#seems like that’s tantamount to death for most

[levanterhaze]

✧ LOVE ME AGAIN WITH CARMY BERZATTO

→ carmy berzatto x reader

→ you and carmy have always had a volatile relationship, and when you decide to break up for good, things seem to take a turn for the worst. carmy misses you and you miss him. everything could change when the bear opens.

→ warning: anxiety, angst, some signs of depression, light smut nothing to worry about

→ 4kish

Your relationship with Carmy was always going to be stormy.

While your friends spent their Valentine's Day in fancy restaurants and luxurious hotels, your Valentine's Day was depressing and lonely with a meaningless box of take-out and too much cheap wine. And then the next day was even worse. The regret and bitterness. The anguish and the fear of losing you, it all came at once, and you could feel Carmy slipping through your fingers like sand, fast and at great cost.

And it wasn't as if he didn't care. You lived in Carmy Berzatto's mind twenty-four hours a day. You'd still be there if the days had more hours. He had too much feeling and not enough showing. And that killed him a bit every day. For it was you. You who comforted him after Mikey's death, you who bandaged all his cut fingers after a grueling day at The Beef. It was you, who watched him take over a new restaurant and start all over again.

You were there and Carmy hated himself for not being able to do the same.

There were times when he was lost in his own head. Fear ate him from within and breathing seemed almost impossible. There were countless times when you received messages from Sydney or even Natalie, when he accepted that he was in need of something, someone. From you. And it was never easy, because he made everything so difficult for himself. He did not want to involve you in the vortex of anxious thoughts that were occupying his mind. He didn't want to drag you into the personal hell that his mind had concocted.

But pushing you away was tantamount to losing you. And for Carmy, it was only a matter of time. Just as the sky is blue and water is liquid and so on, losing you was inescapable. One day it would happen. He didn't know when, but predicting the worst had been a common part of his life.

Then you hoped he would be there on one of the most important nights of your life. You had worked long and hard, and all your family and friends were coming to see the hard work you put into your art. You were happy in spite of everything. It had always been your dream to be recognized for your art, and to see the people you love the most recognizing it, honoring you for it, was priceless.

You kept glancing at the gallery door, waiting for Carmy to appear before you like a perfect dream come true. And with each passing second, it was clear to you that this was not the case. Almost twenty calls and thirty texts and no answer. At this point, you had no interest in the question of where he might be.

And somehow you could understand Carmy's busy and chaotic life. He had too many responsibilities, his mind was like an endless to-do list, and things just kept popping up, even more so after The Bear situation. But the selfish and unselfish part of your twisted mind wanted him to be there, to make time in his evening to be with you. After all, what was important to him was important to you as well. But often it didn't seem that way. And that was hard to deal with.

You heard the door of the small apartment you shared open just after two in the morning. It was dark. Only the lamp was on, which made for a calm atmosphere despite the usual tension in the house. And as soon as he entered the room and saw a suitcase packed at the foot of the bed, you could see the mixture of awe and panic on Carmy's face.

For a few seconds, he just stood there like that. Just standin' there. Blue eyes fading in something you no longer recognized. The distance between the two of you was almost palpable. Your heart crushed in your chest, shattering into a thousand little pieces.

Carmy lowered his head with a sense of defeat. The day he had been dreading had come, and he felt nothing but stupid and incompetent for allowing it to happen, even though he knew it was going to happen. The trembling in his hands was real, and he had to hide them behind the rest of his body so that they wouldn't be noticed.

"I'm sorry." It was the sound of his voice, almost in tatters, that did your heart in.

Carmy looked at you, shaking hands through his disheveled hair. This isn’t something he wanted to say goodbye to. What he had with you was the most beautiful part of his life. To lose you is to lose everything. And he didn't want to lose it all.

One tear ran down your cheek. You wiped it away before a single tear could turn into a few. You wouldn't know how to stop if you dared to cry now.

You said, "There are some leftovers from the dinner in the oven. I've sorted out your last few bills so you can get organized without having to worry, and..."

"I'm so sorry."

"...and the key is where it should be. If there is anything you need, Carmen, you can give me a call and..."

"No. No. I'm sorry."

The realization hit Carmy as hard as rock. He was on his knees in front of you. Feeling his hands around your wrists, you closed your eyes. There was something familiar and cruel about the calluses and the way his thumb brushed the inside of your arm.

You were so much in love with him that it hurt. Loving him like that, it hurt physically.

"I'm sorry. I'm going to be better. I'll get better, I'll focus on the things that matter and... I swear. I promise you, just... Please." His voice was like knives. They cut deeply and hurt.

You gulped, trying to escape the ocean of blue before them. There was so much pain in Carmy's eyes that all you wanted to do was hug him, take care of him and tell him that everything would be okay. But this cycle had to end, and you'd done it countless times. 

You tried to get up from your shared bed, but Carmy stopped you. "Carm." You whispered in an attempt to get him to stop.

"Please." He whispered back.

"It's not working. You know I... I can't."

"I fucking love you. You're... I..." Carmy sighed and moved away, sitting down on the carpet a few steps away.

There were so many things that he wanted to say, but he couldn't. Carmy had the feeling that the floor was opening up and his body was being dragged into this black hole. His heart was beating so fast. He thought it would explode out of his chest. If he was the reason you were leaving, how could he beg you to stay?

And he knew it. He had been reading the signs. All the times he'd been late, even when you'd agreed to go out to eat together. All the dates he didn't show up for. The anniversary that hadn't worked out. That trip to Europe. All the things that piled up. He knew it, and he was there, and he was letting it happen.

But at the same time, he knew that you deserved better than that. You deserve someone who would give you time and love. Who would be there every day. Who would learn to love you the way you deserved. The love he felt for you was far greater than he was able to express, but that would have been egotistical of him.

Sometimes love is not enough. You have been the living proof of that.

"Carm. Look at me."

You knelt before him. He touched your hands once more, which were now touching his damp face. The last thing he would remember, besides your watery eyes, would be the scent of pear and vanilla that permeated your sweater.  

"You'll be fine. I hope you're fucking happy and that all your hard work pays off. I'm your biggest fan. You know that, right?" You tried to put on a smile but failed miserably. "Carmen Berzatto, I will always support you.”

Everything I've achieved is meaningless without you, Carmy wanted to say, but couldn't.

Only your ragged breath broke the cruel, melancholy silence.

You wiped your face and got to your feet, ready to leave. Ready to leave behind all of the memories that you had with the man that you loved the most.

Before you left, Carmy looked at you and said, "All those things, they were true. They were real."

You understood his meaning and agreed with a nod of your head.

And so it was only at 2:47 a.m. when you finally left the apartment, that you allowed yourself a good cry.

It had been two months since you and Carmy had broken up. You hadn't heard from him since.

The only close contact you had with Carmy was Sydney, but you had been clear when you mentioned that she could only talk about him if it was something urgent. And nothing urgent had come up in two months.

You missed him, you couldn't deny it. Life was hell with him gone. Despite all that was bad and rotten, Carmy was kind, gentle, chivalrous, and cared about your feelings. You missed all the mundane things, even the times you ate packs of cheese balls while watching a movie, just waiting for the part where his hand would accidentally slip up your thigh and the movie session would turn into a making out session.

You tried to move on, except for the significant absence of him in your life. Grocery shopping was no longer the same. No cashew juice or fancy, barely pronounceable fruit and spice names. Just the usual bland basics. Maybe that was what it was like to live without Berzatto.

It was a rainy Tuesday, one of those Tuesdays when you just wanted to stay in and not have to deal with any obligations. You were one of the unfortunate ones who had to deal with adult life and buy parmesan cheese because your sister was the only one who could make macaroni and cheese worth eating. There was a place you only knew about thanks to Carmy that sold quality products.

The rain had made your hair wet, and the guard at the small market smiled sympathetically when he saw the miserable situation you found yourself in. You nearly laughed at yourself. Basket in hand, you wandered the aisles singing a pop song from the radio. Your eyes scanned the perimeter of the dairy aisle, and with your finger, you tried to select the best product.

Parmesan, in hand, you froze to the floor. The voice in the back of your head was so familiar, so ghostly, that it made you turn around in a hurry.

And there he stood. In the white shirt and the tattered jeans. His sandy hair so tousled that you felt your hand involuntarily clench in the desire to touch him, to feel his softness. You thought about calling him up, to say hi. The question in your mind was whether it would be too weird. Or perhaps not.

A woman with dark hair and sky blue eyes walked up to him, leaned her chin on his shoulder and whispered into his ear. Both of them laughed. You felt your heart sink.

Carmy turned around, a small smile on his face, and when you least expected it... they were kissing.

You felt as if time stopped running. That millisecond was etched in time. You could hear the gasping breath tearing at your chest, the tears gathering at the waterline, and your heart crashing again, for the same person.

"What are you doing? It's like you went to make that damned Parmesan, and I had to check to see if anything was wrong..." As your vision blurred, your sister's voice echoed in the back of your mind.

"Let's get out of here."

"What happened?" She tried to get you to look at her, but you just kept pushing her toward the marketplace.

"Let's take it somewhere else."

"But you said..."

"I'm aware of my words. Now let's just go."

As you dragged your sister down the aisle, Carmy could have sworn he heard something that sounded like you. But he couldn't really be a judge of his own conscience. Unable to tell what was real and what was not, he had been hallucinating for days. He would hear your voice and swear that he saw you somewhere, only to not be able to see you there.

"Are you okay?" Claire asked with a light squeeze of his hand.

"Yes, of course. Let's get going?" Carmy said, forcing a smile. Claire agreed and gave him a kiss again.

Carmen didn't want to relive ghosts from the past, no matter what had happened.

A week later, Sydney and Sugar had a text message that The Bear was finally open for business. The first night they were only opening for friends and family. They insisted that you should come. That it was important not only to themselves but also to Carmy.

You weren't sure about that. You had no idea what to do when you got there, because your presence could mean so many things. And despite everything, there was the news that still lingered in your mind: Carmy had met somebody.

Selfishness wasn't for you. You didn't want his eternal devotion. After all, you had put an end to the relationship. But when it came to him, that little feeling of envy and jealousy still existed. Because in spite of it all, you never stopped loving him.

"Well, you know what? Fuck it."

You yell at the top of your lungs before you start rummaging through your closet until you find the perfect dress to wear.

You once told Carmy that you would always be his biggest supporter and that you would always be true to your word.

You were greeted by Sugar. She looked gorgeous with her pregnant belly and a radiant smile when she saw you.

She said, "I can't believe you came!" She hugged you in a consoling way that only the Berzatto's could do. "You look so beautiful, honey."

"Nah. This is beautiful." You point to the room. "Look at you, Sug!"

"Come on. I'll show you your table." Sugar made her way among the tables. They were already crowded with familiar faces.

You looked amazed. "I'm seated?"

"Of course, dummy. You're one of us. I hope being away hasn't made you forget that."

You hugged her once more. Then you sat down at a small table with your name on it.

"Make yourself at home. We'll serve you soon."

"Thank you, Sug."

Fak almost kicked in the door, breathless. Sydney gave him an annoyed look as she tried to shake off so many orders in front of her, then whispered, "What the hell, Fak."

"She's here."

"Who's here?" Carmy asked, not even bothering to look at Fakerson.

"Your girl." Fak said smiling. "I mean, your ex-girl...?"

"Claire's here?" Sydney said, confused.

"Claire is here?" Carmy looked at him, completely taken aback.

"Why would Claire be here? I thought you guys broke up." Richie shot back before leaving the kitchen.

"Thanks, cousin." Carmy said, noticeably irritated.

"I thought it was obvious they broke up." Sydney grimaced.

"Guys?" Losing a little patience, Carmy put his hands on his waist.

"Wait. You and Claire broke up? Uh, Jeff..." Tina came over to Carmy's station with a pair of frying pans.

"Chefs! Appreciate the interest in my love life. Now, focus, please!" Carmy shouted. Everyone scattered to their stations. "Fak, who the fuck is out there?"

Fak started to speak, but before he could finish what he wanted to say, Richie appeared, wide-eyed.

"She's here."

And Carmy felt his whole body fall numb before he could even understand. It wasn't Claire. The last time they saw each other, she had made it clear that she didn't want any kind of involvement if he still had someone else on his mind.

And from Richie's smile, that could only mean one thing.

Carmy Berzatto was fucked.

Ten minutes had passed and Carmy had already cut his finger twice and almost burned the salmon. His mind was on the small pane of glass that was the partition between the salon and the kitchen.

You, sitting alone at a table, so beautiful and angelical that he felt his chest ache. And he couldn't tell if it was the black turtleneck dress, or your hair, or the red lipstick that outlined every curve of your mouth.

Carmy was at a loss. To bring him back to reality, Sydney had to yell at him five times. There was a kitchen to run and many dishes to do.

Richie appeared at your table from time to time. First it was with your favorite wine. Then with your main course, because you hated appetizers and you were sure it was a Carmy thing. Pork burger with gravy and tomato salad with red onion and Diet Coke. Carmy's first meal when you started dating, right in The Beef's old kitchen. He fed you. Then you had the most intense sex in his office.

Carmy knew what he was doing when he used food to bring back memories. So do you.

Sugar appeared again after dessert: pineapple ice cream with blackberries and wine. The restaurant was already very empty, only three tables were occupied, one of them being Sydney's relatives and Natalie's husband.

"Hey. So I had a talk with Carmy and he asked me if you could stay a bit longer..."

"I'm not sure."

"He wants to talk to you."

You had no idea what would come out of this conversation. What you had seen weeks ago still hurt. Talking might hurt you both more.

"Sug, I don't know..."

"Look, I get it. I really do. I'm not just saying this because I care about him. I know he has a lot of feelings for you. I saw how bad he was after you broke up, honey. I don't know what came of it, but... If you still care about Carm, please. I beg you. Talk to him, will you?"

It took a couple of seconds and Natalie was starting to think that you were going to get up and walk away.

"All right, then. I'm waiting."

"Good night, Chef!" Sydney was the last one out the backdoor.

Carmy leaned against the counter and ran his hand over his face. What was he thinking when he asked you to stay?

Now he could see the empty lounge. You sitting there, sipping your last glass of wine. Natalie, afraid of something worse, looked at your table and the kitchen every five seconds.

It was after one in the morning. You were impatient. Fear was eating you alive.

You stood up from the table and patiently walked over to Natalie. "May I go now?"

"He's in there. I'm leaving. Pete's waiting for me outside. Honey... Thank you for your patience. If you need anything, call me. Nice seeing you."

You said goodbye in a hug. "So do I, Nat. Thank you so much for everything."

It was only when you turned to the kitchen door and saw his silhouette inside, waiting for you, that you realized you were alone with Carmy. As you walked slowly, you gathered your thoughts.

Just as you opened the door, Carmen turned around. And by God... you couldn't look more beautiful. Your wine red cheeks contrasted with your red lips and it was driving him insane.

"Hey, Carm." Your voice struggled to come out. Carmy almost broke into a smile when he heard it.

"Hey." He whispered. "Thanks for coming."

"You know I wouldn't miss it. I'm happy for you guys. This place... It's beautiful, Carmy. What you've done to this place... It's just incredible."

"I wish I could have shown it to you sooner, but... Yeah." An awkward smile and a scratch at the back of his head. "Thank you."

You bit your lip, worried. "Did you want to... talk?"

"Yes. I, um, do. I don't really know what... I just... I wanted to see you." He agreed, a little awkwardly. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"Everything. I guess."

"Berzatto, history is history."

"No, it isn't." In denial, he took a step closer to you. "If history is history, then why don't I stop thinking about you?"

He had you by surprise. "Carmy."

"I mean it. None of it matters. Why... You're the only person who knows my heart by heart. You're my only true opener. And I know, I know I've failed you a thousand times and you probably deserve a luckier jerk than me."

Carmy felt overwhelmed. Exhausted.

"I love you. I love you so much that it scares me because I've never felt shit like this for anyone, you know? This feeling that suffocates and eats you alive, this shit scares me. And I know I'm a fucking psycho, but that's who I am, and I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. I just... Fuck!"

He sniffled. He was trying to get rid of his watery eyes and all the humiliation that came with them.

You were in sheer shock. Carmy had never been so vulnerable as now and the whole situation was startling and unfamiliar to you.

"That's pathetic. I'm sorry." Disguising his shame with self-deprecation, he tried to laugh it off.

"Carmy." You took a step back, getting close enough to see how flushed he was. "Why didn't you ever tell me any of this stuff before?"

"Because I was scared. When something good happens to me..."

"You have an automatic assumption of the worst."

He agrees and looks down. You sigh and look at the countertop where his hands are. Exposed tattoos, each screaming for your silent touch.

"If all of this is real. Then why were you kissing her?"

"Claire?" He seemed surprised you knew her. "It didn't last. I don't know... I don't know what the hell I was thinking. In fact, I have a pretty good idea where my thoughts were. It just wasn't about her."

"Carm." You whispered, fingering his hand. "I don't care about the vanity. I just want to know if it's for real. If everything you've said is true."

Carmy felt his heart explode in her chest. Like a rough sea, his eyes watered. He took your hand and held it as he took one last step. The last step for the two of you to merge into one. Like a trap, his lips captured yours. Carmy was beastly, wild, desperate. There was an eagerness in his touch, and in the way that his lips moved around yours.

One of his hands went straight to your neck, gripping it tightly, while the other squeezed the skin around your waist. As he pressed you against the bench, deepening the kiss and moving your head as he pleased, a gasp escaped your lips. You were breathless. You felt narcotized by the longing for him again.

And it wasn't just a physical need. It was a lust for the meeting of souls.

"Is this real enough for you?" Carmy said after the kiss, sucking your lip and making sure you looked deep into his eyes.

You kissed him again with no time to lose. This time you made your way through the kitchen, knocking over utensils and pans along the way until you found your way to the office. Carmy rushed to close it, barely breathing.

Once again, he pinned you against the wall and held your wrists so that you wouldn't be able to escape even for a second. His lips explored your skin, every inch of it, so that you would never forget the taste. He wanted to carve his name into your skin, to worship you, to be devoted to your body and your love forever.

He had never felt anything so intense, and as frightening as it was, it was wonderful.

"Carmy." You whimpered as you felt his hands on your skin, on sensitive spots that made your eyes roll back.

"For old times' sake?"

"For old times' sake."

[wordbreaker]

The Taming of the Dragon, 1 ✷ Aemond Targaryen

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC

SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.

-ˋˏ following chapter ✶ ao3 ✶ my inbox ˎˊ-

         Aemond Targaryen was on the verge of going mad. Everyone around him, from his mother to his grandfather and even his failing father, had only one word on their lips: Rhaenyra. His half-sister, who lived in Dragonstone, haunted the Red Keep. Her ghost wandered the corridors and manifested itself on their lips. He no longer wanted to hear that cursed name, which brought with it bad omens and curses.

“She'll do anything to usurp the throne! Even if she knows Aegon is the rightful heir!’ Alicent Hightower shouted.

Her brown curls bounced with every step she took. Her incessant to-ing and fro-ing along the Small Council’s table was making his head spin.

His mother had summoned him—as if Aegon wasn't the first son—to this secret meeting where her, his grandfather Otto, Criston Cole and Larys Strong would discuss stratagems, politics, and manipulations: three things he had started to loath. His love for his mother and his sense of duty had kept him from leaving the minute she made that request.

His expression revealed his true opinion of this ridiculous spectacle which he was watching with a distracted eye. He had stopped listening a long time ago and was waiting patiently—as was expected of him—to be dismissed. These discussions had a way of boring him. They went round in circles, nothing more than paraphrases of a previous meeting. A constant déjà-vu fuelled by obsession and a thirst for power.

“Viserys will come round,” her father reassured her.

The Queen laughed, a mundane, almost inelegant, gesture that was incongruous with her status. Rhaenyra had the gift of unearthing his mother’s inner ugliness. She could turn the most important woman in Westeros into the common little girl full of rage she had once been.

“She has his favour. She is the favourite child! He won't change his mind, not even about his first son!”

And what a son! Unsurprisingly, Aegon was nowhere to be seen today. His brother had never taken to politics. He was probably busy fucking some whore in the Silk Alley or some maid in his rooms, happy to let Aemond take over the responsibilities he left vacant.

Although it pained him to admit it, Aegon was the first son and he belonged on the Iron Throne. Aemond would much rather see his brother sit there than his whore of a half-sister. Aegon wasn't evil, just a misguided soul that his mother and grandfather would set straight. He was sure of that. Leaving the kingdom in Rhaenyra's palms, on the other hand, was tantamount to condemning the inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms. Her reign would only bring calamity.

He tilted his head back and looked up at the ornate ceiling. His fingernails beat against the wooden table as the minutes ticked by. Slowly. Much too slowly. He held back a yawn.

The tone had been raised, words had been shouted, orders, given, and in the midst of all this racket, Aemond felt like screaming. He couldn't care less about Rhaenyra, his uncle, and her brown-haired bastards.

Aemond didn't want to suffer what his birth had spared him—responsibility. The second son was merely the replacement, the forgotten one. He would only appear on stage if Death came too early.

He wanted to be left in peace until then.

A futile desire for someone bearing the Targaryen name. No ancestor of the blood of the Dragon had known peace and he certainly wouldn't be the first.

The sun had been down for at least three hours when Aemond finally escaped from the clutches of his mother and grandfather. He mourned a wasted day and headed for his rooms.

On the way, he came across Aegon, his eyes reddened, and his eyelashes still stuck with sleep. His fist itched. He felt a visceral need to bring it down on his brother’s face. Why wouldn’t he grow up? What would become of Westeros if his grandfather and mother succeeded in making him king? Aegon was an immature fool and Aemond was expected to pick up the pieces. What did he gain by doing so? No recognition, no respect, and certainly not power. He was asked to do it because it was expected of him. An unspoken rule he learned to obey from an early age.

Aemond Targaryen would forever remain the second son, obscured by the shadow of Aegon’s unworthy glory.

“Brother.”

Aegon nodded, but the sly smile on his lips threw off any semblance of politeness. Aemond remained unmoved. He would not play his game, not tonight, although a few insults came to the tip of his tongue. He clenched his jaw.

“I assume the council was as interesting as usual. I'm sorry I couldn't be there but, you understand... A pretty servant was waiting for me. Couldn’t disappoint her, you know?”

Aemond didn't reply. He had not even deigned to leave the castle, not even his rooms. His hands began to shake, and a stabbing pain seized his sapphire eye, as it did every time he was upset. Lazy bastard.

When Aemond was mastering the art of sword fighting, Aegon was swilling whole jugs of wine. When Aegon was thrusting his cock between the thighs of a whore, Aemond was immersing himself in the histories of Old Valyria.

They couldn't have been more different.

Aemond continued towards his chambers, his face tense. Behind him, his brother burst out laughing and tried to talk to him, but he quickened his pace. Tonight, he had no patience for conversation.

Soon, the large wooden doors of his rooms appeared at the end of the corridor. The relief he felt was dulled by a weight in his chest.

At the last moment, Aemond turned around and hurried back. He felt as if he were suffocating within the gigantic walls of the Red Keep. The vast corridors were no longer so. They closed in on him and whispered hissing words. They slipped into his ear and snaked into his mind to unearth his worries. Stories of legitimacy, inheritance, the throne and responsibility—everywhere he went, his duty followed and plagued him.

Aemond needed to see Vhagar. He usually avoided disturbing her in the evening. His dragon was no longer in her prime and slept more than the others. Tonight, he would allow himself to be selfish. The need was too great. He had to clear his head, or he would go mad like many Targaryens before him.

He continued walking until he came to a darkened alcove. Aemond slid his hand over the cold stones. Eyes closed, he savoured the sensation. Click. He pushed open the wall, revealing a long and abandoned corridor.

The secrets of the Red Keep were no longer unknown for him. Aemond had spent his youth wandering up and down the corridors of the building in search of them. The stories said that Maegor the Cruel had beheaded the architects, the masons, the carpenters... all the brains and hands that built this fortress. They took these secrets to their graves, secrets that only the blood of the Dragon could recognise.

After the loss of his eye—thinking of Lucerys Strong made him cringe—Aemond had redoubled his efforts to find them all. These passages had offered him the ideal refuge to escape from the gaze of others during the most difficult period of his life. This tradition had survived.

Aemond didn't even stop in front of Balerion's skull—not when his own dragon, alive on top of it, was waiting for him—and he rushed through the corridors, down some stairs, up others, turned left and then right, down some stairs again until he finally reached a door which he pushed open.

The fresh air whipped across his face. Immediately, all his worries evaporated, although his hands continued to tremble—a vestige of his wrath. He inhaled the smell of the shore, a delicious mixture of salt and air.

Aemond made his way down the stairs and onto the beach. He relished the sensation of walking on the white sand. It crumbled under his leather boots. Aemond found this instability reassuring. Nature could be unstable too. The wind had picked up and was blowing thousands of grains around. These whirlwinds, small storms of matter, calmed him and the proximity of Vhagar finished off the hurricane rising in his heart.

With a slight smile on his lips, he walked over to the dunes where his dragon had taken refuge since he brought her back from Driftmark, eight years ago. A mountain of green scales stood among the other mounds of sand. It moved with every breath. Aemond could almost feel the warmth of her breath, the hardness of her scales, and could already imagine himself riding her, hair blowing in the wind, free in his mind.

His joy was short-lived. The gods did not like to see him happy.

Aemond stopped dead in his tracks. Next to the gigantic figure of Vhagar, a small silhouette stood out. It was fidgeting and tormenting the dragon’s sleep. The short distance between the two made him clench his fists. They were close, far too close. Aemond had forbidden anyone to approach his mount. He had never had to repeat his request before. Who would be foolish enough to approach a sleeping dragon? Those who had risked it were no longer around to tell the tale. They had been burnt to a crisp and their loved ones had had to mourn an unrecognisable pile of ashes.

The stranger must have been unconscious or just mad.

Aemond stomped over to them.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he growled rather than asked.

He knew he was protective of Vhagar. Everyone around him had noticed. He had exchanged her for an eye, and this suffering had only redoubled his murderous impulses: Vhagar was his. Anyone who dared touch her would face his rage.

The latter rose in his chest and accelerated his heartbeat. It coursed through his entire being, leaving no part of his body untouched. His nails dug into the palms of his hands. His muscles quivered, waiting for just one thing—for him to attack.

He stepped forward, ready to confront the stranger, who jumped and turned but did not reply. This silence made him even more furious. Who dared ignore their prince?

Moving a little closer, Aemond recognised the gleaming black armour and scaled helmet of the Dragonkeepers.

A breeze of relief blew over his heart, but it didn't completely calm the agitation that had been building up inside. At least this person knew what they were doing.

Worry and anger gave way to curiosity: what were they doing here? Aemond had never come across a Dragonkeeper outside the pit. They lived there to ensure the well-being of the creatures. Like monks, the pit was their sanctuary, and nothing could keep them from their duties.    

Normally, at least.

He couldn't see their face. Vhagar's massive form cast an equally colossal shadow over their body, which was further darkened by the night. It was only when he was close enough to smell the smoke coming from their uniform that he realised it was a girl and, worse still, that he didn't know her.

The last time he had ventured into the dragonpit, he had been only ten years old and had two eyes. Back when he was still Dragonless-Aemond, the place had seemed unreachable yet idyllic—the embodiment of impossible dreams. Eight years ago, he would have easily been able to name the seventy-seven keepers with the time he spent there. He came every day, waiting for the moment when a dragon would accept him as a rider.

The Dragonkeepers’ faces had clouded over with time, reduced to vague memories that the satisfaction of having claimed Vhagar had swept away. Far too large to fit in the pit, his dragon had made her home on the dunes of King's Landing and, in doing so, had made the dragonpit a bygone era of his childhood.

“State your name. Now.”

She dipped into a clumsy curtsy, perhaps the worst he had ever seen. She almost tripped on air and fell face-first into the sand. He winced. This girl was cruelly lacking in grace. No doubt the keeper’s profession had damaged her manners, which already left a lot to be desired.

"Lucella Snow, yer ‘ighness.”

His eye twitched.

A bastard from the North.

The shamelessness made perfect sense now.

These people were nothing but barbarians, made savages by the cold and their proximity with the Wildlings. They prayed to their strange, faceless gods, remnants of a primitive past, and still clung to superstitions dating back thousands of years which bore witness to their backwardness. Too limited for the political intrigues of the South, they retreated into their icy fortresses and only left them to defend themselves.

Northerners were strange and even the Starks, although not the worst of their species, were no exception to the rule.

Add to that the absence of a father to beat her and train her like a lady, which she could have become with a little effort, and you had the bastard in front of him. She was not unpleasant to look at, Aemond decided. Her pale skin, hidden under the ashes smeared on her cheeks, and the few strands of black hair sticking out of her helmet leaped out at him. If she had been born in wedlock, many suitors would have fought for her hand in marriage.

“And what on earth is a Winterfell bastard doing here?”

“I’m sorry, yer ‘ighness, but I’m afraid ‘am just a bastard frum White ‘arbah.”

Her accent struck Aemond's ears and made him wince. Syllables here and there disappeared as the vowels struggled to make themselves heard properly in this gibberish. Her voice was deep, deeper than his mother's or his sister's—the only women of his life—, and dragonfire smoke had taken the evenness out of her tone, leaving it hoarse.

He didn't like the way she avoided his question or her undeniable lack of politeness. She looked at him with jaded eyes as if he were the one who shouldn't be there. He thought he saw a flame dancing in her amber irises. A strange colour for someone from a Northerner. In these lands, eyes were only blue, grey, or black: bland colours for a land saddened by the blizzard.

“Winterfell... White Harbor... Northern towns all look alike.”

“I suppose yeh won't mind if I call you Velaryon, then? Yeh understand... Valyrians… They’re all th’same.”

His indecency irritated her. A mouth like hers belonged in a dilapidated tavern, not in a place like the Red Keep.

Northerners didn't belong here. They weren't like them.

“What is your concern here?” he asked her again.

Why isn’t Vhagar killing you? he thought.

Next to Snow, the Queen of Dragons looked peaceful. His companion was used to the presence of the keeper of the North, Aemond realised. The thought worried him. How long had this stranger been roaming around his dragon without him knowing?

The bastard pointed her gloved fingertips at a sheep carcass, no doubt ready to be charred by Vhagar, judging by the hungry look on her face. Aemond had not seen it until now.

The presence of this woman was upsetting his plans and troubling his senses.

“I’m bringing her food.”

Her 'r's rolled off her tongue.

“I already feed her.”

“Not enough. Obviously,” Snow retorted without hesitation, pointing to Vhagar's visible ribs. “Age tends t’work up their appetite. Ain’t tha’ right, sweetheart?”

She tenderly stroked the dragon’s muzzle, who let herself be petted under Aemond's hallucinated gaze.

His mount, reduced to a common pet.

His nostrils flared. He abruptly grabbed her hand and pulled her away from Vhagar, ignoring the grimace of pain on the Dragonkeeper’s face. Good. Perhaps she would understand that lurking around his dragon was not without consequences.

Vhagar, the Queen of all dragons, ridden by Visenya, had fought and survived Aegon's Conquest. She embodied the glory of House Targaryen and would not be touched by a commoner. A Northern bastard even less so.

Without a glance at her, he climbed the rope ladder and settled into the saddle.

"Sōvēs," he commanded.

Vhagar, lethargic, took her time shaking her wings before flapping them and taking flight. She sent grains of sand and stones flying. Soon, the beach was nothing more than a pale speck drowned in the thick clouds bathing in the twilight’s silver light. The icy air invigorated him, but he couldn't find the comfort he had come for. His thoughts remained stuck on the Dragonkeeper.

When Vhagar lost altitude for a moment, when the two of them broke through the cloud barrier and the beach was visible once again, Aemond saw that she had not moved and that her eyes were riveted on him.

Aemond didn't understand her expression but decided he didn't give a fuck.

[quantumcartography]

Eventually I'm gonna do a deep dive on every name in the Locked Tomb series but I've been sitting on this dissection of The Emperor's chosen name for a long time and I want to put it into the world. So, here it is.

The Emperor John Gaius, His Celestial Kindliness, the First Reborn, King of the Nine Renewals, Necromancer Divine, our Resurrector, and The Necrolord Prime

“NOTE: He’s just some guy, you know?

NOTE II: Gaius was not the name John was born with. He picked it for himself circa Y100 of his reign.”

These two names have so much potential meaning tied up in them so buckle up.

First, the literal translations. John is a derivative of the Biblical Hebrew Yohanan which is in turn derived from the Yehohanan, which means literally “Yahweh has been gracious.” Gaius is a Latin name that likely derives from the latin gaudere “to rejoice.” This more or less makes the name say “Huzzah! God has been good!” Now, there is one other tweak to this. Gaia is the Greek personification of the Earth (Terra is the Roman equivalent) and if you slapped the Latin masculine ending on it, it would become Gaius. This does provide a tie to the planet Earth in his name (which is far more obvious in Gideon’s name of Kiriona Gaia) and would make sense if he picked it as a memorial to the dead Earth to which he could never return.

Next, modern social interpretation. John for a long time held the title of “most common name in the English speaking world.” I believe it’s since been surpassed by James, but it’s still up there. Gaius, funnily enough, was the Ancient Roman equivalent of John. It was one of the most common given names for so long that it became semi-synonymous with saying “some guy” similar to the phrase “Tom, Dick, and Harry” or “don’t know him from Adam.” These two names make his name something like “John John” or “Jon Doe” or “James Q. Public.”

Next: the strictly biblical interpretation. The most obvious link here is to the book of the New Testament, John 3. This is a letter by one of the many biblical Johns to a man named Gaius concerning some pretty mundane church business of the time and thanking Gaius for looking after some poor missionaries. It’s honestly a supremely drab book of the bible and doesn’t really get into doctrine or legends or exciting apocalypse stuff. It’s just a letter from a church leader to a rich patron. If someone more versed in Biblical history and literature can shed some light on this book, I’d be very thankful.

Next: some name associations. Being two of the most common names in history, we kinda have a wealth of options to pick from. Saint John the Apostle was the one who actually walked with Jesus and was the brother of the Apostle James with whom they made up the Boanerges, the Sons of Thunder. John of Patmos was the likely author of the Book of Revelation and maybe the same as John the Apostle (but probably not.) The author who wrote about the apocalypse seems pretty fitting. Gaius was also the praenomen (given name) of the two Caesars responsible for the death of the Roman Republic and the birth of the Roman Empire: Gaius Julius Caesar and Gaius Octavius who became Caesar Augustus.

Julius Caesar is definitely the most well known Emperor of Rome/salad inventor and also second dictator for life (Sulla was the first so Caesar can’t take that title.) He was an incredibly popular general who was part of an alliance of three figures (him, Pompey, and Crassus) to increase their own power, wealth, and standing. When Crassus died, tensions formed between Pompey and Caesar until Pompey had the senate recall Caesar from his war in Gaul to be removed from command. Caesar knew this would lead to his execution at the hands of his rival so he made his own play, marching his troops into Rome (an act tantamount to sacrilege) to try and capture Pompey which spoiler he didn’t. It sparked a civil war that raged all the way around the Mediterranean for four years and left Caesar as the de facto ruler of the Roman Republic up until an unfortunate accident in the senate where he fell into knives 23 times. He had it coming. This idea of attacking his enemy before they have a chance to attack you only to have your enemy slip away is a notable parallel.

Gaius Octavius had been named as Caesar’s successor in his will and would go on to become the first proper Roman Emperor. He used the newfound power from his great-uncle’s death to form a new three person alliance (him, Lepidus, and Mark Antony) and hunt down Julius Caesar’s assassins and rake in treasure while cementing their political power. Surprise surprise though because Caesar Augustus (the name given Gaius Octavius after he became the Emperor) managed to politically, militarily, and psychologically out maneuver his two fellow rulers and within seven years he had metaphorically put Lepidus in the ground and literally put Mark Antony in the ground. Now, while in life Julius Caesar made a lot of moves to imply that he wanted to be the king of Rome, not least of which was modeling himself as descended from the gods and enshrining himself alongside them as equals. Augustus doubled down on this by starting a massive and complex propaganda machine to make himself equally divine, even within his own lifetime and immediately afterwards.

Both of these men led the Romans into civil wars that ravaged the empire. Both of them committed acts of sacrilege in the ancient world to further their political games of revenge. Both of them lied, cheated, stole, killed, and manipulated to gain more power and remake the world to be what they wanted. They were geniuses who may have even had good intentions and put an end to a long period of political instability, but through blood and steel and no small part vengeance.

Now I would be remiss if I didn’t address the elephant in the room that is Homestuck. I will say that my adoration of The Locked Tomb series has sent me down innumerable rabbit holes. I have researched paper manufacturing, the magnetic forces of Jupiter, Catholic prayers, polygenic phenotyping, Ancient Greek and Roman poetry, national anthems of nations of the world, and the psychology of Among Us. But the rabbit hole that is the MS Paint Adventures Wiki is one too daunting for even me. But in any case, I have no doubt that these characters sharing a name is no coincidence.

Lastly, the use of a Hebrew and Latin name makes this fascinating marriage of opposites. To massively understate it, Romans and Christians did not get along for a long time. Obviously now, the Catholic Church is seated in Rome, but for a BIG portion of the early Christian ministry, the Romans were the ones who captured them and set them on fire or crucified them or other fun and exciting means of execution. More than that, an apostle to Jesus’ monotheistic peace-loving and merciful message being linked with two deified and bloody conquerors of Ancient Rome does create this interesting tension. This tension is something very interesting in modern Catholicism as well as the Locked Tomb’s Empire.

[bestworstcase]

in re: oz understanding what salem meant i do not have the brainpower to go through the whole thing rn but it sort of comes down to,

#1, an “all just a big misunderstanding!” resolution feels pretty cheap and to my mind makes ozma seem just completely pathetic; earlier in the same episode we see him ask salem flat out “what are you saying?” when he doesn’t follow and salem clarifies without the slightest hesitation. the notion that after a decade or more married to this woman, ozma heard her say something this out of pocket, out of fucking nowhere, and didn’t AT LEAST go “…what are you saying?” to confirm that no yeah she really did just abruptly go mask-off on wanting to do genocide, is… pathetic. world’s most pathetic man. i do not believe that ozma has at any point in his lives been the kind of person who wouldn’t blink hard and go “excuse me??” in this scenario.

#2, the only person present during the lost fable who knows the full context of that conversation, aside from jinn, is oz. the only character on team good who has the requisite information to know what she meant. if there’s going to be any proactive motion on the heroes side toward correcting their own misperceptions of salem, ozma is going to have to be the one to provide more information. regardless of what salem herself does to surprise them, i don’t think these kids will be able to get to “let’s try talking to her?” until they have a reason to believe that she doesn’t like. want to massacre humankind.

#3, it makes a ton of sense for there to be a miscommunication on this specific point between ozma and the kids, because a) after the shock of the lost fable nobody was asking follow-up questions aside from “how could you hide all that?” and “what the fuck is your plan to beat her?” and then oz got punched in the face and screamed at and locked himself away for months to reflect on all this. meanwhile the kids focused on the immediate problem of how to beat salem secure in the assumption that they now have all the facts. the question of salem’s motivation never comes up at all until ozpin brings it up with hazel, explicitly in a bid to scare hazel into turning against her, and he misrepresents the nature of salem’s curse in order to make his case. which is to say, ozpin is lying about one thing when he claims salem wants to end the world – it isn’t unlikely that he’s lying about the rest too.

and that’s a recipe for misunderstanding, if ozma knows what salem meant but no one on his side is asking questions about or discussing her intentions – how is he to know they misunderstood something she said until they voice their misconception?

#4, it’s a lot more compelling for the conflict between salem and ozma to be genuinely about what it seems—she believes the gods are fallible tyrants who can be defeated and should be rejected and replaced, he believes that they are absolute cosmic authorities who can only be obeyed and that her defiance is tantamount to a death-wish. they are on the same page about this and before ozpin’s lifetime, both resolutely believed that the other was a) wrong and b) beyond reason, and thus the immovable detente. then ozma experienced the first shattering crisis of faith during the great war (salem was right about what it takes to unite the world) and ozpin spends his whole lifetime reeling while he treads water; and meanwhile salem acts on the presumption that he has not changed, seeming to confirm ozpin’s worst fears (that she despises him, that she will never forgive him, that she’ll burn the world down with her for the sake of defying the gods one last time, and so he is still fated to be her eternal enemy). and there’s the storm.

layered over top of that is all the fairytale propaganda ozma has spent lifetimes meticulously weaving to obscure the true conflict (because he fears she’ll rally people against the gods again if he doesn’t poison the well) – so long that he half-believes it himself, until jinn causes him to relive all of that; the story salem told him that he desperately didn’t want to believe, his lies, her trust, his choice to plug his ears and blame her for the cruelty of his god. not for nothing does he crawl out of this hole with the wistful yearning for reconciliation song playing underneath in the very moment salem arrives in atlas! shattering though it was – it also reminds him of what’s really true, what’s important to him. what he wants.

(#5, it really doesn’t make sense to me for that ^ to happen if ozma is under the impression that salem just wants to kill everybody and/or do grotesque magical eugenics – “the enemy was right” is an odd thought to insinuate that he’s having if he isn’t clear on what salem was right about.)

and #6, i think it makes the reconciliation easier for the conflict to not be predicated on a misunderstanding. consider how salem might feel in the event she asked why ozma did all of this and his answer boiled down to “i assumed you wanted to commit genocide and use our daughters to breed a new race of magically empowered humans and it didn’t occur to me to question that assumption EVEN A LITTLE BIT at any point in our history. forgive me?” like – jesus christ. whereas “i remembered what you told me the gods had done to you and to the world the last time you rebelled against them and i got scared” is so much less awful, and so much more natural to forgive. she’s scared of the gods too. and if there’s any inkling in there of ozma having been scared for her, scared of what the gods might do to her if she failed, all the more so. it just… fits together better with the set up so clearly leading toward a romantic reconciliation.

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

Hey I don’t mean to further flood your inbox and I know I sent an ask a week or so ago. But in church this morning the sermon was on the 1 John passage about how if you hate your brother or sister you don’t love God, and I just. I bet you can guess which political figure immediately comes to mind. I know we’re supposed to love and pray for and forgive our enemies, and it’s not supposed to be a thing where you only do it if you know you’ll get an apology/changed behavior/etc. But the most positive thing I can say where he’s concerned is if he showed up on my doorstep bleeding and starving I would work past my anger to bind his wounds and feed him cuz that’s what you’re supposed to do for fellow human beings. Other than that I have no love for him (or people like him, really). Just anger and immense disdain. Maybe even hate. What do I do with that??

Hey there, I feel you on this. I can also think of maaany political figures I feel this about lol.

I have an old post delving into what it means to love one's enemy and what forgiveness is (and isn't) that I recommend to you.

I'll start with a TL;DR from that post, and then add some other stuff about working through feelings like anger and hate, and close with some reading recs <3

When we find it desperately difficult to love, or to forgive, we can ask God to feel and be what we find ourselves unable to feel and be.

We can remember Christ's words on the cross about the soldiers crucifying him: he does not say "I forgive them," but asks, "Father, you forgive them, for they know not what they do."

He cannot himself forgive them in that moment — not while they are in the act of torturing and killing him, not while they hold all power over him, not even when his compassion allows him to understand that they do what they do out of ignorance — so he asks God to be that forgiveness for them.

When I struggle to feel love for someone who is doing great harm and seems completely unrepentant of that, I turn to God the way Jesus did: "God, I'm struggling to see the spark of You in them. Please love them the way I can't in this moment."

Next point:

Throughout the Bible, the concepts of love and hate are much more about action than sentiment.

If you feel love for someone, yet don't come to their aid when they need it most, what use was that love to them? Meanwhile, if you fear or disdain someone, yet help them in their direst need, you have acted with love.

Furthermore, when it comes to difficult emotions, the good news is that we are indeed invited to bring all our feelings — anger, disdain, even hate — to God. We can be real about what we're feeling.

Scripture shows us this over and over: There are so many psalms, and passages from the prophets, where someone has been hounded and terrorized enough to wish pain or even death upon the ones who oppress them. In one of the most infamous, Psalm 137, the psalmist even goes so far as to wish that their oppressors' children might be "dashed upon a rock" — that everything Babylon has made them suffer might be enacted on Babylon.

These are not pretty feelings, yet they are preserved in holy poetry, because they are part of the human experience. (And tantamount to understanding them is realizing that those praying such things will happen almost never have the power to enact them. The psalmist who wishes Babylon's soldiers experience what they've put the psalmist's people doesn't have the army, the weapons, the power to actually make that happen. They're just honest about wishing it in a moment of collective trauma and grief.)

In all this, I'm not saying God "wants" us to feel loathing or hate — any thought or feeling that puts us at risk of denying another person's humanity is one we do need to work on; but we do that work by being honest about feeling it, rather than being too ashamed to face it or to share it with God.

No pressure to read any of these of course, but here are texts I'd recommend on these topics:

James Baldwin's The Fire Next Time, a brief but rich text in which (among other things) Baldwin grapples with the need to love his oppressor (namely white people) — to affirm their humanity in a way they have denied him. Only in recognizing one another's humanity can we have any hope of something like justice and peace for the generations to come. Baldwin believes this vehemently, but he still acknowledges that it's still not easy, in fact it's one of the hardest things, to love one's oppressors in such a way. .

Cole Arthur Riley's This Here Flesh, another short book rich in meaning. I especially recommend the chapters on lament, rage, justice, and repair for this topic. One thing she discusses is that love is not "niceness," that rage can be righteous, that sometimes the most loving thing we can do is to let a harmful person witness our rage, to call them out. .

The same link from the beginning to that post about what forgiveness is and what it is not

[cosmicjoke]

As an eruri shipper I wanted to thank you for your callout post. For nearly a year now I have gotten so much hate on my fics that I thought about deleting them, I haven't tho, thankfully. I found out about the spiteful troll and so I did my best to ignore it. However, the hateful comments my work was getting was beyond me because I hardly ever care what people ship or do and was simply minding my business writing what I like only to be told that I'm a jealous loser and I should stop writing Levi together with the "ugly bitch" (referring to Erwin) and that I should touch grass or slit my throat ... which?? And they made it sound like shipping Levi with a man was illegal or that the ship was inappropriate in some way.

I don't know who is really behind those hateful comments but if it's really her I hope karma hits her way very hard. Don't tell people to kill themselves over fiction EVER. That's common decency.

And about some eruris seeing you as an anti shipper. I'll admit I thought you were one as well. It didn't bother me as everyone is free to do whatever they want, but it's a pleasant surprise to know you actually like the ship and write fics for it. If anything, I admire how you can put your shipping goggles aside to write your analyses. It's very impressive.

Don't know if this is relevant but self shippers scare me a bit. Some of them have mean girls energy and I don't want to be attacked so that's why I'm staying on anon🙏🏻

First of all, let me truly thank you from the bottom of my heart for reaching out. It means the world to me, and I admire you for sharing your experience too. I'm super glad to hear that you didn't let the person leaving hateful comments on your stories drive you to delete them. I understand completely where you're coming from, as I've deleted stories of mine in the past due to an overabundance of negative comments. But I've never had anyone actually leave me death threats, or wish for harm to befall me on any of my stories, and to do that is truly the lowest of the low. Not just because it's over something as harmless as a piece of fictional writing, but just in general, it's never okay to wish harm on someone who's never harmed anyone else, or over something as ridiculous as a disagreement.

And yes, given what I've seen from this person on twitter, claiming Erwin is some "old man", they seem to think shipping him and Levi is tantamount to pedophilia, which is so absurd it doesn't even warrant a response. Erwin is at most maybe 5 years older than Levi? If even? They're both in their 30s. Shipping them is totally normal and healthy, lol.

I just think this person has some sort of raging, disgusting prejudice against gay relationships, and they view all gay relationships as perverse in some way. It's truly their problem, not anyone else's. I don't know either if it's the same person I got into an argument with here on tumblr, but so much of the language is the same, and the things they say are so similar to what was being said on twitter and a03, that I'm more than inclined to believe it is the same person. I can only hope my post helps inform more people about them and what a toxic, horrible person they are. Hopefully it will lead to them being blocked so that it isn't so easy for them to harass others. Though I already know they have multiple accounts here on tumblr, since they saw my post and started ranting about it on their blog, even though I had them blocked.

It also means the world to me to know that I've been able to clear up with you my stance on eruri and shipping in general. That was big of you to not be bothered by me when you did think I was an anti, but I'm glad I was able to show you that I'm not. I'm really, really not, lol. I love eruri. It's my favorite ship, and all my favorite AoT fanfics are eruri fics, lol. You can find comments I've left on too many to count at this point. I just try to keep it out of discussions which focus on "Attack on Titan" itself and Levi's role within the story, because I just don't see his relationship with Erwin in canon as romantic. I just think you have to keep the ship separate from canon because if you're going into an analysis of the narrative and Levi's or Erwin's role in it with some preconceived idea that their relationship is romantic in nature, then that's going to color one's ability to objectively analyze the motivations and the reasoning behind both Levi's and Erwin's actions. But I was never, ever against the ship, or against the idea of them being shipped. I think I got the reputation of being an anti because for a long time, I was being inundated with anon asks basically accusing me of being homophobic for saying eruri isn't canon, or anon asks trying to "prove" to me that it is canon and then getting angry at me when I disagreed, or when I lost my patience with them for simply not accepting my stance on this issue. And I think this small group of people then went around to other eruri's and spread to them that I was some sort of aggressive eruri hater. But again, I never was and never will be. I talk more about Levi's relationship with Erwin than any other character, and I find their canon relationship to be incredibly moving and powerful, and further, I love Erwin as a character. One thing I hope all of this will also do is make it clear to other eruri shippers that I'm not against them or their ship at all. I really don't want to be anyone's enemy, least of all eruri shippers. That was never something I set out to do, haha.

But yes, I'm right there with you regarding some self-shippers. Obviously, most of them aren't like this person. Most of them are normal and understand what they write and do is just for fun. But after "Bad Boy" came out, it seemed like the most push back against analysis of that story and its implications came from the self-shipping community, particularly people that seem to actually labor under some sort of delusion of actually, truly being with Levi in a romantic, sexual relationship. I don't understand that at all, because Levi isn't real, lol.

But they seem to get so upset at any discussion of Levi's trauma, or of Levi being affected by his trauma, because acknowledging that trauma and the impact its had on him ruins whatever fantasy, dom-daddy version of Levi it is that they've concocted in their heads. They like to claim Levi is some hard-ass, stoic, unaffected, domineering sex god, because that's what turns them on, and any discussion about what the actual reality of Levi's sexuality would likely be, due to the sexual trauma he's been exposed to, needs to be shut down, because it ruins the fantasy they have. They can't claim that the way they characterize Levi is objective or accurate to canon if Levi's sensitivity or vulnerability as a person is acknowledged, so they like to claim he's not affected at all by his past trauma, that he's just too hardcore to ever succumb to or be profoundly impacted by the things he's lived through. They like to imagine he's just come out the other side totally a-okay and that his stoicism and rudeness is 100% just a product of him being kind of a mean person, again, because they like the idea of being treated meanly by him in a sexual setting.

But Levi isn't a mean person, at all. He's literally the opposite of mean. He's the most thoughtful and considerate character in the series, constantly going out of his way to express his gratitude and ease the suffering of others. He's just awkward, like Dimo Reeves says, and isn't good at filtering his words or expressing himself. That some of these people refuse to acknowledge that the way Levi grew up, the environment he grew up in and the way he was raised, didn't have an impact on his ability to navigate social situations is patently absurd and stupidly unrealistic. It also undermines the severity of abuse Levi suffered in his upbringing, to deny that it had any sort of negative or harmful impact on his ability to interact socially with others. He was raised by a serial killer, for Christ's sake, lol. He wasn't ever taught how to talk to people in a way that would make them more comfortable. He was only ever taught violence and how to kill by Kenny, and he was too young when his mother died to learn anything from her, and he was also abandoned and left on his own at the age of ten, in the most cutthroat, dangerous environment there is inside the walls, surrounded by criminals, rapist, murderers and human traffickers, as well as just desperate people who would resort to plenty of bad shit just to survive. He probably didn't have a single, normal social interaction in his life until he met Furlan and Isabel. I would like these people to explain to me, then, how it is they think that didn't have an impact on the way Levi interacts with others?

He's an exceptionally honest person, too, and he also isn't someone who's concerned with being well-liked, so he doesn't try to ingratiate himself to others by acting friendly. But Levi never sets out to hurt anyone's feelings. He isn't malicious or cruel. He just says what he's thinking and sometimes it comes out sounding unkind. And we see, when Levi realizes it, that he tries to explain himself, again, not because he wants to be liked, but because he doesn't actually ever intend to hurt anyone's feelings. This idea that Levi is a mean person is totally wrong.

Anyway, I went off on a bit of tangent there, lol. Sorry about that. But again I just want to reiterate how much I appreciate you reaching out like this! And don't let these freak shows get you down.

[phoenixkaptain]

The scene of Anakin turning back to the Light and saving Luke is such a beautiful scene in so many ways, but especially from a character standpoint.

If you look at Darth Vader just in the movies, he doesn’t do things without a plan. He has a step two. Even if his step two is immensely dumb, he always seems to at least have some form of an idea where he wants to end up; he has a point B he’s trying to reach.

Part of what makes Vader a terrifying villain is that he always seems to anticipate what his opponent will do. He seems to know what they’ll do before they even think about what they’ll do. Very rarely is Darth Vader ever taken by surprise. Darth Vader is the character who proves how scary the Force can be. While Palpatine uses his Force lightning and can predict what his opponents will do, he never quite reaches the level Anakin is on, he never reaches that peak of knowing the next five steps his opponent is going to take, even as those next five steps change.

Palpatine doesn’t see Vader turning on him coming. Palpatine is not a Force user who can see the future, he uses the predictions Darth Plagueis made and he sticks to the outline provided by his former Master. He does everything he does and believes everything will be fine and has complete confidence in himself because Plagueis was just that good at predicting the future.

Darth Vader literally changes the future. He makes those predictions false. Him throwing Palpatine down a reactor shaft wasn’t in the books, him choosing his son wasn’t an option, the idea that a Sith lord as powerful as Darth Vader could turn back from the Dark Side is believed by the Jedi and Sith alike to be impossible. Darth Vader himself doesn’t even believe that he can turn back from the Dark Side. The only character who ever believes that Darth Vader can come back is Luke.

Darth Vader is fifteen steps ahead of his opponents. It’s very rare that he ever gets surprised. He always has a plan.

But when he saves Luke, he isn’t any of that. He leaps in without a plan, without any ideas of where he’s goung. He doesn’t know what will happen except that he’ll probably die. He doesn’t have a way out of this. This is the first time Anakin Skywalker ever does anything without already having a way out or immediately being able to come up with a way out.

Anakin was hotheaded and impulsive, yes, but Anakin from his introduction always has a plan B. And when he doesn’t have a plan B, he makes one. He is by far the most competent character in Star Wars, just from his ability to get himself and others out of trouble.

In the moment of turning back from the Dark, Anakin is listening to the Force. He’s listening to the Force as it tells him to save someone. The universal call to the Jedi, the inexplicable push that all Jedi feel and what ultimately led to the majority of Jedi dying, just because they couldn’t not listen when the Force told them to help. Anakin finally listens to it, finally answers it, he finally acts like a Jedi.

There’s no step two. There’s no way out. Doing this will end in his death. Darth Vader is already injured, and the only one who has the resources to put him back together is Sidious. To save Luke, Vader has to step into the lightning, which he knows all to well will ruin his suit. Choosing to save Luke is tantamount to choosing to die.

And he does it. He hesitates, but ultimately, he sacrifices himself for someone else. He goes in knowing that this won’t end with him being able to get out. He has no way out. There’s no plan B. His suit has gone from keeping him alive to being part of the reason he’s dying. He takes off his helmet accepting that he’ll die and being happy to die because he’s finally at peace, he finally feels the warmth of the Force, he finally sees his son with his own eyes, his son is finally looking at him with nothing but trust and worry for his wellbeing, he’s right where he wants to be.

He went from wanting to posess Luke to just being happy that Luke is there with him. That Luke is the one by his side when he dies, that he’s dying on the same side as Luke — Anakin is fine with this. He’s ready to die. He’s accepted it. He’s just happy that the last thing he’ll see is the product of his and Padme’s love for each other.

The scenes of Anakin in Return of the Jedi are beautiful. The title “Return of the Jedi” is so great for this movie, it’s perfect, okay, you don’t understand. It has so many meanings!! The Jedi returning could be referring to Luke, the main Jedi we follow, returning to the screen, or to Tatooine. It could be referring to the Jedi Order, since Luke takes on Yoda’s request to share his knowledge with others and, with Sidious dead, the Jedi Order has functionally returned, even if it is only one member strong. It could refer to Yoda returning, it could refer to Obi-Wan returning.

Or, Return of the Jedi could be referring to Anakin. Anakin Skywalker, the son of the Force. Anakin Skywalker, the only character powerful enough to change the future itself, the only Sith Lord powerful enough to stop being a Sith Lord. Anakin Skywalker, who has always done impossible things, who has always performed impossible feats, who is himself impossible. And he’s back. He’s returned. The Jedi returned.

[thevagabondexpress]

something something gangs of ketterdam something something geography

Take a look at the available maps from the Grishaverse and you'll notice something. While maps of Ravka and Shu Han and Novyi Zem are nice and interesting and pretty to look at, and the Ice Court has reasonably good description, that one map of Ketterdam? Yeah. It's rendered in so much incredibly beautiful detail that you can literally see the city's devils (see what i did there? eh?). Six of Crows, and Crooked Kingdom particularly, have a very intense love for and understanding of geography that seems to be unique in the series. Alina Starkov is ostensibly a cartographer and yet Ketterdam is the city I could confidently find my way around and probably direct tourists around as well. And when you think about it, this actually makes a lot of sense. For the Crows that live there, knowing your geography could be a matter of life and death.

I was never in a gang (thank God and my faerie godmother) but I grew up in the poorer neighborhoods of a big city so I know enough about them to know that the experience Leigh describes is pretty accurate. Among the various simplicities and complexities of group crime (major organized as well as four dudes in hoodies alike), territory is a big one. It's brought up in the books, the Crows have Fifth Harbor, it's theirs, and the Black Tips pay a hefty price for encroaching on it. Gang territories are like political borders and if members cross over from their place of residence to somebody else's, it's tantamount to an invasion. The Crows would need to know the city like the back of their hand for more than just profitable purposes and it shows in the books.

Not only that, but many of them have other personal reasons to be good at geography. Kaz is not just a gangster, he's ostensibly a king among them. He's deeply involved, he's got enemies, he's got pies. He's going to want to know who everyone is and where they are so he can stay as many steps ahead as he does. Inej grew up living a nomadic lifestyle, traveling in caravans along routes laid down by probably centuries' worth of tradition. Plus there's the Fold to worry about. Or at least there was. She would have learned navigating from her family from a young age, would've learned which towns are safe and which are not, which roads to use and to avoid. She would have then applied that knowledge to the city easily, probably near-subconsciously, once she could walk in it freely. Plus, I mean, she's getting around by rooftops, she's going to need to know more than just street signs. Meanwhile, Nina is a spy and soldier, quickly learning the lay of the land was no doubt a part of her training, and Wylan was born and raised in the city. Even living in the wealthy districts for most of his life (he wasn't in the Barrel that long before the start of the book, remember), he'd still have a native's grasp of the world around him. Jesper and Matthias are the only characters who don't have a geography connection beyond trying not to start a gang war and Matthias is the only one who genuinely wouldn't probably care. Well, I guess Kuwei probably wouldn't give much of a damn about geography either if we're counting him, but he spends most of his time in the story being shunted from one place to another by other people.

So yeah. When you think about it, geography's gonna be hella important to the Crows and it makes sense that it shows up like this in the books. Now, do I necessarily like that I could probably give Barrel breakfast restaurant recommendations to a friend? Not really, unless I'm writing fanfiction. But it's fun knowing why. Now, the mystery of why Alina isn't this geography-knowledgeable when she's literally a cartographer . . .

(tagging @tleeaves @4uru and @immortalarizona for your thoughts if you have any)

update: map:

[friendlylocaloracle]

ambient hostility

this is a loose continuation of the last post. last post was an attempt to provide some kind of explanation for how i think about things. then i kinda got to the end and, y'know, mentally passed out from exhaustion, which was really unfortunate because i feel like i didn't even get to the good part--and, really, kind of the only part that i care about anyway.

who cares?

the answer to that comes from putting it all together: everything you do says something about who you are. you can use that in a number of ways. the first way is that you can extrapolate backwards into yourself. i believe that most people call this radically new concept "introspection". it's all my idea. no one has done this before. ...really, what i'm proposing is technique. you can trace your feelings, your reactions, your desires, back into yourself. this is pretty important in general! self-understanding is the only way you're going to be able to meaningfully form bonds with other people without you getting in your way. it is also good for excising trauma. we live in a society defined by rampant hostility. it does not know anything other than chewing you up, spitting you out, and self-replicating. it wants to take as much from you as it can by any means possible. it does not know when or how to stop. it is the only way it knows how to exist, and for it to not exist as such is tantamount to its death, for there is no other possibility. the effect of this society on its people is that everyone is constantly subjected to trauma on its behalf, all the time. the repeated exposure to the hostility is fucking people up and requires its members to embody the hostility in order to cope with it. and thus we have a trauma loop. you have to fix yourself if you want anything to change. can't heal it if you don't know it's there. trauma responses are self-protection mechanisms. they exist to defend against future trauma. it's not really a good defense--it's primarily reactive, unfocused, and generally emotionally turbulent--but it's what your brain's got and it's really doing the best it can. you want it somewhere known so that you can handle it. if you find it and understand it, it can heal.

that being said, finding it and pulling it out can be hard. this is where i'd like to come in. somehow i seem to be rather good at the finding and pulling. i'd like to offer my services through, like, whatever this blog is. now. does that mean you have to trust an internet rando to use it? yes. is the tumblr ask feature a bit limiting for soul surgery? also yes. but we're doing our best out here and this is what i've got. so let's give it a try. see if i can find where it hurts.

[damnilovefaerghus]

The Tragedy of Felix and Rodrigue

tl;dr: The tragedy is that Felix and Rodrigue are Fodlan's equivalent of "angry teenage atheist + nice religious dad", and also the Exact Same Person, because they both:

Devote themselves to some life goal following the trauma of losing someone close to them

Push away other people they care about with their attempts to make sense of loss

Fail in some way to show affection or communicate their true feelings

Care specifically about Dimitri like a lot

See: Felix coping with Glenn's death by copying his personality, devoting himself to crusading against anyone else finding meaning in death, and pushing away family and friends, or Rodrigue coping with losing his son and best friend by looking for meaning in Glenn's actions and Lambert's legacy, devoting himself to supporting Dimitri, and pushing away his remaining son in the process.

Felix and Rodrigue even approach life very similarly; both of them are tied up in the past and trying to avoid grief aagain. Felix's edginess is an effort to stop others from caring about his own death as well as to push other people away from their deaths, while Rodrigue is more than willing to die himself if it would protect those he cares for. It's even present in both of their endings; Rodrigue (at least in original 3 Houses) seemingly dies in every route to keep his promise to his king's memory, while Felix will inevitably throw his life away in meaningless killing if he loses Dimitri.

So the most tragic thing about their family relationship is that they're not actually arguing over what they think they're arguing over. Both Felix and Rodrigue are extremely loyal and devoted people who've made it their goals in life to protect others. The problem is that they're doing it in ways that feel like direct attacks on each other (and that Felix has dedicated himself to being an edgy asshole for the entirety of the game). If Felix had to admit that Rodrigue was not the embodiment of Faerghus's chivalry, just a man who said something stupid while grieving his son, Felix would lose the meaning he finds in protecting other people from dying like Glenn. And similarly, Rodrigue can't accept Felix's point about it being foolish to throw one's life away for a belief, because that would be tantamount to admitting that Glenn and Lambert died for no reason.

So what's the difference between Houses and Hopes (where they actually do manage to talk)? I'm just speculating, but in the original 3 Houses, Felix either ends up in a separate House, turns against his family, or in Azure Moon spends five years searching for Dimitri while Rodrigue is holding the last bastion of Faerghus's defense against Cornelia and the Empire. The focus is on the war, not their family relationship, and they've both moved too far to talk through everything in the limited time they have (though Rodrigue does try, according to a Yuri dialogue). In contrast, Azure Gleam puts the Tragedy of Duscur front and center, dragging Felix and Rodrigue's conflict back out and forcing them to reckon with it. It also helps that after becoming Duke, Felix has to start to consider things with more responsibility in mind, while Rodrigue upon giving up his title seems to have mellowed out a little. It doesn't change either of them as characters, but it starts to bridge the gap between their outlooks on life, and makes their mutual apology much more possible.

Anyway, the conclusion is that Fraldarifam is fascinating, and I am rotating them both on a little ballet dancer table where they (every so often) come together in the center to agree on something before spinning off again

[mimsytheborogove]

Had a convo with a somewhat friend recently about Everything Everywhere All at Once (EEAO), aka the best movie, and they told me that “anyone can put philosophy over anything if you try hard enough” when we disagreed about the message of the film.

Please!!! No!!! Also spoilers under the cut.

The movie very deliberately referenced Albert Camus’ Myth of Sisyphus in its themes.

Sisyphus is a Greek king who is cursed with rolling a boulder up a hill for all eternity, only for the boulder to roll back down once it nears the top (also the he tried to live forever by trapping Death and getting Persephone to let him out to do his funeral rites…Sisyphus was a bad guy). The point of his punishment is that trying to escape Death is ultimately futile.

Camus takes this conceit and uses it as a metaphor for life as well — life is also, ultimately, futile. We get up everyday to roll the rock up the hill, but it always rolls back down. There’s no divine purpose to the rock rolling except to emphasize how meaningless it all is. Life, similarly, has no purpose (since Camus came after the existentialists).

Why, then, do we bother? Why don’t we all just lay down and die? Camus offers the following: we must imagine Sisyphus happy. If Sisyphus finds happiness in the act of rolling the rock, it ceases to be a punishment. Similarly, we must find happiness in the act of living. Get a Starbucks once in a while and hug a furry animal, you’ll understand. These small moments of joy which we eke out are things which we must choose to continue living for, every single day despite the pain we endure, because for most people it’s worth it.

EEAO has this exact theme. When Evelyn and Joy are beginning a reconciliation of sorts in the parking lot, they talk about the pointlessness of living, where all there is are these little moments of happiness and the rest is meaningless. And Evelyn makes it clear that yes, there’s a lot of pain in life and her relationship with Joy. They fundamentally do not understand one another, in part because of the generational divide and the immigrant/ABC perpetual foreigner division between them. It causes them pain, it hurts, it’s frustrating and annoying because they can’t seem to quite make the other understand. But Evelyn states that she essentially believes that loving Joy and having her as a daughter is WORTH IT ALL. And, when Jobu Toppacky chooses not to enter the all-consuming bagel of nothingness (which is definitely a metaphor for Joy’s suicidal ideation), this is symbolic of her ALSO choosing the sparks of joy over nothingness. We must imagine Sisyphus happy.

THATS WHAT THE MESSAGE IS. Sometimes, choosing those sparks of joy is worth it. Some people might not think it’s worth it — think of Gong Gong and his decision to basically disown his daughter for not obeying him — and they choose nothingness over any scrap of happiness, because the pain is too much. Sometimes, that’s what’s necessary. But the point of life is the pain and the happiness (like how Jobu Toppacky says, she knows the joy and pain of having Evelyn as her mother), and we choose every day to wake up and try again and again for that scrap of happiness.

And it’s not perfect! Obviously! My somewhat friend was caught up in Evelyn fat shaming her daughter (something I felt so close to my heart because whew, growing up Asian). She said that Evelyn still throwing out a “you look fat” comment at the end made it seem like the movie “tripped and fell at the finish line.” THE FATSHAMING IS BAD BUT ITS NOT THE POINT OF THE MOVIE, OBVIOUSLY.

Of course the fatshaming is bad!! Joy treats it like an act of affection (which it basically is — in my family at least, it’s meant in a “I care about your well-being, and I pay attention to you because indifference is tantamount to disdain”) but it’s still not good. It’s very bad, actually, and it highlights the way that Evelyn has grown up in a very different culture than Joy and still, even at the end of the movie, does not completely understand her daughter.

And that’s GREAT! Because in real life, there is no perfect communication. We are casually cruel to people for no reason because we just don’t understand them, or they don’t understand us, or both. You may not realize it, but you’ve probably hurt someone you care about because you’ve said something in a way that was interpreted poorly. Evelyn hasn’t learned to understand her daughter or even accept her daughter completely; she’s learned to keep trying, to keep “tripping at the finish line” and getting up again, because her daughter is WORTH IT to her. And Joy, similarly, is going to keep trying despite the mutual pain, because her mother is WORTH IT to her. How that trying turns out is ambiguous at the end of the movie — maybe Joy, like Gong Gong before her, doesn’t find it worth it in the end and cuts off her mother entirely. But for now, she finds fulfillment in the small moments, enough to choose to continue on. We must imagine Sisyphus happy.

This is NOT a movie about “family is more important than anything, even when your family is sucky.” It’s about the fact that Evelyn and Joy CHOSE EACH OTHER out of their own volition. Because those little moments mattered enough. That’s why Evelyn is so devastated at Gong Gong for abandoning her, asking him how he could let her go. She can’t imagine not enduring this suffering (she legit gets beat up by like five million guys and hops dimensions for fuck’s sake) for her daughter. She loves Joy, and she will keep choosing her. And Joy, ultimately, shows she loves Evelyn and will keep choosing her as well.

Waymond is the perfect foil for Evelyn because he is the embodiment of the “kindness and love just because it makes it all a bit more bearable” sentiment. He’s played off as an idiot, and he kind of is, but his glowing sense of sheer goodness radiates throughout the film. Why not put googly eyes everywhere? It’s hilarious! Why not give cookies to people? Cookies are good! The mundanity of life sucks ASS, and it keeps going and going (not unlike the cycling of the machines in the laundromat), why not have some enjoyment? Life is fucking meaningless but guess what? These cookies are bomb af.

In the world where Evelyn is a celebrity, Waymond appears to have found success elsewhere, whatever that looks like. Evelyn is undoubtably successful since she’s a superstar. And yet, Waymond says that, in another life, he would have also found fulfillment in just running a failing laundromat with her. Evelyn is heartbroken that Waymond doesn’t love her in the way she remembers from her version of Waymond — but why? She’s a superstar! She’s more successful than she ever dreamed! But she had chosen Waymond in the past, and she found that choice fulfilling enough that, faced with its loss, she is devastated. Waymond said that his love for Evelyn would have made the laundromat worth it, and Evelyn seems to agree here. We must imagine Sisyphus happy.

Anyway, that’s why EEAO is great, don’t @ me.

[semper-legens]

71. Death Row: The Final Minutes, by Michelle Lyons

Owned?: No, library Page count: 294 My summary: Michelle Lyons has been a death row observer and prison journalist for many years. She witnessed nearly 300 executions, working for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice in Huntsville. She was there in the death chamber for the last moments of many notorious criminals. This is her story. My rating: 1/5 My commentary:

What a let-down. What a cruel, cowardly book. I picked this up for a couple of reasons, but the primary one was my ongoing morbid fascination with the death penalty. I live in England, and we have not had the death penalty as a punishment within my lifetime. I am also staunchly anti-captial punishment, and pro-prison abolition while we're at it. I wanted to see what death row and the mechanisms of execution were like from the point of view of someone who clearly has a lot of experience with the subject matter. What I didn't want to see was some wishy-washy half-baked centrism, sensationalising other people's deaths for the purpose of selling books. But here we are.

Here's the thing. The book starts with Lyons pointing out multiple times that when she first started working on death row, she was relatively young and pro-death penalty. You would think that this was foreshadowing, setup for a later moment or slow change where she changes her mind - after all, saying 'at the time I was pro-death penalty' naturally implies that later, she was not pro-death penalty, right? Well, that moment never happens, and the opinion of the author on capital punishment in the present day is never actually clarified. How does she think and feel towards it? She never makes it clear. Some chapters start with quotes from people about the death penalty, but whenever there's one against it, it's always balanced with one for it, and the reason for this is stated at the end. Lyons believes that, whatever your opinion on the death penalty, you shouldn't have a strong conviction and should always look at the other side.

Which sounds reasonable, on the face of it, but the way it manifests is…I have no other word for it than cowardly. See, Lyons is just defensive of her job and of the role she has taken in the death machine above all else. In an early section, she rails against European journalists who try and document the death penalty, claiming that they are too judgemental and cannot understand it. Not like she does. She's from Huntsville, you see. She's grown up around it. Well, I'm sure she'd hate me, then. One thing that struck me was her claim that European journalists use loaded language when they refer to the executions as 'killing'. I would like to ask what else they are, given that these people are alive when they enter the death chamber and dead when they leave. See, the word 'execution' is a euphemism. 'Killing' is a more direct way of saying it. But I get the feeling that Lyons is uncomfortable thinking of it that way. And I'd have a lot more respect for her if she just admitted it. Yes, the state in her country are killing people. They are killing people who are primarily people of colour. They are killing people who committed a crime age 17 and have spent their entire adult life on death row, not harming anyone. They are killing people who may be innocent. And they are killing people who are guilty! Shying away from that by using euphemism and innuendo is just cowardly.

Lyons seems to have no opinion on the death penalty. Well, she thinks it's sometimes an appropriate punishment, but not in every case she saw. Most damning to me was the fact that she outright admits to arguing against anyone with a strong opinion on capital punishment, regardless of what that is. She wants people to 'see the other side' of the argument - but that in itself is tantamount to saying 'I don't think you're smart enough to have done the reading'. There's a base implication made here that she is the ultimate authority on the matter, that nobody else can have the full context from any other source, which is just wrong. And in general, the idea that if you have a strong opinion on something you are inherently wrong is just gross and centrist. Be like Lyons, who thinks that capital punishment is bad sometimes and good other times! The state should totally have the power to kill people and is never wrong or biased! And, of course, the police and corrections officers do no wrong. When her mentor pranked her by taking her into an inmate shower room, that was just part of the job. When her colleagues make dark jokes about the people they are incarcerating and killing, that's just part of the job. She puts her head down, and she gets on with it. It's dirty work, but someone has to do it. And that mindset goes unexamined through the whole book.

And as for the content of the book? Far much more ink is spilled in the pursuit of Lyons' wishy-washy waffling over the morality of her situation than the actual purported subject of the book. Very little time is actually spent with the inmates being executed, and even then, she makes it clear what their crimes are and that they are dangerous. Repeated is the idea that she wasn't afraid of the death row inmates like other people, that she was doing a hard job and nobody understands her, that she saw the inmates as people and sometimes helped them out. She seems to want us to think she is a good person, despite working for death row - she doesn't outright say it, but that's the implication. The overwhelming sense I get from her is guilt at her own participation. This didn't need to be a book, this needed to be a therapist's appointment. The book doesn't achieve its stated goals, and just makes Lyons look like an indecisive, defensive reactionary. It annoyed the hell out of me, and I was glad to have finished it.

Next, a young man joins Cromwell's New Model Army in a divided England.

[grenade-maid]

I think the way that people think about intellectual property and copyright really betrays a lack of understanding and imagination for both the society we live in and a better society that I should think we would be hoping to create. Specifically, the argument around IP and copyright for most well-meaning people centers on the desire to see creative and inventive people be compensated for the work that they put in. When things get slightly less abstract they will often act more specifically on the desire that authors and workers in industries such as film and television be able to have a living wage, under the supposition that piracy undermines the profit made by their endeavors and therefore threatens their livelihood. This is a relatively straightforward and intuitive set of assumptions that are internally consistent. Internally consistent it may be though, it does not really hold up to scrutiny within real world contexts where IP and copyright have overwhelmingly not only failed to benefit authors or workers, but have been used against them in countless ways to undermine both their artistic agency and basic economic livelihood. Additionally, 30 years of living in the internet era, several decades of home taping prior, and centuries of public libraries and used bookstores should speak to the overwhelming lack of threat that piracy poses (remember after all, publishing industries DO regard libraries and home taping or even just content sharing with friends with equal hostility). all of this is well trodden ground, I have said nothing new in this summary.

⚠️ HOWEVER ⚠️

this is typically where the conversation ends, running around in circles until the heat death of the universe. Do people consider what it is they are truly talking about, though. That is to say, something very fundamental is being taken for granted here as an immutable fact of the universe tantamount to natural law like gravity or thermodynamics. that thing, the very thing they are arguing about, is the livelihood of artists and workers as defined by their wages. Again, this seems entirely reasonable and intuitive, after all, you need money to live ergo artists and workers should receive money to do the aforementioned living. But it is at this point that we must recognize that this in itself is an abstraction that has to be understood on a more complex and complete level for the conversation to ever hope to go anywhere.

so we must ask then, what is meant by a livable wage, or economic survival more broadly? Thankfully that question is quite simple. Because it simply means asking, where do those wages go? And the answer is, primarily they go towards keeping roofs overhead, beds to sleep in, mouths fed, water, electric, heat, phone, internet, and all other bills paid, transportation, healthcare expenses, taking a trip to the beach, and laughing with friends. So long as the conversation remains solely on the arms race between workers being paid enough to keep up with all the ever more egregious ways capitalists will find to squeeze the money right back out of them it will be a conversation that fails to achieve its goals no matter how straightforward and simple it seems. The only way out of this sisyphian cycle is for all of those things that wages go towards being guaranteed regardless of wage. There is no model of Byzantine mechanism that rewards some calculation of sales or views or other measure of audience engagement with an equivalent payment to artists and workers that will guarantee their livelihood-- and even if one existed it would immediately be circumvented in enumerable ways owing to the fact that capitalists pay entire armies of people whose sole job is to find loopholes and exceptions and vagaries in language that will allow them to circumvent them.

it is this dynamic that illustrates the way in which in a capitalist society law is controlled by capital. Even with no explicit lobbying involved capitalists can simply pour however much money it takes to get a million monkeys at a million typewriters to generate for them an entirely legal reason that any law that is meant to compel them to do anything (such as paying artists and workers) does not actually apply to them. Artists and workers are too busy making art and doing work to act as a similarly vast number of monkeys with typewriters, and as such, fights such as these cannot be gainfully fought solely in the realm of laws which compel capitalists to pay you x amount under y conditions. The rise of replacing employees with contractors who have no rights, the proliferation of shell companies that can be folded as soon as production is over thus erasing any legal obligation towards artists or workers, not to mention the countless methods of accounting trickery that allow companies to claim they made no money despite millions of sales should clue you into this.

The only way this fight can be won is for the necessities of livelihood to be guaranteed with no exception, with no requirements based on approval by this or that capitalist. We have observed this in healthcare--tying healthcare to employment only serves to let capitalists threaten you by withholding it. If they must provide it upon you working a certain number of hours they will employ you for exactly 1 hour less than that. The same is true with all things because the logic remains consistent. They want to save money and maintain authority, regardless of the matter at hand. This, by the way, is also what is meant by the dictatorship of capital. Just as healthcare needs to be a universal guaranteed right, so too does housing, food, water, transportation, and, in a world where phones and internet are a necessity, they must be guaranteed too, in all instances, regardless of context, whether you think any particular individual deserves it or not.

for artists to be able to make a living making art the only true prerequisite is that they are guaranteed by human rights everything it takes to live. Ergo, healthcare, housing, public transportation, food, water and all these other things being a universally guaranteed right is defacto the primary necessity to fight for in the fight for the rights and lives of artists, not IP or copyright.

[vannahfanfics]

A Ballad of Swans and Vipers: Prologue

Prologue

“Beauty is pain.” 

Most people who utter this saying do so in reference to the immense time and energy that comes with maintaining one’s looks. Some of the ways of crafting a flawless visage are literally painful, after all. That being said, most people wouldn’t interpret the quote to mean that possessing beauty in and of itself causes suffering. How could it? Those who society deems “beautiful” seem to have the world at their hands; what suffering could there be in such ample opportunity? 

A certain sorceress in Twisted Wonderland, however, believed that beauty was indeed a curse. And it was not just any curse. No, it was an unfathomably cruel one, one that led to the most agonizing suffering of all: love.

Her name was Desoline Isolabella. She hailed from a small district within the cultural medley that is the Shaftlands—a region known as Cisne. The native people of Cisne are heralded far and wide as a fair race, for their bloodline is blessed with the natural radiance of their common ancestor: a fae woman of unparalleled beauty. But Desoline was exceptionally beguiling even among natives of Cisne—and her immense magical prowess just added to her allure. Luscious cascades of black hair like woven obsidian, skin fairer than fresh-fallen snow, ruby-red lips and bewitching crimson eyes—yes, Desoline appeared to be a goddess among mortals, so much so that calling her “beautiful” seemed almost an insult. 

Yet, ask any resident of Cisne of Isolabella’s early days, and they shall tell you of her humility. Isolabella found much more beauty in the rest of the world than she ever did herself; ever humble, she spoke volumes of the gorgeousness to be found in the natural world and other people yet never a single word about her own. All of her exploits sought to protect the natural beauty of her rich forest homeland and to serve as a positive role model to her many young admirers around the world. Yes, once upon a time, Desoline Isolabella was paraded as the pride and joy of Cisne.

Now, she is solidified in the annals as their greatest scourge. For Desoline learned that beauty is pain, and it shattered her beyond repair. Beauty is pain, she insisted, for beauty leads too easily to the illusion of love.

The illusion, yes, for love simply does not exist—especially not for someone beautiful.

A heart-wrenching tragedy gone twisted—that is Desoline Isolabella’s story, all can agree. For who can lay blame upon a woman who was abandoned at the altar, especially one whose husband eloped with a so-called “more beautiful” woman? Who can disparage a woman who, as she lay alone and heartbroken in a bed that was now too cold and empty, wished to spare other young people the same fate? Who could not pity a woman so crushed by betrayal that she became convinced that true love was nothing more than a cruel, wicked lie? 

Beauty is pain, and Desoline resolved to shoulder that pain so that others wouldn’t have to. 

A curse, an enchantment, a salvation—call it what you will. Desoline harnessed every drop of her tremendous magical power to place a spell upon the whole of Cisne with a singular goal: to offer respite to those who became similarly broken by disillusionment. 

A plague henceforth fell upon the young people of Cisne. When the fledglings of love began to flutter their downy wings within their hearts, Desoline’s curse would activate. The instant that the individual questioned the legitimacy of their lover’s feelings, they would reach the point of no return—and their bodies would begin a slow transformation into crystal statues. Perhaps Desoline knew this, or perhaps she didn’t; none can say. But the reality of it is that this was a self-serving prophecy. For those cursed by Desoline, falling in love was tantamount to a death sentence—because who wouldn’t question love when they were slowly being disfigured by an unbreakable curse? 

One by one, the young people—wracked with pain, half-transfigured into hauntingly beautiful crystal effigies, abandoned by those who professed to love them—crawled to Desoline for deliverance. Desoline would weep for them, weep for the loss of their innocence and potential, and in the same breath curse the world that led them to believe such a filthy lie. Then, like a mother swan draping her cygnets with her welcoming wing, Desoline would grant them eternal peace. Now, her lonely castle home deep in the forests of Cisne is filled with faces—crystal faces frozen in time, crystal hearts blissfully free of the agony that torments Desoline day after day after day…

And for five long years, the inhabitants of Cisne questioned Desoline’s truth. Did true love truly not exist? Was all that lay at the end of that seemingly joyous road nothing but cold, bitter disappointment? Seeing their young ones abandoned over and over again in the face of Desoline’s power began to cement such in their minds. If true love did exist, surely it was not worth enduring such intense suffering, they thought. 

But beauty is pain. And love—true love—is the most beautiful thing in existence. It is worth all the pain that one can bear and then some—and that is something that Desoline Isolabella finally came to see. 

NEXT ->

[soror--mystica]

964 (173) sp/so existentialism

Since I was a child, ever so often, I would all of a sudden be possessed by a free-floating sense of arbitrariness—just as though I was "being closely observed by eternity itself," in the face of which an acute sense of creatureliness would set in.

The opposite of this is the feeling that I am acting out of inner necessity, for then I feel in sync with the ground of being—and only then does life take on a quality of absolute reality.

If this sense of "inner necessity" fails to re-generate (which occurs every now and again), life is nothing but a bewildering stalemate. So my whole existence is predicated on the compulsive, restless search for the "next and most necessary thing ... intended by fate," which is never a rational affair.

Like the withdrawn analogue of 3, I must always feel that I am advancing incrementally. It follows that every single day I am internally going through a process of further rounding out my grasp of life's inner reality.

I am daily driven by a vague existential urgency as if I am near death (not so much depressing as restless), as though this would ultimately prompt the emergence of a posthumous (tantamount to omniscient) vantage point that would, as a result, allow me to finally traverse life sure-footedly, i.e., with a sense of absolute reality.

I realize this ritualistic compulsion to "further round out my grasp of life as though near death" could be a sneaky way of trying to ultimately get shocked into emergence or awakening into real life by acclimating myself to a near-death-like experience.

Anything which does not somehow serve this quest is barely real to me.

Rilke comes closest to describing it:

The longer I live the more urgent it seems to me to endure and transcribe the whole dictation of existence up to its end, for it might just be the case that only the very last sentence contains that small and possibly inconspicuous word through which everything we had struggled to learn and everything we had failed to understand will be transformed suddenly into magnificent sense.

"Sense" is not so much rational as it is self-evident truth, the arrival of which is a hypothetical goal; what matters in the meantime is the process=progression of inner deepening/ripening; and "that small and possibly inconspicuous word" is not so much a literal word as it is a cue that triggers.

This quote by Helen M. Luke best captures the unconscious aim of this endless whirlpooling:

She has tried with all she has to find the answer, used all her faculties in a supreme effort, and so fulfilled the essential condition for being awake enough to hear the name when it is spoken. Through this effort alone can we come to the point at which we are able to be still and wait in the real sense ... Sitting and waiting without having made every effort of which the conscious personality is capable would be merely a matter of sloth or evasion, suspiciously like waiting to be spoonfed. Always, however, we must remember that in the end the answer will be given, not earned. The real goal of all our efforts is to arrive at the capacity for this goalless waiting.

[rabbitcruiser]

National Red Rose Day

Stop and smell the roses—literally. Send someone a bouquet of red roses, try your hand at growing them yourself, or put some in a vase to brighten your home.

A well-known symbol of love in addition to being a beautiful and fragrant flower, it’s no wonder that National Red Rose Day is such a popular occasion. Celebrating the many facets of the rose, National Red Rose Day is a time for gardeners, florists, and romantics to come together and enjoy the rose in all its splendor. National Red Rose Day gives fans a chance to see roses at their best, blooming in glorious abundance at the height of the season.

When it comes to roses, the choices are plenty, but with all of this choice comes great responsibility. If you are thinking of treating a lady or gentleman that happens to have botanical interests, you need to be mindful of the roses you choose.

First and foremost, let us address the small elephant in the digital room. If you are from across the water, roses can also mean a small cheap box of chocolates, 20% of which nobody will ever eat, unless you are hoping for a divorce, you should probably steer well clear of these.

Of course, when it comes to shopping for actual roses, you still need to be mindful. Roses are one of the international symbols of passion and love, but there are some roses, such as the Rosa violet Carson, which is often associated with death and getting closer to heaven.

Now, while you may approach the situation with the best intent, should you pass one of these beautiful rose hybrids to somebody with a little botanical knowledge, this situation is tantamount to visiting your parents with retirement home catalogs.

All joking aside, when it comes to the one flower that can place you into the embrace of another, or in some cases save you from a lengthy divorce, the rose really is that flower. The question most people seem to have at this point is about how a flower can have so much power, so let’s find out.

Why is the rose so powerful

It seems that from all of the universal constants that have been discovered over many centuries, the one that seems to have lasted longest and been most prominent is that men are useless when it comes to conveying their emotions.

Roses seemed to become somewhat a communication device for men to say something wonderful without ever having to say a word. In essence, it seems that the rose is, in fact, the earliest form of Snapchat.

On a more serious note, though, roses really are an international symbol of love. It matters not where in the world you may be if you present a loved one with a rose, you are certain to be passing over a message of love.

Having something like Red Rose day in the modern world is magical; the world is full of trials and tribulations, and it’s nice to think that an emotion as deep and complicated as love can be expressed with the giving of a single flower.

The history of National Red Rose Day

When it comes to when Red Rose day began, well, that information is a little skewed, and in truth, we don’t even know who started the whole thing off; the one thing we do know though, is why it began.

Believe it or not, Red Rose day used to be a part of the celebrations of Valentine’s week, but for some unknown reason became separated at some point over the last ten years. The history behind the red rose, and why we give it though, well, that is far more rich and full.

The earliest records we can see in regards to the cultivation of roses dates back almost 5000 years, and like most things, it starts in the far east. Rose cultivation started in China but soon found its way to Rome and Greece.

It is thought that roses were seen as a luxury muse and distributed among the rich who would then give them to artists to inspire them. It seems that, like most botanical pickings of this time, roses also found their way in the medicine of the time, and this was all before a single person had used one as an apology.

If we fast forward a little, we soon see that roses went from symbols of hope, peace, and love to become a symbol of war. In England, during the 15th century, there was a well-known war that saw two parties, both using the symbol of a rose to represent their army.

While now the rose is something that represents love, still to this day, we know this great 15th century battle as the war of the roses.

So, as you can see, even something as perfect as a rose can come with some bad blood in its history, the joy is that it’s most notable trait has carried through time, and it seems that it will continue to do so for many more years to come.

It seems that while the world is becoming infatuated with automation, technology, and doing everything online, days that celebrate romance will always hold a special place in the hearts of all.

Whether it’s Valentine’s Day or National Red Rose Day, you should try to make things as special and wonderful as you can for the person that you love. Nowadays, it can be hard to convey a message of love, especially with all the convenience of modern life that surrounds us.

How to celebrate National Red Rose Day

There are numerous ways to celebrate National Red Rose Day, so why not take some time to enjoy this special occasion? Some people visit a rose garden where exotic species are showcased wonderfully.

Others prefer to spend some time in their own garden, perhaps preparing a special meal to relish al fresco whilst enjoying the fragrance of their own red rose blossoms. National Red Rose Day is a great reason for a celebration.

On the other hand, you may even like to think outside the box and treat this as another day to show somebody just how much you care.

Whether it’s a special somebody or a family member, showing somebody that you care about them is never a bad thing. To help make the day special you could arrive home with a single red rose before giving your loved one a wonderful evening, or you could simply leave a rose before you head off to work, whatever you do, the gesture will go a long way.

When it comes to celebrations of passion and love, we can never have too many. So, if you haven’t celebrated National Red Rose Day before now, then perhaps this year should be the one where you start. After all, National Red Rose Day is becoming more and more popular with each passing year; you wouldn’t want to be the one in the dog house for not doing something special, would you?

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