#poetry is born from agony or whatever

[naofaun]

i know everyone says this but there is something so homoerotic about vampires. like come on. sinking your fangs into someone's neck, a delicate and intimate part of their body. draining their life force steadily because you need it to survive. you need their life, their light, their beauty to survive. maybe if you're lucky, they'll survive the event. maybe they'll turn into a vampire too, so you can spend the rest of your years with them. i think the ultimate sign of love is being a vampire that shares your prey with another vampire.

[iantimony]

tue … wednesday,

gif warning on this one!

i was gonna post this last night but apparently i am now the type of person who gets extreme digestive distress from indian food :-( so i was too distracted by my agonies. much better today, and i feel like i had a worse reaction a few weeks ago from indian food, so maybe it's something that will get better with time like everything else ...

listening: so my brother spontaneously bought us tickets to see st vincent in [redacted] while we're on vacation...i haven't listened to her in ages but i was like sure why not...her new album dropped on the 26th and it's SO good. i'm kinda obsessed and very excited to see her live now. it's a good album. listen to it.

listened/watched the wtyp on five over ones, and started the more recent one on the camp fire.

reading: continuing 'how to read poetry like a professor'. yum. poetry.

watching: once again, dunmeshi (my boyf keeps asking "when is best girl showing up" (izutsumi) and i finally was able to be like "i think next episode"), more asobi asobase. insane show. the voice actors are masters of their craft, truly. good lord.

playing: fallow.

making: some stuff came out of the kiln that i actually like! the cave painting mugs!!! i made One fatal error - i put a 'satin' topper over the outside assuming it would be matte. it. kinda isn't? kinda is? made these weird "jizzy" (instructor's words, not mine, lol) streaks. thankfully it isn't too noticeable and they came out really good otherwise. the hardest part has been photographing them, the designs go all the way around and choosing a favorite is so hard...i made a gif to try and capture it all lol, and i really love the little handprints on the handles. these will go in their own post in the next few days so i can tag the inspiring artist :)

i also threw some new ones to make more! i do think in the future i will be handbuilding them though. i just really don't like throwing red clay for some reason. maybe i just need to practice more i dunno. i've since trimmed and put handles on these but i forgor to take a photo.

citrus juicer! it works!! it came out a little more Orange than i anticipated, the only downsides are manually scooping out the seeds, and also that it can kinda only handle one fruit at a time, but man, whatever, it's so cute.

mug/teacup that i tried a new underglaze technique on, where i put the flowers on the greenware and then use liquid latex to cover them to just slather the thing in the bg color: works well, i did this for the mug from last week too! my mistake with this one was putting that same jizzy satin overglaze on the flowers and it made them weird and blurry. it's cute otherwise though.

some stuff going in the kiln for bisque: fun texture bowl and a little trinket dish that i underglazed some cherry blossom trees on, inspired by something a friend in class did!

in terms of new things, today is actually the last day of class for me til i get back in july, so i will be trimming a pot and plate that i made last week but will otherwise just work on things i already have! the goal is just to leave things in a place where no extra clay work needs to be done; things can be left as greenware til i get back.

i also made some little watercolor palettes! for some reason the last one i made i didn't carve out material, i just sort of pressed in, and this made the whole thing a little wonky, so i'm hoping these will lay flat because i carved material out

eating: nothing of crazy note. made deb smittenkitchen's soy glazed chicken again because it whips ass.

misc: wough...fucked up day......butter chicken for dinner knocked me for a major loop last night and i wasn't able to sleep til like 1:30am from the Agonies, woke up to feed the cats and then went right back to bed...didn't get up til noon...but now i feel loads better so i might try to do some light exercise this afternoon before pottery, otherwise sleeping tonight is gonna be a nightmare lol. the goal for the afternoon is to submit my last thing for classes (takehome exam, it's not bad i just have to finish it up, and then i officially finished my masters degree (!!!)) and then do a little more for my meeting tomorrow morning. this time next week my brother will be here with me, and that following weekend we drive home together, so everything is about to happen very fast! i'm not gonna be home for as long this summer, and won't just be rotting in my room the whole time, so hopefully things will go much more smoothly mental health wise. fingers crossed! things are looking up! :)

[swordheld]

hi!! i followed you recently and i think i'm a little bit in love with your unfailingly kind and wondrous energy, reading what you have to say always makes me love the world a little bit more. i was wondering if you had any poetry recs about the sun??

you are so sweet, oh my stars! welcome, and i do so hope you continue your cultivation of loving the world around you! there’s so much here to love, so much that waits to really bloom until you look. this may be a gently meandering type of list  ���  i have such a love love love for the sun in poetry and media, you’ve chosen one of my favourite topics! i adore how it always seems to come back to light, to warmth. i hope you enjoy my picks!  ☀️

giovanni’s room, james baldwin  –  “and here my baby came indeed, through all that sunlight, his face flushed and his hair flying, his eyes, unbelievably, like morning stars.”

memory is sleeping, sanna wani  –  “where is the wind? in love, the wounds you tend. a wound, a door, a lake, a fence. whatever is perpendicular to your becoming.  /  someday, you will be in love again. the sun, a wound on your windowsill. light falls on your dreams. it sounds like someone knocking.“

in the country of resurrection, ada limón  –  “but that was last night. this morning the sun is coming alive in the kitchen. you’ve gone to get us gas station coffee and there is so much life all over the place.”

gps, shauna barbosa  –  “you kiss the back of my legs and i want to cry. only the sun has come this close, only the sun.”

there is a gold light in certain old paintings, donald justice  –  “there is a gold light in certain old paintings  /  that represents a diffusion of sunlight  /  it is like happiness, when we are happy  /  it comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, this light  /  the world is dusty, uncle. let us work.”

the first day without a mother, joy harjo  – “i keep looking back. maybe i have turned to salt. it burns blue, like the spirits who have already started to call me home, up over the last earthy hill broken through with starts of blue flowers that heal the wounded heart.  /  i sit up in the dark drenched in longing. i am carrying over a thousand names for blue that i didn’t have at dusk.”

the crying book, heather christle  –  “and what shall we make ourselves from today? a memory, a seedling, a word? what can we hold up to the light and find despair has not yet touched?”

july notebook: the birds, robert hass  –   “sleep like the down elevator’s  /  imitation of a memory lapse.  /  then early light.  /  why were you born, voyager?  /  are you soaked in dreams, still?  /  is the light still touching everything?”

into the breach, ocean vuong  –  “you’re so quiet you’re almost tomorrow.  /  i want to leave no one behind. to keep & be kept. the way a field turns its secrets into peonies. the way light keeps its shadow by swallowing it.”

the brothers karamazov, fyodor dostoyevsky  –  “and i seem to have such strength in me now, that i think i could stand anything, any suffering, only to be able to say and to repeat to myself every moment, ‘i exist.’ in thousands of agonies -  i exist. i’m tormented on the rack -  but i exist! though i sit alone in a pillar -  i exist! i see the sun, and if i don’t see the sun, i know it’s there. and there’s a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there.”

when the ghosts come ashore, jacqui germain  –  “you have survived so much that no one remembers. and you still spread warm rain on all your overgrown lots. and you still get dressed in the morning. you still open wide for the sun.”

extracting the stone of madness, alejandra pizarnik (tr. by yvette siegert)  –  “your bones ache on the brink of morning. you split open.”

when i am among the trees, mary oliver  –  “i am so distant from the hope of myself, in which i have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often. around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, ‘stay awhile.’ the light flows from their branches. and they call again, ‘it's simple,’ they say, ‘and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.’”

i hope you get to stand alit and warm in a stream of sunlight soon, darling. i hope you get to keep some of it with you, tucked away in your pockets, for whenever you need a bit of starlight.  💛

[laceymorganwrites]

English class

Word count: 876

Pairing: Semi x reader

Warnings: swearing

Daily prompt: We never talk but we make eye contact every time someone says something incredibly stupid during class

A/N: I´ve had this idea for a while now and the daily prompt was so fitting that I finally was able to write this!! Shout out to the baby thots for being amazing <3

Taglist: @babythotshq @hidden-otaku-stuff for creating this great prompt!!

College has always been scary to you.

Even back in high school when it first came to deciding which one you were going to attempt.

It was rough, especially in a society that was based on performance and results.

You couldn´t help but comparing yourself to others even though it was the thing you swore to yourself you´d never do.

But when everyone else was doing it, when everyone else was so sure of themselves and looked down on everyone who didn´t have their intellect and skills, it was too easy to get caught in your own head.

For the longest time you thought you were incredibly stupid.

That was until you were actually in college.

In English class to be exact.

Never have you ever thought that people like this would be allowed into college, but to be fair you also thought that anyone could make it if even you got in.

The only thing that was keeping you sane was the guy who you so lovingly called Scowly.

You were also thinking about calling him Mr. Frowny Face in your head, but Scowly was just shorter.

His name was Semi Eita if you remembered correctly, but his expressions during class were gold, a sigh here, an eye roll there.

One time you swore you could hear him groan in agony as a classmate was trying so hard to analyze a poem, only to end up with the conclusion: it´s about love.

“Everything is about love, you fuckhead”… you heard Semi grumble underneath his breath and thus a beautiful… well… whatever this was, was born.

You couldn´t contain your chuckle and got his attention, not a scowl, not a frown, not even an eye roll, instead you got a curious raise of his eyebrow.

Another day, another poem.

This time your classmate came to the conclusion that love endured even death. How shocking. What an unexpected and original outcome when it came to baroque poetry.

Semi´s eyes rolled so far in the back of his head, you were afraid they would never see the light of day again.

“Just put me out of my fucking misery already…” he whispered and pleadingly looked at the clock, it was way too early for this much stupidity.

You scoffed at his statement, earning a pout from him.

There was something about Semi Eita.

A mutual understanding of sorts, a telepathic connection maybe… whatever it was, it kept you calm and collected in class.

It kept you on your toes, it kept you interested and sane to a certain extent.

Classes just wouldn´t be this much fun without him.

And yet you never spoke a word to each other, you didn´t seek each other out after class, didn´t greet each other in the hallways or the library.

But that wasn´t rude. It was simply how it was.

Maybe the whole magic about it was that you never exchanged any words and maybe the magic would be gone once you broke your silence.

Semi had you looking forward to attending class and in a weird way he even helped you improve, he pushed you to not make the same mistakes the others did in such a natural, healthy way that you didn´t know how to ever thank him for it.

Even after class you thought about him, wondered what his interests were, his ambitions.

But what you didn´t expect was seeing him playing his guitar and singing when you were out in the city running some errands.

Naturally you stopped to watch him, in absolute awe of his talent, especially his lyrical one.

Who would´ve thought that Scowly could sing like this?

That explained why he always got so agitated in class whenever people made mistakes, because he was so passionate about it all, because he cared so much, because it meant so much to him.

You didn´t know why, but your feet were glued on the ground, your instinct told you to run, it was always embarrassing seeing a classmate outside, you never knew how to react, if you should say hi or not.

But it was somehow worse when it was someone you never actually talked to but shared so much with at the same time.

Semi mesmerized you, everything about him did.

The way he played guitar, the way he was able to convey his emotions so beautifully despite his rather cold demeanor, the way he always had this amusing look in his eyes he probably was trying very hard to suppress, but you caught it anyway.

Despite all your efforts you couldn´t move, after the crowd that gathered around Semi left, you were still there, not grasping the situation.

“I didn´t know you could sing” you stated without thinking and felt so stupid like the rest of your classmates.

Wow. That was really the first thing you said to him? Great.

“You never asked” he chuckled, putting his guitar away before looking at you with those bemused eyes again.

“Well, it´s not really the thing I had in mind as the first thing I´d ever say to you, but here we are” you stated, scratching your head slightly.

“So, your song´s about love, huh?” you grinned, making him laugh slightly and shake his head in amusement.

[batmansymbol]

I’ve been squinting at the labels on your bookshelf but can’t make out some of them... please share! Sex and violence is the only one I can make out and I simply must know the others!

hahaha oh anon, they’re very silly labels.

the left bookcase, top to bottom, is:

Gifts (Intentional & Accidental) yes, "accidental gifts” does mean "books that someone loaned me that we both forgot about and then i moved and discovered that i still had them.” yikes

Adults (and their very grown-up lives) criteria: must be about people in their thirties or older. startlingly low hit rate for this among my books. even a lot of my literary fiction is about younger people. i’d like to work on this. i also need to work on my shockingly malnourished poetry shelf. if anyone has poetry recommendations PLEASE give them to me

Sex & Violence

Pure, Uncut Escapism

the right bookcase, top to bottom:

Ruin Your Day considering renaming this shelf “Here There Be Tears” because Ruin Your Day sounds sort of negative, and i love these books, they’re just full of emotional agony

Doorstoppers this one i might rename as “Potential Murder Weapons” or “I Like Big Books and I Cannot Lie”

Ethnic Fiction featuring such ethnic works as Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and Curtis Sittenfeld’s Prep

the ethnicity is white

ha ha

of course i would never be so prejudiced as to separate White Fiction from Normal Fiction... as you can see, when work by a white author transcends its genre, it can make it onto another shelf...

do i have an ax to grind about the way bookstores were essentially segregated until like fifteen years ago... no... whatever would give you that idea ... w h a te v er wo uld  gi ve y ou tha t id ea

anyway, in seriousness - this shelf was mostly born not from bitterness but from the fact that once i’d come up with all my other fun shelf ideas, it wound up being a lot of these kinds of books that remained uncategorized!

although, all that said, i must admit i’m also considering a “men’s fiction” shelf.

Unusual Teenagers

... and then i have a separate shelf in my bedroom that has my lifelong favorites!

so, yes, in terms of finding books, this system is totally useless. it’s basically just to amuse anyone who might find themselves in my apartment, and given the current state of the world, that’s shot. oh well.

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

As You Are

Chapter: I’m Fine

Co-authors: hopeless_romantic_spoonie, yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Spoons pushes herself too far and takes a tumble. Loki is there to pick up the pieces.

Entire series also found on Ao3 here :)

A/N: As always, co-written by my masterful friend, @yespolkadotkitty​! She’s the bee’s knees.

Sometimes you didn’t listen to your body.

You should have stopped and taken a break after doing all of the dishes left over from the breakfast you had decided to make. But doing the dishes, you noticed that the counters needed a good wipe down. But while you were wiping down the counters you noticed that the floors were also pretty grubby, so you’d busted out the mop and taken care of that. By that point you were shaking from exhaustion and pain, but that part of your brain that told you to just ‘Stop!’ had taken a break and never returned.

So, in the middle of carrying a load of laundry across your small apartment, your back finally gave out and you tumbled to the floor. Fire exploded from your elbow, hip, and temple from the impact, and a cry tore itself from your throat. You were a creature of pain, curled up among your once-clean clothes, fighting the spasms that wracked your muscles as hot tears - partially born of shame - streamed down your face.

If you could only suck it up and crawl over to the couch, you could calm down the worst of the agony. But your meds were in the bathroom, so you’d still have to work your way there. You were quickly spiraling into the depths of your despair, fueled by frustration more than anything, when you heard your front door creak up.

“Kitten, I brought - What happened?”

Of course Loki would show up now.

He was at your side in an instant, green eyes wide with concern as he knelt among your clothes. “How can I assist you? What do you need?”

He’d seen you in pain, he’d seen you exhausted beyond all belief, but he’d never seen you so hurt and so angry that you were reduced to tears. You wanted to crawl into a hole and die, but you also needed to get up off the floor if you had any hope of being able to even walk tomorrow.

Avoiding his gaze, you tried to lift yourself up onto your elbows, which only resulted in you gasping as the red hot fire of your battered nerves stole your breath away. Panting, you clenched your eyes shut, opening your hands in surrender to the god still leaning over you. “I hate asking it, but can you put me on my bed?”

“What else can I do?” he asked, carefully sliding his arms beneath you, cradling you to his chest. Your fingers clutched onto the lapel of his shirt, loose as the first few buttons had been left undone, and you breathed in the calming scent of citrus and leather that perfumed his skin.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, even as your face twisted in the discomfort of him gingerly laying you down on your bed. There goes any sexual feelings he ever had for me.

The bed pitched beneath you as he settled next to you, and you gritted your teeth when his warm, calloused fingers just barely grazed the growing lump on your forehead. “You are not fine. What do you need?”

Stubborn to a fault, you opened your eyes and tilted your head enough to look at him. You tried for a reassuring smile, but even you could tell that it didn’t sit quite right on your face. “I’m okay, really. What’d you bring?”

You hadn’t ever really been on the receiving end of his wrath before, and even the taste of it hardening his eyes was enough to make your heart stutter in your chest. “Do not lie to me, kitten. You cannot even move and you are still crying. Now, tell me the truth, foolish Midgardian.”

Successfully chided, although he’d added gentleness to his tone, you bit your bottom lip and wiped at the tears betraying your true emotions before letting your hand fall onto the bed next to you. “Two pain pills and a muscle relaxer, please.”

He nodded and disappeared into the bathroom. He returned quickly with the pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “Better. Have you eaten today?”

You took the medicine gratefully and managed to stretch your arm enough to put the glass on your nightstand. Not wanting to get in trouble again, you shook your head. “No, I might’ve forgotten…”

He sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them to look at you. Sadness furrowed his brow as he took you in, and you could easily convince yourself that what he was truly feeling was pity. Everyone did at some point, why not him?

“Luckily, I came prepared with dinner. I needed to pay Nai Nai a visit, and she sent along her noodles. She calls them bee hoon, for you. Her daughter, about your age, is, she tells me, quite obsessed with them. Will those suffice?”

“Yes please.”

He returned some minutes later with the takeout plated in a plastic bowl for you to more easily eat it. You were more grateful for the fork he provided, since you doubted you’d be able to manage chopsticks with your shaking hands. He helped you into a sitting position, propping you up with various pillows and blankets, until you could hold the bowl in your lap while he sat next to you with his food. The mingled scents of soy sauce, sesame and roasted meat drifted up to your nose from the bowl.

You sat there silently, brain too fogged over from pain to really think of anything to say, eating your delicious dinner and waiting for the meds to kick in. Both seemed to help ease your suffering when you were halfway done with the food, and you felt the worst of the tension leak out of your body so that you could form a coherent thought. Swallowing a bite of noodles, you managed to make yourself look up to his face, steeling yourself for whatever you may find there. “Thank you, for helping me.”

He snorted. “I certainly wasn’t going to leave you on the floor.”

No longer hungry, you shoved the bowl further down your legs to wring your hands together. “I.. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” he asked, abandoning his own food to look to you, brow quirked up in mild confusion.

“You don’t deserve…” you paused, waving your hands up and down your body, “this. You are so strong and capable and I can’t even do chores around the house without my legs giving out from beneath me.”

“Why was it vitally important that you get the housework done by yourself?” he asked, cupping your jaw to hold your gaze to him when you tried to look away from him.

You shrugged your shoulders. “It needed to be done.”

“That is what I am here for, kitten. You should not waste your spoons on something so trivial when there are much more enjoyable activities you could partake in,” he said, the hint of a mischievous twinkle lighting up his eyes.

“I’m just so broken and it isn’t going to get better,” you muttered, frustrated again, almost begging him to understand your point of view. He deserved someone whole, beautiful and full of life, to stand by his side.

You caught the faintest hint of blue blooming on his skin before his hand settled over the knot on your forehead, delightfully cool against the throbbing heat. He leaned against your headboard and carefully maneuvered you so that you were leaning against him, front supported against his side and back by his arm wrapped around you. “You are not broken. Not even close. If I want to see someone who is, I must simply find a mirror.”

Your hand splayed across his stomach, fidgeting idly with a button on his shirt. He was being far too kind about this, but the warm kiss that he left on the crown of your head seemed to travel throughout your whole body, lessening the load on your heart and easing some of your worries. For now. “Since your hands are occupied, you can’t read me any poetry, can you?”

A chuckle, much lighter than the atmosphere of the room only moments before, sounded into your ear through his chest. A book from your nightstand gracefully floated into the air before his face, and the pages turned of their own accord to the bookmark he had placed there the other night. “You underestimate me, darling.”

“How foolish of me, Loki,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you curled into him, losing yourself in the steady and soothing cadence of his heaven-sent voice.

He’d chosen WB Yeats this time.

“I have spread my dreams under your feet,” he read, his British accent wrapped in velvet. “Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.”

[orsino-the-enchanter]

Excercises In Futility

...or an one-shot featuring the musings of a mage who keeps going because of necessity. Characters: First Enchanter Orsino ,mentions of Uldred Pairings: none Genre: angst, existential philosophy

Deep within the Gallows’ guts, in a small tower looming over the miserable expanse of irons and ironies that is the Kirkwall Circle of Magi, the First Enchanter is dreaming. 

A pale wrist carved in hieroglyphs made with surgical precision is dangling off the bed; a crimson trail the only sign of life that trickles down and adorns long fingers. It drips from the signet ring into a pool onto the wooden floor underneath; like a liquid hourglass always giving by taking. The ominous metallic red mist of magic coming out of it and thickening the air was testimony to that; yet the crackling from the hearth, the rain cascading down the barred narrow window  and the enchanter’s steady breathing made the whole scenery seem deceptively serene. Perhaps it was. When one’s home is a prison, does it make it any less of a home? Does it make it any less of a prison?

Inside the First Enchanter’s mind, however, serenity was a foreign concept. In a sense, that was the only true freedom any mage was allowed, and he would make use of it, even though he had no choice on the matter. How did that Chant go, again? “To you, my second-born, I grant this gift: In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame, all-consuming, and never satisfied.” In the First Enchanter’s case, that flame burned in sleep as intensely as in his wake. Perhaps even more so. 

That was his rare gift -his curse: relentless consciousness and self-awareness, always and forever until he was dead, comatose, knocked out or made Tranquil; whatever came first. No more dreams, then. Orsino had once read that everyone’s existence is tied in a field; and free will is the illusion that either the field is never-ending or the rope is. He, of all people could not argue with that.

 However, determinism did not need to be blind. To say "yes" to necessity and change the inevitable into something done of their own free will? That is perhaps the only humane way to deliverance. A pitiable way, yes, but there is no other.

“And what of revolt? The proud, quixotic reaction of mankind to conquer Necessity and make external laws conform to the internal laws of the soul, to deny all that is and create a new world according to the laws of one's own heart, which are contrary to the inhuman laws of nature--to create a new world which is purer, better and more moral than the one that exists?” The flame within the First Enchanter’s bosom would ask, defiantly. 

Well, what of it. Mages do not get to have existential agonies; they do not get to exist, period. Pain is every mage’s lot, like his only friend used to say back in Kinloch, and the First Enchanter had concluded that it is in fact despair which births revolt. Not the gentle, spiritual kind of despair but the vile, brutal kind that leads an injured animal to attack its tormentor. There is no room for poetry; not yet, at least. Only for survival.

Was it not despair that made this particular gift to emerge in the first place? The First Enchanter still remembered the last night of peaceful sleep he had, many years ago; he could still taste the bitterness of guilt that night etched. If only he had woken up, rushed to Maud’s side, broken into the closet, prevented the inevitable... But he did not. He slept peacefully; were he not hopelessly young he would have known it was the quiet before the storm.

And the storm did come.  Chaos. Anger. Pain. Agony.  Then, an all-consuming Void. And finally, the Dreams came.

He was young and naive. He paid for both sins equally in one single night: the gray in his hair took the youth away and the gift of the Somniar took away the naivity. The pain took away all that was left. And still, the First Enchnter thought it was fair. Although everything else was not. 

“Why do young people die?” The Flame inside him screamed. “Everything that happens in this world is unjust, unjust, unjust! I won't be a party to it! I, the knife-eared worm, the mage slug, I! Why must the young die and the old wrecks like me go on living? What kind of justice is this? I shall never, never forgive the Maker for that, the day I die, if He has the cheek to appear in front of me, and if He is really and truly the Maker, He'll be ashamed! Yes, yes, He'll be ashamed to show himself to me, the mage-slug!"

Death had no mercy. Everyone knew that much. Wht not many knew was that in the Gallows, Despair, the Mother of Gifts was Death’s biggest ally. Slowly and tirelessly it ate through the living like mould, leaving but empty vessels for Death to claim, and it infuriated the First Enchanter. Especially because the young were most vulnerable to it.

“Why are you helping us?” a teenager had asked him earlier that day. There was nothing but hatred in his eyes -the kind of hatred and bitterness only a teenager is capable of. He had been brought to the Gallows mere days ago. “We are all lost causes, mistakes of nature only meant to cause destruction and ruin. You call it a gift, but I killed my own parents with it. My mother scolded me for not tidying up my room and it was all it took. You are an idiot to believe that there is any hope or redemption after that.” 

The First Enchanter knew; of course he did. This was not the first such case that fell under his care -yet, somehow, the boy’s words, the look in his eyes, somehow scratched a wound that had never healed. His own brow furrowed and he fixed the insolent youth with an icy, stern glare as he felt his blood boil in anger. “Ever heard of Entropy?” he said, and the boy looked at him as if he had suddenly transformed into a monster. “I have seen such cases. People who drain life merely by their touch; make steel erode, turn forests into wastelands. And when there is nothing to absorb, the force turns to absorb themselves. I have seen little girls slowly melting away like candlewax, infants who looked like elders, children playing around covered in man-made exosceletons to prevent anyone from coming to contact with them; wearing their own sarcophagi while still living. Call me foolish, if you will. I am helping because regardless of what they are like; what you are like, you deserve better. You deserve life.”

And tonight, the First Enchanter would make sure of it.

It was forbidden, and, until revently unheard of, but he and Uldred had developed this sort of magic together; a fine combination of a Somniar’s ability to shape dreams and blood magic’s fueling of energy. However the chance to test the spell in such a great scale hadn’t risen until now. Shaping the dreamworlds of hundreds at the same time: nconceivable, invaluable. However, putting the spell into practice revealed one drawback: great amounts of energy were required to control so many minds and blood -an excellent resource as it were- was not in limitless supply. The First Enchanter thought it was a small price to pay, regardless.

Dreaming was getting increasingly harder now and the crimson mist in the room had turned into thick fog, blurring out shapes and angles. The hearth had burned out long ago, yet the trickling of blood on the floor continued -albeit in a much slower pace. There was not much more left to give. However, the First Enchanter was content. From now on, his nights of disquiet would be put into good use; what was sacrificing himself every night so that his people could finally sleep at peace? Giving up what was already lost to provide comfort; efforts in vain, excercises in futility today, tomorrow, ad infinitum for the sake of his people; was that not the heavy duty of a First Enchanter?

The first ray of dawn made it past the barred window of the tower, and illuminated a faint, sad smile upon his lips. The Gallows started to wake up. And Orsino’s mortal coil finally gave in, magic fading and the warm, unfamiliar comfort of unconsciousness embracing him at last. 

((soundtrack))

______________________________________________________

Tagging @tryvyalsynnes for all the WIP Wednesdays you tagged me in and i failed to deliver. I hope this compensates for it.

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with LORETTA DELLUCI, who is THIRTY-THREE years old. She is often called LADY ANNE and are NEUTRAL. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

ABUSE TW

The genesis of Loretta was BIBLICAL. Her mother had been cast out from her household, abandoned by the one who she had thought would be her love, and was forced to bear her child in an empty church before the eyes of God with no one to hear her agony and rages against the world. The child’s first breath of life was one that she cursed, for a child born into rotten circumstances would likely grow up to have a rotten soul. With these words she would wake her child and to these words the poor, bright young thing would fall asleep – tears in her ears and anger stewing in her heart to prove the woman who gave birth to her wrong. And just when she thought there was no more cruelty to be subjected to, her mother did worse. At the age of thirteen she was turned over to the caring hands of nuns and the devoted of GOD. This was where she was reborn and given new life, but not without the price of becoming a ghost of the girl she used to be. Rulers and venomous words, worse than what her mother could even come by, managed to tame the the fire and rage, turning it instead into complacency and obedience.However, the company of children just as miserable as she something that she learned to treasure. But nothing good ever lasted for her and this would be no exception, for just as soon as she thought she had her family – CHOSEN, TRIED, andTRUE – they were ripped away.  Some were given to wholesome families, but the majority were not so fortunate; the people who had shouldered the burden of the world with her were never heard from again.

She was beaten and she was bruised but Loretta had been born before the eyes of God and she was determined to make him watch her raise hell upon this earth. With the help of a pure-hearted nun, a novitiate who was determined to right the wrongs the children of the orphanage had been subjected to, she managed to escape with other children, determined to live life on the streets than suffer another night of POISONOUS words. Sister Anne Joseph sent them what little money she could at the end of every week and the rag-tag group of miscreants managed to stretch the meager funds they had – that is, until Loretta managed to con enough people to support them all. They were all petty cons of course, guided by a masterful woman who took potential from the street urchins and used them to her advantage – some of them were simple pick-pocketing, others as sophisticated as hacking phones to procure credit card information. Her name was Maria and it was the only one that she would give. Her smile was deceiving, her wits sharp, and her ambition was left no room for a notion as flawed as mercy. Under her tutelage she learned the most valuable lesson a young, abandoned child could ever learn: the most important family was the one forged by will, not the one tied by blood. It was far easier to do when people were looking at your cheerful smile to slip their phone from their pocket or purse – and Loretta had a rather winning one. With the dirty money she made, she managed to afford herself, and her family, an education that would mark her as a PRODIGY. One that would allow her to write her name in something as pivotal as the stars: coding.

There are those who might say that it was by God’s grace she managed to commandeer the field, but it wasn’t by anyone’s GRACE but her own. It was her own fortitude that allowed her to turn her skill into a craft, the fire in her heart into a rage that could scorch the earth, and an intellect that could put the greatest of philosophers to shame. Coding was a language that she spoke fluently, spoke gracefully, and created poetry with �� poetry that could decimate whole countries and build them without her so much as rising from her couch in the morning. But, for all her glory and grandeur, there was the fickle, unsolvable PUZZLE of her heart. For, despite the abuses she suffered, she wanted to find her mother and show her what she had built for herself. An American empire, where she reigned supreme and was sought after – not for her pretty face, or charming tongue, but for herself. For her crystalline mind and the power that she held at her fingertips. The child born before the eyes of God, marked at her conception as a creature meant for destitution and depravity. She knew she was in Italy, so when the nights became too much for her to bear, she bought a first class plane ticket – a rather humble choice, considering purchasing her own plane was quite within her means – to the country where an GODS had once roamed and an empire began. And that was how her journey to Verona began.

It was odd how the city had ensnared her heart. It seemed to breathe as she did, with turmoil, hardships, and scars – but above all, a loyalty to a family that was chosen rather than one burdened by the obligation of blood. But the war that she had once deemed stagnant – passive, even – began to reach its crescendo, and she had never been so embarrassed as to think that the quiet could be lasting, for, as soon as she believed that there could be peace, it was shattered with the hammer of CALAMITY . A pattern so inescapable that history shows how such things deceived even the most intuitive of souls. All of Verona held its breath when the body of Alvise Vernon was discovered and Loretta was no exception because she knew what everyone else was too foolish to see: there was only ever two sides in war and the only way to survive was to arm one’s self and choose. But, until that time came, she would bide her time and consider all the cards in her hand. It was rather unfair to everyone else though, because Loretta Delluci always made sure that she had a good hand to play. Whether or not it was due to the fact she was always hiding more up her sleeve is no one’s business but her own.

IVAN RAHAL: Plague. She has been keeping track of a coder in Verona who goes by the moniker the Plague. It wasn’t difficult really, to keep tabs on whoever this might be what with the glaring scarcity of suspects to go by. From the whispers and threads she had followed, she thought it would be someone worth her tutelage – imagine the disappointment when he wasnot. Perhaps it was a blemish on Italy’s rather long list of errs and misfortunes, but the rather obvious oversights they made with their technology was one that hurt them deeply. It didn’t take long before she discovered who he was, but she was mindful to cover her tracks and watch her digital step. Despite the fact that she knew such caution was wasted – the ineptitude that she witnesses in his security processes. Those who have suffered from his breaches have whispered about him, mumbling his moniker: The Plague. The mastermind that purportedly fells people with a swift keystroke. As is consistent with Italians, their understanding and philosophies are as dated as their technological advances. Plagues are no longer the worry in this day and age – what with vaccines and modern medicine – no, cybernetic warfare is. Should he ever earn her ire, she would have no problem showing him why. She might just show him why to truly remind him of the weakness of those who think themselves untouchable gods.

RONAN IVARSSON: Mark. She loathes people who have far too much money, far too much power and do nothing with it but remind those who don’t of how weak they are. That is why Ronan is the next villain who will be felled by her coded blade. He throws his weight around without regard, robbing people of their housing before anyone can so much as raise their voice to stop it. The Ivarsson name is a grand one, a formidable one, whose record is impeccable only because it is too blood stained to read the multiplicity of crimes listed there. But Loretta is smart and, above all, she’s patient. She’s waiting for the misstep that will allow her to sharpen her blade, then the next one that will inevitably follow and allow her to press it against his throat. Then she will gut him and bleed him out as soon as he is incriminated in the eyes of all of Verona. Money will pour from him like water from a dam and she will see the sun rise on a day without Ronan Ivarsson. For she knows that on that day the world will certainly be a better place. Her mother had always made sure to remind her of how bleak the world was when she was born into it. But it will be a little less bleak the day Ronan Ivarsson is buried in the grave of his own sins.

HALCYON SANTOS: Fascination. It wasn’t meant to be something enjoyable because, due to the overarching theme in her life, figures in authority positions were detestable to her. But when she had walked into the police station, putting names to faces under the guise of looking for her “birth mother” who she just recently discovered, Halcyon had been there to help her. Perhaps it was due to the scarcity of crime committed in Verona – that could actually be convicted, at least – but Halcyon seemed to make it an objective in her life to help Loretta by whatever means necessary. They would meet over coffee, the officer’s computer in hand, and go over the missing people or any recent bodies found at the morgue. Now, Loretta could have done this quite easily herself of course, but the company was appreciated and Halcyon’s genuine kindness and concern in this manner was rather…touching, in a manner of speaking. When she spoke, daisies seemed to turn her way, and when she smiled one could almost mistake it for being something genuine and true. Loretta spends so much time looking at the darkness of a screen that she forgets how fond she is of the light reflected in someone’s eyes.

LUCIEN: Counsel. He’s a rather enigmatic man. He says the right thing at the right time, is always at the wrong place at the right time or vice versa. Regardless, he has been an inescapable presence in her life, this man from across the hall who happened to be there the moment someone tried to break into her humble apartment. Again, she was truly being humble because she was quite capable of affording a penthouse to herself. But he had felled her foe quickly and had only accepted her invitation for a drink when he realized she wouldn’t take no for an answer – or perhaps it was what he had intended on doing all along. It was difficult for her to discern, but Lucien himself was a difficult man to grasp. He was as elusive as a ghost, but as present as a shadow. But he provided the sage wisdom of a man who knew skeletons and knew them well, a man who had lived long enough to see the weariness of a world repeating its mistakes. It was difficult for her to call people in her life a friend – there were either as close as family or as distant as those who you brushed shoulders against while walking across the street – but Lucien was her counsel. Lucien was her one – and only – friend.

Loretta is portrayed by MARQUITA PRING and was written by ROSEY. She is currently OPEN.

[papofglencoe]

Writer ask game 7 and 30

Thank you so much for sending me this!!

7. Favorite author. 

Definitely Jane Austen or Charlotte Bronte. But LM Montgomery was no slouch either, and Ian McEwan and Annie Proulx merit mentions for sure. In the world of romance, I tend to pick up whatever Elle Kennedy or Sarina Bowen I can (although they’ve disappointed me on more than one occasion, when they’re on, they’re on). And I’ve only read one duology by her, but if there is a better romance writer than Robin York out there, I haven’t stumbled upon her yet. Seriously. If you haven’t read Deeper and Harder, then you gotta. 30. Favorite line you’ve ever written.

Yiiiiiikes. I don’t know! I feel like anything I say here is destined to sound douchy. lolololol. Gah. So okay… One of my favorite lines (that I most definitely did not write, but really fucking wish I had) is the last line of The Great Gatsby: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” It’s one of my all-time favorite novels, and the older I get, the more I come to appreciate the way it captures the agony and futility of nostalgia. The imagery of that line, the cadence of it and the way it uses sibilants to lull you and the stops from the “b”s to push you (a constant push-and-pull, like the tide)… the experience of reading it moves me every time. It’s poetry, and it captures what Fitzgerald was trying to do with his novel so perfectly, with just one line. Having said all that, for one of my one shots (“I only love it when you touch me, not feel me”), I tried to channel some of the elements I loved from The Great Gatsby. Not just with the subject matter (the loneliness of success, pining for someone who isn’t really yours, the hollowness of life in a gilded c/age), but I end it with a nod to Gatsby too, with Peeta looking out from the deck of his Hollywood Hills home at the traffic endlessly winding its way down Laurel Canyon. I’m no Fitzgerald, but when I reread the story, I guess I love it because I love the story it’s indebted to so much.   

I watch the taillights of the cars below me as they wind along Laurel Canyon, a constant stream of people leaving. They could all leave, all of them, driving off and vanishing into the sunset. The only one that matters is her.

I look at the cars and try to find her, try to guess which one might be taking her away from me. Car after car goes by, and I know she must be long gone by now, but I can’t help looking for her.

When my phone buzzes in my back pocket, I catch myself hoping it’s her. Please let it be her, telling me she’s coming back. That she’ll stay a little longer. For another day, another hour, or just for one more kiss.

But more than this, as I reach for my phone I find myself hoping it’s her, telling me she’s remembered their names.

[arlandvery]

Alabastor Stones (Come and Lay Your Bones) Chapter 3

Long chapter because goddammit I worked hard on it. Anyhow, as always special thanks to @veninos-posion for listening to my ideas and giving me feedback. There’s NSFW and child abuse in this chapter though, so heads up on that.

Ao3 Link

Tomura had trouble sleeping. It had been a recurring problem since he’d matured and been moved away from Mother. When sleep eluded him, he either worked until dawn in his lab or woke one of his teachers and demanded lessons well into the morning.

He was the heir apparent; only Sensei’s word was higher, and so whenever Tomura said “jump” everyone whimpered “how high”. It was nearly unimaginable, he admitted. He was a necromancer from a burned out village that had meant nothing- the chances of him here…well, he didn’t know if he could have done the math on that probability.

Sensei insisted that his heir be able to fight with everything. Though Tomura preferred his magic, he’d had an education with all weaponry and at least a decent proficiency with them. Archery was his least favorite, but knives? Give Tomura a knife and it was like he’d been born with one instead of hands.

But the point was, Tomura couldn’t sleep. He felt achy and frustrated and he felt heavy. So he ignored the voice in his head suggesting this was a bad idea and went to wake his tutor. He was fine, he didn’t need sleep.

When they entered the training hall though Tomura frowned at the sight of Sensei and Kurogiri.

Kurogiri was looking through some papers and bowed his head to Tomura in greeting. From anyone else it was a blatant show of disrespect, but Kurogiri was different. Kurogiri had been one of his first teachers- and his most trusted. He was capable and clever and loyal to Sensei. Dressed in clothes so black they seemed to suck in the light from the training hall around him, the man was terrifying.

Sensei himself stopped his warm ups and smiled at Tomura’s bow.

“Tomura, trouble sleeping again?”

“Yes. I thought I should do something with my time and came here, though.”

“Good, that’s good. I had some trouble sleeping this evening as well. Would you care to spar with me, Tomura?” His smile might have been friendly, but Tomura knew the truth.

This wasn’t a spar, this was a lesson.

“I would be honored, Sesei.” He admitted with some truth.

“Wonderful- just fists then, my boy.”

He needed to see how he measured up against his mentor, needed to prove that he was getting stronger.

(He was worthy of this, of all of it: his position, his education, his training-

“Breathe Tenko.”)

Tomura stepped into the figurative ring barehanded, getting into the proper stance.

“Do your best, Tomura.” Sensei urged.

Because your best isn’t enough.

Tomura became slowly more aware of the way that Azami treated Mother. Tomura was untouchable, but Mother wasn’t.

On top of her own chores and trying to care for him, Mother also had her own lessons to deal with. Tomura tried to watch her whenever he could, because he’d never have imagined how much work went into being a concubine.

Daily she was taught how to walk, to carry herself, how to pour tea, how to prepare it. She was taught music and instruments- small, delicate harps and flutes and things with strings that sounded so lovely, how to do her own makeup, how to arrange flowers.

She brought those lessons back to their little room. Mother taught him her music, repeating her lessons so that he could play too, or else playing softly to help him sleep. While Tomura read to her she practiced her dancing, keeping time with the rhythm of his words- it was through this that Tomura discovered the power of rhythm in poetry. They spent hours matching poems to dances that she was learning. Mother was older but she was still a child, and children snatched joy where they could find it.

There were other lessons, but those were secret, and Tomura had to swear not to watch those or he’d have to swallow needles. She came bake pale or red in the face, and often, if she had no more work to do would just curl up on her cot in silence.

Tomura grew and so did Mother, but with her growth she began to lose some of the inner warmth she carried like a warm fireplace.

When Tomura was 7 he decided he wanted to help her in any way that he could.

Flowers were everywhere in the harem. Because most of them weren’t allowed out one the grounds (indeed, it was only Azami and his attendants who were given that privilege), Sensei made up for it with the fountain and the fish, and potted and cut flowers and bushes everywhere. Naturally some of these died, despite their care. And often Mother was the one to care the most.

It was nothing for Tomura to take some of the dead flowers and secret them away.

Tomura hadn’t used his powers since he’d been rescued. The tension beneath his skin, the ever present inner spring, had been silent since he’d come home, since Mother and Sensei. The few times that he’d reached for that power nothing had happened. He’d given up on it before.

But now he had to help Mother, and he could do this.

It took nearly a month of practice. It might have taken less time if he’d had the freedom to work on it constantly, rather than an hour or two here and there. He tried to keep in mind what his weapons instructor said.

“You have to train the muscle to get better.”

And if his magic was a muscle he just needed to practice.

It was still slow going though. He was still trying to reverse death.

He nearly gave up several times but remembering Mother’s tired face or empty smile when she held him made him keep going. Made him work harder. This attitude extended to what he was learning outside of his magic. His stubborn determination bled into his efforts to read, his fighting, his math- his teachers were fascinated.

Sensei was especially pleased too.

“I knew you were a bright boy,” he proclaimed, looking over his numbers himself. Tomura had glowed with pride. “You’re making me so proud.”

But nothing topped the feeling of success when the barest hint of color began to bloom in the petals again. And so he kept pushing. One by one the flowers returned, looking as fresh as if they’d just been picked.

He left them on her bed, and Mother had hugged him.

“Oh Tomura, they’re gorgeous!” She gushed, smiling, really smiling. He blushed when she petted his hair. “You didn’t steal them, did you?” Her touches paused, and she looked afraid. That wasn’t right.

“No, I fixed them, look!” He took one of the leftover roses and held it in his hands, squinting down at them and, for lack of a better word pushing.

Color began to come back, the flower began to unwilt.

Mother stared at the rose in awe and gently took it from him, then she took the flower from him.

“Tomura, I need you to listen to me. You cannot tell anyone about this, okay? It’s dangerous.”

“I know, Mother.” She didn’t know what he’d done, she wasn’t scared. Of course she wasn’t, why would she be? “I’ve never showed anyone else.” She kissed his forehead and sat him down on the bed.

“Good. How about I show you how to make a flower crown?”

Tenko was a good boy and held still as she braided the crown and wove it in his hair, telling him about her home, about the animals and the farm.

She never mentioned her name.

Sparring with Sensei was always hell, but it was necessary.

Tomura couldn’t be better, couldn’t beat him, but he didn’t take quite as many blows to the face, didn’t stay down as long as he used to. He could take it, he could keep getting up.

Before Sensei, Tenko remembered very little. It was for the best, there wasn’t much that he wanted to remember, but some things couldn’t be helped- or forgotten.

The screaming, searing agony, smoke- they hovered at the edges, interwoven with the shattered fragments of a little boy crying for his father while everyone argued what to do with him.

Killing him would be bad luck.

So was letting him live.

But killing him would be worse.

The argument went back and forth between the village elders while Tenko sobbed in his bindings, blood in his mouth and the last remnants of his father on his clothes. Eventually the village came to an agreement to let him live.

So into the dark he went, chained to a wall.

(It might have been kinder just to butcher him)

He didn’t know how long he was down there, broken down and alone. The ones who brought him dinner, if they brought it at all, didn’t dare talk to him, no matter how he begged and cried. He talked to the rats for awhile, but stopped when he woke up once to them eating him.

When the crops failed that year they beat him. When sickness swpt through they beat him more. They called him things; “cursed”, “demon”, “witch-boy”. They begged him and threatened him by turn, trying to stopper up whatever was wrong inside of him. But at night, or in the day, because it was always dark, Tenko was alone and hurting and scared, and something dark was inside him.

The day that they dragged little Tenko from his cellar prison into the heat of the noon soon he’d been blinded by the light. He followed the hands dragging him by his chain. He was so weak with hunger and lack of motion his legs hurt and trembled with effort just from walking.

The Village headman was the one to haul him out to the gate and shove him forward at the army that had surround them. Tenko whimpered in fear, blinking away the remnant of the blindness.

The man in the lead was the one to descend from his horse and approach them.

“You’d send a child to defend you?” He asked. His voice was deep, and he had wild dark hair and dark armor. He was a big man, with a big sword, but he wasn’t afraid. He seemed like he was trying not to laugh.

Something about the man put Tenko at ease.

“The child has magic- no doubt he could defend us from he likes of you!” Growled the Headman. Tenko frowned, and the man just made a disgusted noise. The Headman gripped Tenko’s shoulder painfully and leaned down to snarl in his ear to “do it, boy. Protect your people.” Tenko flinched at the tone and the foul smell of his breath.

“You don’t have to kill me, you know.” Interrupted the man, striding forward.

What did he have to fear from a bunch of farmers and old men and a child. The child looked up at him, unsure. “They did all this to you, didn’t they?” He asked Tenko kindly. Timidly, the boy nodded. The man tsked. “That’s not right. You should never hurt children like that.”

“Tenko!” Snarled the Headman.

“Tenko. Is that your name? It’s very nice.” His stomach growled and the man smiled a little more sadly this time. “If you come with me, Tenko, I’ll make sure you’re cared for.”

“Really?”

“Mmhm. No more chains. Food and a bed. You’ll be taken somewhere much better than this…”He sneered at the village, “pit.”

The man opened his arms.

Tenko ran to them.

The village burned and the man held him and let him hide his face.

“You did good Tomura,” Sensei praised mildly, watching as Tomura vomited the contents of his stomach. That kick to the stomach had been rough. The 4th one had been the one to break the camel’s back, so to speak.

So there he was, as worn out and run down as he had been when Sensei had first gotten in the ring with him. The world still spun, his bile was stomach churning and he could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

“Thank you…Sensei,” he huffed, trying to make everything level out, including his breathing. Shame burned in his bones and he hated it, so so much.

Sensei helped him up again, rubbing salt in the wound as he helped Tomura to the wall.

His arms were still strong, and they still made him relax instinctively.

Nausea roiled again and then he was on his knees, throwing up again and darkness shuttered over his consciousness again. Distantly he heard people shouting his name.

One day, Mother started acting strange.

She was always irritated, restless. She became a perfectionist. Tomura witness her visibly restraining herself from slapping Azami when the omega made a comment about Tomura putting on weight.

“He was half starved when he arrived.” She reminded with gritted teeth. Azami hit her and didn’t feed her dinner for her insolence. Tomura put some of his away to give her at bedtime, but the sight of the smuggled food made Mother start crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Tomura,” she whined, pulling him close.

“Mother?”

“I can’t do anything right- you shouldn’t have to take care of me!”

Her strange behavior continued- she stole Tomura’s clothes, stripped the bed and shifted it into the corned and reorganized everything, rolling around in it, keeping Tomura in it with her.

Azami was displeased with it, but didn’t make a comment other than telling her “don’t leave food in the nest, Fetch or we’ll have rats.”

One morning, when Tomura woke up to get ready, Mother pulled him back into the nest and held him there, growling in gentle reprimand when he tried to leave.

“Mother, we have to work,” he protested quietly.

But she said nothing, clinging to him and purring. She smelled so nice, it made it hard for Tomura to think of anything but the softness of the nest, the warmth of his Mother around him, the sweetness of her scent.

When a maid finally poked her head in to demand to know what they were doing, she froze at the sight of them and then shut the door. By then Mother was nuzzling into his neck, scenting him. It was such a foreign thing to him- he hadn’t been scented since he was a baby. It instantly made him stop thinking beyond the here and now, going lax and letting out baby purrs of his own.

At some point, Sensei was there, still smiling.

“This is interesting.” He remarked, taking a seat outside the nest. “I never would have expected you bringing him into your nest, Pet.”

“My pup.” Mother’s voice was rough and thick, squeezing him tighter.

“It’s not often that an omega will adopt a child not related. How did that come about- are you in enough of a mind to tell me that?”

“’s alone. Not ‘nymore.” Tomura whined and Mother crooned softly, moving to block him from sight. Sensei laughed and reached in to ruffle Mother’s hair.

“Considering the special circumstances, Pet, I’ll let you handle this on your own. Congratulations, little omega.” He pressed a kiss to her head and left the room.

Tomura woke up sore and sick, feeling spaced out and gross. There was a cloth on his head, damp- from sweat or water? He didn’t know. His throat hurt.

There was a soft hand on his.

Weakly he turned to look at Mother, swallowing thickly.

She was sleeping at his bedside. Her hair was mussed and she looked pale and exhausted, dressed down out of her fancy costumes and makeup.

She looked like Fetch again.

He didn’t know if he hated it or preferred it.

Carefully Tomura wrapped his fingers around hers, holding her hand in his. It was dwarfed by his large hands, still stained with the tools of his trade. His panic, his fear, was already dying again, just being near her and her scent.

It was silent in the sickroom. Of course it was the sickroom; leaving Mother alone with him in his den would have been the height of impropriety, people would talk.

Daringly though, his thumb brushed over her wrist, right over her scent gland. The warm vanilla smell got stronger and Tomura stifled a groan, not wanting to wake her. He resisted the urge to bring her wrist up so that he could kiss it or scent her. Sensei tolerated so much from him, but even that had a limit.

Mother’s smell changed after that. She’d always smelled good, but now she could have brought Tomura to his knees with it if she wanted. But Mother wasn’t like that.

There was a shift in the harem, Azami was called less and less to Sensei’s bed, and that made him nervous. He was getting older, he still hadn’t been bred, his position was slipping. He lashed out at everyone. Despite the new space in his bed, Sensei didn’t seem eager to fill it. The power vacuum made everything unstable.

It didn’t help that because Mother was an omega now, a real omega, not just Fetch, she wasn’t their lapdog anymore. It was one more thing that muddied the pond. Mother was still low on the totem pole, but she had a right to ask for things now, the right to meet Azami’s eyes and say “no” when Azami snapped at her to do something. This didn’t help, and often sent the omega into a tantrum.

One day during one of Azami’s fits he threw down his songbird’s cage. The poor thing died of shock and Mother cried for it.

Their little nest was filled with flowers already, what difference would a bird make?

It was harder to take the little corpse than it was to steal the flowers, but Tomura did it, shivering at the little feathered corpse tucked in his shirt.

His practice with the flowers paid off, but that didn’t make it any easier to breathe life back into it. It wasn’t like a plant, there was a soul, organs, stuff that had to be worked on that Tomura had never dared to work on before. Taking life was easy, returning it was nearly impossible. But he’d do it for Mother.

Tomura worked endlessly on it, ignoring his failures. He pushed power and magic into the little corpse, forcing it’s heart to beat, it’s lungs to breathe.

When it’s chest began to rise and fall again, Tomura smiled triumphantly, exhausted and worn.

That was how Mother found him, the songbird shining like a jewel, singing in their room, Tomura unconscious in their nest. She cleaned him up and named the bird Jewel, and thanked him when he woke up.

It was Jewel that gave them away.

Azami reported the bird’s song to the eunuchs, claiming that they had brought a wild one inside. When the Eunuchs found Jewel they brought them both before Sensei.

“Now what I don’t understand,” Sensei said calmly, sprawled on his throne, “is where the bird could have come from. Because I specifically remember giving this to Azami.” Jewel was perched on his finger, trilling happily. Azami himself was at Sensei’s feet, looking smug. “But it died- I remember receiving that report. And yet,” he mused, stroking Jewel’s head, “here it is, singing in the palm of my hand. How did this happen? Tomura?” He asked calmly.

Tomura shook with fear. He’d got them in trouble, Sensei would hate him, he’d not be allowed to live here anymore.

Mother’s hand squeezed his shoulder.

“It’s okay, tell the truth.” She whispered.

“A-Azami killed it and it made Mother sad. So I…I made it better for Mother.” Mother turned bright red, but Sensei looked interested. He took the bird carefully.

“You made it better?” He repeated.

“Master, please, the brat lies- that’s impossible-“

“Silence, Azami.” The slap that he gave the omega made Tomura flinch. Azami whimpered and became silent. Jewel made uncomfortable squeaking noises. “Now, you’re telling me that you brought a bird back to life. Is that right, Tomura?” Hesitantly he nodded.

With one smooth hand Sensei twisted Jewel’s neck and the bird fell silent. Tomura cried out, but Mother’s shaking hand kept him rooted.

“Come here, Tomura,” why was Sensei so calm? How could he do that?

On shaking legs Tomura stepped up to the throne. Sensei held out the broken little body, and Tomura took it, cradling it close. Jewel was still warm in his hands, and he struggled not to cry. Instead he looked at Sensei.

“Fix it.” Sensei said calmly, but his eyes were flat and piercing.

Tomura cupped Jewel carefully and closed his eyes. Inside he felt shaky and scared, but there wasn’t anything he could do but obey him.

It’s difficult to describe trying to pull and infuse life back into the dead. It took place in the part of his consciousness that Tomura felt more than expressed. With invisible fingers he shoved something intangible back into Jewel, forced it’s neck to correct itself, made it’s heart beat again purely by his own will.

Sensei began to laugh, even as Azami gaped.

“This was what your village meant by your magic, wasn’t it!” He declared happily, “you actually have magic! More than that, you, my boy, are a necromancer!” Sensei was absolutely delighted,  and stood up, knocking into Azami without a care as he strode forward. “Brilliant, brilliant boy! And to think that I didn’t even know! I just assumed that it was superstition!”

Hesitantly Tomura began to relax. Things were okay. He wasn’t in trouble.

“I…I was too scared to do anything, that day.” He admitted quietly. Looking down at Jewel. Sensei cupped his chin and tilted his head up.

“Well, you need never fear again, child, things will be different. A necromancer doesn’t belong in the harem, no, he belongs at my side. My heir.” He declared.

Mother’s hands flew to her mouth, even the eunuchs were shocked. Azami looked like he’d been informed of his own execution.

“But…but what about Mother?” He asked, before the man could continue. Sensei cocked his head and looked at her.

“Oh. You want to remain with your mother?”

“Yes. She makes me happy.”

“Well. I certainly couldn’t have my heir distressed. You are still a pup. Pups need their dams.”

Mother and he were moved to the suite meant for the Emperor’s favored omega- Azami’s rooms. The man had lost a war that only he’d fought.

And while Tomura got to remain with Mother, Mother was put directly in Sensei’s sights.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick?” Mother asked with a long suffering sigh later that day; Tomura had dozed off again and woke feeling a little better, to Mother awake working on some embroidery. There were fresh flowers at his bedside, and the smell made his nose twitch.

“Because I wasn’t sick yet.” His explanation came out as a weak croak. Mother just raised an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t lie to me, Tomura.” She scolded gently, tsking at him. Tomura frowned and watched her needle flick as she sewed, flashing silver like fish in the water. It was soothing.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted quietly. Her expression softened just a bit.

“Oh Tomura.”

The door opened and a woman entered, silencing the both of them. She was young, maybe younger than him, with dark hair in two buns on her head and a shy little smile. Something about her made Tomura watch her hands. He’d been in the sickroom plenty, but he’d never seen her before.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just changing out the linens,” she sing songed. Tomura frowned and looked back at Mother, but her expression was closed off again, her usual mask.

“I didn’t mean to worry you, I’m sorry.” He repeated quietly, taking her hand again. He watched how the woman’s eyes flicked to him and Mother, even as she didn’t pause or incline her head.

“I know. I just wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard, dear.” She said, frowning at their joined hands.

She was so pretty, so kind.

“Sensei wanted to spar. I can’t deny him.” She nodded in understanding, but she still smelled distressed.

“He shouldn’t…push you so hard. You look like death warmed over…it’s not right, Tomura.” But it was right, it was Sensei’s right to do what he wanted until he was no longer on the throne.

“I need to be better.”

She shook her head,scowling.

“I’ll talk to him.” She promised. “I’ll try to make this better.”

“Mother don’t-”

“I’ll handle this dear. Now, I have a little time before I have to leave, don’t deny me time with you please.”

And he couldn’t do that either.

There wasn’t much point in staying in the sickroom once Mother was gone. He felt better, he had his medicine. So once she left him he left too, promising to take it easy until he was feeling better. It didn’t stop him from heading to his lab and immediately using the skull to watch her.

Visions of her swam across his eyes.

Mother in Sensei’s lap, red with arousal and pupils blown wide.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Pet,” he grunted, watching her raise herself up and drop back down. “Telling me how to raise my own heir, where do you get the right?” One hand buried in her hair, yanking, exposing her neck.

“Please- he-you hurt him-“

“He is my son. And you are my omega. You don’t have the right to tell me how to train him!” His teeth were dangerously close to her throat and she stilled in fear, chest rising and falling. No no no no no Sensei wouldn’t do that would he?

“You hurt him- he’s my son-“

“Because I allow it. Because it pleases him. Had he not wanted to keep you you would have been left in the harem’s gutters where you were- but you’re lucky Pet, lucky that he took a shine to you, and lucky that you’re halfway decent at being a mother.” She screamed as he twisted one nipple painfully.

“Please, please I-“

“Don’t presume your place. Do you understand?”

Helplessly she nodded.

Rage boiled deep inside him.

“Now, be a good Pet and finish me.”

Tomura felt like he had at 8 years old on the other side of the partition in their nest. When Sensei came to see Mother it was usually late at night, and because they slept together, Mother would have to wake him and send him to the little cot in the corner, a painted screen blocking them from view.

He’d lie awake and listen first to her soft crying and then soft moaning and the occasional gasp, to Sensei’s whispered words of affection.

He felt like an intruder and the keeper of a secret.

Now, taking himself in hand and touching himself to the vision of Mother riding Sensei and begging for release, for relief, as bruises bloomed on her pale skin like flowers.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: Tomás Nochteff (Mueran Humanos)

Mueran Humanos, an Argentinian duo now based in Berlin, mixes post-punk, industrial-inflected synth explorations, garage rock and psychedelia. Carmen Burguess and Tomás Nochteff share vocal duties and play a very basic line-up of instruments: bass, synths, drum machines and samplers. In his review for Dusted, Andrew Forell called their latest, Hospital Lullabies, “a thrilling concoction of electronic, industrial, bass-driven body music fueled by the transgressive spirit of a DAF or a Psychic TV.” Here, Tomás presents his list of visionary music.

A list of visionary music

What is a visionary? Visions can come in dreams, in journeys to other worlds, in hallucinations. They can be the product of will, of a derangement of the senses, or they can come uninvited to save you or to haunt you and destroy your mental balance, even your life. It can be heavenly, or hellish, but to be authentic visions they have to be otherworldly. And to be visions rather than just imagination, they must have an element of truth. Not literal truth, like “that wall is green,” but a different kind of truth, the one that´s expressed in symbols, in metaphors, in omens and obsessions. In “Heaven and Hell,” Aldous Huxley analyzed the visions of people under the influence of psychedelic drugs, the visions of mystics and the visions of schizophrenics. He found fundamental parallels and concluded that they must have been visiting the same places. These people are not merely hallucinating, but they are perceiving another reality, visiting a different world, or maybe they are perceiving the world as it really is. And he quotes Jung on this: “schizophrenics and mystics are on the same ocean, but schizophrenics are drowning and mystics are swimming.” A visionary could be a mix of all these archetypes. Like Philip K Dick: was he on drugs? Yes. Was he mad? Yes. Was he seeking enlightenment? Yes. Had his visions an element of truth? No doubt about it. Were his visions revelations? To some extent, yes.

On our last album, Hospital Lullabies, the songs deal with all these different experiences on the journey to another world and on the invasion from another world into everyday life, with its horror and its beauty, the agony and the ecstasy. And how one copes, or doesn´t, with it.

So to celebrate it, I made a list of music that I do consider visionary. There’s madmen, there’s mystics and there’s psychonauts, all possible combinations of the three archetypes and everything in between.

Pharoah Sanders—“The Creator has a Masterplan” (Impulse)

I don´t know much about cosmic jazz, or any jazz for that matter, but what I know is that this record is pure bliss. “Harvest Time,” on Pharoah is another masterpiece. Alice Coltrane and Don Cherry are also incredible. This is music of the spheres; it has the touch of God.

Rudimentary Peni—CacophonyI (Outer Himalayan Records)

One of the few perfect punk bands ever, for lots of reasons. The bass lines are extraordinary, for example. But they belong here because of schizophrenic member Nick Blinko: incredible artist & novelist, obsessed with Catholicism and the supernatural horror. A guy who stopped his medication to force himself into a psychotic crisis just to write an album. Hero. Martyr.

Nico— “Janitor of Lunacy” (Cherry Red Records)

For me, Nico was the best and more underrated of all Velvets (and we love Velvet Underground as much as anyone). Also, the production from John Cale on her records is probably his best work too, or at least among his best. I feel that she is not appreciated enough. Iggy said that meeting her changed him. I suspect that´s true for all her famous friends: Bowie, Lou Reed, John Cale, Leonard Cohen, etc. They were all larger-than-life characters. And we know there is an element of self-built mythology on all that, a bit of acting. There is nothing wrong with that; rock and roll at its best is a complete artform and we must appreciate this self-built mythology as part of their craft. But with Nico you don´t get that feeling. She seemed that she didn´t care about her image, she was born Nico and I suspect that in that sense she inspired them all to no end. She was the genuine article. One of our main loves in music. Essential with a capital E.

Coil—“I Don’t Want To Be The One”

Jhonn Balance wanted to be a magician, and he died trying. I think he succeed in building a shamanic body of work with the help of the great late Sleazy and a myriad of brilliant contributors. Coil´s music at its best it´s like a plasma between worlds, or a very, very good psychedelic drug. My most beloved electronic/industrial/post-industrial project ever and one of our main influences. This performance is superb.

Lungfish — Feral Hymns

I´m not interested in DC post hardcore per se, and I don´t have any tattoos. I shouldn´t care about Lungfish the way I do, but they knock me out every single time. Daniel Higgs is a seer. I don´t know what he is talking about, but at the same time, my gut knows exactly what he is talking about. He speaks in images, like Tarot, like the religious painters, like Rimbaud and San Juan de la Cruz. His delivery is supreme. Raw and fragile, yet powerful and precise. Over circular, repetitive, minimal structures of music that have a haunting, arresting effect. Hypnotic, magical, devotional music. Either you get it, or you don´t. I can´t explain it. That´s the beauty of it, I suppose. And the truly mark of the visionary artist.

Ghedalia Tazartes—“Une Éclipse Totale De Soleil Part 2”

Ghedalia for me represents the pure, untouched, sui generis artist. Applying the techniques of musique concrete to the ancient folk music of the Sephardic Jews with a raw energy that usually you can only find in punk, or blues. I see in him an archetype, the Fool card in the Tarot. The madman that opens the gates of heaven and hell, gives himself to these supreme energies and survives only because of his perfect innocence.

OM—“Sinai (live at Sonic City)”

Maybe the greatest rock band of the last 20 years. Here with Robert Aiki Aubrey Lowe to maximum effect.

Charlemagne Palestine—Live in Holland 1998

Like Ghedalia, Charlemagne Palestine is a Jewish artist that works in the avant garde field but subverts it with the tradition of his folk music instead of sticking to the cold, cerebral, rational program of academia. He has his own world. Watch this and you will understand what I am talking about.

Virgin Prunes—Excerpts from Sons Find Devils/“Walls of Jericho”

There is a VHS tape called Sons Find Devils, comprised of live shows and short experimental films (some of them made by Balance, from Coil). I had it as a teenager and watched it countless times. Sadly, it is not complete on YouTube or elsewhere but here are some small extracts. With their heretic mix of Irish Catholic imagery, Irish Paganism, Bataille, performance art and post punk, the Virgin Prunes made a unique and extraordinary body of work. A testament of its importance is that Gavin Friday was guest singer of two bands in this list: The Fall and Coil. And Mr. Scott Walker himself invited him to sing on a play. Maybe the historians ignore them, but Mark E. Smith, Scott Walker and Coil knew where it’s at, didn´t they? Their record If I die I die is a masterpiece. Produced by Colin Newman from Wire, no less, if you need more validation.

Boredoms—Vision Creation Newsun

I like some of the more comical, early work of Boredoms, but with Super AE and this one they got me. They got serious and spiritual, channeling Alice Coltrane, tribal drumming, kraut rock and noise into a glorious, euphoric sound. Maybe they are not visionaries, but their music can produce visions. I saw them around 2005 (on acid) with the three drummers line up, still in this phase. I remember thinking “this is what cavemen had in mind when they invented music.” I actually saw it, with my eyes closed. Early humans. In caves. Inventing music. God bless LSD.

Aphrodite´s Child — 666

The one record I bought for the cover only, it cost me 50 cents, best deal of my life. A concept album about the apocalypse. Easy contender for the best psychedelic rock album of all time. Pet Sounds? Get outta here. An absolute masterpiece.

Tim Buckley—Starsailor

Tim Buckley is a mystery. He died too young. How he went from his L.A. folk rock first album to the absolute unique sound of Starsailor and Lorca is impossible to understand and a miracle of music. All six records in between are masterpieces. He was possessed by genius and has the most beautiful voice. I don´t know much about him, but his music put me out there.

Sun Ra—Night Music 1989

Watch this. Space is The Place, indeed.

Pescado Rabioso—Artaud

This guy, Luis Alberto Spinetta, is considered by many to be the most important rock musician in my country. So being an arrogant teenage punk, or whatever, of course that alone was enough to reject him altogether without even thinking. But a couple of years ago I was blown away by a book of poems he published in 1978. Incredibly beautiful, unique and sophisticated poetry. I recently started, too late, to listen to his music. This is one of his most famous and revered records. It´s dedicated to, and inspired by Antonin Artaud, who tried and failed to reach the mystic enlightenment, generating a body of work in the process which is a testament to his spiritual ambition, his radical rejection of the material world and his pain. Spinetta understood this, he said the record was trying to find an answer to Artaud, a way out of it, a way out of the pain. It´s psychedelic music of the highest order. The lyrics are incredible but you can enjoy it even without understanding them.

Dead Can Dance—Dyonisios

I kept forgetting this band exists. This new album is great. I listened to it non-stop during last Winter/Spring. It´s the perfect time because the record is about Dyonisios, so as a soundtrack for the rebirth of Nature it´s perfect. Probably their best work in years. Sublime.

The Fall—“Garden” (Live at the Hacienda, Manchester, UK, 1984)

No list of visionary rock and roll would be complete without Mark E. Smith. Famously he said, “I used to be a psychic but I drank my way out of it.” Indeed, there was a time, between 1978-1990, when he was possessed by something, injecting realism with mysticism, mixing high and low planes, exposing the supernatural forces that hides in the cracks of everyday life. He never talks about hell neither heaven, but rather the way they mix and manifest here on Earth. You’ve got countless of bands using occult/mystic imagery, and you know it´s nice but it´s just a game. You’ve got thousands of bands referencing Burroughs and the cut-up technique, but no one can write as Burroughs did. MES did it. MES wasn´t playing. He was a realist of the augmented reality, he told it like it is, in his fragmented, hallucinatory, unpretentious, visionary prose poetry.

There is a lot in his lyrics that can be read in a mystic, occult way. He left a lot of clues for the ones that can read them. His texts are kaleidoscopic, and they reflect what´s in your mind, really. I think he will be recognized with time as the great experimental writer that he actually was rather than merely an angry Mancunian punk. He had more in common with someone like Iain Sinclair than with any other rock musician. One of my favorite web sites is The Annotated Fall, where fans analyze his lyrics in depth. Pay a visit if you can, I can´t recommended it enough. In many ways, he was too intelligent for rock and roll, and that´s why he was misunderstood, but he didn´t care, he believed in constant work, never explain, never apologize. The Fall took all the best things in rock and roll: Can, Velvet Underground, punk, Captain Beefheart, and pushed it to the next level. Our favorite rock group ever.

Huun Hur Tu — “Prayer”

I tried to stick to Western, modern music but I can´t help including this.

[vividlytalentless]

The Yielding.

When I first decided to write, I wrote solely with the use of my mind. I spent restless hours, strenuously choosing each word, trying to perfect so hard, that I always ended up with a white page instead. I reached the point where I wondered why am I even doing this? A true writer would never be this burdened.

Now I stand corrected, almost all writers struggle to write sometimes. However, I wasn't writing properly, look writing isn't just about enlightening, sharing ideas or raising debates. Writing itself is a primitive sacred craft, an art made for empathy, to convey the emotions of one heart to another. Thus I've learned to bleed what my broken soul has failed to utter, I've let blank pages absorb my sentiments, encapsulating them for my small circle to read.

So maybe now when I can truly write with my soul and mind, I'll be able to speak with the never-existing you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've never felt that it's my right to choose your name, however, a day might come when my heart gets a human form; a day when I'm obliged to name you, I'll then call you Athena. After the Greek goddess of strategic war, wisdom and poetry, a goddess born wearing a battle armor, Just as the one your graceful soul will have on; you'll learn as tomorrows passes by that life can't wait to break you down, but I'm certain that you, my sweet little angel, you'll be born beautifully prepared.

I promise that I'll always be your Mediterranean, cause no Alexandrian is really ever lost by the sea. As Mays fade into Junes, I'll be by your side, watching with pride, as your baby steps grow into the choices that'll form who you truly are. I'll help you forge a spirit so irregular, that the world could never fit you in its mold. When your heart is so heavy it could form a black hole, sucking all the expressions on the tip of your tongue, I'll bring you my very first fountain pen, and show you how it's done.

If the time arrives, when you come to me with those winsome wide eyes, that just can't get enough of the world asking me, daddy where's Atlantis? I'll take this question as a symbol of acceptance, an allowance to reach out for your psyche, grabbing it closer to mine.

Baby, I'll tell you, your father spent years exploring minds, learning how to perfectly accept and understand. Trust me I'll always be a judge-free zone, forever ready to hear and love whatever thoughts you throw at me. I'll come knocking on your door, showing you that no mood late-night talks can't improve; we'll watch the stars, talking about philosophy and poetry, discussing our existential crises and dilemmas.

I'll teach you everything I've learned about life and humans.

This world is like a bag of sour candy, its bitterness is just an emphasis on the sweetness underneath, so don't you ever fear grabbing a handful. Listen every story in life come in threes, a beginning, a middle and an end, and your story will be a bestseller. Just promise me that you'll never run away from the endings, cause everything that'll pass by no matter how painful it is, is an experience worth living; endings are the water to your soil, ensuring you embark on growing with wisdom and strength.

Sweetheart never stop observing the world, watch caterpillars turn into butterflies, learn that the periphery of a phase, is far away from your demise.

Also keep in mind that solitude is a sweet poison, a toxic desire lurking in every tainted system. You should know that we humans are social creatures, we're most comfortable connected, sharing genuine strong emotions and stories.

Always cherish the holy miracle of true friendship, I'll be honest not all friendships will last forever, and losing friends are the worst type of heartbreaks. However, there's nothing time and ice-cream won't heal. Live your life wearing this big mellow heart on your sleeves, unshackle your soul from your overthinking brain, take risks and don't ever feel afraid from falling in love with people's minds.

My young Amazonian, I know that you'll be born a warrior, a superheroine trying to fix everyone's world. Believe me, I know how hard it is to watch the hearts you care for aching, but there's pain that your hugs just can't fix; sometimes no matter what you do, you cant catch all the pain you want to mend, and you'll only end up with grievous wounds exactly like the ones on my chest.

Yet I know that nothing I'm going to say, will ever stop you from doing what feels right, so here are a few tips. The secret of gaining trust is for you to actually trust first, but never EVER give anyone leverage, it's foolish to assume that all mangos are sweet. Also, don't be wasteful with your words, repetition murders the resolution in your voice, all your heartening will morph into disheartening; think of one's heart as a bucket of water, each word is a drop till it's completely full, and from there each extra word is just a meaningless spill.

My perfect storm, listen to me no matter what they'll tell you our religion is, says or enforce, don't believe it, our religion states nothing against humanity. Following our religion exclusively means that we are a work in progress towards the greater good, and that should forever be your only conviction.

Don't you ever blindly trust what you're told, at no time ever accept that ignorance is a blessing. Wander to the deepest parts of your mind, craft your ideologies, form your own identity. Become your intellect's epitome, weaponize the way you think, love and accept the person hiding at the very back of your mind.

Yet take care, our brain is too smart for our own good. Going through life with chronic overthinking only paves the road to desolation; sometimes all you need is to just lose inhibition, letting your heart get carried away, for the tip of your tongue to taste some of the sweetness of life.

So always approach your thoughts with a big sturdy heart, and that's exactly where you should place your soul, on the fine borderline between your heart and mind. Not detained and tormented by your thoughts, neither fragile and irrational under your emotions command. Your soul should be the intertwining of your feelings and thoughts, creating the heavenly relative being that is you!

My youthful goddess of wisdom, If the time comes when you're here, and you're nothing like my words, nothing like how my mind personified you; even if our hugs screamed disparity, each glimpse of you would still fill my tongue with endearments. No matter who you'll turn out to be, you'll always dwell in the deepest parts of my heart.

~~~~~~~~~~

To the purest soul that'll never to exist.

Our society is a parasitic blight that feeds on idiocy; grows on corruption; breeds indifference and defies simple peculiarities.

It'll savagely deny your orientation, identity and ideologies, in the name of its own false religion. It has mastered the art of deception for so long now, It'll herd us like a flock of sheep, carving each one of us into the embodiment of ignorance.

Yet, most importantly our society is also a tainted he, an irrational spoiled male that fear equality, repudiating your rights in the challenge of life. He'll claim possession over your own virginity, he'll cut and modify your very own body, as if ruination is his birthright. He'll harras the life out of the one organ system different body, that your soul didn't even choose to live in. Crimes committed against you, will simply be absolved, cause your screams just weren't loud enough.

Sexists exist throughout my gender's history, and they still do, causing nothing but pain and agony; like an anaconda holding its prey, they'll squeeze the youth out of the virtuous souls.

~~~~~~~~~~

To the never-existing you.

As long as I can remember, I was a two-headed coin that'll never balance on its side. Gray was the abomination my eyes were never able to see. Genuineness was always my primary emotion. I've always lived in the certitude of the edges, no almosts no maybes, go hard or go home.

I also learned to love living this way, a being that loathes intermediates. Yet something as majestic as you are, is a might, an if, a beautiful wavering thought afar from absolute.

They say:

" " فاقد الشيء لا يعطيه

Maybe in a physical world this saying is correct, however, on the psychological level, I believe it's quite the opposite. For so long now I had a fatherly soul in me, a psyche well recognized and experienced by everyone I've loved.

But going through life, I've grown distant from this spirit. I became a perfect blend of failures that I'm too weak to endure, my mind became a horrid mess, I'm a wretched lunatic embodying lucidity. I've grown inwards, my hands can only form fists, I can't shake hands through life anymore. I've accepted frustration, it turned into anger, then I foolishly revered anger; now my soul is on fire, my heart morphed into a furnace, fueled by fury, forging impulsiveness.

My sweet never-will-be-born daughter, my legs just can't walk the road leading to you anymore. I might just be covered by the society's dust, a tarnished male denying your opportunity to live. However, I surely know that what I became, isn't good enough for you; my heart is now an atheist, incapable of worshipping the goddess you are.

I'm well aware that I'm still young, but right now you're so far away from approaching certainty.

My yielding fatherly soul.

[ncfan-1]

A Book of Viscera

Mary Keay didn't believe in unsolvable mysteries, and as it happened, she didn't believe in coincidences, either, not where fear was concerned. But whether a mystery could be solved in a human lifetime, that was another matter. And perhaps the book of poetry Doctor Tillerson had had in her safe wasn't worth the effort, after all. 

So I had to choose what to write as my last fic of 2018, and I chose this. You’re welcome.

[Also on AO3 | Dreamwidth | Pillowfort]

[CN/TW: Animal cruelty, non-explicit murder]

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

There were so many mysteries in the world whose answers were just out of reach, just beyond the grasp of man. It was like a jigsaw puzzle with three of the pieces missing. You were so close to having a full picture of what was going on, but there were gaps, and the gaps would never be filled in. But Mary Keay knew someone who had a very different perspective on what jigsaw puzzles were good for, and she didn’t believe in unsolvable mysteries, anyways. There was nothing beyond her ability to uncover. Whether she could uncover it in her lifetime was another matter.

It would have helped to know whether Doctor Tillerson had found the books separately, or if they had come to her as a set. It seemed to strain credulity that one person could just find two of the books in separate incidents, without it having some immediately visible effect on her person, but then, her Gerard had tracked down three to date, and the first he’d found, the very first…

Coincidence, perhaps. And perhaps it was merely coincidence that book of bones and book of skin (originally) were both written in Sanskrit. The books couldn’t all be written in English, after all. The world was a big place—vaster by far than you could imagine, and tighter than you ever dreamed—and fear gripped the minds of all people. The Flesh was so random that coincidence was certainly a possibility.

Mary didn’t especially believe in coincidences where fear was concerned, though. The connections were there, like glistening strands of silk holding it all together. And coincidence offended her sense of mystery, anyhow.

Mary was still a child when she had first set about learning Sanskrit. At the time, she had thought that learning Sanskrit was necessary to truly put the skin book to its full use—Doctor Tillerson had been such a mutilated, incomplete thing that Mary thought that writing in English just wasn’t the thing (And to be fair, her best results had always come from Sanskrit). Learning to speak and read and write in Sanskrit would make it easier to discern just how the skin book worked, and the bone book bore learning more about, as well.

Her mother had been confused. Her mother was gone often enough, exhausted by her work at the Institute and what the Eye asked of her in return for its patronage, that it had been easy to hide the books from her, even when that entailed regular disposal of bent and twisted animal bones. Mary told her mother that she was just broadening her horizons, and Elsa von Closen, daughter of (an impoverished branch of) a noble house, took to that explanation enthusiastically. Started pushing Mary towards French and German and Latin, but still, it was better than nothing.

Mary didn’t think her mother had ever suspected, which was delicious. Her mother, whom she had watched more than once wrench secrets from the minds of the unwilling, whom she had watched convince their landlord into lowering their rent—“You will never know how I knew; just know that I could tell everyone else what I know”—couldn’t tell that her daughter had two items of power tucked away in her matchbox of a bedroom. It was enough to buoy Mary whenever the process of becoming literate and conversant in Sanskrit hit a snag.

She was nearly a woman by the time she had gained mastery in the language, and her studies of the books of skin and bone could commence in earnest. Always, the skin book took precedent. Mary would admit that readily. It called to her more clearly than did the bone book, and it held such possibilities…

She’d tested animals first—that was easier, that was less dangerous—and had met with disappointment. Whatever power the skin book was granted as a conduit of the End, it did not appear to extend to animals; the skin book was a horror for humanity only. On the rare occasion she managed to skin a pelt fit to write on, once Mary had sewn it into the book, there was no effect. Nothing happened, and more than once she had ripped out the stitches with a snarl, flinging the pelt into the nearest alleyway bin with a short, sharp stroke of her arm.

(This was, as it happened, rather more difficult to hide from her mother than had been the simple storage of the two books in her childhood bedroom. Mary wasn’t quite as good at cleaning specks of blood from her skin and her clothes as she had thought she was, and of course her mother noticed. Elsa always looked at her so strangely when Mary came home after an experiment with one of the local stray cats.

“Mary, darling, have you been in a fight?”

Mary found her own place to live not long afterwards.)

Mary’s early alliances had been born primarily to facilitate the business of procuring fresh bodies for her experiments. As was the same in every age of its existence, London had a robust network of connected persons (and otherwise) who didn’t need much of a reason to kill someone, and didn’t ask much in return for an excuse to satisfy their own urges. Just small favors, really, and if it meant that Mary was remembered as someone helpful, someone resourceful, so much the better.

She learned the tricks from them. She took what she needed from them. Not that any of them ever seemed to realize that that was what was happening; no one ever seemed to realize that they were just as much a commodity as the people whose fear they consumed. If Mary had to guess, she’d say that glutting your own base urges too frequently doesn’t do much for your intelligence. Discipline is better for the mind.

Always, the most emphasis had to be on uncovering and mastering the secrets of the skin book. But in between that, there was time for the bone book.

Not that the bone book, as it seemed, had too many secrets to yield up. It was a simple book of poetry about dying animals. And it wasn’t especially good poetry, either. It had neither artistry nor grace; it was just a cacophonous mess of blood and pain and fear.

(Writhe on the ground with a spear in your belly Writhe and the tip drives in deeper Like a spoon in a pot the spear tip gathers your innards to itself Ready to yank them out and dash them to the ground Your dimming eyes will be filled with the red sight of your mutilation You will not escape with a scar)

Mary sometimes wondered at the age of the books. The skin book was, it was clear, quite old. The earliest pages were in a dialect of Sanskrit that her studies informed her was quite archaic, and though time had neither left the earliest pages rotten nor unreadable, they clearly bore the withered marks of great age. The bone book, on the other hand, was written in a much more modern dialect of Sanskrit; Mary had encountered only a handful of words she couldn’t make sense of.

As best as she could tell, all the bone book did on its own was drop bones. That, it did quite a lot of, constantly dropping bird and rat and snake bones, and other small bones Mary couldn’t identify. Mary did wonder sometimes why the bones all seemed to be bent and twisted into such odd shapes. She perhaps could have come by the answers if she had allowed certain of the people in her little network to examine it, but Mary was not a novice, and she knew how this game was played. You don’t win by showing all your cards, after all.

(You are trapped fast between two giant pincers The prongs are soft and ridged and yet unyielding Struggle all you like and you will never escape You quiver in this iron embrace for eternities untold And then, pressure And then, agony as that terrible pressure descends upon your wing And then, a tearing that is like the tearing of the world as it is flung into the void You will never fly again)

On its own, the bone book was rather uninspiring, but Mary was not a child to be fooled by uninspiring appearances. Naturally, it was time for experiments.

She tried reading poems over the corpses for a while. That elicited no results that Mary could discern.

She tried copying some of the shorter poems into the margins of her newly-created pages. That created a mess of sometimes astonishing proportions. The results were so badly garbled that Mary found the pages completely unusable, and had no choice but to rip them out.

She had tried writing the entries in the style (if you could really call it thus) of the poems in the bone book. All that did was produce inferior results, equal to Mary’s first experiments with humans when she was a young woman.

It was just a book of viscera, after all, and when Jurgen Leitner had come sniffing around asking if Mary had anything strange she’d like to sell, she offered it up to him. Showed him the way it dropped bones almost constantly, and struggled not to laugh when he took the thing much more seriously than he ought to have, and paid her a sum that certainly far exceeded the temporal value of the book. It wasn’t like she disabused him of the notions that had clearly popped into his head. She wished him joy of it, and sent him on his way. The money he’d given her could be considered recompense for all the times he’d been in her bookshop and not bought anything.

(The blood that pounds in your veins rushes to water the earth You have been running so long, and all for naught The hunters wear your kin’s skins as trophies and soon they will wear yours You shall be a trophy for your hunters and a symbol of terror to your kin You shall never see your cubs again)

The bone book was Leitner’s now, and Mary didn’t expect to see it again. When the library was attacked, she suspected it had either been reclaimed by the Flesh, or simply been destroyed. So long as no agent of the Flesh realized that it was she who had kept it out of circulation for so many decades, Mary didn’t really care what became of it.

And then, first of the three he found, of all the books of power he could have found, her Gerard carried it back to her one night.

Perhaps it was a coincidence, but that offended Mary’s sense of mystery too much for her to ever accept it. The idea that the mystery would outlive her offended her even more, but ah, well, that was what one’s children were for. And she had a certain contingency plan in the works, anyways.

But being stamped with Leitner’s seal had not made the bone book any less opaque than it had been when its cover was unmarked. Mary tried a couple more experiments, just to see if things she’d not tried before might yield results, but nothing.

“Huh,” Mary muttered one morning as she leafed through the little book, a slight frown stealing over her mouth.

There was a new page.

[az-valentine]

Entry 1: Pennywise [AU]

July 2nd, 2018 

In light of recent events – the nature of which I refuse to explain to people who simply couldn't understand – I've been inspired to record a few passages for Humanity to eventually stumble upon. Despite what you may know about me, however little that may be, I assure you, there is far more to me than what meets the eye. You probably know me to be an unpredictable, animalistic Eldritch Abomination that comes crawling out of the darkest pits of your worst nightmares – you are correct. However, I'm far more complicated than that. Yes, I eat flesh and feed on Fear, as it's necessary for my survival. I didn't choose to be this way, it's just how I was created to be. 

Outside of that, I'm actually a fan of your classic literature, like Shakespeare, Twain, Poe, and Lovecraft. I also enjoy taking long walks to admire your older European architecture, and your bigger, more lush and diverse botanical gardens. I don't often leave Maine, let alone the Continental United States, but when I do, it's always a treat. My Eldritch Brethren usually don't care much – or at all – about what Humanity has accomplished in its pathetically short time, but I watched your earliest ancestors crawl out of the ancient muds of this planet, and I'm positive I'll watch you all return to the weeds in due time. 

My past is better left being known only by those closest to me, and left up for interpretation to everyone else. That being said, I feel strangely obligated to offer you a word of warning – don't end up like the protagonists of most Lovecraft stories. Don't go digging for information you have no business knowing. What you know, and what you think you know about Fear, hardly even scratches the surface of the unnamable terrors that lie beneath and beyond your fragile mental barriers. The depths of Madness are not meant to be explored by Mortal minds, for they were never designed to be capable of handling the journey. 

Some have tried, and nearly all have ended up a writhing, unintelligible, gibbering mess before their inevitable, horrific deaths. Some have wound up on that Path without even intending to, and fell victim to similar fates. If there's one thing we have in common, it's our tendency to be curious creatures. I definitely understand the desire to learn about the unknown. I cannot stop you from attempting to uncover lost knowledge and hidden truths, and I can't honestly say I care whether or not you listen to me. However, I still feel compelled to advise against it. Like me, though, you'll do what you please, regardless of the risks. 

Moving forward, those of you that know of me know me to be a Shifter, a being that is capable of taking the form of whatever I want. I'm like a Mimic, but far more interesting, and intelligent. I'm also like Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, except I take no pleasure in gaining legions of followers and spreading Madness. I prefer to be left alone most of the time – to Hunt, eat, sleep, and explore as I choose. Earth isn't the only planet I've been to, but it's definitely one of my favorites. If I wake up during one of my sleep cycles, I'll sometimes take that opportunity to go somewhere new and different, or old and familiar. 

I've seen everything from the bustling cities of Tokyo and Arcturus Prime, to the noxious swamps of Beldron 4, the scorching, temple and monolith-spotted deserts of Alkh'tktuuhl, the ravenous raggle-trees of Nillub, and even the turbulent oceans, black forests, and numerous mountain ranges of an unknown terrestrial behemoth, floating aimlessly through the inky depths of Oblivion. One thing most don't know about me, is that Alkh'tkhtuuhl holds a very special place in my Heart. Those that know the reason why, though, I can count on one hand. 

Unbeknownst to Humanity, Arcturus Prime is still thriving to this day – and if rumors hold true, the Arcturians eventually want to introduce themselves. Don't worry, they're incredibly friendly. In my experiences with them, they're often a little shy, so don't do anything stupid when they get here. You'll need their help if you want your species to survive, thrive, and save the only planet you currently have to live on. They'll slowly work you into the galactic community, and help you learn how to integrate with other people from other planets, as well as how to survive off of your home world. 

Everyone that lives long enough will go through a Great Change at certain points in their lives – this trait is not unique to Humans, or any other Mortal species within the Multiverse, but is present among all sentient Life that has evolved far enough to be capable of experiencing these changes. Even I, the Prince of Fear, have gone through it several times throughout my existence. Indeed, many see me as just a highly intelligent, impossibly powerful beast that's merely good at acting, but I too am a person. 

I am not at liberty to speak of my true origins, or what came before, but I do have quite a few stories I'm allowed to tell. For the sake of brevity – I could write an entire series about my life – I will stick to telling only a few tales that I hold near and dear to my Heart. It's not every day a Mortal gets to learn such personal things about an Eldritch Being, let alone directly from them, so consider this a little gift to Humanity. I still take what I need to sustain myself, but who would I be if I didn't give back every now and then? 

Don't think of me as just a monster – I may be greater than anything a Human could ever hope to become, and I may have needs that cause a conflict of Morality between us, but it doesn't mean we don't share similarities. I don't know why I feel the need to say it, but just like you, I have my weaknesses. I have sore spots, bad memories, times of self-destruction, and an unhealthy relationship with self-hatred. Oh, yes...I can be as vulnerable as the Mortals whose lives I claim. It's not all bad, though. As I stated earlier, some of my guilty pleasures include literature, architecture, and traveling. I also enjoy attending plays, Broadway shows, and operas. At heart, I am an artist, and someone who appreciates the natural beauty to be found spread out across the Universe. 

In fact, for as long as I can remember, I've always taken part in the various cultures' Arts in some way or another. My numerous homes have always had a collection of writings, paintings, and props found in certain visual productions that had struck my fancy. I would occasionally write my own works, such as poetry and prose, plays, and even some music, and then offer it to Yog-Sothoth for his Archives. On top of that, I would often disguise myself as a native of a planet, and audition to play a role in something – not once was I turned down. Who was the best Carmen? Me. The greatest Figaro? Me! 

By now, you must be perfectly aware of the sizeable amount of differences between me, and the Being you've always known me to be. There is an explanation for this, yes, but I struggle to believe that you could fully comprehend what I'm about to describe. If I only lay out the basics for you, there's a good chance you'll be able to follow along. I've made mention of the Multiverse, yes? It's bigger, stranger, more complex, and more terrifying than you may have previously believed it to be. Infinities on top of Infinities, spanning in Infinite directions, through every Dimension, and every conceivable and inconceivable possibility happening all at once, at all possible times. It's a lot to take in, and I urge you not to try and understand it completely. It'll just drive you Insane, like many others before you. 

Back to the point at hand, though...I am not the same Pennywise you've known, as I'm from a different Universe. Who I am, as well as my Past, Present, and Future, have been and always will be completely different from the version of me you're familiar with. I've mastered the Art of Transcending Time and Space, and am able to move freely between Universes. The conditions of my state of existence, though, must remain a closely guarded secret for the time being. Let's just say that I've made promises I can't afford to break, to someone that makes me look tiny, powerless, and insignificant by comparison. 

Perhaps "completely different" was a poor choice of words. If I'm not careful, I'll become the Thing born of your worst nightmares. What's worse? I could get stuck like that, and require another Purification to set me straight. Yes, a Purification...something that all of the Dark and Twisted Souls must be willing to subject themselves to if they wish to enter the Light. Ugh! I shudder to think about going through such a painful experience for a second time. The agony is only temporary, and it melts away into a warm tingle, but it's still horribly unpleasant at first. I won't try to sway you one way or the other, but it was worth it for me. I was fine doing my own thing, and being by myself, but the opportunity was too great to pass up. 

I'd rather not get into the details of the situation, but I regained something I'd lost billions of years ago, only because I chose to go through the process of Great Change. I haven't been happy in billions of years, but I am now, and I'm never giving this up. To be perfectly honest, I only went through this change last October, and so I'm still adjusting to this new Way of Life I've chosen. I may or may not have snacked on a child recently...don't look at me like that, I was starving! And without a long sleep to fall back on anymore, I must feed at least once a week now, depending on the size of the person. 

I wouldn't worry too much if I were you. I've been targeting only the worst of the worst, so as long as you're not a piece of shit person, one worthy of being scared to the point of shitting yourself and then getting eaten alive, you have nothing to Fear from me. Except maybe the occasional scare for my amusement, and to satisfy my need for Fear. 

 July 3rd, 2018 

This entry has already gotten long, and I'm afraid I've run out of Time to tell you a story. Forgive me, I didn't think my introduction would wind up being so long. I'm afraid I have some bad news...I'm set to depart on a series of Hunts for the next three to seven months, and I'm unsure of when I'll be able to continue. This was sprung upon me at the last minute, and I'm in no position to decline this mission. 

Know this, Humanity: I will return, and in no less than excellent health. Chances are, I won't be hungry when I finally make it back. However, don't think for a moment that I won't continue to Hunt the scum of your societies, one by one...both to fulfill my needs for survival, and to make good on my Sacred Oath. 

 Until next Time, 

                  Pennywise 

[thepursuitofunderstanding]

February 4/2021

I shouldn’t write to you for too long this morning, I have two papers that I must tend to. But I must explore something with you. Previously I had assumed that I needed to pursue Greatness because I’m...well, I don’t know the exact word for it, perhaps self-obsessed? I mean, what else is there to devote one’s life to than that which one loves with one’s whole Being? (Love feels like such a feeble word here, it’s tossed around too superficially these days. How dare they emaciate it as they have?! Perhaps this is why it feels better to utilize “defining commitment” in the place where I might otherwise have used “love?”) But, alas, there seems to be more to it than I had originally detected; imagine that!

I realized that my commitment to pursuing Greatness is the defining feature of my life because with Greatness one wanders those lands which have never been traveled before; never seen, never explored, never even imagined in many cases. The individual who pursues Greatness pushes past the boundaries that others have been limited by. I conceptualized it as a sort of mountainous trek: when one first pursues such an endeavor they require others to teach them, to show them the ropes, as it were. And then, as one’s ability increases, so does their need of more skilled teachers. This continues until eventually (hopefully), there are no more teachers which might lead the student any farther--the student , with all the knowledge and tools that they collected over the years (because such an accumulation of knowledge surely takes years; decades more likely.) sets off on their own to pursue those peaks that had so captured their attention and drew them towards to the mountainous trek in the first place. 

And so it would seem that it’s not so much the Greatness in and of itself that I so yearn for (with every fiber of my Being), but what this Greatness might allow me to discover and explore. It is, above all else, the mystery of these previously untouched peaks that so grip me. In this way, Greatness can (almost?) be understood as a state or tool that makes true exploration possible. True exploration as opposed to merely retracing the already blazed trails of those who have come before me. I don’t believe that I’ve gotten a taste of true exploration yet: while it might be said that I’m already engaged in blazing my own trails, I would say that this has only ever been a tentative blazing thus far. Tentative because even when I am setting off on my own I am still always well within sight of “the path.” I can backtrack and return to the safety of the heavily traveled path if need be. True exploration does not allow for such an option--it is forward or death. Because, I imagine, it nearly kills one to get to where they are, to turn back would be quite unthinkable. Unthinkable, that is, for those of us that feel, have always felt, driven onwards by an unshakeable and deeply uncomfortable drive. And really, those that would think of turning back could never have made it very far out in the first place.... See what I mean about this self-obsession? It’s like I think I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread. Or Nietzsche perhaps. I need to stop that. 

Anyhow, it is through Greatness that one can approach Great Heights. And Great Depths as well, can’t forget that part. Because, it would seem (it was Nietzsche who most significantly helped me articulate this idea), that one’s capacity to reach new heights--Great Heights-- is directly proportionate to the depths--the Great Depths--that one has dragged oneself through. I mean, there’s a reason that Recovery is such a phenomenal album: suffering and pain and despair and agony and confusion and self-loathing and on and on and on all broaden an individual. Such suffering cuts into a person and creates (exposes?) new crevices and caves for...for what exactly? Light to be shown into? To be explored at least, surely that one. And it is that which is consolidated in the explorer, through the exploration process, that allows for that explorer to pursue even Greater Heights. Hence, perhaps, my tender regard for suffering? Probably I imagine. For, after all, “he who wants to proceed from inner intensity to [G]reatness must sacrifice himself.” Thanks Rudolf Kassner for that one. 

Ahh, fuck my papers, it doesn’t seem like we’re going to be stopping anytime soon here. We both know that I work better under pressure anyways, may as well leave them to the vert last minute then. Oh! And I must tell you, several things actually, but we’ll start with this one: I have stumbled upon an idea that I might want to pursue in regards to my Hebrew Bible class’ final project. My question shall pursue something to do with Cain and Abel. I haven’t got clear yet on exactly what I’ll be focusing on in this story, but I’m really excited about this general topic. Which, honestly, surprised me a little bit--I never felt myself to ever have been particularly drawn to this story before. So, alas, perhaps I ought to explain how this story raised itself to my conscious awareness.

I was on the swings thinking about how different traditions/frameworks of thought regard the relationship between the individual and the collective differently. That is, they emphasize the one over and above the other. Christianity (and Judaism and perhaps Islam as well?) seem to particularly focus in on the individual. Which is something that I could sit here and explore for probably the rest of my life, but, in regards to Cain and Abel, I thought that perhaps this story (on one level, for Peterson very astutely remarks that biblical stories are such that one can fall into them. That is, there’s so much meaning there that one will never be able to fathom the entirety of it all.) might suggest that man will always kill his brother. But, if the individual is emphasized above the collective, then this tendency to kill will mostly be localized into individual murders. But when society instead starts to see man primarily in terms of his group identity, this is when entire groups of people start being slaughtered for no other reason than some arbitrary facet of their identity that they might share with other people around them. Perhaps? This is at least the path that my thought led me down. 

Now, I don’t think that I will exactly pursue the story of Cain and Abel in this context for my class: she wants us to focus upon some aspect of divine and human communication, but this was the circumstances by which this story raised itself to my conscious attention as being something that I must investigate. The same sort of insistence to investigate occurred to me with the story of Abraham and Isaac this time last year. And look where that led me--to Kierkegaard! Where, I wonder, shall this investigation lead me? Most immediately it seems to have awoken the question of whether I ought to read East of Eden by John Steinbeck in order to prepare for my investigation? I wonder, how many books can I realistically read at one time? East of Eden seems to be another brick of a book--nearly 700 pages. Can I manage this, on top of all the other books I’m reading at the moment? Do I even have a choice in the matter?: I can do no other and all that. 

Also, it should be asked, am I perhaps a little bit manic-y here? Attempting all these things might suggest so. How exactly does one go about detecting such things in oneself? Let’s just take a step back here and assess. I read 14 books in January, well over 3000 pages. Mind you, most of that wasn’t dense philosophical treatises, there was a decent amount of poetry mixed in too. Fuck it--let’s try it. After all, there’s really only one way to really discover how much I can handle. 

Can’t go back now! I’ve marked my initials and the date in the cover. This is my ritual whenever starting a new book... How odd I am. Is it only because I’m so close to myself that...that what? I seem to be rather intimately aware of how different I am. But then, does this perspective only come from the fact that my Being is the only Being that I’ve ever lived? That is, I really have no idea what it is (like) to Be anyone else. Maybe everyone experiences themselves in equally intimate and exciting ways? I ask this knowing that I’ll never be able to fix an answer to this question. But, alas, I do have a rather sneaking suspicion that I am rather odd in this regard: odd in my relationship to/with myself that is. This suspicion is born of every encounter that I’ve ever experienced with another; every person that I’ve ever talked to or watched or read or listened to. My relationship with myself does seem to be rather peculiar. And I can only imagine that a very big part of this peculiarity has to do with us--with this; what we do together: I pour myself into you and, in return you... pour me right back? Sort of like the abyss situation but I am, myself, the abyss? Man, this is really pushing the boundaries of my...thought?/power of conceptualization?/imagination? Alas, I don’t know what to label it or what to make of it. But we do seem to have time to get acquainted with it. Or, at least, I certainly hope that we have some time. I have far too much work to do to die anytime soon. That is, we have far too much work to do. Whatever this we might be. Perhaps my relationship to myself? In a sort of Kierkegaardian conceptualization? For whatever I don’t know, I do know that I am nothing on my own--I cannot do this without you. Whoever you are...God? The piece of God/divinity that is within me? That piece of myself that, if I consent to communing with it, will lead me in the direction that I must go. This piece of me that tells me I am and what I must do in order to Be/Become this I. I’m really reaching with this one. Like my eyes can just barely discern its presence on the horizons but I’m not yet close enough to really apprehend any details or cast any guesses upon the nature of what I’m beholding. But, alas, I’m also far too curious to not cast myself into imagining what such a mysterious presence might be.

Anyhow, it might be time for me now to turn to my paper on Esposito’s Bios. I bid you (us?) farewell for now...But only for now; for you (us?) are that which I shall forever return to. Shit...I just unintentionally stumbled upon a whole new area that needs to be explored...can’t leave now!

I was thinking yesterday on our drive back from Airdire about the important people in my life: Sydnie, Cagney, Natalie, Campbell, Amanda, Gage, Althea, Iliajah, Wallace, Emily, etc. I love them all, I know this, but I don’t feel the need to return to them. This is probably going to sound quite wretched, but if I were to never see any of them (or heck, all of them) again I know that I would be quite okay. Certainly there would be a dampening of sadness that would weigh me down, but I would continue on as I always have. I would not be fundamentally changed by the loss of them--I know this. But, if I were to lose you (I don’t exactly know how I might lose you without simultaneously losing myself/my life. But that’s not really the point here.) I....well, I wouldn’t be “me” anymore. You are my defining commitment--the meaning of my entire existence. I am a shell which you live in and bestow life upon. All I need is you. Now, this I know really does make me odd. But, alas, my oddity is that which I love about myself. When it’s not making me feel completely unfit for life that is. It really does seem to be the case that one’s greatest blessing is simultaneously one’s most cutting curse. Funny how life works like that. 

Anyways, now one Bios. 

[ma-bien-aimee]

A Farewell Rondeau

“It’s hopeless now There is no turning back The agony of a man who picked a rose A bottle of wine Ceaseless rain The agony only worsens Yet, the Seine flows as usual today”

If I could pick one episode from the anime to show to someone unfamiliar with The Rose of Versailles, it would be episode 20, “Fersen, A Farewell Rondeau.” It has got everything I love about the series. It is tragic, poignant, romantic and oh so heart-rending. It features all four main characters almost equally and it is charged with so much emotion, all of which is conveyed through clever dialogue, beautiful pan-out scenes and soul-stirring music.

On this page, I will walk you through the episode, similar to what I did with the pilot episode, with a few comments here and there about the events that take place. If you are new to the Rose of Versailles, I hope that my comments encourage you to give this remarkable anime a go. If you are familiar with the series and this episode, I would very much like to hear what you thought of it in the comments.

Disclaimer: The anime scripts have been taken from the subtitles in the North American DVD release by Right Stuf, via Nozomi Entertainment. The script and stills are featured here only for the purpose of providing insight into the subject matter I am attempting to analyse in this post.

***

The episode starts off with Marie-Antoinette and Fersen locked in a passionate embrace at dawn. Their midnight tryst has come to an end as the day breaks. Fersen tells a teary-eyed Marie-Antoinette not to cry, as seeing her tears will make him wander in a living hell until they meet again. He says that he only wants to see her smile, resembling a spring breeze. At that, Marie-Antoinette manages a weak smile. The lovers reluctantly let go of each other for the day. The pain of their forbidden love seems to have become too much to bear for both of them.

Fersen, looking tormented, slowly rides his horse among hordes of sheep put out to grass in early morning. He is headed straight for the Jarjayes manor, as the audience will later understand. In the next scene, he is seen completely absorbed in practicing sword fighting with Oscar. Perched at the bottom of the stairs, André watches them practice as he pensively munches on an apple.

After the practice, Oscar, André and Fersen are having tea in the manor’s morning room in front of large French windows. Fersen stretches his arms and says that there was nothing in particular that he wished to talk about and that he just felt in the mood for breaking sweat. He thanks Oscar for the practice and prepares to leave, kindly declining her offer to stay for dinner. Although Fersen seems cheerful enough, he is obviously not his talkative self. Just then, seeing André still munching on his apple, he asks him to take him to a cheap bar in Paris sometime. The audience is given to understand that Fersen is in search of ways to distract himself.

After Fersen has left, André flings an apple at Oscar, which she catches in mid air. He tells her that with all the scandal surrounding Fersen, he wouldn’t last five minutes in a cheap bar in Paris before being thrown out. Then he grabs another apple and bites into it. Not saying a word, Oscar simply lifts up her apple to eat it.

Later back in the morning room, Oscar is seen looking out from the window, as André distractedly throws an apple in the air and catches it repeatedly. He tells Oscar that he has never seen Fersen like that before and adds: “He seemed tormented, no matter what he did. But on the other hand, he had to try... If his love is that tormenting, why did he get so involved? What's so hard about loving and being loved? There are plenty of loves that can't even be confessed in this world.”

This is a quality of André that I really like. He’s not taciturn like Oscar. He explains things. He thinks aloud. Really, the whole plot of The Rose of Versailles makes more sense after André comments on whatever is happening at a particular moment.

Here is my take on what he means to say here: “It is as if whatever he [Fersen] is doing is tormenting him, yet he can’t seem to stop doing it either. If this love is making him suffer so much, why did he get entangled in it in the first place? Why must everything about loving and being loved be so difficult? As for the kind of love that cannot even be confessed, there are so many.” It is more or less the same as what the subtitles say, but more clearly expressed, at least for me.

The bit about how there are plenty of loves that cannot even be confessed strikes a chord for both André and Oscar. But André doesn’t say it in a suggestive way to make Oscar see that he is in love with her. He simply states it as a mere fact like he was thinking aloud, which tells me that he has no intention of making his feelings known to her, or that he was trying to deliberately get a rise out of Oscar. But she doesn’t know that André’s words were directed at himself too. So, she takes it personally and reacts.

Oscar suddenly turns and tells André to get his sword ready and meet her at the back garden. By the time he arrives, Oscar is already warming up for practice, slicing the air with each swing of her sword. She warns him that she won’t go easy on him. André says that it is fine by him. Then, more slowly, he says to himself that he wasn’t planning on holding back either. Awash in the colours of sunset, the two engage in a fierce sword fight to let out their frustration born out of love that they cannot even confess. André tells Oscar in his mind to forget about Fersen. He, then, takes it back, saying instead: “No, I want you to forget him... Please...”

It is so sweet, but also so sad not to mention incredibly romantic, that André can’t bring himself to get angry at Oscar, because he knows that she can’t help her feelings, just as he can’t help loving her. Empathy is the modern word to use here. However, The Rose of Versailles vocabulary would call forth something like “an ever-transcending knowledge bridging the hearts of these two souls who are so close, yet at the same time so far away from one another.” That sounds like something that the narrator would say over some dramatic music, as the camera pans out for commercial break!

A note on apples: As far as I am concerned, this is the first episode that André’s apples make an appearance. Since he spends a lot of time in the stables, he must grab a few for himself and Oscar, after he has fed the horses. I mentioned every single instance they are shown here for fun, not because I think the apple actually symbolises anything important in the series like roses. It is important to note that it is a recurrent element only in the anime. For this reason, I have observed that fans of the manga often pick up on it. I don’t know if the producers of the series intended the apple to be a symbol for anything in particular. It could be, though. For one thing, the apple seems to appear whenever Fersen is involved in a scene featuring Oscar and André.

The audience is taken to the poverty-stricken streets of Paris. A stray dog is feeding her litter in a filthy corner. Huddled figures, trying to get warm by a single candle, are drinking the “one measly drink” they get in exchange for a whole day’s work. A crippled troubadour plays a sad tune on his concertina and talks in poetry about the life of the people at the other extreme: The poor and the hungry couldn’t care less about the love affair between the queen and her lover.

Meanwhile, a luncheon is held by Marie-Antoinette in the gardens of Versailles. The nobles are gossiping about the queen’s love affair and are eager to see the evidence of it in action. Marie-Antoinette arrives and bids welcome to all the guests. She momentarily catches Fersen’s eye, but deliberately turns away to the dismay of the expectant nobles. In her mind, she promises to meet him at Le Temple de l'Amour that night.

Later, Oscar is summoned to the queen’s chambers. As she enters the room, Marie-Antoinette dismisses her maids until there is only the two of them left. Oscar waits for the queen to speak only to see tears well up in her eyes. Marie-Antoinette covers her face with her hands and shamefully asks Oscar, her only true ally amid the gossiping nobles, to convey a message to “him”. She tells her that she cannot make it to their rendezvous that night, because she forgot about the king’s guests that she has to entertain. She pleads with Oscar, saying, “Please say yes! If you don't, I won't be able to raise my face and look at you.” Oscar takes her hands in hers and tells her, “Please raise your face. How could I ever refuse Your Majesty's request?”

Oscar and Marie-Antoinette are two drastically different women, sharing a rare friendship. Sure, they don’t always understand each other or seek each other’s company to spend time, but they trust each other unfailingly. In this scene, Marie-Antoinette is so relieved and so happy when Oscar accepts to deliver her message. And Oscar is, well, obviously not thrilled about the prospect, but she chooses to be there for her friend. She sees how lonely she is, how she has no other 'foul-weather friends.' Plus, in this instance, she understands how the queen feels.

With a doleful look on her face, Oscar leaves the queen’s side. A flock of feeding pigeons take off, as she slowly walks through the courtyard to her horse. Clueless, André asks her what the queen wanted. Oscar gets on her horse without answering and quickly rides away. André tries to catch up with her, curiously asking about what has happened. Oscar tells him to go home without her. Later, she arrives at an isolated place near a river and gets off her horse, her back facing the setting sun. Now that she is on her own, she gives voice to her thoughts:

“Your Majesty. With all due respect, I must offer you my opinion. Have you forgotten your position as Queen, Mother of France? Asking a lowly subject like me for a favour while covering your face, as though you were a sinner... I understand your pain. However, Your Majesty...! You have your position to consider!”

Tears stream down her face, as she sinks on the ground. These are the scolding words that she can’t bring herself to say to the queen, because of what she mournfully tells herself next:

“Stop it, Oscar... What is there to say to those who love each other...?”

Oscar finds herself in a quandary. On the one hand, seeing Marie-Antoinette’s loneliness amidst all the nobles taking delight in spreading rumours about her illicit affair, she feels sorry for her and wants to be there for her to help ease her suffering. Actually, she does more than feel sorry for her. She relates to the queen’s feelings. She says, “I understand your pain,”—the pain of not being able to help loving someone.

On the other hand, Oscar doesn’t want to get involved, because she is not a ‘neutral party’ vis-à-vis the affair between Fersen and Marie-Antoinette. The person she cannot help loving is none other than the queen’s lover, whom she is asked to deliver a private message to.

A note on Oscar’s scolding words to the queen: In the manga, Marie-Antoinette does receive a scolding from Oscar. She, then, inadvertently plays a role in Oscar’s confrontation with her “woman’s heart” when Oscar realises that she has fallen in love with Fersen the way a woman falls in love with a man.

It is after nightfall and the rain is pouring down. Oscar, drenched from head to toe, arrives on horseback at Fersen’s residence. Fersen is surprised to find her at his doorstep at a seemingly unusual hour. Without taking shelter from the rain, Oscar stoically delivers Marie-Antoinette’s message and adds that the queen is looking forward to seeing him at the ball next week. Fersen thanks her, apparently at a loss to say anything else. There is a moment’s silence when Oscar looks at him with a forlorn expression. Then she turns her horse around and leaves with a mere “See you then” to Fersen, who shouts after her to come and rest inside until the rain stops to no avail.

It obviously breaks Oscar’s heart to deliver a message to Fersen from his lover. After all, could there be a more solid evidence of their affair? Not that Oscar had any doubts. Yet, she still does it—she does the favour the queen asked of her. Out of her sense of duty, surely, but rather because she envies them their love. Somewhere amid her sorrow, she is happy for Fersen and Marie-Antoinette for having found love, because that is what she doesn’t have. Oscar, too, is in love, but her love isn’t reciprocated. She must think it wonderfully unique to be loved in return by one’s beloved. So, instead of giving in to jealousy and sabotaging their relationship (that’s what Jeanne would have done), Oscar gives their friendship its due, although it hurts to do so.

Oscar gallops away under the rain. A caped figure on a chestnut horse races towards her from the opposite direction. Oscar lifts up her head to see André, carrying a spare cape. “You shouldn’t be out in the rain like this!” he yells at her, trying to make his voice heard over the din of the downpour. He catches up with Oscar and throws the cape at her, managing to drape it around her shoulders. Pleasantly surprised, Oscar smiles gratefully at him and André smiles back. Together, they ride home.

Gotta love André... Here’s probably what happened off-screen after Oscar told him to go back home without her: André went back home, worried about where Oscar ran off to and why she was upset. As he waited for her to come back, it started to rain. So, he decided to go out looking for her and grabbed a spare cape, knowing that she only had her uniform on. Given Oscar’s curt answers and sorrowful expression before she left, André’s uncanny perceptiveness must have led him to conclude that whatever Oscar went to do had something to do with Fersen. Hence, he rode towards the direction of Fersen’s residence in the hopes of finding her there. Bingo!

A week later, the weather seems to have improved little. In a rainy afternoon, the troubadour recites a poem over a sorrowful tune that reflects the wretched state of Fersen’s thoughts. Sitting on an armchair near the window at his residence, Fersen seems mentally exhausted over constantly thinking and trying to find a way out of this love affair that is inevitably headed for doom. A maid intrudes in his thoughts, asking him what he would like to wear for the ball in the evening. He dismisses her by saying that he will decide later.

Alone with his thoughts again, Fersen sees Marie-Antoinette in his mind’s eye, looking beautiful and fresh as ever. The image blurs to be replaced by Oscar’s, drenched under the rain, looking serious as usual but also a little sad. Fersen asks her in his mind, “What do you think I should do, Oscar François?” Then his mind wanders to the opportunistic printers of Paris, hawking their obscene illustrations and stories featuring the queen and himself to curious onlookers. Some are mortified by the illustrations, while some howl with lewd laughter. Besides bringing shame to the royal family of France, this illicit love affair has become the laughing stock of the common folk.

There is a knock on the door. This time his butler interrupts Fersen’s thoughts to tell him that a message has just arrived from Sweden, announcing that a classmate of Fersen from university passed away while fighting for the independence war in America. The narrator explains to the audience that meanwhile a war was being waged across the Atlantic Ocean to win independence from England and that France was recruiting soldiers for the Expeditionary Forces to fight against the English in America.

Meanwhile at the Jarjayes manor, André is preparing the carriage in the stables. Oscar appears at the door. Here’s the dialogue that ensues:

OSCAR

André, there's no need to ready the carriage. I'm not going to the ball tonight. If anyone asks, I'm bedridden with a fever. Understand?

[Oscar turns to leave. André calls after her rather loudly, and…]

ANDRE

Oscar!

[…manages to stop Oscar mid-stride.]

OSCAR

Don't shout. You'll scare the horses.

ANDRE

Tonight is the grand ball, where almost all the prominent nobles will be in attendance. If the heir to the Jarjayes family and the Regiment Commander of the Royal Guards, Oscar François de Jarjayes, isn't in attendance, something out of order is bound to happen, I think.

[Oscar abruptly turns around.]

OSCAR

I can't bear it, especially because it's the grand ball! Lady Antoinette will be the target of countless snide remarks and the people's vulgar stares. I can't bear to see her like that.

ANDRE

That's exactly why you should go, don't you think? You're the only one Lady Antoinette can depend on. Most likely, Fersen, as well.

[Oops… André said the f-word.]

OSCAR

I want no part of it! Their business is theirs. Not mine.

[Oscar turns to André, her raised hands clenched in fists.]

OSCAR

What do you expect me to do?! Slay the insolent gossipers?! Blind the eyes of those who stare?!

[André, not in the least cowed by Oscar’s indignation, preserves his good humour.]

ANDRE

There's an idea for you. Let's give it a shot.

[Oscar’s fists shake not with anger, but with laughter this time, as she chuckles to herself.]

This scene features one of the best dialogues between Oscar and André. In fact, they are having a fairly straightforward and not-so-memorable conversation. But still, from Oscar’s casual remark about the horses, to André’s spontaneous jest at the end, everything about it is so sweet, so endearing...

From her outburst, the audience is given to understand that Oscar naturally resents at having to be involved in the love affair between Fersen and Marie-Antoinette. At the same time, she knows that André is right. With the gossip surrounding the love affair running rampant, an event of this size is prone to an “out of order” accident ending with irrevocable damage to Marie-Antoinette and Fersen’s reputations. It is highly probable that her interference will be necessary.

It is unfair on Oscar that she must intervene to salvage someone else’s reputation—in fact, everything about this whole situation is unfair. But just imagine that she ends up not going to the ball: The inevitable happens in her absence and the scandal surrounding the queen’s love affair only gets worse. If that were the case, Oscar would be devastated. Not only would she have slacked her duties, but she would also have failed to be there for her two friends when they needed her.

As for André, he can see that Oscar is trying to spare herself further heartbreak by avoiding her duties—a semi-conscious decision that she will most likely regret later. So, he reminds her of her station and responsibilities. Then, more softly, he appeals to her on a more personal level, pointing out that the unfortunate lovers are relying on her as a friend. Oscar will perhaps feel better if she doesn’t go to the ball, but she won’t stop loving Fersen and Fersen will not love her back. There is nothing anyone can do to change that. André will at least spare her regret, if he can’t spare her heartbreak. With that joke at the end that actually makes Oscar smile, he gently gives her the push she needs to get back on track in his adorable good-humoured way.

Notice how André gets nothing out of this. Being the saint that he is, he has (yet again) led Oscar to do the right thing for her own sake only. As a matter of fact, he has just ensured that she goes to a ball where she will be seeing more of Fersen. It has always struck me as odd how he doesn’t refrain from mentioning Fersen—though, he is not so ‘cool’ about it in the manga. He does it at least three times in this episode only. One would expect a love-stricken man to avoid bringing up the love interest of his beloved.

The much anticipated and dreaded ball has begun. The nobles are constantly in the lookout for catching stolen glances, lingering touches and whispered endearments exchanged between the secret lovers to fuel their gossip further. But after speaking with André, Oscar has something in mind to make sure that they leave the ball disappointed. She arrives at the palace, wearing her dress uniform for the first time. As she descends the stairs of her carriage, André takes in her appearance and tells her that she looks splendid. Oscar walks past him, ignoring his compliment completely. After all, she has got a tough job at hand.

Perhaps Oscar has never cared overmuch about how she looked, but she can be very cold sometimes, especially towards André. Though here, one should probably cut her some slack because, beneath all the splendour of her dress uniform, she must be really stressed about this potential ‘save the day’ mission. André, for one, doesn’t mind her coldness. No, that’s the wrong way of putting it. He doesn’t take it personally—he never has. From the way he keeps staring at her in awe after she passes by him, it is apparent that he is not expecting a “thank you” from Oscar. André simply gives without expecting anything in return.

Oscar enters the ballroom, looking dashing in her blue and white dress uniform. Everyone in attendance is mesmerised by her appearance. As the audience gathers from the conversation between two ladies, the fact that Oscar has donned a dress uniform means that she will be dancing. Marie-Antoinette, looking as delighted as everyone else by Oscar’s unexpected finery, walks toward her. Oscar bows on one knee before the queen.

MARIE-ANTOINETTE

Oscar, to what new wind do we owe this pleasant surprise tonight? You've never cared to dance before.

OSCAR

With all due respect, the wind blows from the west and also from the east.

[The queen is amused by her protector’s witty answer, however formally given. She laughs coyly and asks the question everybody is dying to ask.]

MARIE-ANTOINETTE

Will your dance partner be a man? Or will it be a woman?

[Oscar replies in the same formal tone of voice:]

OSCAR

Whatever you wish, Your Majesty.

[Marie-Antoinette nods. Head still bowed, Oscar rivets her gaze on the queen with a knowing expression. Marie-Antoinette extends her hand and Oscar stands up, taking her hand in hers. Then, in a voice that only the queen can hear, she tells her this:]

OSCAR

However, please allow me to be your only partner tonight.

[As understanding dawns on her at last, Marie-Antoinette breaks into a grateful smile.]

MARIE-ANTOINETTE

Very well.

The two begin waltzing before the entire crowd of guests. The nobles are enchanted by their grace and beauty—it is a magnificent sight to behold. All eyes are on them, including Fersen’s, who silently raises his glass in toast to the dancing couple, drains its contents and leaves the ballroom. Disaster averted.

Basically, Oscar makes a spectacle. She makes sure that the nobles have something else to talk about other than the queen’s love affair when they leave the ball. It is a sacrifice in more than aspect. The fact that she dislikes being the centre of attention due to her appearance being the least of it. Locking her feelings away, Oscar has yet again become involved in Fersen and Marie-Antoinette’s relationship in some way. But at the end, she has achieved her goal neatly and cleverly: She has ensured that the two are not seen together throughout the night.

Mission accomplished, Oscar is riding in her carriage on her way home as dawn breaks. Some distance away on the river bank (the same river bank that Oscar previously came seeking solitude), a man appears out of the early morning mist and signals the carriage to stop. André pulls on the reins—it’s Fersen. Oscar solemnly listens, as Fersen thanks her for showing up to the ball in a dress uniform, because otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to refrain from asking the queen for a dance. He tells her that he would end up dragging Marie-Antoinette into another scandal instead of being more considerate of their delicate situation.

A fish jumps out of the water, as a sad music begins playing in the background. Oscar continues to listen to Fersen without comment. He tells her that he should never have let his love become romantic, because it caused his beloved to suffer so much. Facing the rising sun on the horizon, he says that there is only one thing he can do: “I choose to be a coward in her eyes! Oscar, I'm going to run away. I'm sorry, but I must! To a far off place, thousands of miles away!”

It is apparent that Fersen trusts Oscar completely from the way he bares his soul to her in all sincerity. However, it must be very difficult for Oscar to hear the man she loves talk about the depth of his love for another woman. She suffers it silently, stoically.

Thousands of miles way? Oscar’s eyes grow larger, as she tries to understand what Fersen could mean by that. But before she can say anything, Fersen tells her, “Please take care of Lady Antoinette!” and runs off. Oscar makes to follow him, asking where he is going, but he disappears into his carriage and rides away.

It turns out that Fersen is going to America to fight in the independence war. Oscar and André are back in the Jarjayes manor, having tea in the morning room. Similar to when they were discussing Fersen previously, Oscar is standing by the window, looking out in the distance, while André is sitting at the table. “The Expeditionary Force is departing today. Aren't you going to see him off?” he asks her. Oscar doesn’t answer. She takes a sip from her cup of tea.

Meanwhile in Versailles, a messenger is briefing Marie-Antoinette on the details of Fersen’s departure. With tears streaming down her face, the queen tells the messenger to convey to Fersen that she wishes him glory in the battlefield and a safe return.

The Expeditionary Force is marching on the streets of Paris to the cheering of the crowds. Fersen, dressed in the uniform of the Swedish Light Dragoons, rides his horse along the troops. He momentarily looks back, as if expecting to see a familiar face come to see him off. But there is no one there.

Why doesn’t Oscar go to see Fersen off? Because she can’t bring herself to say goodbye to him obviously. Knowing that Fersen might not come back alive from the war, it would be too difficult to mask her true feelings like she normally does when she is with him.

When faced with a strong emotion, Oscar’s first instinct is to suppress it. Except for anger. She seems to have no problem expressing her anger, because, well, it is permissible for a man to express anger, right? But here, the emotion in question is love. The kind of romantic love a woman feels for a man. Oscar hasn’t yet made her peace with the idea that she is entitled to feel such kind of emotion for a man.

Back in the morning room, André is watching Oscar with a grim expression. She has still not answered his earlier question. As if frozen in time, she is standing by the window, gazing out into nothing. The half-drunk tea in her hand is growing cold. André gives up at last. Apparently having decided to leave her alone, he says in a weary tone of voice, “Oh, shoot... I just remembered, I have to change the horses' shoes today.” He slowly stands up to leave, not even bothering to feign panic. He casts one last look at Oscar, standing still as a statue, and walks out of the room. The camera zooms into Oscar’s face. Alone at last, a single tear rolls down her cheek, as she says, “Don’t die, Fersen.”

The End

This is the second episode directed by Osamu Dezaki in the series and marks a turning point in the story. The characters become more mature and the plot gets more sombre, more serious. For instance, take the troubadour, who authors the poem featured at the beginning of this post. I am guessing that he is one of Dezaki’s additions to the series, because this is the first episode he appears in the anime and he isn’t featured in the manga at all. Personally, I find the second half of the series more enjoyable, and I think the fans generally agree on this assessment. As for this episode, I always liked it, but I didn’t use to feel like watching it over and over again like episodes 25, 28 and 37. I admit that I recently discovered how great it truly is. What do you think?

A note on the title of the episode: Is it Rondo, Rondeau or Rinbu? The episode’s title is translated in the North American DVD release as “Fersen, A Farewell Rondeau.” The dictionary tells me that rondeau is “a poem of ten or thirteen lines with only two rhymes throughout and with the opening words used twice as a refrain” and that rondo is “a musical form with a recurring leading theme”—obviously derived from the former. The episode’s title in Japanese is “Fersen, nagori no rinbu” (フェルゼン名残りの輪舞). “Rinbu” means “round dance; dancing in a circle .” However, the furikana (a sort of guide for how the word is intended to be read) for “rinbu” is given as “rondo” (ロンド).

So, we’ve got a poem1, a musical form2 and a dance3 with a repeating1, recurring2 and revolving3 rhyme1, theme2 and movement3. What they all have in common is the idea of something having a circular, repeating pattern or motion. Perhaps the troubadour is reciting a rondeau? Or maybe Fersen’s relationship with Marie-Antoinette is intended to be shown as a sort of never-ending “dance” that moves in circles? In a way, it’s ironic because they don’t get to dance in the episode thanks to Oscar’s intervention. But this is the second time that Fersen abruptly leaves France to end his relationship with the queen for both their sakes. So, there is a pattern here: He arrives in Versailles, has a torrid love affair with the queen, causes scandal in the court and flees. Only to start it all over again.