#political pawn

[thatdiabolicalfeminist]

just to be completely clear, the amount of military power and political influence Israel has has NOTHING to do with its settlers being Jewish. Israel is a force for American & European interests in the region and they're just doing what America does and allows/encourages its close allies to do.

war crimes aren't considered war crimes when someone America finds useful is doing them. european and american pushback against anyone criticizing Israeli apartheid & genocide is 100% because these crimes are useful to American & European hegemony.

Governments that are deeply antisemitic, like France, aren't suddenly caring about Jewish people. Jewish people, persecuted the world over, don't hold some kind of hegemonic power outside of Israel.

The state of Israel and its attendant brutal treatment of the locals are both incredibly useful to the US, and American hegemony means we're expected to celebrate both.

not bc they're Jewish. this isn't a break in the pattern of western antisemitism and it's not evidence that antisemitism doesn't exist.

it's just like how you could get fired for saying shit against the US war in Afghanistan when i was growing up. it is 100% about US military and political interests (ok slightly western europe too but lbr)

[harpuiaa]

(person that has never seen saw but has read yugioh voice) yeah? so he traps people in evil puzzle rooms? sounds a lot like a guy i know

[hussyknee]

[pearlescentpearl]

Part 11! Battle won; war uncertain

This night just goes on and on, Findekáno thinks grimly, relegated to a corner of the surgical theater while the healers went to work

He'd half expected them to be offended by him and Fëanáro promising to watch, but Glasslaer just shrugged pragmatically and said, "It's pretty common for victims fresh from Angband to fear being touched in their sleep. Him having people he trusts to stand look out will be less traumatizing for him in the long run if we don't have to force him to sleep."

Not for the first time, Findekáno finds himself both profoundly disturbed by the Lestorodrim, and profoundly impressed by their steadiness

He wishes he had some of that steadiness right now

"Where exactly did you find him?" His half-uncle asks tightly, voice low to not distract the healers. His gaze is unerringly focused on his son, twitching now that they've moved onto correcting bent fingers and toes. It appears some of them are merely long dislocated, but others broke and healed at sickening angles

They can't actually hear the bones being rebroken, not at that size, not over the chatter of the healers, but Findekáno can't not imagine the sound of the snapping. It appears Fëanáro is much the same

"They had him chained outside," Findekáno says, hands clenching at the memory. "Hung from the cliffs over the gate like a holiday wreath. Literally hung. He was suspended by his right wrist." He swallows. "It was all-- seamless iron. The shackle. The chain. I couldn't even pull out the stake."

"So you--" Fëanáro couldn't seem to say it

"So I," he confirms

After a moment of silence, Fëanáro spits. "Outside! And for how long? How long could we have snaked him out from under them without needing to lay siege?"

He would like to know too. There is no telling, save if Russandol knows the answer, but every answer would be condemning upon his father and their faction

"And why did you go at all? What did you hope to accomplish? Don't think I have forgotten how your brother took my son not to me, but Aewendir."

There is no way in all of Arda that Findekáno will betray Turukáno. "He went to ask for help."

"And I went," Findekáno continues, low and furious, "because I was always going to go. Because he is my dearest friend! Because no one, not even the lowliest traitor and kinslayer, deserves Angband."

His half-uncle makes a series of furious faces, visibly biting his tongue on his first response

Findekáno is actually surprised by the restraint

Finally, Fëanáro says, "He asked after you. At Losgar."

"What?"

"'Whom shall we send for first? Findekáno the Valiant?'" Fëanáro recites, mimicking Russandol's particular cadence perfectly. "I thought it-- never mind what I thought at the time. What I thought did not bear out. He just bandies about the title of friend so easily, it's-- easy to forget he doesn't give it out thoughtlessly."

His lungs don't seem to want to work. He wraps his arms around himself, tries to squeeze until he feels grounded again

"I can tell you and my father are brothers," Findekáno forces out. "The both of you forget your children have their own opinions."

And saying such, goes to check with the healers who are cleaning up their equipment and getting ready to move Russandol to a convalescing bed

"We'll give it a week to see, and then we'll figure out how soon to schedule his next surgery," Glasslaer says. "And he's going to need a lot of work. He has poorly set old breaks in all his limbs plus his face, a hell of a lot of muscle and tissue damage, and we found three fractured teeth that need removed. As well," she adds delicately. "He may desire more... cosmetic correcting. For the brands."

Against his will, Findekáno's gaze darts to the largest one on Russandol's chest. It appears to be some kind of script, but it's difficult to parse and gives him an unnatural headache when he tries

"You should also be checked over," Glasslaer says to him. "The Iron Mountains are wholly tainted from Angband's presence."

"In a minute," Findekáno manages. "I must speak to my family first."

Fëanáro won't leave Russandol's side any time soon, so he's easy to ditch

Findekáno just really wants some fresh air

His father and siblings are waiting for him outside, so he forces his head up, his shoulders back, his steps to not drag. "He's going to live," Findekáno says shortly. There is too much emotion trying to scream its way out of his chest. How can he share He did not forget me without breaking down messily? He can't. So he mustn't. It only matters to him, anyway. "It is too soon to say what quality of life it will be."

As it is, his cousin will be bedbound for the foreseeable future

And that is merely for his physical health!

"I see," Finwë-Ñolofinwë says heavily. Then he holds out his hands. "Come here, yonya."

Findekáno folds into his hug with a shudder, hoping, as he has not since he was a child, that his father will feel encompassing and safe enough to make all the problems in the world feel small again

His siblings pile on top

"I am so," his father says into his filthy hair, shaky and sob-strained, "so angry with. You could have been killed or captured and we would never know until Angband bandied your body at us."

He accepts this. He knew this would be a consequence

"And," his father continues, "I am so proud of you. It is important that you know that. I have no words to describe this mix of pride and terror, anger and grief-that-could-have-been inside my heart right now, but it is important that you know the pride is there. So you know when I say how dearly I wish to never let you out of my sight again you know I say it from love."

"You cannot do that," Findekáno says wetly. "I am your best warrior."

Arakáno makes a faint sound of offense, that is shushed by Turukáno

Like hell they're letting the youngest on the front line

"That will mean nothing if you die!" His father says hotly, holding him tighter. But it does mean something. They both know that. Findekáno is his heir, and his Crown Prince, and his best warrior, and his liaison to his people when his will must be carried afar. It is his duty to go forth into danger

Just as it is his father's duty to pursue his people's best interests

Peeking over his father's shoulder, Findekáno meets Turukáno's eye

Did the Lathron agree? He touches to his brother's mind

Turukáno purses his mouth. I asked again when all were distracted. He's agreed to levy his expertise with Angband prisoners until he's assured Nelyafinwë won't endanger others. But he sees no reason as yet to deny Fëanáro his son

It will have to be enough, Findekáno thinks grimly

Political Pawn AU 2

You can find Post 1 here.

Findekáno does not go to bed

Turukáno finds him brooding on the lake shore, stone eyed and tense

“You’re rethinking things you ought not rethink,” Turukáno says, though he knows it is in vain

“I am trying not to,” Findekáno tells him, folding his arms tighter against the wind. “Whatever he did, it doesn’t change the outcome. Those who suffered still suffered. Those who died still died. I can think better of him for trying to speak on our behalf before the betrayal became irreversible, but not for helping kick it off by taking the ships at Araman, nor his foolishness in thinking the situation would be otherwise.”

And he does think a great deal better of Russandol, for trying. Fëanáro’s wrath had proven no small thing to risk. He failed to stop what he himself abetted, and in his failure rested the horror of trekking the Helcaraxë

But still, knowing someone tried to protest, knowing someone didn’t forget them, that Russandol didn’t forget him…

It’s something

“Father and Aunt are already embroiled in plans for how to use this,” Turukáno says dully, settling next to him on the grassy bank. “I left because I couldn’t stand listening them anymore.”

“What are they thinking?” Findekáno asks, half-fearing the answer. Too many have waited too long for the slightest crack in Fëanáro’s defensive stubbornness, and the feud the eldest sons of Finwë wage has always driven them to unreasonable heights. He doesn’t delude himself into thinking the next move won’t be stunningly vicious

“Father’s hoping to foment Fëanáro’s own people against him by suggesting Nelyafinwë is the only of their House deserving of the crown, seeing as he doesn’t agree with abandoning his people,” Turukáno says bitterly. “He’s hoping it will galvanize those who didn’t agree with their traitor king’s actions into… I don’t know, forcing Fëanáro to do something about them.”

Findekáno huffs a disbelieving laugh, voice cracking. “The man is being tortured in Angamando, and Father would make him king? What is he thinking? This is going to rend the Noldor worse than we already are!”

It wouldn’t just be the Fëanárian Faction tearing into itself over this, it would be their own people too. What cohesiveness they’d held onto all this time would dissolve as the question of Russandol’s actions and what they were worth became a Kindred-wide debate

In Valinor they could get away with that. On Angamando’s doorstep?

Death would come for them in their distraction

“You know how Father gets when Fëanáro’s involved,” Turukáno says, and they share such a look of deep commiseration

“I also know how you get about Nelyafinwë,” Turukáno continues, and Findekáno hunches his shoulders. “You’re just like Father, you know. Not an ounce of objectivity in either of you.”

Keep reading

[maddie-grove]

It just always bums me out when people don’t take Elizabeth Bennet’s desire not to replicate her parents’ marriage seriously. I would argue that a marriage of mutual respect was even more important in an era where a woman’s material well-being was so completely tied to her husband’s decisions, not less.

[fromtheseventhhell]

It's crazy that people still uphold show!Sansa as a well-written character and pretend that liking her is the pinnacle of feminism when it would be infinitely more impactful to acknowledge her terrible and misogynistic writing. This is the same character who, while written by two men, was thankful for the abuse she suffered because it allowed her to grow. The same character who we had to be told was smart because the writers were too lazy to develop or show her intelligence. The same character who had to rely heavily on the men surrounding her and ended up accomplishing nothing on her own merit ( and no, thinking that she deserved to be Queen doesn't mean that she earned it). She is not well-written, she is not complex, and she is not a feminist character. Which is fine! If you enjoy her then good on you, but please stop pretending that she's something she isn't just because you feel the need to justify liking her character

[lilbittymonster]

Fuck it self indulgense hours Aymeric is going to Tural with Kitali she is packing their bags as we speak. Honeymoon expansion x2.

[dearloonies]

Do you think that Allen's wish was to die by his own terms

[suga-kookiemonster]

i watched the original x-men movies when they first came out, but never bothered to watch the prequel/reboot movies. just randomly decided to watch first class and was reminded what i've always felt my whole life: *whispers* magneto was right

[banefort]

im gonna be sick

[hearts401]

i made a whole playlist for kuwei btw its bad

[redvelvetwishtree]

[tacagen]

dont know whether zixx is a bishop clone or not? a 100% accurate test: put a wedding in front of him and see what he does.

[pearlescentpearl]

Political Pawn AU

Hello! And welcome to my next bullet point fic; my take on a Fëanor lives plot! To no one’s surprise; Beleriand is on fire.

The Balrog that would have dealt Fëanáro a mortal blow instead takes an arrow to the eye, forcing a crack in the press of fire demons wide enough for Nelyafinwë to reach in and pull him out

Fëanáro is full of fire and wrath still, but his body shakes from pain and blood loss, vision swimming at the edges, hand cramped around his sword. It’s almost like coming out of a creative fugue; tired and hungry and disoriented, and he thinks, reflexively, ah, where’s a fortifying cup of spiced wine when you need it?

But there is only ash, and pain, and his faithful sons carrying him away from what he feels, from what he knows, would have been the death of him

His wounds are many but he will live; his will is too strong

Barely has he been tended to, and settled in his tent, when the message comes; that Morgoth has sent an emissary, claiming parley and teasing about surrendering the Silmarils

It sounds too good to be true, and so it must be a trap

Nonetheless, Nelyafinwë begs leave to go

“Of course, Morgoth is lying,” he says, eyes alight with his own inner flame. “But don’t you see? He will send more than he promises and so a credible force will be moving outside Angamando. Are we to let them roam free, unchallenged? I mean to crush them, and so convey our contempt at this thinly veiled trick!”

This is true enough enough that it persuades Fëanáro to let him go, despite faint misgivings

Later, of course, they learn they should not have. All who went with Nelyafinwë have been slain, the bodies desecrated and arranged in cruel parody. The only one missing from them is Nelyafinwë himself

Fëanáro truly thought he had known anger before, when his father was slain

It is nothing compared to knowing his son may yet live, but who knows in what condition?

Fëanáro has been up to the Gates of Angamando just that very day, and his memory is impeccable. There is no forcing those doors open with what siege supplies they’ve cobbled together so far

So far

Fëanáro will change that

The Mithrim Sindar are welcoming, numbers decimated as they are from Morgoth’s initial flood of his monstrous forces, and the mountains of Hísilómë are rich in metal ores

They can make something great here; it is only a matter of time

Time the Enemy seems keen not to grant them

it seems Fëanáro can dedicate his forces to building, or wiping out the enemy, not both at once. How aggravating

There seems to be a roaming raiding party just close enough to concern them every other day

Eventually, enough is enough; Fëanáro puts Kanafinwë and Turkafinwë in charge of a cavalry force with a significant number of the remaining horses, and commands them to keep Hísilómë clear as far as they can safely roam

They are not his most useful sons for building fortifications anyhow

Under Morifinwë’s baleful and exacting directions, the possible foundations for a great fortress are mapped out; it is misty, and often rainy inside the shelter of these mountains that trap cold and wet wind from the west and north, not especially favorable building conditions when their only source of illumination comes from starlight

How the Mithrim Sindar eke out an existence in such darkness is a wonder that merits studying

Fëanáro glares down at a map; there are few eastern entrances into Hísilómë, the main one is what the locals call Eithel Sirion, the headwaters of a river. If any eastern pass shall be the greatest concern it will be one with a water source

“Does any claim the great grassy plains that encircle Angamando outside the Wethrin?” He asks of Aewendir, the surviving Lord of the MIthrim Sindar

Not that they use the word ‘Lord’ exactly. Lathron, he is called, ‘listener, hearer,’ a pun on both his function; to hear his people out that he may resolve their troubles; and the fact visibility is often terrible by the lake on account of all the mists

“No,” Aewendir says dryly. “And don’t let anyone blow smoke up your ass otherwise. We’re the only folk crazy enough to live so close to the shadow of Angband, and reviled are we for it by the southern king and his court.” He spits on the ground. “And yet it is our word the southerners rely on for news of Angband’s movements when orcs are abroad.”

Fëanáro is growing very fond of Aewendir; he has a steady practicality about him that puts him in mind of Nerdanel, and a bitterly amused yet philosophical way of looking at the world that both intrigues and disconcerts 

“We shall build at Eithel Sirion then.”

It’s yet more work to keep roving orc bands at bay, but the fortress must be built if Fëanáro is to have the facilities to devise siege weapons capable of cracking Angamando

The mountains are generous with stone, and the Land of Echoes with wood, but the constant attacks are tedious and slow things down

His Ñoldor are split three ways now; the wandering cavalry under Kanafinwë and Turkafinwë, the builders at Eithel Sirion under Morifinwë, and the rest on the western lake shore with Curufinwë, Telufinwë, and Pityafinwë directing necessary domestic efforts 

It’s all a finely oiled machine just barely balanced on a knife’s edge, the slightest upset--!

Fëanáro goes over the numbers again and again, but there’s really no help for it. If only Nelyafinwë had not gone to--

But there is no help for it so they make do. They will get through this if Fëanáro has to will it into truth

One year slips by before he knows it, and a messenger from Angamando is on their doorstep once more

The fact it is a Maia is all that keeps Fëanáro from having it slain on the spot, but that is as far as he can deduce of its identity, its fána so twisted and befouled there’s no telling what it started as

It holds an iron chest in its hands

“One year has the rightful King of Arda held the Crown Prince an esteemed guest in his home,” the being rasps through torn lips and blackened teeth. “But all good guests must leave eventually to stay a good guest. His Majesty offers your son back to you, Finwion, if you but agree to forget your Oath, depart Beleriand, and never return to darken His Majesty’s doorstep. What shall it be, Ñoldorán; your son or your jewels?”

For a shameful moment, Fëanáro’s conviction wavers. Could it truly be that easy--?

But no

Morgoth’s last offer to surrender what he stole was a lie. It was a lie then, and it is a lie now

Fëanáro will not be fooled. 

He will drive open the Gates of Angamando and rescue his son himself, and whatever miseries he has suffered will be inflicted on Morgoth fivefold! Tenfold!

“Úmaia you are, and Úvala I name your thrall-keeping master!” Fëanáro scoffs. “Slink back to your hole and tell him to stuff his false offers back behind his teeth where they belong!”

The being laughs, a horrible scraping croak that’s half a wheeze. “Very well, Finwion. A souvenir to tide you over then. A token of His Majesty’s consideration.”

The chest is tipped open and a wealth of loose red hair, vividly bright even in the light of the Fëanorian Lamps, spills out upon the ground like a bloodstain half tossed by the wind

It reeks of blood too

The breath catches in his throat. All that hair, Nelyafinwë’s pride and joy. It didn’t seem real to see it bereft of his son, to see it tossed carelessly on the ground where-- where anyone could trample it

He feels numb

The anger is too strong, there are too many directions he wants to shove it at once

Behind him, Telufinwë lets out a cry and looses an arrow into the Úmaia’s mangled torso

Fëanáro reorients. Draws his sword and shoves it through the being’s throat and cleaves its head clean off. There’s an eruption of fouled power upon its death, but it must be the weakest in Morgoth’s enthrallment for it barely rocks him on his heels

“Pay what it said no mind,” he tells his sons, the lot of them wet eyed and reaching for the hair on the ground. “The Enemy is a liar, dishonorable, and a cheat. Even if we agreed to the deal, Nelyo would only be returned to us dead. The only way to get him back is to wrest him from the pits ourselves!”

Their spirits firm. Good

[r0ryy]

I feel like at a certain point in their life, Cass' five year plan was something like:

1. Go to war

2. Die

[transshion]

well. we are warriors. 🧍🧍🧍🧍

fun times with the all warrior crew (ft. @beastren's lir and @bardistraee's avraham) why all warrior you ask? because :)