#she's the symbol of the world outside to him. unreachable. and something he can only hope and yearn for

[rinbylin]

令嫒就像那片山水。虽然我从未亲眼看见过，但是我知道她会有多美。... 我有多羡慕将来可以亲眼看见她的那个人。

[okruchlodu]

The air outside is sharp and cold, wet with the promise of rain. A stillness hangs in the air, a dead-weight. There’s a sense of foreboding in the chilling frost that encroaches upon the city of Cidaris; a warning, something desolate and hungry about it– too much ice. Winter will soon come, harsh deep and pure, drowning the Continent in its frosty darkness. Yennefer does not mind it; she is shadow and frost herself, a sharp shard of ice, will not warm under a warm touch; has only ever warmed for him; and now he's gone and she has shut that warmth inside an icy heart, unyielding, fixed, unreachable, malefic. There's only cold water under the ice, only sharp winds. She does not mind it; here, in her winter, she is powerful; here in her winter, she does not wilt: she thrives. No one can touch her. Nothing can crawl under her skin; only what she allows.

Yet, life remains, around her. The city is vibrant and thriving in breathless anticipation of the ball meant to be thrown at Vartburg castle tonight, pulsing with energy, the strident bustle of Seaside Bazaar at noon, the ornate streets full of people from the world over. White houses adorned with sloping roofs which glint like shards of shattered glass under the harsh glare of a cold sun, swarm the square and from an open window, a child can be heard, squalling like a seagull. A flock of crows abruptly rises from the frozen cobblestones like dark brume, crowding the skies above. Murmurs of song, and roars of laughter pierce the air which too thrums like a thing alive, and merchants bawl and shriek over the roaring of the furious ocean, flaunting their goods, the many curiosities brought to the port from the world over, many of them, truly astounding. The sea on the horizon burns like a jewel. The creaking of a carriage through the streets, then, black horses snorting and stamping their hooves as it comes to a halt. A man emerges from it, undoubtedly a sorcerer in his coal black garments, the sharp, coldness of his eyes. He has dark, slightly waving deep brown hair that falls to his shoulders, a sharp jaw bristling with stubble and hooded eyes, fire bright and full of amusement. At his ear, some magical symbol, a singular earring, glimmers.

Yennefer of Vengerberg, swathed in black silks and velvet, soon follows, grasping at his forearm so that she might not slip; she descends from the shadows like river water, dark and mysterious, gleaming obsidian. Her violet gaze, cold and aloof, dispassionate and menacing, drapes to her feet as she gathers the rich silks of her black skirts in one lace-gloved hand, flowing around shapely legs; her face, pale under the sunlight, radiates with fierce, provocative beauty. Dangerous. Shamelessly alluring. And dazzling. She tosses her head and draws the hood of her ink black velvet cloak trimmed with white fur back, shakes out her hair, and a mass of raven black curls cascades down her back to her waist. They ripple and shimmer under the sun, like spun silk. She deigns to smile at their driver, bestows an apathetic, cool look upon him. The mage draws her closer and she links her arm with his, says something sharply when he asks her a question. She's beauty and menace, loose hair and an excessively tightened belt round a willowy waist, a lace halterneck, plum lipstick. Wonderfully narrow, full lips press into a sharp smirk as she hastily unfastens the brooch from her cape, revealing white lace under its velvet, enveloping her breast. The sweet scent of crushed lilacs and gooseberries fills the air around her, mixing with the sharp tang of the sea coming to her in long slow drifts as they begin to pick their way down to the square, as she huffs coldly, says something to her companion, nervously toying with the obsidian star hung upon her slim throat, its active diamonds pulsating, sparkling like silvered flames.

The sky above them crackles with distant thunder.

@itinerunt

[riddlecrux]

Light seen through the windows: an analysis of windows as a literary tool in Elriel relationship

I would love to preface this meta with my favorite disclaimer that everything that I will be discussing is based on what I have gathered from SJM writing. The quotes used in this post will serve as a starting point for further analysis. Additionally, I will be using things such as symbolism, metaphors, and literary device methods to build up my reasoning and beliefs. On another note, this, as usual, is strictly pro-Elriel meta. If they are not your cup of tea and you wish to comment, please be civil and bring arguments supported by the text.

So many of us like to gaze and stare through the windows daily. Looking at the world behind the glass often is considered a form of tranquility that we feel. Windows are essentially doors that lead us to whatever lies behind them - the last border between being in one place and then in another. It isn't then surprising that windows serve as symbols and metaphors in literature. From the start, whenever I read a passage about windows in ACOWAR I was reminded of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. You may ask why?

Emily Bronte used windows as symbolism in her work. They are very important for her characters and their personal arcs. They are symbols of barriers, misfortunes that characters face. Windows there are metaphors of various obstacles estranging Bronte's characters from achieving their hopes - realizing that the dreams they had will be not fulfilled. As I don't want to get spoilery with Wuthering Heights, I'm going to draw conclusions in a very neat manner. Bronte used windows as a connection to nightmares that one of the main characters was suffering from - it ties to the fact that in his nightmares he sees the person he had loved, haunting him. Because of the relationship with a said woman, the imagery of windows in this particular scene symbolizes death, an obstacle that stands between both of them. Throughout the book, we also get glimpses of how windows might be used as a metaphor for social classes and the contrast between them, and how Heathcliff and Catherine have to go about it. Along with the windows, doors are also used as a symbol of trapping someone in one place, obstructing them from achieving their dream or preventing them from reaching out to their loved one. Not to mention that during a very particular scene with Catherine, she wants the windows open - a symbolism of her wanting to feel free, to connect with something she knows, she longs for. This leads to the conclusion that windows in Bronte's novel are symbols of life and death, they are the in-between - a symbolic barrier.

On the other hand, windows in literature signalize something called "art of watching", and usually it is connected to a female protagonist that observes life, events through the window. Not to mention, the most famous association to windows such as "windows to the soul" - which, of course, is more metaphorical. It allows us, the audience, to connect with the character's inner feelings, struggles, as we are presented with the emotional aspect of said person. They are the bridge between the inside and outside. Windows are also a source of light, which we humans crave. Looking through the window one can absorb the light, which can resonate as a symbol of growth and change. Metaphorically we see the light from the window when we feel a need to light up the darkness inside us. They expose us, our inner feelings, and struggles.

When I read ACOWAR I have noticed that SJM decided to use windows, quite clearly, in the indication of two particular characters. Azriel and Elain. For the first time, when we met Elain again in the third book the window is a big issue.

"The suite was filled with sunlight. Every curtain shoved back as far as it could go, to let in as much sun as possible."

We have a clear description of the sunlit room, curtains shoved to further underline the need for light.

"And seated in a small chair before the sunniest of the windows, her back to us, was Elain."

In the brightest place in the room sits Elain, in front of the window. She is exposed to the sun, to sunlight and is absorbing that light - which is highlighted during this scene (which makes it important to note).

"Her skin was so pale it looked like fresh snow in the harsh light. I realized then that the color of death, of sorrow, was white."

The sunlight exposes Elain, its harsh light makes her pale, almost translucent. Even Feyre realizes the graveness of this picture comparing this white hue to death. As you can see the chain of events in this scene played like that: sunlit room -> curtain swept away -> Elain sitting in front of the window -> sudden comparison to death.

"She had been always so full of light. Perhaps that was why she now kept all the curtains open. To fill the void that existed where all of that light had once been. And now nothing remained."

Feyre deducts that the need for light on Elain's part is a desperate call to brighten the darkness inside her - which perfectly aligns with the metaphorical usage of windows. Elain basks in light in a helpless cry for help. The very dark void that appeared within her after being Made eats her away. It sucks her immortal life away - the one which she yet didn't get used to. On the other hand, we as readers are presented with the fact that Elain is trapped. In this Fae life, in this room, in this situation in which she grieves for her past and many what-ifs.

Nothing. Not even a flicker of emotion. “Everyone keeps saying that.” Her thumb brushed the ring on her finger. “But it doesn’t fix anything, does it?”

Sitting in front of the window - a sunny one to be precise, which symbolizes life, growth, and change, Elain is presented in a contrast to her surroundings. To show that visible barrier that her person has to overcome. She realizes that her dreams are meant to be unfulfilled, that they are unreachable.

"My stiff, limping steps, at least, had eased into a smoother gait by the time I found Elain in the family library. Still staring at the window, but she was out of her room."

The next time we see Elain she is out of her room - her "cage", but even though she left the boundaries of her entrapment she still chooses to linger around the windows. As Feyre notices, Elain gazes through the window - we are obstructed from Elain's POV and it's hard to imagine what she could be thinking about. Yet the symbolic manner of using the window as some sort of mirror, a passage that happens throughout the series, allows me to think that the metaphorical usage of windows, in this case, isn't a far-fetched idea.

"Elain didn’t turn. She was wearing a pale pink gown that did little to complement her sallow skin, her brown-gold hair hanging in loose, heavy ringlets down her thin back."

SJM uses this sentence to highlight that it isn't just a quick glance out of the window - in fact, it is constant staring through it. It is important for us as readers to note that this thing, window gazing, is an occupation that lasts for long periods of time. It isn't something trivial, it is something that showcases the importance of said windows in Elain's journey.

“What are you looking at?” I asked Elain, keeping my voice soft. Casual. Her face was wan, her lips bloodless. But they moved—barely—as she said, “I can see so very far now. All the way to the sea.”

Feyre decides to ask Elain who is still gazing through the window. Her answer is very ominous and holds a great deal of importance, but also underlines the fact that she is drawn to the window. Not to mention that what she is seeing is the sea - another vastly discussed symbol. In this situation, I believe that the interpretation can lay in a more psychological aspect of the matter rather than a literary one. In the works of very well-known psychiatrist Carl Jung the sea "symbolizes the personal and the collective unconscious in dream interpretation". So from his notes there comes this annotation that caught my attention, "The sea is a favourite place for the birth of visions."

Elain is a seer who constantly gazes through a window which symbolizes the in-between, life and death. These two are connected to one another and SJM used many things to further develop Elain's character as a powerful figure.

"Elain only turned toward the sunny windows again, the light dancing in her hair."

After the whole conversation Elain doesn't move from her spot, quite the contrary she returns to her previous activity. Gazing through the window. Once again we are reminded about the sun and light - which signalizes that Elain tries to undergo through the process of rebirth, but also tries to break free from the unhappiness that came with lost dreams.

"Something in my chest cracked as Nesta’s eyes also went to the windows before Elain. To check, as I did, for whether they could be easily opened."

Here we have an instance of both sisters realizing that Elain spending so much time in front of windows can be dangerous, as in her attempting to jump from them. Once again, the symbolism of death.

"More steps—no doubt closer to where Elain stood at the window."

Elain is still beside the window when Lucien tries to talk to her. Even alone she seeks the place next to the window to stare.

"But sunlight on gold caught his eye—and Elain slowly turned from her vigil at the window."

Elain is still by the window, for the whole scene she is there not moving an inch from it. Furthermore, the word "vigil" is also an interesting choice. There are different meanings of it, but I find these ones very telling and suitable for this instance: a period of sleeplessness; insomnia, a watch kept, or the period of this and a devotional watching, or keeping awake, during the customary hours of sleep. We can speculate about what happened to Elain while she was in the Cauldron, what made her so withdrawn from life and so desperate for the light. I want to believe that we as readers will get our answers in the next book since Elain being a seer with unknown powers makes her a perfect target for Koschei with which she has already had connections.

She looked away—toward the windows. “I can hear your heart,” she said quietly.

Again, during the whole conversation, she doesn't move away from her spot next to the window. Windows for her, start to become a symbolism of change and rebirth - the things she probably wished while being confined to her room.

Elain only stared out the window, unaware—or uncaring.

We have another mention about staring - which further highlights how important windows are as a literary tool for Elain's character. She seeks light, she wants to overcome this barrier that was thrown at her the moment she was Made. She, perhaps, watched through the window to observe the life which was stripped away from her and turned her into this immortal being. Or, maybe she just desperately wanted to brighten up the darkness that gathered inside her because of that whole situation. Another important thing to note is that this scene is a first moment alone with Lucien - her mate, which should have been very painful for her. The conversation also held a lot of weight, yet she valiantly stood by the window as if somewhere behind it she could find an answer.

“So it can’t be a perfect system of matching. What if”—I jerked my chin toward the window, to my sister and the shadowsinger in the garden —“that is what she needs? Is there no free will? What if Lucien wishes the union but she doesn’t?”

Here we have an instance of "art of watching" in which Feyre observes Azriel and Elain through the window. By watching them she comes to the conclusion that both of them are better suited and actually can comfort each other in comfortable silence. The window here is used as a barrier to showcase parallels of two couples: happily mated Feysand and unhappily in love with other people Elriel.

"But I looked to Azriel, currently leaning against the wall beside the floor-to-ceiling window, shadows fluttering around him."

And here we are start with Azriel and windows (also in ACOWAR). He is another character that has an extraordinary connection to windows. He is often mentioned next to them and somehow parallels Elain's behavior - staring through windows, being near them.

"I blinked, realizing I’d been lost in the bond, but found Azriel still by the window, (...)."

As we can see Azriel lingers next to the window without moving away from it - as the scene progresses we know that the conversation lasts a good ounce of time, yet Azriel stands in his place by the window.

"Azriel didn’t so much as turn from his vigil at the window, though I could have sworn his wings tucked in a bit tighter."

The same wording, the same imagery. Both used for Elain and Azriel. Both of them keeping vigils at the windows, staring through them as if they could find an answer through them.

"The main room of the guardhouse was stuffy and cramped, more so with all of us in there, and though I offered Elain a seat by the sealed window, she remained standing—at the front of our company. Staring at the shut iron door."

This scene is when Elain is about to confront her lover - Greysen. It is underlined that she rejected her usual spot, which is by the window, and preferred to face the door. She was trapped, she knew that a very important discussion will take a place here. She chose to look at the door rather than at the window, which in this matter could symbolize hope for a change - she stared at the door which metaphorically means transition or imprisonment.

"(...) close to Elain’s side as she and my sister silently kept against the wall by the intact bay of windows."

Another instance of Elain and her being content with being next to the windows.

"I’d seen Elain staring out the window earlier—watching Graysen leave with his men without so much as a look back at her."

"Art of Watching", but also the window's symbolism of dreams that were unfulfilled. At that moment, we can assume, that Elain realized that her dreams concerning human life and her future with Greysen would only be unattainable dreams/hopes.

“What now?” Elain mused, at last answering my question from moments ago as her attention drifted to the windows facing the sunny street. That smile grew, bright enough that it lit up even Azriel’s shadows across the room. “I would like to build a garden,” she declared. “After all of this … I think the world needs more gardens.

At the end of ACOWAR, we have this powerful moment, in which Elain gazing out of the window sees sunny streets = life. A chance of rebirth, which also beautifully overlaps with the fact that she proposed building a garden! The in-between that she balanced on while gazing through the window for so many times turned from death and misfortunes into life and hopes of the future.

ACOFAS

"Elain politely refused, taking up a spot in one of the wooden chairs set in the bay of windows. Also typical."

From Rhysand's point of view, we can deduct that even they are aware of the fact that Elain and windows are something notable. It is a place where she feels comfortable and probably spends a lot of time.

"Beyond the windows, darkness had indeed fallen. The longest night of the year. I found Elain studying it, beautiful in her amethyst-colored gown. I made to move toward her, but someone beat me to it."

In previous quotes, we could gather information about how Elain craved the light and how desperate she was to lighten up her person. Here, we can see that she also started to embrace the darkness. She is again by the window, observing the darkness as if no one else was around her. And of course, the one person who goes towards her at that moment is Azriel, a personification of darkness in the books.

Azriel strode to the lone window at the end of the room and peered into the garden below. “I’ve never stayed in this room.” His midnight voice filled the space.

Azriel went straight to the window. And not an ordinary one, but the one through which you can see the garden. Life and light. I know many were theorizing if what kept Azriel so occupied by the window was Elain, but I would love to put some of my thoughts in this discourse. Yes, I do think that what caught his attention, or who caught his attention was Elain. However, Elain at that moment represents life and light - the things that are associated with windows. And if you spin it around you have Azriel=darkness, death staring at Elain=light, life. The in-between, the very initial symbolism of window in literature. Not to mention that in this scene we have Azriel watching the light and next we have Elain observing darkness.

“No,” Azriel said, not turning from the window.

Azriel remained at the window. “Will Nesta stay here if she comes?

“I’d still be surprised if they remember once the storm clears,” Azriel said, turning from the garden window at last.

We have a whole scene in which it is so heavily implied that Azriel was constantly staring through the window, not even bothering to move away from it. We also have another highlighted thing which is the fact that it was a garden window.

There was a tiny box left on the table by the window—a box that Mor lifted, squinted at the name tag, and said, “Az, this one’s for you.”

A small thing, yet a very sweet one. The fact that even his present was placed close to the window, which starts to become an Elriel thing.

ACOSF

"She’d barely slept for fear of Elain walking off this veranda, or leaning too far out of one of the countless windows, or simply throwing herself down those ten thousand stairs."

We have a reminder that during her stay at House of Wind, Elain was a symbol of death. She carried it on her while being associated with windows that were used as a source of light that helped her heal.

"Elain stood at the wall of windows, clad in a lilac gown whose close-fitting bodice showed how well her sister had filled out since those initial days in the Night Court."

Even when she visits Nesta, she takes the place by the windows. It is something that is strictly connected to her. As if the windows were part of her now.

Elain’s smile was as bright as the setting sun beyond the windows. “I thought I’d drop by to see how you were doing.”

Light, sun, life = Elain.

“You’ve got good coloring, I mean,” Elain clarified, striding from the windows to cross the room. She stopped a few feet away. As if holding herself back from the embrace she might have given.

SJM still used the passages to underline the passage of time that Elain spent standing next to the window. It is a place in which she feels good and perhaps safe.

"They’d sat in them, before this fire, so many times that it was an unspoken rule that Azriel’s was the one on the left, closer to the window, and Cassian’s the one to the right, closer to the door."

We also get the information that Azriel always was the closest to the window - which is an odd thing to add without a deeper meaning. As if to further build up that connection between him and Elain - that both of them are aware of the fact that they are also the symbolism of the allegory of windows. I believe that SJM really researched that light and darkness trope, with which she built and she is still building up Elriel. The windows are just another tiny nugget that further envelopes both of them as one. Because while Elain transformed from death to life, she still welcomed darkness and embraced it - and Azriel opened to the life and light, seeking it. As I said, windows are a literary tool, which perhaps wasn't the main idea in the SJM text, but the amount of parallels between both of them and even the same wording applied to different scenes tells me that it's yet another connection between them.

[ostcntatious]

          ––– ‘ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖓 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖘𝖔𝖑𝖉𝖎𝖊𝖗𝖘 , 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖑𝖎𝖋𝖊 𝖔𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 ’

𝖙𝖜: 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑 𝖓𝖊𝖌𝖑𝖊𝖈𝖙 , 𝖆𝖑𝖈𝖔𝖍𝖔𝖑 , 𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉

         𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 .  the  memories  of  this  day  are  the  first  ones  she'll  remember  ,  years  later  .  the  song  family  has  been  cordially  invited  to  an  elegant  lunch  to  welcome  them  into  japanese  high  society  ,  and  ophelia's  been  forced  into  a  dress  she  doesn't  like  ,  black  hair  pinned  back  and  curled  ,  with  golden  clips  pulling  it  back  from  soft  ,  rounded  features  .  she  doesn't  understand  any  of  this  yet  ––  the  act  her  family  puts  on  ,  the  one  she  must  continue  even  though  she'll  never  be  praised  for  her  compliance  .  still  a  child  ,  a  maid  whose  name  ophelia  never  made  an  effort  to  learn  smiles  at  the  girl  ,  tells  her  she  looks  lovely  as  a  gentle  hand  wipes  away  the  stray  tears  from  the  tantrum  she's  still  recovering  from  .  i  want  my  mother  to  dress  me  ,  she'd  cried  at  the  top  of  her  lungs  ,  tiny  hands  throwing  clothes  onto  the  floor  and  shoes  at  the  walls  because  maybe  scandal  would  force  her  mother  to  check  on  her  ––  your  mother  isn't  home  ,  she  was  told  .  she's  gone  out  with  your  brother  .  they  didn't  ask  her  to  come  with  them  ,  and  her  father  is  locked  inside  his  office  ,  working  as  always  .  it's  only  her  and  a  stranger  with  angelic  patience  ,  who  tidied  up  her  mess  and  spoke  gentle  ,  hushed  words  at  the  child  she  was  tasked  to  look  after  until  she  settled  down  in  her  own  childish  version  of  resignation  .  father  wasn't  coming  .  neither  was  mother  ,  least  of  all  brother  .  five  years  old  ,  and  ophelia  begins  to  learn  what  it  feels  like  to  be  forgotten  .

        𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 .  switzerland  is  home  ,  and  as  she  steps  into  the  mansion  that  the  song  family  has  gracefully  settled  into  ,  employees  rush  past  her  to  get  her  bags  from  the  car  .  welcome  home  ,  miss  song  . outside  ,  the  clouds  are  painted  hues  of  orange  as  the  calm  atmosphere  of  sunday  afternoon  drags  on  ,  only  interrupted  by  the  chatter  of  pedestrian  or  the  occasional  honk  of  a  car  .  it's  mundane  ,  and  by  now  ,  ophelia  has  learned  to  look  down  on  all  things  ordinary  .  she  surrounds  herself  by  people  with  golden  surnames  ,  because  she  knows  her  father  will  frown  whenever  her  polite  demeanor  is  extended  to  someone  unworthy  of  it  .  he  won't  scold  her  ––  he  cares  too  little  ,  doesn't  spend  enough  time  around  his  daughter  to  fully  understand  the  child  or  her  habits  .  but  he’ll  frown  .  he’ll  have  another  reason  to  disapprove  of  her  .  black  hair  tumbles  free  from  the  ponytail  that  had  previously  pulled  it  away  from  her  face  ,  falls  onto  her  shoulders  as  a  hand  combs  through  the  strands  .  the  words  thank  you  die  on  ophelia's  tongue  as  a  maid  informs  her  that  her  favorite  tea  has  been  brought  into  her  room  ––  father  never  says  thank  you  when  someone  pours  him  coffee  .  instead  ,  she  nods  at  the  maid  ––  and  gives  her  a  small  ,  private  smile  .  twelve  years  old  ,  and  ophelia  hopes  that  if  her  father  doesn't  love  her  for  herself  ,  maybe  she  can  mold  herself  after  him  in  hopes  that  his  own  vanity  will  make  him  regard  her  as  highly  as  he  does  with  her  brother  .

        𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 .  the  smell  of  chemicals  cuts  through  the  room  as  a  hairdresser  runs  a  brush  through  silky  strands  of  hair  ,  and  ophelia  sits  in  a  way  that  has  become  natural  to  her  .  the  picture  of  poise  .  back  straight  ,  hands  folded  on  her  lap  ––  right  over  left  ,  gold  ring  gleams  in  the  light  .  the  same  one  her  father  wears  .  the  same  one  all  the  songs  wear  ,  as  a  visible  symbol  of  their  status  .  they  don't  bleed  red  like  the  rest  of  the  world  ,  nor  do  they  bleed  blue  .  the  songs  bleed  ichor  .  they  are  gods  above  mortals  ,  every  smile  sharp  as  their  frigid  features  ––  they’re  made  of  marble  ,  and  like  statues  ,  they  are  as  beautiful  as  they  are  cold  .  a  mother  who  has  turned  a  blind  eye  to  a  little  girl  who  refuses  to  accept  the  destiny  she  once  gracefully  received  ,  wearing  inferiority  proudly  .  mother  calls  it  tradition  ,  daughter  calls  it  a  curse  .  father  called  her  rebellious  when  ophelia  insisted  she  was  meant  for  greatness  .  she'd  stormed  into  her  father's  study  after  returning  from  an  awards  ceremony  ,  slammed  a  glittering  trophy  onto  his  desk  .  '  i  was  the  best  in  class  again  ,  father  ,  i  did  so  much  better  than  tybalt  ,  '  she'd  cried  out  ––  she  had  risked  everything  for  this  ,  planting  drugs  on  someone  else  to  secure  her  position  .  for  what  ?  he  didn’t  even  care  ,  his  dismissive  hand  and  underhanded  compliments  infuriating  .  too  many  years  of  this  .  ophelia  had  been  driven  to  a  point  of  no  return  .  i  am  more  than  capable  ,  she'd  said  .  you  are  theatrical  and  insubordinate  ,  came  the  reply  .  i  have  never  failed  ,  ophelia  had  insisted  ,  openly  crying  in  front  of  a  father  that  only  stood  up  from  his  chair  to  shout  at  her  in  his  native  language  .  her  refusal  to  accept  her  position  was  the  biggest  failure  of  them  all  .  sixteen  years  old  ,  and  the  day  after  moving  into  an  apartment  in  portland  all  by  herself  ,  her  hair  has  gone  from  song  black  to  ophelia  blonde  .  sixteen  years  old  ,  and  she's  chosen  excellence  over  a  hope  of  ever  being  loved  by  a  family  that  bid  her  a  stoic  goodbye  as  she  packed  up  her  belongings  and  moved  into  the  luxury  apartment  her  parents  reluctantly  paid  for  ––  her  last  name  is  still  song  ,  after  all  .  sixteen  years  old  ,  and  she's  accepted  that  the  world  wants  her  to  be  her  own  person  ––  though  ,  as  a  hairdresser  hands  her  a  mirror  and  leaves  ,  switching  her  parents'  expectations  for  her  own  feels  the  same  as  being  alone  .  sixteen  years  old  ,  and  ophelia  has  stopped  holding  onto  hopes  and  daydreams  of  an  accepting  family  .

        𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃  .  she’s  happy  .  the  realization  comes  when  a  boy  holds  her  close  and  the  two  of  them  sing  along  to  a  band  she  never  thought  she’d  like  ––  ophelia  has  always  been  a  fan  of  classical  music  ,  even  when  others  call  her  pretentious  and  she  fires  back  with  refined  .  and  yet  ,  fleetwood  mac  has  made  its  way  into  her  spotify  playlist  ,  her  boyfriend  laughing  whenever  she  messes  up  the  words  ,  her  threatening  to  poison  his  coffee  if  he  laughs  at  her  again .  she  spent  the  night  with  him  ,  and  although  ophelia  had  claimed  she’d  make  breakfast  ,  it  turned  out  that  her  version  of  cooking  was  uber  eats  ––  but  she  insisted  that  her  coffee  was  great  ,  and  of  course  he’d  said  it  was  the  best  drink  he’d  ever  had  .  twenty  years  old  ,  and  a  gentle  hand  brushes  blonde  hair  away  ––  tangled  ,  but  neither  of  them  care  ––  to  kiss  her  .  twenty  years  old  ,  and  when  he  says  he  loves  her  ,  ophelia  panics  because  it’s  too  soon  and  she  didn’t  see  it  coming  –– she  kisses  him  again  instead  of  saying  anything  ,  her  initial  panic  slowly  subsiding  every  time   he  repeats  the  words  over  the  months  they’re  together  ––  twenty  years  old  ,  and  she’s  tempted  to  believe  him  .  

        𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 - 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 .  it's  been  hours  ,  and  ophelia  still  can't  decide  if  the  bed  sheets  tucked  tightly  around  her  frame  feel  like  comfort  or  prison  .  the  tears  flow  freely  ,  her  phone's  battery  died  long  ago  ,  and  she's  made  no  move  to  get  out  of  bed  since  the  last  time  she  pried  the  sheets  away  to  go  to  the  bathroom  ,  eat  something  and  down  a  glass  of  water  in  hopes  that  it  would  heal  her  headache  ––  partly  from  her  hangover  ,  partly  from  the  dehydration  that  comes  as  the  inevitable  consequence  of  crying  harder  than  she  has  in  years  .  grabbing  a  bottle  of  wine  when  the  water  didn't  make  her  feel  better  ––  numb  is  better  than  sad  ,  anything  is  better  than  sad  ,  she  doesn't  know  how  to  be  sad  .  and  yet  there  was  no  confusion  when  a  pillow  pressed  against  her  face  did  nothing  to  stop  the  emotions  pouring  out  of  her  ––  this  is  sadness  ,  ophelia  had  realized  .  this  is  weakness  .  it  is  unfamiliar  ,  it  is  confusing  ,  and  she  needs  it  to  stop  because  it  is  all  -  consuming  and  ophelia  doesn't  know  how  she  could  ever  feel  better  when  the  loneliness  is  followed  by  insecurity  ,  followed  by  the  pain  of  feeling  like  she  is  nothing  .  twenty  -  one  years  old  ,  and  the  memory  of  her  lashing  out  at  neels  makes  her  finally  take  the  nickname  satan  as  the  insult  it  was  always  meant  to  be  rather  than  what  her  warped  mind  turned  into  praise  .  it is  always  better  to  be  feared  than  loved  ,  father  always  said  ––  for  a  tyrant  like  him  ,  the  advice  came  easily  .  it  was  so  easy  to  welcome  fear  as  power  when  people  like  him  had  no  idea  what  love  felt  like  .  she'd  wanted  to  be  him  ,  first  so  he  would  love  her  ,  then  so  the  rest  of  the  world  would  think  of  her  as  powerful  and  unreachable  ,  too  .  it  felt  so  much  like  success  .  it's  left  her  wrapped  in  bedsheets  ,  a  bottle  of  wine  next  to  crumpled  up  tissues  on  her  nightstand  ,  and  so  much  hurt  coursing  through  her  that  ophelia  understands  why  someone  would  choose  substances  over  her  with  no  need  to  be  questioned  .  what  an  obvious  ,  easy  choice  ––  why  would  he  have  chosen  her  ,  or  even  the  memory  of  her  ?  a  broken  girl  ,  making  empty  promises  .  too  hurt  to  feel  anything  properly  without  her  own  pent  up  anger  turning  it  poisonous  ,  tinting  everything  with  the  darkness  what  seeps  out  of  her  so  easily  ––  she's  settled  into  her  role  as  villain  so  well  ,  it's  no  longer  an  act  .  it  never  has  been  ––  she  never  got  the  chance  to  be  anything  but  the  enemy  .  too  proud  to  want  to  fix  herself  ,  too  caught  up  in  the  thrill  of  power  to  think  there  is  anything  that  has  to  be  fixed  at  all  .  or  aching  too  badly  to  think  that  she's  still  worth  trying  to  fix  ––  she's  no  goddess  ,  she's  a  demon  .  maybe  meant  to  be  alone  ,  to  drown  in  her  loneliness  as  repentance  for  all  the  sins  she's  committed  with  a  wicked  smile  on  painted  lips  .  as  she  rises  from  her  bed  ,  bare  feet  lead  her  into  the  bathroom  where  she  stares  at  her  reflection  ––  she  can't  even  recognize  herself  like  this  .  twenty  -  one  years  old  ,  and  ophelia  has  just  realized  that  she's  broken  .  twenty  -  one  years  old  ,  and  ophelia  fucking  song  is  weak  .  no  one  can  see  her  like  this  ,  is  her  first  impulse  as  she  drags  herself  into  the  shower  .  no  one  can  know  ––  it  would  ruin  her  ,  people  seeing  her  as  human  rather  than  the  divine  entity  she  masquerades  as  .  twenty  -  one  years  old  ,  and  she's  still  the  same  girl  who  looks  out  for  herself  (  and  herself  only  )  because  she's  convinced  that  no  one  else  will  .

[raywritesthings]

People Change

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Sara Lance, Nyssa al Ghul, John Diggle Pairings: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen, Nyssa al Ghul/Sara Lance Summary: Sometimes, people grow into the marks their soulmates have been given to find them. *Can be read on my AO3 or FFN, links are in bio*

Some called them birthmarks and nothing more. Others thought their significance stretched far beyond that. Religions and romantics alike drew upon these symbols for many different meanings; a higher calling, a message or even a sign of the one thing or person who might complete you.

With the rise of love stories popularized in ever more widely circulated media, a name emerged for these blemishes almost every person in the world was born with on the inside of their wrists: soulmate marks.

Some laughed them off. Others adhered strictly to them, trying to divine their true meaning and what that said about the person they were meant to seek out.

In the 80s, a popular trend became giving children wristbands that covered the mark, keeping it special and secret to all but a trusted few. One such set of parents to go along with the trend were Quentin and Dinah Lance; the former liked the idea of protecting his daughters while the latter enjoyed the mystery and romance of it all. Laurel and Sara were each told only to reveal their marks to a trusted few.

Of course, the sisters reacted in equal and opposite ways.

Laurel dutifully wore the wristband and told no one of her mark. The truth was, she didn’t know what to make of the shape on her wrist. What did an arrowhead have to do with anyone in this day and age, apart from perhaps someone on the archery team at school? Laurel didn’t really hang around with anyone on their school team; she liked her friends and, later, her boyfriend. Laurel kept her mark to herself even from him and didn’t ask for his own. She didn’t want to make it sound like she was interested in someone else, convinced as she was that she and Oliver had a future together.

Sara took her wristband off often to admire the pretty band that swirled around her wrist. As she grew older, she imagined it to be a silken tie, the kind her sister’s boyfriend might one day wear once he took over his parents’ company. She needled at him to show her his mark at a party one night when they were both drunk, and delighted in seeing the dark imprint of a bird mid-flight . Sara was surer than ever of what it had to mean, and so she agreed without hesitation when Oliver invited her aboard his father’s boat behind her sister’s back.

“Laurel’s gonna kill me,” she remarked in the cabin one night. “But we’re soulmates, so what can she do?”

Oliver froze, lifting himself off of her. “What do you mean?”

“Our marks are for each other, Ollie. I had that bird as a kid and you—”

“That’s not — I didn’t ask you to hookup because of some soulmate thing. I just—”

There was a tremendous crash and boom from the storm outside, and the yacht was torn apart.

Two years later, Sara found herself with a new name, The Canary. Her rescuer was a woman with the faint outline of a bird with talons outstretched. Nyssa wove silken scarves with delicate and powerful precision, swirling around Sara and drawing her in.

“My father does not believe in such things,” Nyssa told her one night as they lay curled around each other in her bed. “But the moment I saw you, it was as if I had discovered something missing in myself.” Nyssa was always saying overwhelming stuff like that. Sara just kissed her; she didn’t know how else to express the gratitude she felt towards this woman, the one spot of good left in her screwed up life.

She’d been wrong, and yet, it had led her right in the end. She just wished it hadn’t come with all the pain and regret. Would Laurel ever forgive her? Had she found some inner peace with a soulmate of her own?

---

Laurel numbed herself to everything for five years. The last thing on her mind was soulmates, and she kept the wristband more out of habit than anything else. She slept with Tommy because it was the safe option; he’d never expect anything more than some sex, so who cared?

After five years of feeling at her absolute lowest, two things happened that upended her life once again. The first was Oliver’s return, bringing with it all the messy feelings she had tried to repress for half a decade.

The second was the emergence of a man who suddenly brought an unprecedented amount of relevance to the symbol on her wrist.

They called him the Hood. In the space of two weeks, he attacked two of the billionaires she had been attempting to prosecute in court. She told herself it was a coincidence. They were high-profile cases. They didn’t have to do with her precisely.

Then he showed up in her apartment, and it seemed it maybe did have to do with her after all.

In the dark, she seemed to sense more than see his presence in the room. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled when he spoke behind her, and her nerves tingled and came alive when he placed his hand over hers to lower the gun she had taken out of her desk.

Did he know somehow? Was this why he was coming to her out of all the lawyers in this city? She’d always been so careful to not show anyone. Who could he even be and why had he shown up now?

But he made no mention of marks. Instead he just appealed to the common desire they had of helping the people in this city. Laurel forced her questions aside and got to work.

Her second visit to Peter Declan in Iron Heights turned into a disaster when a riot started, and only the Hood’s arrival saved them. She was forced to pull him away from beating a man to death, meeting blue eyes for a single instant that seemed clouded over in fear and rage. Yet they still struck her as familiar somehow. Was she supposed to feel this way?

Outside, her father was there, and she threw herself into his arms. “Are you alright? How’d you get out of there?”

“It was the Hood. He- He would’ve killed that man for me. But he stopped for me, too…” She didn’t know what to feel about what the Hood had almost done. He’d been wild and almost unreachable, but the man he would have killed had held her down and nearly choked the life from her.

Her father’s brow creased. “Laurel, tell me you’re not thinking—”

He knew her mark, of course, had seen it in the hospital when she’d been born and probably half a dozen times after that besides. She couldn’t exactly hide that from him.

“I’m not thinking anything. It’s never mattered to me.” At least not before a literal guardian angel personifying her very mark showed up. It was just confusing. Especially when she still didn’t know how to feel about Oliver.

And that made everything weirder when her dad arrested Oliver for being the Hood. And then Oliver asked for her to represent him.

She nearly didn’t go. This all had to be some joke he was playing on her because he knew — maybe he’d peeked one of the nights they’d curled up asleep in bed together. But if he did know, and it was him…

So she went and eyed him all through the hearing and the polygraph test. Her suspicions of him increased but her lingering resentment fell away after hearing just a brief summary of the events he endured. He’d been tortured. For how long? And how had he survived it?

Laurel went to the Queen Manor that very night, hoping to speak to him, to express the new understanding she thought she held. And maybe, just maybe, to ask if he really did know. But then she got distracted by his scars and his story, finding herself in his arms and kissing him like she used to, like a part of her still longed for.

Laurel pulled away and ran the minute her brain caught up with her. What had she been thinking? Whether she had feelings or not, whether her mark was pointing straight at him or not, whether that meant soulmates or not — she couldn’t just do that. Right?

Not without some serious ground rules. Laurel puzzled over the results of Oliver’s polygraph most of the night. He’d been at home when the Hood had appeared to stop the arms deal, but that waver on the question about Iron Heights that didn’t quite count as a lie but indicated some kind of hidden truth… she wasn’t ready to give up the idea that he and the Hood really were the same person. And if they were, then something in the universe apparently thought she needed to be a part of that.

She thought again of the man he’d nearly killed, how he had only stopped when she’d pulled his arm back. If the Hood really was going to save this city, she wanted to help him. She wanted to reach him. But she could only really do that if she knew who he was.

So she returned to Oliver’s home the very next day, armed with a polygraph year and her wristband. She tried asking him first, seeing if he might open up on his own. Quite the opposite happened.

“If others knew — if you knew — You'd see me differently. And not as some... Vigilante guy. As damaged.”

She shook her head, her eyes feeling heavy with tears she was forcing herself to hold back. He was pushing her away. Should she really go through with this if he didn’t want her help?

Then again, it might just be that he didn’t think he should have her help. She didn’t want to be left wondering which it was. So she took a breath and readied herself for a metaphorical plunge.

“After last night, it’s clear we’re still attracted to one another.” She waited for his nod. “Oliver, nothing can ever happen between us… because I’ve found my soulmate.”

By the widening of his eyes, she could tell this was both a shock and of more than just a casual interest to him. Okay. She’d thrown down the gauntlet. Time to see if he’d pick it up.

---

Oliver wasn’t sure what he’d expected Laurel to do or say when he denied her assertion that he could still somehow be the Hood, but this wasn’t it.

Soulmates. He’d thought Laurel didn’t put too much stock in those stories, that she covered the mark on her wrist just to avoid people prying. Oliver had always been fine with that before the island, because somebody declaring herself to be his soulmate would have been the deepest kind of commitment he could have imagined.

He’d obeyed his parents’ instructions to keep his own mark covered as an extra form of insurance. Many people would like to be able to pass themselves off as the soulmate to the heir of a vast fortune, after all. Best not to hand the information to them.

Had he wondered about his mark? Of course, but in an idle way. Even on the island, it had felt small and insignificant next to the worries he’d had about Laurel, his family and his friends. Some of the people he’d met there had seen it once his old wristband had grown too tattered and torn to be of much use. Slade, before he had become an enemy, had once asked him about his ‘birdie’, as the ASIS man had put it. Oliver had answered truthfully that he hadn’t a clue. The bird on his wrist was perhaps always meant to be flying away from him, just like Laurel was just about to walk right out of his life to her own happily ever after.

Oliver realized Laurel was still waiting on some kind of response to her statement. He licked his lips and asked, “You- you did?”

“Yeah.” She gave a shrug, like it was just a casual fact.

Oliver grit his teeth. He knew asking would make him sound interested, if not outright jealous. But she had to know he still cared for her. She wanted him to ask. “Do I know him?”

“You might. That’s kind of the thing,” she hedged, her weight shifting slightly as she fingered the strap of her bag. “I’ve only found him a couple of times. I haven’t had the chance to talk to him about it, and I don’t know that I will.”

Oliver blinked. “Well, why not just go see him?”

“Oh, I tried.” Something about her tone raised the hairs on his neck. She was angling at something. He just wasn’t sure what. “But he’s kind of more the type that finds you, I guess.”

If anything, that caused him more concern. Clearly this wasn’t about what had happened between her and Tommy. So then who was acting this way towards her? “Laurel, if you need some kind of help to, to find him or make some kind of decision…”

“That’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t think you can help, Ollie.” Laurel turned and headed towards the door, looking back over her shoulder with her hand on the doorknob. “After all, you’re not the Hood.”

“What?” He’d been under the assumption these two conversations were unrelated, and Laurel’s reminder of his lie threw him.

“You heard me. But maybe this will clear things up.” Laurel turned fully back around towards him, working the wristband she’d always worn off her left wrist and letting it fall to the floor. Oliver swallowed and came forward, staring at the exposed skin and the mark he’d never seen before.

But it was a symbol he was acutely familiar with.

“I guess that’s why I needed to ask you. Just to put it all behind me for good,” Laurel was saying. He tore his eyes from the little arrowhead and found her still staring at it, not looking up at him.

“So that you can be with him,” he summarized, feeling a dull pounding start up in his temple. He’d thought to hurt her briefly with the lie in the short term in order to keep her safe, but Laurel was all but admitting she planned to pursue his alter ego for the rest of her life, which meant he would have to keep hurting her by pushing her away. And he thought she knew it, too, or at the very least was banking on it.

“Laurel, look at me.” When she did, he was proven right by the exaggerated innocence in her eyes. “You would become an accomplice to the Hood’s crimes.”

“I became an accomplice the minute I agreed to help with the Peter Declan case instead of phoning the police. The people he interrogated, the men he hurt in Iron Heights, I could have helped stop all that from happening,” she pointed out. Then she took a step forward. “But I also would have condemned an innocent man to death. Maybe it’s extreme, but the lengths the Hood goes to in order to bring justice back into this city, it’s something I believe in. Damaged or not, I believe in you, Ollie.”

He looked away. He couldn’t believe how earnestly willing Laurel was to give him another chance. “If we’re — I hurt my soulmate in the worst way possible. That’s what that symbol means.” His own symbol was something he still didn’t understand, but he couldn’t be her soulmate without her being his. He didn’t want to live in a world where that was somehow a possibility.

“Or it means we weren’t ready yet. We weren’t the people we were supposed to be. Maybe we are now.” She took his hands, and he couldn’t bring himself to pull away no matter how much he thought it would be for her own good. “I’m not saying we rush into something. But I know where I need to be, and that’s helping the city by your side. Okay?”

He couldn’t speak, so he nodded. A wave of relief seemed to crash over him in that instant; he didn’t have to lie to her anymore. Oliver squeezed her hands and brought them up to his lips, trying to impress upon her everything he was feeling but couldn’t say.

When they met with Diggle at the base, Laurel made it quite clear just how literal she’d meant by his side. “Where did you get this made?” She asked, fingering the sleeve of his suit. He was thankful she hadn’t grabbed for the hood, whether that was intentional on her part or not.

“Why? You shopping around?” Digg asked with amusement.

“Something like that. Though I wouldn’t go green… maybe black or gray, some kind of mix—”

Oliver stepped in right away. “Laurel, you can’t go out there and fight. It’s too dangerous.”

She frowned at him. “How else am I supposed to help, then? I know I’m not up to par or anything, but I’ve got two experienced teachers here,” she said, nodding to each of them. “And I’ll look around for other lessons on my own time if I have to.”

He shook his head. “If I lose you out there—”

“—is a very real possibility for me when it comes to you. You can’t expect me to sit at home while you’re out there risking your life, Oliver. That’s not the kind of girl I am.”

“It’d be a good idea to start her on training regardless, Oliver,” Diggle agreed, much to his annoyance. “She’s been attacked more than once since this whole thing started.”

“Alright,” he gave in, watching the two of them share a smug smirk. “But this is not going to be easy. If I’m preparing you, I’m preparing you for the worst, because that’s what’s out there.” He couldn’t afford to hold back, even with her.

Laurel, for her part, took to the training far more enthusiastically than he had on the island. She was always ready to jump back up from the mats when she got knocked down, always bringing her fists or a stick back up. He hadn’t seen her so energized and simply living since he’d gotten on that stupid yacht. 

“They’ll say things about you,” he cautioned her one night over a reheated meal home cooked by Raisa. Oliver was glad for the training in part simply because it meant he made sure Laurel had something other than takeout and coffee in her system. It occurred to him that maybe their relationship wasn’t beneficial in only one direction. “The media, your father.”

“I’m sure whatever he comes up with won’t be worse than anything he’s already said,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Sticks and stones.”

“I’m sorry he treated you that way.”

She waved her fork as if to brush the subject aside. “The one thing I want to be sure of is to get ahead of them before they start just calling me ‘the Woman’ because they will absolutely do that if left to their own devices. And I don’t want to just be defined by that.”

He supposed that was fair. “Alright, then what do you want to be called?”

She sat up, pushing her travel bowl aside. “Well, I’ve been thinking about Sara, and how I, I want to do something besides feeling this anger and sadness in me. I have to accept that she’s gone and that — for everything that happened — she was my sister. I want to honor her, like you do with Shado and her father.”

He’d started telling her small things about the island. Mostly the better things; he wasn’t ready to get into the truly awful. Shado and Yao Fei teaching him archery, and his hood having originally belonged to them, was one of those memories he’d shared.

He waited for Laurel to speak again, knowing she needed the room to talk this out. “And I thought about it and thought about it, and I think I know something that would do that without making it totally obvious to my father or someone else. You remember when we were kids, and my dad got Sara that canary as a pet?”

Oliver froze. “Yeah?”

“Well, it’s been years and I doubt he really thinks about it anymore — I have the only picture of it. But it makes me think of her, so… what do you think?” Laurel’s tentative smile faded as the moment stretched on. “Ollie?”

He blinked, finding his eyes to be wetter than usual. “Um, yeah. It’s fine. I just…” He looked down at his covered wrist. Laurel still hadn’t asked to see it. But he took the wristband off now and flipped his arm over to show her.

Her eyes went wide. “But—”

“I never really knew what to make of it,” he told her. “And with you giving me this chance, I was ready to say it didn’t matter. But I guess you were right about us having to become the people we are now. It was always you.”

Laurel released a breath, a smile spreading over her face, and Oliver found himself kissing her before he could stop himself. But Laurel’s hands held his face and her lips moved against his, so it seemed they’d both agreed to move things a little faster than they’d originally intended.

They broke apart, both smiling now, and Laurel whispered in the space between them, “My Arrow.” There was something about that, her giving him her own name, that felt far warmer and special than anything else.

“My Pretty Bird,” he answered back. Then their lips met once again.

No matter how twisted a path it had taken to get here, he and Laurel had found each other again. If that wasn’t what soulmates were, he wasn’t sure he’d ever understand the concept. But he was happy enough with his life as it was.

[morbidlyqueerious]

So. Let’s talk about Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse. (Spoilers below the cut)

Tl;DR: Excellent animation carries a story that’s generally good but makes some missteps.

Let’s start with the good:

The animation is, in a word, excellent.  It really takes full advantage of the medium to display a lot of different styles, and all of them look genuinely quite good.  The characters all move fairly fluidly.

The sound design is also generally excellent.  A few of the songs weren’t to my taste, but I do have to admit they were at least well made.  They also match the action quite well.

All of the characters are good!  Miles, Gwen, Peter, even Penny--they all drip with character and make it easy to see their primary drive and motivation, and they all have a clear conflict and a clear divide between who they are and who they want to be.

The story is, despite it all, generally good.  It tackles some interesting questions about agency, expectations, and responsibility, which makes for an interesting reinterpretation of the classic quote--”With great power comes great responsibility”.  Unfortunately it stumbles a bit here, which segues smoothly into my main criticism.

The main thrust of the plot is about expectations.  This is how we’re introduced to Miles--he’s struggling at school and with his family specifically because of the expectations they put on him.  Even around his uncle he struggles with expectations, just a different sort, and his boundaries still aren’t respected--he clearly didn’t want to go to the Underground, he was just dragged along.  This is only exacerbated by his superpowers--at least to me it’s pretty clear he didn’t enjoy getting or having them, and although he certainly felt guilt over not saving Peter, there’s never any indication that he actually wanted to be Spider-Man, he just felt like he had to.  His next few fights end up coming to him, and he spends most of the time running, and his trip to the lab is explicitly out of wanting to fulfill the dying Peter’s wishes.  Even in the very end, he fights Kingpin solo specifically for Peter Parker, which while heroic doesn’t show any real change in his character.

In my mind, this is the key issue with the plot; in a plot about agency, the main character never really feels like he has any.  This isn’t, inherently, a bad thing, but it’s not the story Into the Spiderverse wants to be.  Everything about the movie, all of its major plot beats, are selling this idea of self-determinism, the idea that you alone get to chose who you are.  Unfortunately, that’s not what the end of the movie says; it certainly shows him being better at being Spider-Man and doing better in school, but there’s absolutely no indication that he actually wants these things.  In fact, a big deal is made earlier in the movie about how he felt crushed by the school and the social environment around him, and since no future scenes were really about classes we have no reason to believe that’s suddenly turned around.  What was supposed to be a message of “You get to chose who you are” is turned into a message of “If you try hard enough, you can live up to other people’s expectations”--which for a lot of people isn’t inspiring at all!

This is exacerbated by the specific context around Miles.  Although it’s never explicitly stated, it’s fairly clear* that Miles Morales is supposed to be a Gifted Child(tm), and as any former Gifted Child(tm) can tell you, this comes with a lot of pressure to be excellent at everything.  As such, many of them grow up without ever having learned how to study and then burn themselves out trying to reach strict academic goals.  They don’t even get to fall back to try something different, because they know they are technically possible of success, and changing goals or even approaches would be “laziness” or “giving up”**!  This is a really tricky issue that’s hurting a lot of people and doesn’t get talked about much, and Into the Spiderverse has a stance on it: “With great power comes great responsibility.”

No! Stop that!  What that quote should mean is “Don’t be selfish, and if you can help people, do so.”  What gifted students get told it means is “Since you’re so smart, you’re responsible for making the world a better place entirely by yourself, also you’re not allowed to imply you’re better than other people in any way.”  This movie is clearly aiming for the first but ends up hitting the second square on the head.  The most annoying thing about this is that it wouldn’t be hard to fix--literally just put in one scene of Miles deciding that he actually wants to be Spider-Man, above and beyond his sense of obligation.  Put in one scene in which he speaks out against some of the things people expect him to do (do well in school from his father, be “cool” from his uncle) and he actually gets treated as correct by the plot.  Heck, you had an entire flashback montage of him hearing quotes, but instead of something about him (they could have put in a quote about how he really likes to tag up the street!), they just had a bunch of stuff talking about how scary it was, and what we have is a montage of a gifted child (but still a child) pushing himself to do something he doesn’t want to do and doesn’t think he can do, just because “We aren’t a family that runs away from problems.”  I sincerely hope that this was simply a tonedeaf plot choice and that other people read some choice into his later actions, because the alternative is that someone out there is intentionally repeating the exact rhetoric that gives tons of people anxiety and self-image issues.

There are some other issues issues with the characterization.  In particular, the side characters (Spider-Ham, Noir Spider-Man, and Peni Parker) are never really properly used as well as they could.  Spider-Ham was enough of a comedy character that they certainly didn’t need a second one, yet this was all that Noir Spider-Man was reduced to, rather than using him to actually give us a different perspective on the plot.  Likewise, the narrative seems to want Peni to be a comic relief character herself, yet she’s actually just a compelling and interesting character who gets mostly ignored.  The fact that SP//dr*** was made by her dead father and she just pilots and maintains could certainly have been explored much more, especially considering how well it ties into the movie’s themes of responsibility and obligation, but she never gets enough characterization or development to do anything with her. There was an excellent metaphor waiting in the wings where each of the spider-people symbolizes one of Miles’s views of being Spider-Man, with Peter Parker showing it as an unreachable goal, Spider-Gwen as socially isolating, Spider-Ham as all just a fun game, Noir Spider-Man as a unpleasant and morally ambiguous task, and Peni Parker as an obligation he’s obliged to act out.  Instead, Peter Parker is pretty much exactly the “sleazy mentor who used to be great” (albeit with some interesting characterization involving Mary Jane thrown in), Gwen Stacy is reduced to “cool but aloof love interest”, and Noir Spider-Man is just an edgelord, while Spider-Ham disrupts the flow of the plot and Peni is along for the ride.  All of these characters were interesting enough for their own comics (and I would certainly watch an entire movie about Spider-Gwen or Peni Parker), but here they’re barely more than set dressing.

Some of the people reading this may have played Okami, a rather popular game largely due to its art style which resembled nothing so much as traditional Japanese painting.  Strip that away, however, and you were left with a fairly standard Legend of Zelda clone****.  Much the same is true of this move; the usage of animation is so far outside the box that it helps paper together a plot which is solidly within it.  The writing is good in the moment and each individual scene is clever, but step back and the plot is stretched thin over the many characters, with an accidentally terrible moral.  I still recommend it for the animation alone, but only reluctantly; it’s an enjoyable movie while you’re watching it, but not for one second longer.

*  At least, I thought it was clear--other people might see him differently.  That being said, he got into an elite school on a “lottery” that was more likely some kind of merit exam, he cracks “smart jokes” when under pressure, and a lot of the classroom behavior we see makes a lot more sense when you parse it as a room full of people whose entire self-esteem is staked on being the smartest person in the room.

**  If this sounds familiar to you: when you are told you have a responsibility to people, that includes yourself, and as such you’re allowed to simply not strive for goals you don’t care about regardless of how easily you can reach them.  Also, intelligence is not in any way a measure of moral value, school performance especially in higher grades is not a measure of intelligence, and you should seriously learn to take notes because at some point you will go from not needing them to really needing them (speaking from experience).

*** Yes, that really is the mech’s name.  I checked.  Apparently in the comics, it’s also more Evangelionesque, but this version of Peni and SP//dr are good in their own right.

**** Not to call it bad--anything that follows the Legend of Zelda formula at least competently will be fun to play through!--but merely to state that it really wasn’t original or innovate in anything save its art and its controls.

[grace-abaddon]

Gematria Pt.1 || Self || Para

A taste of freedom, that’s all she needed. She wanted to escape and fought with herself about sneaking Izzy out with her, but she knew Azazel hadn’t been the nicest to her-- at all. Abaddon didn’t want to chance that, not again. At least where she had been, the demon seemed to have left her alone. 

She’d bring her back something cool anyway.

Heading to her dad’s room, the door seemed to appear for her, the last thing she remembered Moloch telling her to do- hide in this room. The door still opened to her and that’s exactly what she did, slamming the door behind herself and leaning against it as if someone had been chasing her.

Moloch’s room.

Besides herself, it had remained relatively untouched. The velvet curtains, the silk sheets.. the collection of porn laying out on under the huge flatscreen tv and sex toys on the floor. Abaddon peered around curiously, last time refusing to touch anything. This time she knew better. If it was true, this room was technically hers and so were the contents. She just had to keep it hush-hush- especially if she found anything interesting.

Drawer after drawer, closet, even under the bed she began to check for things, even money, a credit card... Abaddon even fished through pants pockets. To her surprise she felt something. Taking it out, she found a wallet and quickly opened it. Cash, wads of it, filled the billfold. Crisp hundreds. Cards in here as well, three to be exact. She knew Moloch had more but he had accounts all over the world, constant money flowing into these. There shouldn’t have been any problem using these. Counting the hundreds, she was delighted to have five thousand in cash in hand. Pocket change to her dad. 

She pulled out other cards, insurance, lots of business cards written on and noted, even receipts. Abaddon found it strange to see the few ID cards with her father’s face on them, peering at the smug looks, unsmiling mugs... 

Fuck, she missed her daddy. 

Sitting down on the floor, she couldn’t help but fondly examine each picture, wanting like hell for him to burst through that door and reprimand her for going through his stuff. But her silent prayers to this godking were left unheard, leaving Abaddon with a frown as she tucked the ID’s away in the closet. 

Looking around more, she could see old candles put away, spell components in the closet corners... What else could she find?

The chest.

He had mentioned it before, thinking his daughter was preoccupied as he boasted about his security system in the asylum. Abaddon crawled out and saw it next to the wall, going over and trying to open it. It was sealed shut. Even if Moloch let someone in, he certainly didn’t want anyone getting into this.

She needed a key or something.

So Abaddon hit the top of it, pried the lock, even started to whisper demonic things--- willing it to open. Nothing. Frustrated, she rested her elbows on the top and cradled her chin in her hands, thinking of what to do next.

And that’s when it popped- literally.

It was her’s in a round about way just as everything else. And this revelation was stronger than willing it to be. In actuality, it was Moloch’s way of creating his own fail-safe should something happen-- yet that wasn’t known to anyone just yet. Abaddon slipped back and opened the chest, hinges creaking.

Bottles of alcohol filled most of the space, these not allowed in the asylum. But here he had hid some books, things he used when he had studied topside. 

Abaddon pulled one out, the weight of it heavy and almost burning at the touch of it. Power seemed to sizzle through the flesh bound cover as Abaddon handled it, her eye wide with the feeling of it in her hands. This book was the Wrath King’s rituals, spells, things that were too intense, too involved, and too powerful for any demon to use let alone understand. The demon magic in here could kill someone instantly if they were lucky, the unlucky ones would go mad as their mind could warp to nothing more than mush. That’s if they could read the pages at all. Each page was safe guarded, much of it seemed blank unless the reader could understand that level of power...

Curiosity filled her to see what sort of things the book had in it, especially since she had been studying. And honestly, she studied fast, abyssal and demon things coming to her almost naturally. A lot of it she hid from Azazel... Abaddon was excited but she wasn’t stupid. She knew Azazel fucked up a lot of her life, Izzy’s... and both their dad’s. So she was playing dumb mostly. If he knew how much she actually excelled...

She flipped open the cover, symbols of the demonic language appearing. Most of it she could read easily but parts of it jumbled and made her feel dizzy. Quickly she snapped it shut, getting the warning. “Just have to study more then I can read this.” Abaddon looked to the rest of the books left over in the chest, curious to what else could be in there. She began picking up another book as her phone went off. A slight huff as she sat back an pulled it out, not recognizing the number that texted her. “Hey come out here” it read as she looked at the number.

After a few moments of thinking, she messaged the unknown number back, “Who is this?”

And immediately, “A friend.”

“Where are you?”

“Outside the gates. Hurry up.”

She felt torn. On one hand she could leave and go on some sort of an adventure. Maybe it was Azazel. On the other... Moloch had taught her that even as he was a godking-- really a king of Hell, that there were demons and other creatures gunning to come and get her.

But no one ever did. Everyone seemed to be after Izzy. Maybe her dad was really just overprotective and no one would come get her...

“I’ll be down.”

Abaddon quickly put the books away and locked up the chest again, leaving the room as the wall made the room unreachable again, boots clunking down the hall.

Tired of running, Abaddon appeared near the gates and stopped at them, peering between the bars. It looked clear. No creepers creeping. No scary looking guys waiting on her. Maybe it was Azazel. Slowly, she opened the gate and slipped out, heading toward where Azazel would park his car. Carefully, she kept looking around, examining the parking lot. Still no one. Not even the car. “Hello? A friend? I’m here....”

Out of no where Abaddon felt herself being grabbed, everything going dark just as she screamed.

The soft hum of an engine played out in her mind until she realized she wasn’t dreaming. Quickly, Abaddon bolted out of her slumber and looked around herself, people she had never met watching her. Certainly not friends of hers.

“Uh. Hi?” Abaddon shifted uncomfortably, looking down at her hands and feet as they were shackled. Here, she was in a limo like the ones her dad would take her around in minus being bound with symbols against demons. “So... where are we going...?”

One of the few in here seemed to take lead, a woman with blonde dreads, dark skin. Most were dressed similar: dark colors or that of military but with torn hosiery or fishnets adorning their legs and arms or cargo pants, collars of metal and leather and boots made for combat. All of them had weapons on them. “A safe place.”

“Safe? Then why do you have me cuffed up?”

“For our safety.”

“Oh.” She looked down, feeling weird about this, even unsafe. “Who are you?”

“Friends.”

“Okay, no, friends are people I know, I don’t know any of you.”

“Friends of your father.”

The only real ‘friends’ Abaddon was ever told about were at the asylum, so the worry grew. Eventually she looked up, carefully studying each one until her eyes fell on the dark skinned one again. “My dad? He’s gone so you’re lying.”

“No, Abaddon. We’re saving you from Azazel. We want our King back.”

She wasn’t sure of the truths here but that tidbit of information had her excited and yet terrified. Aware of what horrors Azazel could do, it wasn’t like she wanted to be away from him. As they grew closer, so did the pull of their energies- cementing the belief that he was truly hers and she his. A month ago she didn’t want to believe it, but now she felt it. Unless he was pulling some sort of crazy demon shit, the feelings were there.

“You coulda just not tied me up like this. I want my dad back, too.”

With the same sort of expressionless face, the woman said, “We know you’re Azazel’s. We aren’t that stupid. All of Hell knows this.”

Welp. Looked like there wasn’t any way of weaseling out of this one. “So you’re all Wrath?”

One other demon snickered as the dark skinned woman gave a disapproving sideways glance at him. “We are all sorts, turned independent before Azazel wiped the legions clean.”

“You could do that?”

“Only in the most extreme of circumstances. We are marked as traitors and will be killed, but we needed to get our King.”

“You said you’re not all Wrath so... how is my dad everyone’s king?”

“He’s not,” the dark man chimed in from the front, “But Azazel didn’t claim the throne as he should have and even if he had, your dad had such a fear and respect around the whole of Hell that even our kings couldn’t deny. Azazel fills part of a prophecy, Moloch fitted a whole. Don’t consider us independent- that name is for scum demons. *he had to glance back to another chick in the car that quickly* Consider us rebels, demons who cut ties with our kings just for this.”

Abaddon hadn’t heard of such a thing and perhaps it may have been due to there never being a group like this-- or dad never told her this part of history. But the former made more sense, considering demons, no matter how spiteful and vengeful they were, never had an uprising in groups. “It’s just the five of you?”

“No.” The woman spoke again. “There’s many other where we are going.”

Shifting in her seat, Abaddon tried to look out the window but it was blacked out. “And just to make my dad king again?”

The woman just peered directly to her. 

“Right?” Abaddon looked back at her.

The woman smirked, finally a different expression, “Right.”

The car slowed and turned, feeling the change while they rode as it entered an underground garage. They were far from the asylum, so far in fact they were across the country, unknown to Abaddon. These demons were taking no chances considering the events that took place in Colorado. As the limo stopped, door opened and more of the same demons were there, all in this dress. Abaddon was led out by the arm as she peered around this parking facility. The limo was the nicest looking vehicle here, everything else was... well... military or altered and fitted with armor, guns, and who knows what else. Abaddon liked this very much and wanted to take a closer look but she was pulled harshly to follow the pack through the garage. 

“Ow. Be more careful!”

No one seemed to listen or care.

“Really, stop being so rough, I’m coming anyway--”

“Hush, Abaddon.” A voice came from the stairwell they were heading to as another demon stood there, dressed unlike the others. She barely recognized him, someone from the asylum she had seen in passing. 

“Were you followed?”

“Of course not. She was alone as expected. They probably don’t know she’s gone.”

“Come.” They all disappeared in their clouds and only Abaddon and the few reappeared in a room, this room looking as if it had no exits somehow, brushed steel walls and a single seat sitting on bare concrete floors. They rushed her to it, forcing her to sit as she winced, suddenly feeling confined as ornate demon traps surrounded her top to bottom. 

“What-- wait, why!?” Abaddon tried to struggle but she couldn’t move from the chair, bound to it.

“You are too dangerous to have moving around freely.” That man spoke again as he peered curiously at her.

“Are you like... their leader or something? Because you fucking suck right now.”

He chuckled lightly, “No, Abaddon. I’m merely in this for my own self interest. I’m assisting them on this endeavor and will inspire you to do the same.”

“So... you do want my dad back or....?”

“It doesn’t matter to me either way. Yet the demons here do want to return him to his throne. While they have rebelled against their kings and even the knights of the independents, I have stayed true to my domain. Gluttony. You need not know why my interests lie being here. All you need to know is that you, too, will learn to embrace your gluttonous nature.”

Abaddon didn’t enjoy this at all, not one bit. “It sounds like Greed. I think you’re confused.”

“Greed wants everything, gluttony is overly so and in the interest of the self, not in the interest of others. Self-centered. Unsympathetic. Egocentric. Greed wants everything to be their own... gluttony does not care about something if it does not benefit themselves in the process. Take for example the human that overeats. Greed would want all the food just to have it. The glutton would eat and over eat but stop as he is satisfied at some point, yet not restrained on just eating for nourishment nor until he is not hungry anymore. Greed would rather have this food regardless of how hungry he is, what it is, or how rare it is. All would be his.”

She swallowed hard, getting schooled by another demon that wasn’t someone she outright trusted or knew. Not that she completely had trusted Azazel, but that felt more like... At least the puzzle fit with him. Having this random demon teach her felt like something could be said wrong and then she’d just go on believing this and piss off someone who actually was right. 

“O... kay.... so.... why do you need to do this again? Can’t I just be at home reading a book or you come in for school lessons or some shit?”

“We want you to want your father for your own self interest. You have already awakened with Azazel, your interest there is moot. Right now you fight between your lover and your dad, but you are powerful enough to not need Azazel. For them to get what they desire, we will need you to focus and be completely aware of how your father fulfills your gluttonous desire. He will benefit you more than Azazel.”

“How the hell does that help get my dad back?!”

“You will be helping to locate and get him out of where he may be. But you cannot involve Azazel in the matter as Azazel would like nothing more than to stop us and yourself. You will need to be fully engaged in your self interest, not Azazel’s.”

This was all starting to sound like this was all in THEIR self interest. Yes, she wanted Moloch back and hated Azazel for taking him, but now she had money, she had all his things... Okay, that was sounding a lot like greed but it was for her own interests to even have these things... “I want Azazel.”

The demon woman who stood there slapped Abaddon in the face hard, Abaddon gasping as it struck her. “You will not think that way here. He is no king of ours and you will get Moloch back.”

A few of the demons looked to each other, knowing this would prove difficult to sway her despite having a reputable glutton demon around.

Abaddon looked at the woman, glaring, her eyes suddenly glowing black. “Don’t you ever hit me again. I am Abaddon, Queen of destruction and I will have your souls for this! When Azazel finds me like this, he will make your deaths slow and painful in my name!”

A couple shifted uncomfortably and others stepped back entirely, thinking this plan already failed them. But the woman remained steadfast and unmoving, smirking at Abaddon from where she stood in front of her. “We know you want your father back and so do we. Azazel will remain living so that you may live out your prophecy, but we cannot allow his reign over the whole of Wrath nor any other. We get your father back, Azazel’s rule ends. You two can reign under your independents-- we all win.”

Abaddon hadn’t stopped glaring but who was she right now to stop this? It would be nice to not only have her dad back, but put him at the top where he was and her and Azazel could just do as they pleased-- that didn’t make her any less of a Queen, did it? And she was the Queen of Destruction foretold, not a Wrath Queen if there ever was one. Demon politics seemed really confusing.

[tesslahanline1991]

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[newssplashy]

World: In Ireland, Pope finds a country transformed and a church in tatters

DUBLIN — Nearly 40 years since the last papal visit to Ireland, Pope Francis arrived Saturday to a transformed country where the once-mighty Roman Catholic Church is in tatters.

As recently as a few weeks ago, the pope’s visit to Ireland mostly promised an awkward encounter in an estranged relationship.

Since the last papal visit — by John Paul II in 1979 — Ireland, once a cornerstone of the church, has abandoned its teachings by legalizing divorce and same-sex marriage.

The country now has a gay prime minister, and just a few months ago voted to lift a ban on abortion.

But recent revelations in the United States and Chile of the institutional covering-up of sexual abuse by clerics have lent sudden urgency to the pope’s visit, where he will speak at the church’s ninth World Meeting of Families. The issue threatens to overshadow the visit by Francis, who has struggled to grasp the enormity of the scourge throughout his papacy.

Catholics worldwide wait to see whether he would use Ireland, with its own painful history of abuse, as a symbolic stage upon which to announce concrete measures to combat a crisis that threatens the future of his church.

It was not clear how far he would go. Instead, the pope offered expressions of regret and anger Saturday at Dublin Castle, where he met with Prime Minister Leo Varadkar, who is gay and called on Francis to take action on the “legacy of pain and suffering” in Ireland. He has called the pope’s visit “an opportunity” to demonstrate that things are going to change.

“With regard to the most vulnerable, I cannot fail to acknowledge the grave scandal caused in Ireland by the abuse of young people by members of the church charged with responsibility for their protection and education,” Francis said.

“The failure of ecclesiastical authorities — bishops, religious superiors, priests and others — adequately to address these repugnant crimes has rightly given rise to outrage, and remains a source of pain and shame for the Catholic community,” the pope added. “I myself share those sentiments.”

Speaking in front of advocates for abuse survivors who have criticized him for not doing enough, Francis went on to cite the outrage expressed in a 2010 letter by his predecessor, Pope Benedict XVI, and the measures Benedict had demanded.

“His frank and decisive intervention continues to serve as an incentive for the efforts of the church’s leadership both to remedy past mistakes and to adopt stringent norms meant to ensure that they do not happen again,” Francis said, adding that in his letter this month to all Catholics, “I reiterated this commitment, or rather, a greater commitment to eliminating this scourge in the church — at whatever cost.”

The shadow cast by the scandals now reaches beyond Ireland and to the heart of the Vatican, where it threatens to darken the legacy and remaining influence of Pope Francis.

Well into his fifth year as pope, Francis has focused on championing migrants, the poor and the disenfranchised, all the while shifting the church’s emphasis away from divisive issues social issues such as abortion and toward a more inclusive, pastoral style.

That mission is imperiled by his slow response to a scandal that some of his top advisers argue is the central issue facing the church.

For decades, the Vatican’s top officials covered up abuse. It took the explosion of the first sex abuse crisis in the United States in the early 2000s to get the church to pay attention. Pope Benedict XVI eventually began ridding the church of what he called the “filth” of abusive priests, but an attitude of denial pervaded in the Vatican, where many considered the scandal the invention of an aggressive and anti-Catholic media.

By the time Francis was elected in 2013, many officials had come to acknowledge the scandal for the global and institutional threat it was, though many more considered the problem solved by new vetting procedures.

Francis instead promised to tackle what many advocates consider the heart of the issue by insisting on accountability for the bishops in the hierarchy who covered up abuse. But talk of special tribunals for bishops and other tough, centralized measures evaporated, and advocates grew so disillusioned with pope’s lack of action that some quit his pontifical commissions in protest.

Francis, who this month apologized for the church’s “delayed” response to the crisis, himself came late to it. It was only in January, amid the uproar over his reflexively believing a Chilean bishop and his doubting of Chilean survivors, that Francis has begun to act more decisively, sending investigators, accepting resignations of top Chilean bishops and promising victims that there would be further measures.

But more cases of abuse and cover-up keep coming to light.

The more than 1,000 cases of abuse discovered over 70 years in Pennsylvania, the accusations against Theodore E. McCarrick, the former cardinal of Washington, and the cover-ups of abuse in Chile have all cast a pall over the pope’s busy schedule and the triennial world meeting.

Cardinal Donald Wuerl of Washington withdrew as the keynote speaker at the World Meeting of Families to face accusations that he covered up for abusive clergy when he was the bishop of Pittsburgh decades ago.

Cardinal Sean P. O’Malley of Boston, president of the Vatican’s Commission for the Protection of Minors, canceled an appearance to address accusations of widespread sexual impropriety at the seminary of his archdiocese and his failure to heed warnings about McCarrick.

In Ireland, the question is less whether Francis will broach sexual abuse — the Vatican has said he will meet with abuse survivors, and he is certain to address the issue — than whether he will take new action.

Expectations are high among sex abuse survivors and their advocates that the pope will find time in his 36 hours in the country to announce historic measures that would show, rather than promise, that the church is serious about the issue.

Before the trip, Francis made it clear that he viewed the secrecy, ambition and self-preservation that came with a culture of clericalism — priests putting themselves above their parishioners — as the root cause of the crime. For years, he has scorned priests who raise themselves as unreachable elites invested with authority, infantilizing laymen in a vicious cycle.

“To say ‘no’ to abuse is to say an emphatic ‘no’ to all forms of clericalism,” Francis wrote in a remarkable letter of apology to all Catholics last week.

“The actions of the church do not match the words,” Marie Collins, a former member of the Pontifical Commission for the Protection of Minors said at the world meeting’s panel on safeguarding children. “And in fact they are totally opposite.”

She called the pope’s speech “disappointing — nothing new.”

Others said the situation was even worse outside the United States, Ireland and a few other countries and urged the pope to do something.

“Words are sweet,” said another panelist, Gabriel Dy-Liacco, a Filipino psychologist who sits on the pope’s commission, “but love means deeds.”

On Saturday, Varadkar, speaking on stage feet from the pope, gave the forceful criticism of the church’s sins that many wish the pope would deliver.

“In place of Christian charity, forgiveness and compassion, far too often there was judgment, severity and cruelty, in particular, towards women and children and those on the margins,” he said, citing “stains” such as child abuse, illegal adoptions, forced labor and other sins. “People kept in dark corners, behind closed doors, cries for help that went unheard.”

He continued, “Holy Father, we ask that you use your office and influence to ensure this is done here in Ireland and also around the world,” recalling the pope had called for zero tolerance against child abusers.

Advocates, church officials and some clerics have articulated a wish list of what should happen. Among the demands are that each church diocese publish the names of abusive priests and hand over church records to civil law enforcement instead of fighting subpoenas.

Some have urged working with courts to aid, rather than hinder, prosecutions of abusive priests and ceasing efforts to indemnify the church from financial penalties. Others have called for enshrining zero-tolerance policies into the church’s canon law so it can be enforced globally, not only in specific countries.

As the sex abuse scandal exploded once again before the pope’s trip, a fierce debate about those contributing factors raged in Catholic journals and across churches.

But the one factor many seemed to agree on is that clericalism, from the seminaries to the top of the hierarchy, is insidious.

On Friday in Dublin, Blase Cupich, the archbishop of Chicago, who has blamed a “clerical culture” for the abuse, began a panel he moderated on “The Dignity and Beauty of Sexual Love: Finding New Language for Ancient Truths,” by lamenting “the woeful responses of bishops who failed to protect” abuse survivors.

Ireland knows the ravages of clericalism first hand, from its sex abuse scandals to forcing the adoption of the children of unwed mothers to many other exploitations of what was for decades authoritarian power.

The abuses the clergy committed, and their tendency to seek exaltation by parishioners instead of humbly serving and accompanying them through troubles cost the church a country where it once had more than 90 percent attendance at mass. Now it has about 30 percent.

But if Francis decides to make a bold policy change to protect his surviving flock around the world from the same threat, Ireland gives him a compelling backdrop from which to do so.

“It is my hope,” the pope said Saturday, “that the gravity of the abuse scandals, which have cast light on the failings of many, will serve to emphasize the importance of the protection of minors and vulnerable adults on the part of society as a whole.”

On Saturday afternoon, Tony Kelly, 58, a bar manager in Dublin, who waited outside the St. Mary’s Pro-Cathedral for Francis, said he had watched the pope’s speech at Dublin Castle on television and found his apology sincere.

But, he said, “people are looking more for actions rather than words.”

The Irish church, he said, had suffered the consequences of “living in the past” and breaking its trust with the faithful through abuse.

“There was a lot of negativity, a lot of cover up, and they tended to protect themselves,” he said.

But Kelly said he hoped the pope would take everything he heard back with him to Rome and spur him to do something to protect children in other churches around the world.

“Maybe this country could lead the way in certain respects,” he said.

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

Jason Horowitz © 2018 The New York Times

source http://www.newssplashy.com/2018/08/world-in-ireland-pope-finds-country.html