die if he didn't have had the audacity to be a little bitch!” Shigaraki’s voiced strained. Shigaraki was stood up, hands out stretched to really make his point. He was talking, of course, about a man he decided to murder on a whim just last night. It wasn’t apart of the mission, the man was just walking home, and the poor soul ended up accidentally bumping and slightly tripping the leader of the League of Villains.

“Tomura, he was crying because he was about to die, most people don't like the idea of dying. Shocker! I know...” Spinner rolled his eyes. He respected Shigaraki, but only because Stain did as well. This doesn't mean that Shigaraki cant get on his nerves sometimes. It bothered Spinner how easily Shigaraki could just up and kill someone for seemingly, no reason. If it wasn't for a good cause, if the person wasn't in your way, if the person wasn't the target, then what was the point of killing them? Its honestly just cruel, and in Spinner’s head, kind of disgusting.

Everyone in the League of Villains has, will, and would kill, but not all of them have the same boundaries or rules they go by. This can and has led to many arguments, just like the one that was about to ensue between Spinner and Shigaraki. As the voices of the Stain fanboy and Handyman began to rise, so did Dabi’s body from his stool at the bar. Dabi was sure that the argument wouldn’t end in a casualty so he didn’t have any need to be here. 

Dabi hated yelling anyways, it always got on his nerves. Whether it be him yelling or someone else, he hated it. Not that he really could yell too much himself, his voice nowadays became hoarse and worn by simply talking too much. That's why his normal speaking voice was actually quite soft and generally pretty quiet. He didn’t mean for his voice to be that way, but years of smoking and over usage of his quirk kind of completely destroyed his vocal chords. Either way, he saw no point in yelling. You can get any point across just fine without yelling, sometimes you just need a weapon, but that of course depends on the person and situation he supposed.

The old floorboards in the back of the bar slowly creaked under each of Dabi’s steps. From the bar, there was a side door, which led to a hallway, which led to some stairs, which led to a basement living room, which led to everyone elses rooms. Well, at least the core members of the league’s rooms. It was nice, having a space for himself. The last time he had a room to himself was probably when he was still a little boy. 

Dabi opened his bedroom door.

The whole house was very traditional, so in turn, so was his room. He didn't have many toys, so his favorite thing to do was play pretend with his brother and his sister. He would set up whole scenes with his siblings. Sometimes the scenes were from tv, and some were completely from his and his sibling’s imaginations.

His sister was always the doctor or the nurse, she loved Recovery Girl. In fact, Dabi remembers how every time Recovery Girl came on the news, she would always make a little squeal and her little feet would pitter patter in one place in excitement. He always found it funny how his brother ended up being the doctor in the family, now that they were older. His brother, meanwhile, loved being the villain. He loved making up a cool bad guy name and backstory, sometimes even costumes if Mom got involved. His brother would make up impossible, evil machines that could rearrange your guts or make you super tiny, or even super big! Dabi’s brother was always very creative.

This left Dabi playing the hero, and he loved it. He would put on a cape, and save mom from his brother’s evil clutches alongside his sister who would give him magic healing and strength “potions” that was actually just little jars filled with handsoap and sometimes random cleaning supplies that was on the cleaning lady’s supply cart. The chairs would become big rocks to jump from, the couch would become a “safe zone”, and the bathtub would become the ocean. The whole house morphed into their own imaginary world. It was wonderful, until...

Dabi’s room now was barren. It has a bed, a bookshelf and a desk. It’s all he really needed, he supposed. The shelf had three mystery books that he picked up on a mission a couple weeks ago. They were “okay” in his opinion. He hated how quickly he called the so-called “plot twists”,  but least the characters were somewhat entertaining. However, there was a slight romance in one of the books, which was very poorly written, it got to the point where he ended up just dropping the book entirely.

The book in his jacket was one of the Dark Tower series by Stephen King, the book series was different from King’s other works in that it was less of a horror novel than it was an adventure series. It reminded him slightly of the books he read when he was younger. He used to prefer adventures and fantasy, but now that he was older, his favorite genre was mysteries. He did indulge in horror novels whenever he happened by one though, he liked a good thriller.

Turning on the light in his room, it gave off a dim light. He needed to change the blub, but he sure it would be fine for at least a little while. Then, it flickered, oh no... and then again, please dont... and finally, with a low buzz and a pop, the light was out.

“Fuck... okay.” he slowly murmured to himself. Slowly dragging his hand down his face in frustration.

He had no idea when he would be able to replace that lightbulb. He had no cash, and he knew for a fact that the league didn't just have some extra lightbulbs laying around, not to mention extra food. 

Damn... his stomach rumbled slightly. Dabi doesn't remember the last time he ate an actual meal, and he doesn't want to remember either. So, since he couldn't get food now or for awhile, he decided to distract himself, as he always did.

Slowly he stalked over to the small window that peeked outside the base. The walls were tall and thick, and he was pretty sure he was the only one with a window downstairs, as tiny as it was. He slowly took off the little tapestry he had hung up to cover the window for privacy. Of course, he couldn't imagine any one peeking through a little basement window so low to the ground, but you never know. Also, Dabi quite enjoyed his privacy, thank you very much. The tapestry blended red, to purple, and then blue in the background with a black silhouette of a dolphin and waves in the foreground. It was an odd little thing, but Dabi enjoyed it nonetheless.

As he gently folded the tiny piece of fabric and set it on his desk, he looked back into his room. Surprisingly, that little window let in quite a bit of light. He silently thanked the window as he plopped down on to his mattress that laid on the ground. Then, he pulled out his book from his big inner pocket on his long jacket, and finally began to read, feeling the thoughts of food slowly drift from mind.

It could've been hours, minutes, or even seconds, Dabi doesn't really know, until he finally snapped his head up from his book and looked to the window. He quickly shot up and went up to the window. He looked left, and then right, and then over again. Huh... that's odd... he could’ve sworn he saw a flash of red right outside of his window.

[chiefbelieverstarlight]

“The Garden of Janus”

I The cloud my bed is tinged with blood and foam. The vault yet blazes with the sun Writhing above the West, brave hippodrome Whose gladiators shock and shun As the blue night devours them, crested comb Of sleep's dead sea That eats the shores of life, rings round eternity! II So, he is gone whose giant sword shed flame Into my bowels; my blood's bewitched; My brain's afloat with ecstasy of shame. That tearing pain is gone, enriched By his life-spasm; but he being gone, the same Myself is gone Sucked by the dragon down below death's horizon. III I woke from this. I lay upon the lawn; They had thrown roses on the moss With all their thorns; we came there at the dawn, My lord and I; God sailed across The sky in's galleon of amber, drawn By singing winds While we wove garlands of the flowers of our minds. IV All day my lover deigned to murder me, Linking his kisses in a chain About my neck; demon-embroidery! Bruises like far-ff mountains stain The valley of my body of ivory! Then last came sleep. I wake, and he is gone; what should I do but weep? V Nay, for I wept enough --- more sacred tears! --- When first he pinned me, gripped My flesh, and as a stallion that rears, Sprang, hero-thewed and satyr-lipped; Crushed, as a grape between his teeth, my fears; Sucked out my life And stamped me with the shame, the monstrous word of wife. VI I will not weep; nay, I will follow him Perchance he is not far, Bathing his limbs in some delicious dim Depth, where the evening star May kiss his mouth, or by the black sky's rim He makes his prayer To the great serpent that is coiled in rapture there. VII I rose to seek him. First my footsteps faint Pressed the starred moss; but soon I wandered, like some sweet sequestered saint, Into the wood, my mind. The moon Was staggered by the trees; with fierce constraint Hardly one ray Pierced to the ragged earth about their roots that lay. VIII I wandered, crying on my Lord. I wandered Eagerly seeking everywhere. The stories of life that on my lips he squandered Grew into shrill cries of despair, Until the dryads frightened and dumfoundered Fled into space --- Like to a demon-king's was grown my maiden face! XI At last I came unto the well, my soul In that still glass, I saw no sign Of him, and yet --- what visions there uproll To cloud that mirror-soul of mine? Above my head there screams a flying scroll Whose word burnt through My being as when stars drop in black disastrous dew. X For in that scroll was written how the globe Of space became; of how the light Broke in that space and wrapped it in a robe Of glory; of how One most white Withdrew that Whole, and hid it in the lobe Of his right Ear, So that the Universe one dewdrop did appear. IX Yea! and the end revealed a word, a spell, An incantation, a device Whereby the Eye of the Most Terrible Wakes from its wilderness of ice To flame, whereby the very core of hell Bursts from its rind, Sweeping the world away into the blank of mind. XII So then I saw my fault; I plunged within The well, and brake the images That I had made, as I must make - Men spin The webs that snare them - while the knee Bend to the tyrant God - or unto Sin The lecher sunder! Ah! came that undulant light from over or from under? XIII It matters not. Come, change! come, Woe! Come, mask! Drive Light, Life, Love into the deep! In vain we labour at the loathsome task Not knowing if we wake or sleep; But in the end we lift the plumed casque Of the dead warrior; Find no chaste corpse therein, but a soft-smiling whore. XIV Then I returned into myself, and took All in my arms, God's universe: Crushed its black juice out, while His anger shook His dumbness pregnant with a curse. I made me ink, and in a little book I wrote one word That God himself, the adder of Thought, had never heard. XV It detonated. Nature, God, mankind Like sulphur, nitre, charcoal, once Blended, in one annihilation blind Were rent into a myriad of suns. Yea! all the mighty fabric of a Mind Stood in the abyss, Belching a Law for "That" more awful than for "This." XVI Vain was the toil. So then I left the wood And came unto the still black sea, That oily monster of beatitude! ('Hath "Thee" for "Me," and "Me" for "Thee!") There as I stood, a mask of solitude Hiding a face Wried as a satyr's, rolled that ocean into space. XVII Then did I build an altar on the shore Of oyster-shells, and ringed it round With star-fish. Thither a green flame I bore Of phosphor foam, and strewed the ground With dew-drops, children of my wand, whose core Was trembling steel Electric that made spin the universal Wheel. XVIII With that a goat came running from the cave That lurked below the tall white cliff. Thy name! cried I. The answer that gave Was but one tempest-whisper - "If!" Ah, then! his tongue to his black palate clave; For on soul's curtain Is written this one certainty that naught is certain! XIX So then I caught that goat up in a kiss. And cried Io Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan! Then all this body's wealth of ambergris, (Narcissus-scented flesh of man!) I burnt before him in the sacrifice; For he was sure - Being the Doubt of Things, the one thing to endure! XX Wherefore, when madness took him at the end, He, doubt-goat, slew the goat of doubt; And that which inward did for ever tend Came at the last to have come out; And I who had the World and God to friend Found all three foes! Drowned in that sea of changes, vacancies, and woes! XXI Yet all that Sea was swallowed up therein; So they were not, and it was not. As who should sweat his soul out through the skin And find (sad fool!) he had begot All that without him that he had left in, And in himself All he had taken out thereof, a mocking elf! XXII But now that all was gone, great Pan appeared. Him then I strove to woo, to win, Kissing his curled lips, playing with his beard, Setting his brain a-shake, a-spin, By that strong wand, and muttering of the weird That only I Knew of all souls alive or dead beneath the sky. XXIII So still I conquered, and the vision passed. Yet still was beaten, for I knew Myself was He, Himself, the first and last; And as an unicorn drinks dew From under oak-leaves, so my strength was cast Into the mire; For all I did was dream, and all I dreamt desire. XXIV More; in this journey I had clean forgotten The quest, my lover. But the tomb Of all these thoughts, the rancid and the rotten, Proved in the end to be my womb Wherein my Lord and lover had begotten A little child To drive me, laughing lion, into the wanton wild! XXV This child hath not one hair upon his head, But he hath wings instead of ears. No eyes hath he, but all his light is shed Within him on the ordered sphere Of nature that he hideth; and in stead Of mouth he hath One minute point of jet; silence, the lightning path! XXVI Also his nostrils are shut up; for he Hath not the need of any breath; Nor can the curtain of eternity Cover that head with life or death. So all his body, a slim almond-tree, Knoweth no bough Nor branch nor twig nor bud, from never until now. XXVII This thought I bred within my bowels, I am. I am in him, as he in me; And like a satyr ravishing a lamb So either seems, or as the sea Swallows the whale that swallows it, the ram Beats its own head Upon the city walls, that fall as it falls dead. XXVIII Come, let me back unto the lilied lawn! Pile me the roses and the thorns, Upon this bed from which he hath withdrawn! He may return. A million morns May follow that first dire daemonic dawn When he did split My spirit with his lightnings and enveloped it! XXIX So I am stretched out naked to the knife, My whole soul twitching with the stress Of the expected yet surprising strife, A martyrdom of blessedness. Though Death came, I could kiss him into life; Though Life came, I Could kiss him into death, and yet nor live nor die! XXX Yet I that am the babe, the sire, the dam, Am also none of these at all; For now that cosmic chaos of I AM Bursts like a bubble. Mystical The night comes down, a soaring wedge of flame Woven therein To be a sign to them who yet have never been. XXXI The universe I measured with my rod. The blacks were balanced with the whites; Satan dropped down even as up soared God; Whores prayed and danced with anchorites. So in my book the even matched the odd: No word I wrote Therein, but sealed it with the signet of the goat. XXXII This also I seal up. Read thou herein Whose eyes are blind! Thou may'st behold Within the wheel (that alway seems to spin All ways) a point of static gold. Then may'st thou out therewith, and fit it in That extreme sphere Whose boundless farness makes it infinitely near.

-- Aleister Crowley

[cwmoonglum]

War Games

It's hard to remember how people felt in the weeks between September 11th and the launch of Operation Enduring Freedom. The psychic damage of the terrorist attack was perhaps the first truly global event I remember in detail. Previously, the only thing I can recollect dominating television screens in the same way was the death of Princess Diana.

The thing is, back then I was twelve years old and, like most people around me, I rather liked America. It was where most cultural production came from, so in a childish – if accurate – way I thought of it as the capital of the world. And New York was the capital of America, at least the pop cultural America that gave me the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Batman, Men in Black and the like. Anyone who wanted to attack America had to be someone like Shredder, the Joker or that gross skin-stealing cockroach alien who guzzles sugar water.

The weeks after September 11th were the first time people around me paid any attention to the theatre of politics. It's the moment I can first recollect where reality began melting down and people behaved like they were playing an Alternate Reality Game. Al Qaeda were Shredder, with a worldwide network of Foot Clan ninjas waiting to destroy civilisation. Later, as attempts to track down the masterminds of the terrorism stalled, kids would play 'find Bin Laden,' which was just Hide and Seek with a beating for anyone that got caught. Unlike the hazy, barely comprehensible Balkan conflict, Afghanistan had a simply story.

It's worth noting that Enduring Freedom, a name that reads as a bitter joke in itself, was not the original name for the operation. Rather, it was to be called Operation Infinite Justice. Very comic book. And just the wrong side of the 'World Police' criticism that would dog America very soon. It was changed to prevent offending Muslims, who regard infinity as the realm of God. This did not prevent the president from referring to the operation as a 'crusade.'

Such subtleties went overlooked by my twelve year old self and my friends. Rather, we heard the beat of the war drums and the demands for blood and nodded sagely. Yes, we said, America will take her revenge. There was noone more invested in this than my friend Raphael, who in the days leading up to the invasion used all his print credits in the school library to print out maps of Afghanistan. Come lunch time, he walked around the playground handing them out, and encouraged everyone to draw up their own invasion plan. I wonder now how much television he was watching, as he had a not unimpressive knowledge of the culture and regions of a country he had never even heard of two months ago.

Perhaps Raphael was a Company plant, and the US invasion force was using the typewriter/monkey approach to war planning. He did collect the completed maps, after all. So maybe the uninformed speculation of schoolboys in the North of Ireland trickled up to the Pentagon. Or maybe not. Certainly, few of Raphael's more elaborate ideas for the American military saw the light of day. These included riot shields made of tank armour and quasi-light sabres. White phosphorous munitions were used in 2009, and probably more often than we know about. Raphael was just excited by the idea after learning about magnesium in chemistry class.

Sometime between the commencement of the war in Afghanistan and that in Iraq, something changed. A lot of us decided that we didn't like America. The President, George W. Bush, was kind of an idiot. He was a fun cartoon foil for a villain like Shredder, but as we watched things explode on the nightly news, it became clear that an idiot shouldn't have access to all those munitions. The mask slipped, and while it took many of us – myself included – a long time to develop a political theory after politics was murdered in 1991, we knew enough to hate America. We were children of the End of History, but History had just shoved its hand through the fresh gravedirt and clambered out.

When the Iraq War was spooling up, the very same kids who had a few years ago been drawing up invasion maps with Raphael were openly deriding American attempts to project power. Cultural products were still American. More so than ever, in fact. When I think of the mid 00s, I wonder at just how dominate the US was before the internet allowed other perspectives to creep in. Consequently, when I think about opposition to the Iraq War, I think about a song by Le Tigre, which includes clips of the rallies against imperial violence worldwide. The antiwar movement was colossal. It even managed to spark a protest at my school/Deep State war planning facility. When the bell rang to signal the end of lunch, hundreds of kids refused to enter their classrooms and milled about aimlessly, showing each other their polyphonic ringtones and gossiping. A vanguard of older kids tried to start chants, but the absurdity of it meant they dwindled away pretty quickly. Glad as we were to take part in the action, few of us thought that news of our disobedience was going to be passed up from the teachers to the Education Authority, and from there to the government, US diplomats and eventually George W. Bush himself. It was nice to see Raphael trying to lead the chants though.

[coffintownkids]

I currently have the day off and am killing time waiting for Important Calls. I’m not terribly focused, but decided may as well try to get back to my “translate Arche project” while I wait around. So we are now up to Rinkaku, which had also been the first single for the album. I was, hmm, having a lot of really Not Good health problems at the time it got released ^^; So now I am making up for lots of lost time!

輪郭 (Outline) - Dir en grey

輪郭を伝う 夢や愛を無色に変えながら

Tracing the outline

While things like dreams and love turn colorless

契る約束が終わりを告げる

I’ll announce the end to my vowed promises

焼けた野原には虚ろを摘む 透けた白い肌、その燐火に捧げる 詩

Plucking the burnt fields bare [1]

Transparent white skin, to those will-o’-the’wisps [2] I’ll offer

A verse

夢から 夢から夢へガラスの道へ 夢から涙さえ消え去って 夢から 夢から覚めたこの世界では 思い出さえ夢となり…

Since it’s a dream

From dream to dream to roads made of glass

Since it’s a dream, even tears disappear

I woke from the dream to this world

Even my memories will become a dream…

羽搏く時、写し 心音が指し示す 嘘を奏でる

Time to spread my wings [3], a facsimile

The sound of my heartbeat indicates

It’s playing a lie [4]

写実家の様に 限りなく現実を描き出す 「傍に居て欲しい」 笑顔に変えて

It looks like my parents’ real house [5]

Sketching it out as close to reality as possible

“I want to stay by your side”

My expression changes into a smile

MINERVA

MINERVA

夢から 夢から夢へガラスの道へ 夢から涙さえ消え去って 夢から 夢から覚めたこの世界では 思い出さえ夢となり…

Since it’s a dream

From dream to dream to roads made of glass

Since it’s a dream, even tears disappear

I woke from the dream to this world

Even my memories will become a dream…

無作為に振り撒いた願いはただ 誰の為でもなく弱さを映し出す

Wishes scattered about at random

Don’t benefit anyone, they’re just a reflection of weakness

此処に居るこの俺は 今何を歌う?  

I’m the one that’s here now

What will I sing about?

「願う事さえ許されない」

“I’m not even allowed to wish for things.”

鬼さんこちら手の鳴る方へ 鬼を捕まえ私と変わ…

Mr. Demon, come follow the clap of my hands

I’ll catch the demon and change…[6]

-

虚ろ can mean empty/hollow/vacant. So conveying the fields have nothing left in them. 虚 by itself can also mean falsehood. Given the themes of truth/reality vs dreams throughout the song, it’s possible this character is meant imply more than one thing here.

燐火 can more literally be read as phosphorous lights. It’s meant more as “ghost lights” like in legends. Things that appear late at night that trick you, things that give you false hope, that sort of thing. Tying into wandering around in these ruined, vacant places late at night and being led astray.

This is also a euphemism for going out into the world as an adult.

“Playing” as in playing an instrument, so the rhythm of his heart is giving away that he’s not ready.

写実家 this combination of characters can be read multiple ways. 写 is the same character used in “facsimile” earlier. 写実 can be read as “realistic.” 実家 is how one says “one’s own parents’ house.” 家 by itself is “house/household/family.” I think, given the previous bit about spreading their wings (ie venturing into the world), it’s trying to convey a sense of trying to recall what his family was like before he left. A sort of nostalgic feeling, I guess? How he wanted to hold onto this happy sense of family.

The final line trails off. It should be noted he changes from using 俺 to 私 to address himself here. Not sure if it’s because he was using 俺 while talking to himself, or if he is signifying just that he’s changing in general. It could be that he’s just being polite while addressing Demon-san here.

Without speculating too much, as Kyo himself never explains his lyrics, one could guess this is a song about realizing your limits and lost dreams that come with becoming an adult. Even the music itself sounds very much like a children’s song in a way. The last bit puts me in mind of how Tag is played in Japan. Rather than the person being “it” and chasing people, the person gets to be “oni-san” Tag is even called Oni Gokko.

The end of the song is super ominous with the narrator wanting to catch the demon instead of the other way around, so that he can become the new demon. Doesn’t sound like his entry into adulthood is going well!

Or is it? >:D