#so knowing the future makes the acolyte a tragedy

[justhereforpirates]

My fiance pointed out, the minute Plagueis showed up, The Acolyte became a Greek Tragedy

It’s pretty clear, he is going to learn how to create life from the force BECAUSE of Osha. It’s also clear, since Qimir is his apprentice and Qimir is looking for his own apprentice, that Qimir must be planning to kill Plagueis because of the rule of two. There can only be two Sith.

But Plagueis also lives until either right before Phantom or the end of Phantom, so obviously he doesn’t kill Plagueis. And Plagueis takes on a new apprentice, Sidious (and we don’t know how many in between Qimir and Sidious, given that Acolyte takes place in 132 BBY and Palpatine was born in 84 BBY and probably wasn’t apprenticed to Plagueis at birth there could have been a few apprentices between)

So I think it can be easily assumed that Plagueis is going to have to kill Qimir at some point. Sith don’t tend to let their apprentices just quit. But on the other hand, death is not always permanent in Star Wars for Sith (look at Maul, or Sidious himself) so I don’t think that means Qimir will necessarily be like permadead

[ecoterrorist-katara]

“Katara deserves a quiet life after the war, so becoming a healer (who made no contributions to the field) is actually a good arc!”

It is already bizarre to me that in ATLA, Katara is this confident & combative & ambitious girl who LOVED to fight and wanted nothing more than to help as many people as possible…then comics!Katara and TLOK!Katara showed neither her previous personality traits nor a career commensurate with those traits…

but it’s even more bizarre to me that ATLA fans would defend her trajectory as if it were some kind of progressive story of recovering from war trauma.

I’ve seen multiple takes like this. “Katara is not a YA heroine, she’s not a bloodthirsty girlboss who loves fighting so it’s actually a good thing that she doesn’t have to fight anymore” “after everything she’s been through she deserves a quiet life and a loving family”

For Katara, fighting in the war was actually empowering. It didn’t burn her out. It didn’t disillusion her. It didn’t take more out of her than she can give. Katara is not Katniss Everdeen, who needed to step back and discover her own agency and a sense of peace after fighting in a war she never chose to start. Katara’s war trauma largely happened before she took an active part in it. After she chose to be a part of the war, she became a waterbending master, made close friends, found her father again, got closure for her mother’s murder, defeated the Fire Lord, and met the love of her life. If Katara were a real person, maybe she’d be traumatized, but nowhere in the text of ATLA does she exhibit the sign that she’s tired of fighting on behalf of the world. If anything, she just got started.

If you take her post-ATLA arc at face value (vs as bad writing), it’s a tragedy of a woman who has learned to minimize her own relevance and her own power. In The Promise, she begins deferring serious decisions to Aang. She doesn’t even express a strong opinion about the fate of the entire colony of Yu Dao, or the fate of her friend Zuko. In North and South, she accepts Northern encroachment of the South in the name of progress. In TLOK we see her not as a politician or a chief, but rather as “the best healer” — albeit one who apparently never established a hospital, or trained acolytes of her own, or done anything to help people at scale, which she has always wanted to do. It’s even more egregious when you remember that in Jang Hui, she was not satisfied to simply heal the sick as the Painted Lady. She wanted to solve the root of the problem, so she cleaned the river and committed full-on ecoterrorism. Just because the war is over doesn’t mean she wants to stop helping people. In fact, the problem she addressed in Jang Hui is exactly the type of problem that would become more prevalent after the war ends, judging by the rapid industrialization between ATLA and LOK.

In the original ATLA, I think Katara is about as close to a power fantasy as you can get for a teenage girl, because she gets to be messy and goofy and powerful, even though she also had to perform a whole lot of emotional and domestic labour. But post-ATLA, she doesn’t get power and she doesn’t get to make a change. She gets love and a family. That’s it. And her grandkids don’t even remember her. Her friends and peers, on the other hand, were shown doing all sorts of super cool things like, you know, running the world they saved.

It’s not feminist to say that a female character deserves “rest” when she’s shown zero inclination that she wants a quiet life. Women who want a quiet life deserve to get it — I think Katniss’ arc is perfect — but women who want power deserve to get it too, especially when they’re motivated by compassion and a keen sense of justice. There’s nothing feminist about defending the early 2010s writing decisions of two men. Like just admit that they fucked up! It’s fine! Maybe they’ll do better in the future!

[classicanalyzer]

The Acolyte - The Acolyte (Episode 8) Thoughts

"I think the Jedi are a massive system of unchecked power, posing as a religion, a delusional cult that claims to control the uncontrollable...Not the Force. Your emotions. You project an image of goodness and restraint, but it's only a matter of time before one of you snaps. And when, not 'if', that happens, who will be strong enough to stop him?... The majority of my colleagues can't imagine a galaxy without the Jedi. And I can understand why. When you're looking up to heroes, you don't have to face what's right in front of you." Senator Rayencourt.

"You poor girl. You've been through so much. The Jedi have failed you. I am going to make this right. But I need your help...I need you to help me find someone...A pupil of mine before he turned to evil." Vernestra Rwoh.

We end the show where it began chronologically, Brendok.

I love how Rayencourt makes good points about the Jedi trying to claim that they can control their emotions and present themselves as pure good with no flaws. What he said also legit sounds exactly what will happen to Anakin in the future. He's even proven right about the former with Sol given Episode 7 and the latter with Vernestra lying in the end. Props to his actor, David Harewood, for doing an amazing job.

I love how Bazil is the bad vibes checker of this show. I'm so happy that he lived.

MOTHERFUCKING DARTH PLAGUEIS! I legit said what the actual fuck when he appeared. His appearance makes a lot of sense and given how the twins were created using the Force, ofc he would be interested in them. I also love how the music used in this scene was very similar if not a reprise to the choir used in "The Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise." I also legit do not care about if people complain if his age isn't similar to Legends. Well, first of all, there is no set age in Canon. And second of all, I legit do not care.

I also love the ship chase sequence. The CGI looks really well done in there. You feel the ship's weight and the impact of the asteroids.

The show also continues the theme of visions not appearing as they are. The Acolyte killed the Jedi without a (physical) weapon, however, Osha was mistaken. The Acolyte happened to be her.

Also props to Amandla Stenberg for portraying the twins so well. I felt the intense heartbreak and betrayal as Osha realized that Mae was right and the intense hatred then regret after she murdered Sol. The Bleeding of Sol's Lightsaber was so chilling to see.

GOD SOL'S DEATH HITS ME REALLY HARD. I legit got Infinity War PTSD when he told Osha "It's okay" as she was killing him (He couldn't even tell her that he loves her which broke my heart). While we all know it was an understandable accident given what happened (even their mother didn't blame Sol for thinking her attempted protection of Mae was an attack), it didn't change the fact that he killed their mother. Vernestra summed up his character pretty well (despite framing him). Sol's biggest flaw was that he loved Osha so much that he now sees the misunderstanding of killing their mother as something he had to do and covering up Brendok because of the Vergence. I do like how she knew Sol was truly good and well-intentioned despite his flaws and mistakes as she gave him a Jedi funeral.

"He was a kind, brilliant, compassionate man. And he did a terrible thing... A mistake he lived with for so long it twisted his mind. He justified every step with the love he had for your sister." Vernestra Rwoh

THE CHOREOGRAPHY IS SO GOOD! I love the Lightsaber and martial arts fighting in this show. Qimir's change to single blade stance after failing to get past Sol's indomitable defense is so good. Osha's and Mae's fist fight was also amazing and tension filled.

The reveal that Qimi was Vernestra's apprentice was smth I also guessed after Episode 6 which explains why she's in this show. I wonder what she will do when she sees him again.

Despite me knowing how horrifying Sol's death was, I can't help but feel happy seeing the siblings reunite and at peace. It was even more sadder as Mae has to forget Osha to protect her sister. Even I got sad seeing Mae forget the pledge as more of her memories got erased.

Ironically, Mae and Osha switch roles by the end of the show, with Osha being Qimir's Acolyte and Mae being utterly confused about why she's arrested by the Jedi. In a sense my guess about Mae having a redemption arc did come true...but just like the vision, just not in the way I had expected.

I really love how this show critiqued and explored the Jedi without bashing them. We see that they're truly a force of good and have the best of intentions...however those intentions can blind them to what's right in front of them. The Jedi are still sentient beings just like anyone else. We see how their complacency and desire to keep their image good blinds them to the rise of dark forces which includes the emerging Sith Order as the Grand Plan of the Sith takes shape. I had so many chills as Osha and Qimir looked at the sunset with the Acolyte theme playing.

The music in the finale is so good, especially during the fight and emotional scenes. This score really nailed it amtophseric-wise. I love the more creepy reprise of the witch coven's chants from Episode 3 during the credits.

A great season finale and season of SW TV. I really hope Leslye gets her multi-season show because the Acolyte has the potential to be an amazing multi-season show. She truly gave it her all in this season. I also trust her to make that Old Republic show as well.

"Sorry to disturb you, Master. We need to talk." Vernestra Rwoh.

[eggdrawsthings]

Hi! I found your account through The Acolyte and just wanted to say I love your art and hope you don’t mind this long message (it got too big for a response).

Part of my reaction to the newest episode might be rose tinted glasses for Sol (because I was worried about his character going in) but my first thought to the whole conflict between Indara and him read to me as “old school” vs “new school” Jedi thinking.

In The High Republic we’ve met and made reference to many Jedi Wayseekers, who are still Jedi but follow the force’s guidance vs the direct council. At the time of this show we seem closer to the Phantom Menace mentality than anything, where I don’t know if that was really still a thing without someone just straight up leaving the order.

So to me it felt - albeit clunky like everyone else discussed - like Sol wanted to just follow the Force because he sensed this connection and had to keep coming up with excuses to justify it to Indara. But because the council said “no” she felt that was (understandably, and respectfully) the right choice.

It also felt parallel to Qui-Gon Jin - which the whole “Anakin was too old”, and the revelation of the twins birth are also harkening back to throughout the series.

“Choice” was a great (heartbreaking) name for this episode because there really are so many moments where if one person had just chosen differently, the outcome would have ranged so much and maybe not ended in such a tragedy.

Hey! First of all thank you sm! dw about the long msg haha you're good my friend ^^

I've not read THR book to get that reference tbh (im only a few pages into Light of the Jedi). And frankly, from a visual storytelling standpoint, if that was the intention of the writer to link back to that old school THR Jedi thinking, then they should've made it clear or at least hinted in the show so ppl who are not THR readers know oh there's sth up w this too and then go find out more for themselves. Again, clunky writing and short running time make everything worse.

Not related but there's a theory that Indara didn't call the Council cuz there was no data saying that Osha has a twin. Interesting detail if that is true haha. And again hammering that even if it was w good intentions, they all made questionable choices that led to tragedy and forever harmed the children's future.

I dislike the execution, but I like the idea and that it gave the characters more depth. This made Sol even more interesting to me, way more than Qimir now even. Even tho he's written so ooc here imo, he's still so intriguing and makes me actually think and analyze his character. The worst thing you can do to a character is make them so boring and 1 dimensional that the viewers just forget about them after the show is over lol (which, frankly, a lot of these characters are).

[senatushq]

The Fox~

NAME. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. 25+ & UTP SPECIES. Druid AFFILIATION. Octavian’s Acolyte OCCUPATION. UTP

You’re on your own, kid. You always have been. A kitchen table covered with bills, a father left to do it all on his own. He didn’t know the first thing about raising a kid and neither did you. Siblings with mouths to feed, diapers to change, and lunches to pack. Your arms were too small to carry them all but somehow you figured it out along the way. The TV left on and an empty bottle in his hand, you wiped his drool and helped him to bed, a man who needed you as much as you needed him. You were swift and smart, you learned how to stretch a dollar and how to make it quick when that dollar only went so far. Run away, it was a strong instinct, but you didn’t. Opportunity came knocking because the world had uses for people like you, bright and with a future but you had mouths to feed and an aging man who couldn’t do it on his own. You passed so they could take your place, they flew the coop and you watched them go. They never said thank you, but they never had to. Tragedy found its way into your den, and when Octavian found you he saw the fox that had made it this far on their own.

this skeleton is currently closed.

[alittlewhump]

Unbidden - Act 1, chapter 5

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Content warnings: None

Morgan awoke to the sound of humming. He stretched, groaning as his muscles protested. Evidently his choice of sleeping positions had not been ideal, but he'd been too tired to care when he'd settled in. The humming stopped, and Deckard Cain turned to him from where he had been tending a pot over a small fire nearby.

"Would you believe," he said, "that none of the Sisterhood would give me your name, friend? Such a strange thing."

He would believe it. He'd learned long ago that it was generally not worth the trouble to correct people once they'd decided what they wanted to call him. The strange thing here was how little Cain seemed to be troubled by his presence. He would enjoy it while it lasted.

"It's Morgan."

"Well, Morgan, we have much to discuss. But before we get started, let us eat. You must be famished after yesterday's events." He held out a bowl of steaming soup, which Morgan accepted gratefully. It was hot and filling, exactly what he hadn't realized he needed. He'd gotten cold overnight.

Morgan briefly summarized the request that had brought him here: to disturb the progress of the unidentified manifestation of darkness taking root in these lands. Cain filled in quite a lot of details while Morgan mainly listened, asking occasional questions for clarification. A great and ancient evil had come to light in Tristram, leading eventually to the tragedy that had befallen the city. Although a hero had been successful in defeating that evil, it seemed he had been unfortunately corrupted by the same. He had fled eastward, but to complicate matters, another powerful demon had arisen to trouble the area.

Cain suspected this new demon to be Andariel, the Maiden of Anguish. Quite a title. He shared what he knew about her: a venomous demon queen with the power to enthrall mortals unlucky or unwise enough to look her full in the eyes. Like most major demons, her power also manifested in a sort of influence that spread out from her like a miasma. By Cain's estimation, this would be apparent through increased emotional sensitivity in those affected, to complement the physical anguish she was capable of inflicting. That would be something to look out for; emotional regulation was the foundation that gave strength and clarity to the priests of Rathma. To have it disrupted would compromise his ability to act in the best interest of the Balance. Morgan would have to be careful about that.

He was enjoying the conversation, to his surprise. Cain had a vast wealth of knowledge and seemed eager to share it. He was explaining his interpretation of a particular prophecy when Blaise stalked up to them with a sour look on her face. She glared daggers at Morgan, crossing her arms.

"Good, you're awake. Come with me, we have work to do."

"We do?" He'd expected - hoped, if he was honest with himself - that her involvement would be finished after retrieving Cain. That was as far as Kashya had demanded it, anyway. "I thought you-"

"I thought this nightmare was over too, but I just finished arguing with Akara. One of our old commanders has risen from the dead to attack us, and she blames you." She looked back toward the gates. "I told her that's not how your stuff works, but she didn't believe me." That was a surprise - he would not have guessed she might speak up in his defense. He wondered what had changed. Maybe Cain had convinced her somehow. The man was good with words, with people, in a way Morgan knew he could never hope to echo. "So if you don't come with me to put her back in the ground, you're probably going to regret it," Blaise continued with a pointed look.

Well, Morgan couldn't argue with that. He stood and stretched, taking stock of his belongings as Cain pressed Blaise with questions. She bore them with more patience than he'd expected. One of the other scouts had survived the attack, but her recovery was not going well. It sounded like she'd been poisoned. A shame they hadn't kept the arrow; he might have been able to identify the toxin. But then again, if he tried to treat her and failed, they would be even less willing to trust him. If Cain was right, it would be a moot point anyway - he thought the resurrection was Andariel's doing, meaning that the poison was likely due to her influence. He had no experience with that type of venom.

"Oh, Morgan, I almost forgot," Cain called out as they were leaving. Morgan turned to see him holding something in an upraised hand. "You had better take another scroll of town portal, in case you should need to return with haste."

"Thank you." He accepted the proffered scroll with a small bow of his head, tucking it into his belt.

"Let's get a move on already," Blaise called. She had already started walking. Morgan jogged to catch up, already apprehensive about the journey ahead. Her mood had softened around the old scholar, but it seemed Morgan would not be privy to those benefits. He hoped this situation would be resolved quickly so he could begin planning his attack on Andariel.

The battle was over in short order. The reanimated rogue captain had called out to Blaise by name, which confirmed Cain's guess about her origins - only very powerful forces could resurrect both flesh and spirit. She must have been buried inexpertly, leaving her vulnerable to those malign forces. Most funeral proceedings not led by the Order of Rathma or other experienced practitioners were more for the benefit of the living than the dead. At any rate, it served only to fuel Blaise's already considerable anger, and she'd defeated the revenant with only a moment's hesitation. Several piles of earth were evidence of Morgan's attempts to provide support. Each golem was ever so slightly faster to rise than the last, but this enemy had been agile enough to render them all but useless until she'd stumbled over a previously flat spot of ground. Not an elegant solution, but effective enough in the end. Now Blaise was examining the body, brow furrowed.

"Hey. Ghoul... uh. Morgan." That was a surprise. Cain had called him by name in front of her, but he'd assumed she wouldn't be bothered to remember it. "If you do that... ceremony. Like in Tristram. Will it... help her?"

"The final rites will lay her spirit to rest, and consecration should prevent her from rising again." He'd planned on performing them anyway, as a matter of course. At the very least, they would prevent her from being wholly resurrected again - powerful magic could overcome a properly consecrated body, but it could not pluck a spirit back once it had passed on.

Blaise seemed reluctant to ask outright, but she did step in to help when he went to move the body back to the grave it had clearly clawed out of. He opted for a more thorough consecration ritual and a shorter liturgy, both of which seemed to be well received. Blaise didn't raise any objections, at least. The interment was easier than the last ones, the ground more yielding, but a frown crept onto Morgan's face as he stood up and surveyed his work.

"What are you making that face for? Didn't it work?"

"No, that's not it. Your commander is at peace now, but there are many restless dead here. It must be Andariel making them stir like this." He could barely hear their whispers at the edge of his awareness if he concentrated. It was a little unsettling; usually he could only just sense a hint of the spirit lingering on a set of bones, nothing near this strong. He lacked the natural facility with spirits that drew some of the acolytes to his Order. At any rate, their agitation was cause for concern.

"I don't have the supplies to handle this many."

"I guess we'd better take the fight to Andariel, then. Don't look so surprised," she added, folding her arms across her chest. "The Sisterhood doesn't want there to be a... demon queen or whatever just running loose. She's killing our people. And apparently bringing them back again, and that's just fucked up. I may not like you, but you're the only person who's come through lately and survived. So we might as well work together on this."

"Yes, of course. You're right." The suggestion was wholly unexpected, but sound. Their objectives aligned, at least on the surface. If that was enough for her to tolerate working with him a little longer, he wasn't about to turn down her assistance. She was many times stronger than him. Luckily, she seemed capable of putting aside her personal feelings temporarily in order to meet a goal. It was really about as favourable a partnership as he could hope to make.

Now seemed like an opportune time to present a peace offering of some sort. But given her previous overreaction to a completely innocent comment, he didn't really want to risk giving a gift that could be taken as a token of anything he didn't intend. Perhaps... knowledge? There had been few of his brethren in the Order who'd had trouble with the portal scrolls, but their difficulties had always been resolved with a little coaching. It seemed like it would be worth trying.

He plucked the scroll from Cain out of its spot on his belt and held it out to her. She eyed it suspiciously. "Here. These are useful. You should try it again."

"It isn't that far to go back, you know," she said, not making a move to take the rolled parchment.

"The object is to see if you can use it. Not to actually travel. You might need one in the future."

She snatched the scroll from his hands and unrolled it with a snap of her wrist. "I can't even read what it says," she grumbled.

"Neither can I," he said. She looked up from the parchment with a perplexed frown. "It's not words, it's more like a spell," he explained. The look on her face told him she was going to need more than that. "You just have to believe it's going to work. Try telling it that it's going to open a portal for you."

"You didn't have to tell it anything when you did it yesterday."

"I already know how it's going to work. I just have to... acknowledge that I expect it to let me travel somewhere, and think about where." It was much easier to do than to explain. "Just try," he urged. "You don't have to say it out loud," he added, in case that helped.

She looked back down at the scroll. Her lips moved a little, and shortly a small circle appeared in the air in front of her. Her eyebrows rose in surprise.

"See, it works for you. Now try to think about a specific place," Morgan advised. Slowly an image came into focus within the circle. It looked like the inside of a building. There were rows of beds lined up, presumably the barracks of the Sisterhood. Blaise looked cautiously pleased as the portal opened up fully now that it had a destination.

"I guess it's not so hard to use magic, is it?" she said with a smile. It was strange for a moment, having that smile aimed at him.

"Not this kind," Morgan agreed. There were many different types of magic and some of them were quite difficult to use even for experienced mages, but he suspected this would not be the time to get into a discussion on the topic.

"How do I close it?"

"It will close on its own when you come back through it, or if the spell is disrupted. Yesterday I tore the parchment to close it."

"Huh. Thanks."

Morgan nodded an acknowledgement and turned to go. The walk back would give him a chance to think about how to best approach the situation. Andariel was probably lurking within the nearby cathedral, if the patterns of undead were to be trusted. Demons often liked to pervert religious spaces, and major demons tended to draw flocks of lesser evils around them.

"Aren't you coming?" He turned back to see Blaise standing by the portal, hands on her hips.

"I'm walking. It isn't that far to go back," he parroted.

"This is easier, though. And faster."

"That looks like your sleeping quarters," he pointed out. "I doubt I would be welcome."

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Good point. I'll see you back outside the encampment, then." She turned and paused for a moment, then strode confidently through the portal. Morgan waited until it had flickered closed behind her before taking his leave. He would have preferred to be able to put more of the spirits to rest, but that could be seen to after Andariel had been defeated. There would be little point in wasting his energy on a task that was likely to be undone. He stopped at the cemetery gate and knelt, touching a hand to the soil. A thin line rose up, curling around itself in a simple sign. It marked the area as requiring the attention of a priest of Rathma. This way, if he was to fall in battle, the next of his Order to come along would be able to soothe the unquiet dead.

He raised another golem and started walking. With this new partnership, there could be a reasonably good chance of defeating Andariel. He wondered what state the cathedral would be in, and how many skeletons he might hope to find lying beneath its floors. He hoped there would be some stained glass still intact. Not for any strategic purpose, just because he liked it. It was his personal opinion, not endorsed by the priesthood, that artisans who spent their efforts on creating beautiful things were doing work for the Light. Of course beauty and skill did not appear in the list of attributes that added up to make the weight of a person's goodness or lack thereof, and it was really just idle musing on his part. Still, he appreciated beauty where he found it.

[sixth-light]

False Value overall review

Non-spoilery: this was pretty much exactly what the series (and PETER) needed post-Lies Sleeping. Maybe a bit self-contained/framed as a series entry point to be my favourite of the series to date (I’m a sucker for arc material, OK) but still a really fantastic entry. 

Spoilery:

Coming back to writing this post a couple of weeks later (job offer and associated stuff kept me very busy), what strikes me so much about this book is how simplified it is compared to...well, almost every other entry in the series. Peter is only ever dealing with one mystery at a time; the Serious Cybernetics Company and what it’s up to. Stephen and Mrs Chin are there as foils, but they’re after the same thing. Side-leads circle back to it. The only other main book that does this is Foxglove Summer, and even then there’s the lingering thread of Peter’s trauma over Lesley - the main reason he’s been packed off to Herefordshire - and that gut-punch phone call at the end. This book feels more akin to The Furthest Station in its limited cast and tight focus. 

As I said above the cut, I am an absolute sucker for arc material and the epic tragedy of the Peter-Lesley Thing (watching the Doctor Who finale helped remind me of that) so it can’t be my favourite of the series, but I really admire how it manages to be a relatively fresh on-boarding point for potential new readers while still dropping enough asides about the beloved extended cast - and it is SUCH an extended cast now - to keep old fans happy. I also really loved the extended Peter/Beverley scenes, including the material which was touched on in the comics but is now fully embedded in canon (i.e. Maksim as an acolyte and how this twinges Peter’s ethical and class sensibilities). I felt like the book was doing the work to make their relationship live, in a way fandom has been doing the hard yards on for a few years now. Beverley is clearly coming into her own as a goddess and establishing how her rituals and courts are going to work, and Peter is just going to have to deal with that, and it’s all great. and TWINS! I can’t wait for the twins. 

The satire of working in High Tech was only mildly satirical - it really is Like That and the people really are Like That - and I’m impressed at the nailing of the milieu. I felt a bit disgruntled that the cliffhanger about Peter losing his job was resolved in the second chapter because I’d been steeling myself for that, given personal circumstances, and then oh no everything was fine after all. It felt less like a twist and more like a slightly lazy gotcha. That said, I did very much enjoy Peter confronting his original bogeyman of undercover work and being both very good at it because he likes people and they like him, and very bad at it for the same reasons - or at least very vulnerable to it. @philomytha commented that Nightingale seems to be pining a bit in this book and he kinda is - I think it’s not just about Peter being undercover, it’s that Peter is having babies and moving away, and at the same time Molly has got her sister back and the Folly is undergoing massive renovations and all the comfortable certainties of his seventy-year depression are completely turned upside down. And on top of that, Peter is playing a game which is fundamentally about trust and betrayal, and I really do think Nightingale respects Peter’s ethics and is worried in this book about what it’s doing to him to do that work. I really enjoyed the maturing of their relationship here, Peter bringing Nightingale in when it’s useful, and I l o v e d Nightingale confronting an American master wizard who has absolutely no clue who he is. And he loved it too, it was a great chance to step outside the restriction of being The Nightingale. (Also: BEVERLEY CALLS HIM THOMAS, IT’S PROPER CANON NOW, NOBODY CAN TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.) 

Speaking of the international magic aspects - one way the slimmed-down focus of the book DID leave me wondering is that it didn’t really call back to what we previously had been told about American practitioners at ALL, so, like, why were the Virginians after the Mary Engine and how did it then end up on the West Coast? What about the Pennsylvania dudes Nightingale remembers? How do they relate to the Librarians in New York? I have so many questions! But I also expect that future books are going to answer some of them, especially with two novellas being set in the States (the Reynolds one and the Nightingale one in Harlem). 

Also, unless we go full Xeno’s Paradox and/or Robert Jordan on the series and each book starts covering a shorter and shorter length of time, it’s February 2016 in book time, the Brexit referendum is Coming, I hate it for Peter & co but I also want to see what happens next with that. The cuts to the Met were used really cleverly in this book to put Peter and Nightingale back in the position they were in earlier books, to some extent - they now have many more contacts and good relationships, but their institutional reach is much more limited and the Folly’s financial resources are run down. Which means they’re going to have to lean on those relationships to keep things working, which...frankly, in this Darkest Timeline, is the best thing they could do because the British establishment is only going to get worse. 

Finally, the AI-as-ghosts/magic plot was very neat and made the book feel present in the Now in a way the series hasn’t for a while, but Peter’s acceptance of the Turing Test pass surprised me because that’s not difficult and isn’t considered anything like definitive as an AI test anymore; it turns out Really Big Spreadsheets can be surprisingly human-like (not to mention the evergreen potential for A Human, Somewhere Else - although of course this was A Human, Somewhere Else, just a ghostly one.) Peter is usually well-informed enough that it was a shock to go, oh, I as a reader know WAY more about this than he does! 

Finally: Peter doing “let’s pretend we were making out” with a hot male double-agent and then delivering an edict to him and his boss that London is Peter’s city and they shouldn’t mess with it: GREAT, YES, MUCH MORE OF THIS. I don’t feel like we’re necessarily going to see a lot more of Stephen and Mrs Chin (BRING BACK CAROLINE FIRST PLZ) but they were lots of fun as antagonists and I certainly wouldn’t mind if they came back for round two - or if Peter went to New York. Can you IMAGINE. Mind you...he needs to get out of England first! 

[a-d-curtis]

Morning - Kataang Week 2019

A/N: This is a companion piece to the last one, “Breathe”

Kataang Week 2019

Prompt: Morning

The days following the stillbirth of their son were hell for Aang.

To this day he is not sure how he made it through them. Thank the spirits for Gran Gran and the Acolytes, who helped Aang and Katara make basic decisions like: eat today.

The evening of Gyatso’s delivery was now a blur. When Aang looks back on it, most of what he can remember is the intensity of emotion. The details of what actually happened eclipsed by their utter devastation.

At some point Gran Gran had stepped in to take Gyatso from Katara. At first Katara had bared her teeth in a mindless growl, clutching the cold baby to her desperately. But Gran Gran had been firm, getting Katara to look her in the eyes, bringing her back to reality. “I need to take him, Katara. He is Quiet. And we need to get you cleaned up.”

Katara, still in Aang’s arms on his lap, had stared down at her empty hands for some time. Then she had turned to Aang and clutched him, letting him fill her arms in a way that he knew was entirely inadequate, but was all they could do. Aang knew that despite his utter heartache, he needed to be there for Katara, as much as he was capable.

He doesn’t know all of what else happened that night. A bath. Change of clothes. The midwives cleaned up and left. Someone changed their sheets and left the room looking like nothing had happened there; like they hadn’t just birthed a dead child.

At one point they had heard a lot of noise down by the dock. Aang supposed that news of their tragedy had probably made it to the reporters. He supposed it couldn’t remain private forever. But something about this very personal loss being spoken on the lips of strangers left Aang with a hollow feeling; like people were scooping out his innards and putting them on display. He and Katara had not even spoken the words out loud to each other, and yet somewhere their son’s death was making headlines.

Each of the nations had a different word for it: Quiet Birth, Breathless Child, Cold Baby, Stillbirth. But they all meant the same thing; and their son lay quiet, breathless, cold and still in the room next door.

Early the next morning Aang had woken to an empty bed. When he found Katara she was standing barefoot in the next room, the nursery, holding her belly and looking at the body of their son. He had been laid in the baby bassinet Sokka and Suki had given them as an early baby gift.

“I’m afraid I won’t remember what he looks like…”

Aang had come to her, wrapping her in his arms, both of them looking at Gyatso, tears flowing as they desperately tried to commit him to memory.

Katara did not leave the house for the three days leading up to the funeral. She was dealing with a myriad of additional complications piled onto her grief. She had just delivered a baby, and her body was weak and in pain. But there was no soft warm baby snuggling against her to ease the recovery, to make it all worth it. Her body was prepared to feed a hungry infant, but there was no hunger to satiate, and so she was left with the pain of milk with no mouth to feed. Her emotions were everywhere. Everyone understood. Everyone understood, and no one could fix it.

Aang tried to be with her as much as he could, but being indoors wound up his anxieties like a spring. He often found himself escaping to the rooftop for a moment, just to feel the breeze on his skin, letting it dry his tears. He hardly noticed when he was crying anymore; it would be a more notable event when he was notcrying.

Aang mourned, not just the loss of his baby, but he mourned the future that his son would never have. He mourned his empty arms, but also the games that would never be played together, the words they could never exchange, the sunny days they would never share. Perhaps one day they would have another child, but that would never give Gyatso his life again. And this weighed on Aang like a fetter.

Someone had arranged the funeral. Gran Gran, or Hakoda? He didn’t know. Katara had wanted it to be a Water Tribe funeral. Aang had not protested.

They had floated on a ship out into the great ocean off of Yue Bay. Their closest family and loved ones accompanying them. After some words, Gyatso’s tiny body, back on a board and mummy-wrapped entirely in furs, had been placed in the water. A weight attached to the board had pulled him slowly down into the endless depths, and he was gone.

Aang had looked away repulsed. How could they do that to him?! As an Air Nomad, he wanted to fly, not be sunk in the sea. The very thought made him feel desperate and claustrophobic. Katara had spoken of making a rock ring for him, down in the South Pole near her mother’s. Aang couldn’t pay attention. He was wishing he hadn’t come on this boat. He wanted to be anywhere else.

As soon as they had docked the boat, Aang had snapped his glider open and flown to the house. He had gathered his brass bowl, ink, brush, and papyrus paper in a satchel and flow to the top of the peak on the island. There he had written with long sad strokes his prayers on the papyrus and burned them to the sky as an offering honoring his son. Watching as the burned bits of consecrated paper danced away, upward on the wind.

Aang contemplated what the Air Nomads had believed, that the soul of a child did not enter until they took their first breath. But Gyatso had never taken his first breath. So did that mean he was forever soulless? That he had never really been? As much as Aang had disliked the water tribe burial in the sea, he knew that Air Nomads had actually cared little for disposal of the body; they had a ceremony for it, of course, but all knew that what really mattered was the soul. The soul was sent into the skies in a flurry of color and music. But according to his culture, his son didn’t even have a soul.

Aang tried to understand, but he could not reconcile this. He had felt his boy move in Katara’s belly, had been kicked by his strong little legs when Aang had embraced his mother, his baby had responded to his voice. Aang had loved his son. Surely his son had had a soul.

If the Air Nomad teachings had been wrong about this; what else had they been wrong about? Aang felt like his faith was unraveling like a woven meditation shawl pulled apart by the wrong stray string; his beliefs feeling loose and scattered like a strand of prayer beads broken, the wooden beads rolling in every direction. What could he hold on to now?

Aang believed his son had had a soul. But where had his soul gone? To the Eternal Skies with all the other Air Nomads? Or to the Immortal Ocean? Wherever he had gone, Aang wanted to follow him. To make sure he was alright. To protect his boy. Aang had often resented being the Avatar, but losing his baby made him hate it for one more reason. Aang knew where he would go when he died; he would be reborn into some new identity somewhere in the Water Tribe. He would never get to follow his Gyatso, never get to find out where his son had gone; he would never be reunited with him. He would not even remember him. Aang cursed his own endless lives.

For all his power, he felt powerless.

As he watched the scorched bits rising and flowing on the wind, Aang hoped that in the Eternal Skies perhaps Monk Gyatso had found his son; maybe now they were making fruit pies together. At least, Aang hoped so. It would be fitting for his son Gyatso to be with the man he was named after.

The days following the baby’s funeral were a dark time for Aang. Up until then he had managed to hold himself together somewhat, for Katara. But as he dealt with this loss, and his own crisis of faith, he seemed to spiral downward. He could still be dragged out of that black place momentarily, when Katara needed him. But most of time he was despondent.

Aang forgot to shave. He barely could bring himself to eat. Meditation was fruitless, and even his usual endless store of energy seemed drained dry. His footsteps were heavier than they had ever been. Aang didn’t want to see people who came to the island. He stopped responding to hawks; didn’t even read the scrolls they carried. The world would just have to take care of itself.

He remembered that one day a reporter had come to the door, pad of paper in hand, wanting to talk with the Avatar and his wife about their loss. Gran Gran had opened the door, and told the reporter to go away. Aang had been in the room, a short fuzz of black hair on his head and stubble on his chin, looking undoubtedly disheveled. He had locked eyes with the reporter for just a moment. In some distant sort of way, Aang was disgusted; disgusted that someone would come here, to his home, to pry into their private matters. But anger was more than he could muster for such a meaningless person. So Aang had looked away uncaring.

One night, in bed, Katara had pulled him close, peppering his skin with kisses. She spoke quietly, but earnestly, begging him to make her another baby. His brow furrowed. He didn’t want another baby; he wanted Gyatso. He had turned away from her. He couldn’t. Not now. He could not start that agonizing road again. He remembered more clearly than he wished the years of disappointment trying to make their last baby. And he was not ready to deal with that again.

Aang knew that he had hurt Katara; that his rejection that night stung her like a lash. But knowing he had hurt her just depressed him more. On top of the grief he now had guilt. Why couldn’t he be better than he was?Deep inside, Aang was sure he would never escape this dark place he was drowning in.

But it was little things that eventually helped him reemerge.

After the loss, one of the Acolytes had offered to feed Appa for Aang. Gran Gran had let her, but as time went on, being the wise woman she was, Gran Gran had told the girl it was time for Aang to feed his own bison again. So twice daily, Aang had to get up and go out to feed his sky bison. There was something so simple about it. Appa needed him. He was hungry. When Aang came, Appa was happy to see him, nuzzling his friend with an oddly understanding empathy. After a while Aang began to talk to his friend again, telling him things, even some of his most horrible thoughts. Appa never judged him. Just snorted hot air into his clothes and licked his hair into a lopsided mess. And in those moments Aang began feel a little lighter.

He and Katara had been living together, doing their best to support one another, but in all honestly Gran Gran had been the one keeping them from falling to pieces. Neither of them quite able to be what the other needed.

But one evening, after returning from Appa’s courtyard, Aang found Katara in the nursery, rocking in the chair, looking out with unseeing eyes at the darkening evening sky across the bay. Aang had approached her and put his hand on her shoulder. Katara had looked up at him with her beautiful blue eyes. And something stirred in him. A feeling he had lost touch with. And like a wave Aang was suddenly filled with it. Pulling her up into a tight embrace Aang let his love for her wash over him like high tide.

They both had cried together. It was not the first time they had done so, but something was different this time. Like they were finally seeing each other again.

They made love that night. Not trying to make a baby, not trying to escape. No ulterior motive than to show one another that they were there for the other, and that they loved each another.

And from then on, they both tried a little harder. They tried to be available for one another again. And Aang was surprised by Katara’s incredible strength. She was the one who really pulled him back from the darkness; she was the one who helped him wholly back into the light.

This loss was really something that only the two of them shared fully. Others had been near to support and mourn with them, to share in their grief. But Gyatso had been their son. Their long awaited beacon. He had been their hope for the future. And overcoming this together, helping one another to cope, to move forward, to let go of the pain, truly solidified their union in a singular and powerful way. Like muscles that are tested and torn, they came back stronger and more solid.

Aang remembered the first time they had really laughed again. He didn’t remember what had been so funny, but he remembered the radiance on Katara’s face, the way her early morning hair had glowed around the edges in the sunshine from the window, and her eyes had sparkled at him. And his heart had expanded for her, fuller than it could hold. Come what may, he wanted to be with this woman every day of his life.

As life began to be a life again, the two decided to leave baby making alone for a time. If it happened, it happened, and of course they would rejoice. But they wanted to focus on just being together, just doing what they loved, and giving themselves some time.

But in the end they were both ready sooner than they expected. Aang remembered, apart from the pain, the beauty of Gyatso; he had been so small and perfect. And they had made him together. It was no disservice to his memory to want another baby.

Deep down Aang had hoped that already having gotten pregnant once would somehow jump-start the whole process for them, making the next pregnancy easier to accomplish. But as the months rolled on, and they did not get pregnant spontaneously, they decided it was time they return to the Fire Nation to work with the Fire Lord’s physician again.

One of their evenings while living at the Palace, while Zuko and Aang sat together sharing tea, Zuko had confided in Aang that Mai had actually been pregnant twice before they finally had Izumi. Both pregnancies had terminated early on, but it had been a difficult time for them. Aang had never known. No one knew. But Zuko had chosen to share it with Aang. Because he knew he could understand. Words are so often inadequate; but when someone lives through something like that, sharing in a similar grief, no words are needed. There is just understanding.

Aang knew the day that Katara suspected she was pregnant. Of course he knew it was possible, but he had tried not to get too involved in the day counting and cycle mapping – he felt it added too much pressure so he didn’t involve himself in keeping track. But that day Katara had shone, trying to hide her smile like she knew the punch line to some secret joke no one else had figured out yet. Aang, never one able to resist a good secret, had finger-walked along her waist, pulling her against him and nibbled her ear making her laugh. “Come on, Katara. I know you’re hiding something from me…” She had laughed again and kissed him soundly. “Perhaps, Papa, it is time to leave the Fire Nation now!”

Like last time, their days of pregnancy were filled with joy. Although this time there was a small apprehensive undertone that stalked the outskirts of their joy -- a niggling worry that perhaps they would lose this baby too. But for the most part, Aang and Katara rejoiced in their coming child. They trying hard not to let past sorrow mar their anticipation. Their midwife had told them that Gyatso’s death had been an unfortunate tragedy, but it had been no one’s fault. In her opinion, there was no reason to suspect that something like that would happen again.

They chose names again: if a girl, she would be Kya, of course; for a boy they decided on Bumi. At first Katara had been a little reticent about naming their son after the crazy old King of Omashu. But when she realized the depth of how much it mean to Aang, she was happy to acquiesce. Although now the unbelievable age of one hundred and twenty years old, King Bumi was still kicking, and Aang’s attachment to the man was stronger than Katara had realized. With the exception of Appa, Bumi was Aang’s one living connection to his childhood. Bumi had lived when the Air Nomads were still around; perhaps he would even see them return…

They had debated a bit on where to birth the baby. The South Pole had been considered, but frankly it was just too cold, even in summer. Of course women who lived there had their babies there, and Katara had grown up there so she should be used to it, but now, having been away for so many years, even Katara found the cold uncomfortable. Given the choice? She preferred to deliver in a warmer climate. They had also considered an Air Temple, most likely Aang’s home temple in the South. Aang liked the idea of being so high, but ultimately they felt it was too remote. What if something happened? They would be at least a day’s flight away from anywhere and simply inaccessible for anyone to come to them. So in the end they had decided to stay at the island in Yue Bay.

Originally both Aang and Katara felt a little uncomfortable with delivering their second baby in the same place their first had died. But it was Toph who came in with a level head stating frankly that they were “being complete idiots” and that “bad things happened but it’s not the damn place’s fault”. So they had decided to deliver at home again.

Aang had wanted to build another story to their house, for the sole purpose of being closer to the sky; but Katara had called him a superstitious airhead and shot down the idea. She would be fine in their room on the second floor. Aang had bashfully agreed, but also jokingly promised to one day build a soaring tower on that island for her to deliver all the rest of their babies in!

By the time Katara was nearing time for delivery, it had been two years since Gyatso’s birth and five years since they had gotten married. The two were more than impatient to finally, finallybe parents.

Unlike last time when Katara’s labor had started in the morning and lasted all day, her delivery ending in the evening, this time Katara was woken in the dark hours of the night, not long after the pair had gone to bed. Unbeknownst to Aang, Katara had labored for some time alone, not wanting to disturb him. But as the contractions became difficult to breathe through and knowing that the midwife would need some time to arrive, Katara had finally woken Aang and asked him to send for her.

After two seconds of grogginess, Aang had shot to his feet, instantly awake. “What?! Now!!?” He had speed-ran to the dormitory to wake Ling, one of his most trusted Acolytes, asking her to take Appa and go for the midwife. Then he had speed-ran back to his wife’s side, startling her with his sudden reappearance.

“Aang! For crying out loud! You scared me.”

“I’m sorry, Katara. I can’t help it. I’m just so… well wound up. I can’t tell if I’m excited or just anxious.” A shadow of uncertainly clouded in his eyes. He sat by her side, and carefully took her hands in his, “Do you… do you think its going to be okay this time?”

Katara had to wait through a contraction before she could respond, but when she felt reprieve again, she turned her clear blue eyes on him, and breathing hard she admitted, “I don’t know… but I hope so…”

Gran Gran, who had moved in with them as Katara’s delivery approached, came in looking groggy and a bit grumbly. “I’ve never figured out why babies so often decide that the middle of the night is the best time to come into the world!”

Things progressed quickly, far quicker than with Katara’s first birth. Aang had expected hours of walking the island or massaging Katara’s back, but by the time Katara had woken anyone up, things were already in fast motion. Before he knew it, Katara was sweating hard and resisting the urge to push. Gran Gran took charge, getting Katara into position and barking orders to Aang, who was so nervous and excited he could hardly think strait. The midwife isn’t even here yet!He thought as panic began to flit furiously in his stomach.

“The blanket, Aang! The blanket! Bring it to me.” Gran Gran ordered.

Aang fought to keep his wits amid his concern, pulling himself together to do as Gran Gran ordered. The sky outside was just beginning to lighten as Katara began to push, gritting her teeth, and breathing hard in sporadic intervals. Aang allowed Katara to strangle his arm with both of her hands while his other arm supported her around her back.

“The baby is coming, Katara Darling…” Gran Gran had coaxed, “Just one more good push.”

The great battle cry of women, the same one heard since the beginning of time, escaped Katara’s lips, the sound hanging in the air. And then the baby appeared, dark haired and ruddy, caught carefully in Gran Gran’s withered, experienced hands. A long moment passed. Aang feeling that he would suffocate in the silence.

And then a long, emphatic baby cry broke the air.

A sob burst from Aang’s chest; he was sure that he had never heard a sound more beautiful than that baby cry! In that moment he could see why the Air Nomad’s had put such importance on that first breath – his child’s soul had arrived, and it was here to stay. He looked on in wonder and gratitude so immense he felt he would burst. There was his baby, his son, Bumi!, wiggling and screaming in Gran Gran’s hand as she wrapped him expertly in the blanket.

Aang looked at Katara, she was crying too. And he kissed her, brushing her hair lovingly off her forehead, praising her, telling her what an amazing job she had done! She just sobbed louder, crying with all the gratitude of a mother who had waited years to hear that baby cry, and now could not believe that she finally had!

But Gran Gran kept her wits about her, her mind on the needs at hand; there would be time to fall apart with joy later. “Aang. Get over here. I need you to hold the baby...”

Aang rushed over and gingerly took his wiggling son from Gran Gran, keeping him low while Gran Gran cut the cord. One red leg with toes spread wide had kicked its way out from the white blanket, and Bumi was screaming heartily. As Gran Gran turned back to her work, Aang stood and stared in wonder at his child. He wanted to speak to him; welcome him to the world. But he couldn’t find his voice. His awe nearly stopping his breath altogether.

Aang’s eyes widened in amazement, lovingly roaming over the beautiful creature in his hands, so tiny, and absolutely perfect! His mess of dark hair, his tiny fists punching the air, his one little leg that had escaped from the blanket kicking tenaciously.

Carefully Aang rewrapped Bumi, pulling that rogue leg back inside the blanket as he gently brought their baby over to where Katara sat. Happy tears streaming down her cheeks, her arms outstretched to hold their son even before Aang was within reach.

As Aang sat down next to Katara, carefully placing Bumi in her arms, a sudden burst of morning sunlight shone from over the mountain peaks in the East. Aang smiled as he watched Katara cradle their son, her long-empty arms finally filled. As their hungry son’s little mouth eagerly turned in toward his mother, Katara sighed in happiness. The sight filling Aang with a feeling like he had never quite felt before, like the universe had suddenly expanded, making room for more happiness than it could previously hold. Contentedly Aang climbed up on the bed, wrapping his arm around Katara, the other arm protectively holding around their baby, as yellow rays of sunshine lighted this now-sacred room.

The dark night had finally ended; morning had finally come, as the little family welcomed this most glorious new day!

…………..

A/N: When I wrote that last sad story about Aang and Katara loosing their baby Gyatso, my husband made me promise to write a happier follow-up. So you have him to thank for this one; turning their mourning into morning. Hope you liked it!

Please leave a review – it always means a lot to me!

[rangerofpelor]

i know you’re hurt child (but you can’t do this on your own)

By all accounts, the young man who was a known murderer and who got his best friend killed probably shouldn’t be high on the list of potential Champions for Pelor to take. But even from the beginning Pelor had a certain feeling that his champion couldn’t be anyone else. [1.6k summary of valko’s early 20s from Pelor’s POV]

Pelor was there from the beginning.

Not the very beginning, of course, that would be absurd. The world and its inhabitants operated freely, out of the control of the Gods. Pelor had made sure that was the case. But sometimes someone will set something into motion, and it will be hard for higher powers not to notice.

And notice Pelor did, when he saw a man, blind with love and desperate for validation, trigger a series of events that resulted in the death of...not his lover, but not not his lover. A brother in arms? Closer, but still not quite right. The feelings run deep, an intense current that sweeps everything under tow, but they’re muddled. Love and lust. Pride and envy. Wrath and...something else Pelor can’t quite place, but it burned like the flames of creation. It was a feeling he knew all too well, and he hated that even mortals could experience such a horrible mixture of emotions. He hated even more the feeling of the agony that came after. The cold, soul-wrenching guilt of knowing what you did and having to shoulder that weight.

He felt pity for the poor young man. It took a lot of pain to draw the attention of the Gods. But there was nothing Pelor could do. This man had brought it upon himself. Actions had consequences. This is how the universe stayed in balance. 

But Pelor also noticed when Nerull took his first champion: the young man who had just been killed.

And that was something Pelor couldn’t simply ignore. 

He urged this young man to flee, to leave while he still had a chance. Nothing more than a whisper, a feeling in the man’s gut. Something to warn him of the danger he couldn’t possibly know was to come. It wasn’t until the young man received a message from those working for Nerull’s champion. A simple tarot card bearing a clear message. They knew what he did. “Run,” Pelor said, and finally, the young man listened

He guided the young man where to go, a gentle nudge in the direction of the one person who might have been sympathetic enough to help him escape. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could do at the time. This young man was not a good person. Of all the blood staining his hands, the only life he regretted taking was that of an even worse man. He was not good.

Not yet. 

The road this young man was embarking on was going to be difficult. He will struggle. He may falter. He may fail. He may succumb to his grief and vices. He may be killed. He may kill himself. 

Or...

Or, he may survive. He may correct his behavior. Choose to be a better person, a kinder person. Rekindle the flickering light his employers had tried so hard to snuff out. He may endure. He may become what Pelor hopes he will become.

But that was all up to him. All Pelor could do was coax this skittish animal into situations where he was forced to choose what he wanted to be. Whether he wanted to lay down and die or whether he would realize he was capable of something more. 

It was perplexing to watch. So much about this man clearly wanted to give up, yet for some reason he stubbornly chooses to stay alive. He watched as the man starved himself, pushed his physical limits until he collapsed where he stood. This was punishment. Self inflicted. And it struck Pelor that this was perhaps the only way this man knew how to atone. To take the pain he felt inside and turn it into something physical. Something tangible. As if that made it easier to handle.

He began talking to himself a lot. Or rather, he talked to the image of his...brother? that his mind tricked him into seeing. Grief and isolation driving him mad.

Mind light and cloudy with fatigue and hunger the young man stepped too close to a bear cub. No one blamed the mother for what she did. She was just protecting her young. She reared up with an angry claw and swiped the man across the face, narrowly missing his right eye. He was pushed back. Too weak to fight. Too weak to stand. He lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness. Waiting for the mother to finish the job. Waiting for someone to finish the job.

Yet death never came.

The sun rose, light filtered through the treetops, warming his face. He eventually sat up. Dizzy. His stomach knotting itself in starvation. Blood still oozed from the cuts slashing across his cheek, the wounds still pulsed hot, fire licking through his veins. But he was alive. For now. 

“Go to the stream,” Pelor murmured. He saw an acolyte of Chauntea washing laundry nearby. Even if she did not know any healing magic, she could help sew the injuries shut. 

The young man followed his instructions, thirsty and deciding he needed to wash his face clean of blood. He stumbled his way to the stream. Collapsed to his knees and curling over the running water, cupped his hands and drank deeply. The cold made his lungs clench and his stomach ache but it felt good against the warm skin, tacky with blood. He lifted up once he drank his fill to find a young woman, barely older than seventeen staring back at him, her eyes wide. 

He saw the laundry in the river. Saw the drips of red trickling off his chin. He wiped his mouth with a dirt grimed hand and excused himself, moving further downstream so as not to get his blood on her clothes.

He stripped off his own shirt, torn and patched in so many places, there was little left of the original material. He sighed and ripped off the cleanest bit he could find. He plunged it into the water and carefully began to wash his face. 

He heard footsteps creeping up beside him. Instinctively reaching towards the dagger he kept at his belt, he whirled around to face who approached. It was the girl, offering him a bundle of fabric. He eyed her warily and when he made no move to accept, she simply set the bundle down in front of her and returned to her chores upstream. 

When he was sure she was engrossed in her work, the young man unwrapped the bundle. A clean tunic, a clean washrag, a sewing kit. He washed everything thoroughly in the stream, not daring to let anything touch his open wounds until he was sure that any poison coating any of the materials was sufficiently washed away. When he was satisfied, he tended to his wounds, and, finding a place where the waters were slower, began stitching the cuts closed. It wasn’t the best job he’s done on stitches, but it was as good as he was going to manage with unsteady hands and rippling reflection.

And Pelor was pleased to see that the young man was willing to accept kindness when it was offered, even if he was paranoid and suspicious. He didn’t thank the girl like Pelor would have liked, but he supposed that he can’t expect this man to change all at once. Even so, this was a good sign. It meant that, whether he realized it or not, he wanted help. Was willing to accept the help he needs if he truly wanted to change. 

He’s survived this long already. Perhaps he could be what Pelor was hoping he might be. 

But he wasn’t there yet. No, he still had a far way to go. He just needed a nudge. A gentle push.

To Halwen. The town of perpetual winter. Something was wrong there, but no one knew what to do about it. 

Something was going to happen there. Pelor could see it. Thousands of timelines stretched out before him. Thousands of possible futures. Just as many good as there were bad. 

But almost all of them had a group of three -- no wait, four? -- at the center of it all. His poor lost puppy among them. Fighting side by side with warriors and warcaster.

Pelor searched Verina. Searched for the souls he saw in those timelines. One to the north of where his potential Champion sat nursing his injuries, a fire burning blindingly hot in a way Pelor had only ever associated with his father, Moradin. Another to the south, coming up from the Elven country of Orikai, a bright and wild spirit with the strength and dignity of royal blood. The last one resided in Halwen: a calming presence that breathed compassion and an unknown tragedy in the same breath.

This, Pelor decided, is the path his wayward son must take. This is the path that will give him everything he needs. A second chance. A purpose. Friends. Forgiveness. Atonement. 

And if they were both lucky, a chance to face the past and make sure that those who hurt them the most will never hurt anyone else ever again. He didn’t trust anyone else to love their enemy the way this man would love his. The same way Pelor loved his own...

“Come,” he whispered in the young man’s ear as he finished his stitches. “It is not yet time to rest. There is much ground still to be covered”

The young man nodded to himself. It was dangerous for him to stay put in one place for too long. He’d gotten sloppy recently, neglecting to cover his tracks. He wrung out his new tunic and allowed it to dry for a little bit before putting it on, slinging his longbow and quiver over his back and pulling on his cloak. South, he thought was a good direction to go. Perhaps he could reach Port Town and stow away on or indenture himself onto a ship. Leave this country and all it’s bad memories behind him. 

He took a step. Then another. And started down the Path of a Champion.

[birdiethebibliophile]

I’d like to talk about how Fjord’s arc can be read as a spiraling, self-fulfilling prophecy, for just a moment. (Kudos to @losebetter for inspiring this. Your tweets keep sending me down deep paths of Fjord meta.) Readmore provided because this got pretty dang long.

 Let’s start back in episode 31. Fjord’s still recovering from being kidnapped and tortured by slavers; he’s still dealing with losing Molly. During their time off, Fjord did not relax (“The previous events have rocked Fjord a little bit”) and instead attempted to get his story out of the way without bothering the others. Did anyone ever talk to him about how he was gone for two weeks? As far as I can tell from the transcript, aside from Matt’s comment that the others were “generally worried” that Fjord disappeared and a brief, skipped-over question from Caleb where he said “You were off on your own. Are you okay?” left unanswered, they did not. One of the most painful moments for me, if it comes to that, is during a conversation where everyone’s getting caught up on what they did during this time off, where Fjord asked everyone about their experiences and didn’t speak at all about his own, he has this line [bolded part mine]:

TRAVIS: Yeah. There’s no telling that they’re going to share any information with me, anyway. I’m fucking absorbing things and shit just appears and I’m getting stronger by the day and it has nothing to do with the things that I’m learning. There’s no books or knowledge, it’s just happening. What if they look at me like you guys look at me sometimes? What if they don’t let me go? Maybe that’s not where I need to be.

More on that - especially the bolded sentence - in a minute.

The other important thing about episode 31 was that Fjord was the one to go to Cree and talk to her about Molly, leading to the following conversation.

MATT: I wasn’t expecting to see him this last time. I feel like whatever grace brought him back to us, maybe it was your carelessness that took him from us again.

TRAVIS: Indeed, maybe it was. You have my apologies and my condolences.

MATT: It is all right. I have started a new life here, and it has been serving me well.

TRAVIS: I hate to leave you with such sour news, but I must be going.

MATT: Such are these days. Thank you for your candor. She turns around and walks away.

TRAVIS: Fuck. Then I’ll head back to The Leaky Tap.

We already know that Fjord is someone who tends to take on a lot of guilt, blame himself for things – Travis has said as much. Fjord blames himself for Molly’s death, and Cree outright blamed him, which I’m sure didn’t help. But this is just the setup. Just an example of Fjord, well, conforming to other people’s opinions of him. This is a well-established fact about his character. It’s even symbolic, with his use of the Mask of Many Faces. Fjord can be who people want or expect him to be, shifting and changing to fit their expectations. Cree blamed him for Molly’s death, and I think in that, Fjord took on the persona of someone who was responsible for it.

Moving on to the current arc.

For a while now, Fjord has been pushed into this leadership position, into someone who makes decisions. He played a role for Avantika – the role of eager acolyte. He played a role for the Mighty Nein – someone who was fine with all this, whose only goal was to get them through it, who was fine with receiving the consequences of their entanglement with Avantika. This included sleeping with her twice – and the second time at least with dubious consent (Beau outright said that he didn’t really have a choice in the matter). The overall tone of Fjord’s actions in that section can be summed up with this exchange from episode 41:

TRAVIS: Thank you and thank you for talking with me.

LIAM: I cough very hard into my hands and cast Message to him and briefly, quietly say: I think that woman is going to try to kill you, I really do.

TRAVIS: Yeah. Just so. I’ll turn and walk off.

In both sections here, I see a… resignation in Fjord’s attitude. An acceptance of this is who he is now. But even here, things aren’t too bad. He sees himself as a doomed man, but they make it out. Avantika is killed. All is well.

Except… it isn’t.

In fact, Fjord’s actions have taken a sharp turn ever since then – away from the kind, caring man we’ve come to expect and into someone who seems to be making reckless decisions, hungers for power, doesn’t care about his friends’ feelings.

And my argument is that this is happening because they’ve already decided that’s how he is, now.

“What if they look at me like you guys look at me sometimes?”

When was the last time someone asked Fjord how he was feeling? When was the last time someone had a conversation with him that wasn’t centered around Avantika or Uk’otoa? When was the last time someone interacted with him, one-on-one, without asking Fjord if he’s power-hungry, asking him what his goals are, wondering if he’s going to release a monster bent on destroying the world? A brief, one or two sentence conversation with Jester post-Darktow, maybe, when she mentioned how he uses Vandren’s voice (I would quote that but the transcript hasn’t been completed yet). Other than that, and the conversation with Caleb quoted above, no one’s talked to Fjord in a long, long time. And the last thing he said about how he was feeling – also from that conversation with Caleb?

“Because I feel like I am swimming in the deep end and I don’t quite know what I’m doing.”

Fjord finds it so easy to take on whatever persona he needs to – whatever’s expected of him. And his friends, consistently and constantly for weeks now, have been on the lookout for him turning dark, or power-hungry, or cruel. Simultaneously, they’ve expected leadership and initiative. They’ve expected him to be the one who knows what he’s doing. Even Caleb – the only person to really talk to him in so long – now expects Fjord to help him in the future, a pact sealed with blood and elemental magic. Everyone has come to expect Fjord to take foolhardy risks, to be thinking about releasing Uk’otoa, to be the Ship’s Captain.

And, as we see, that’s what Fjord’s becoming.

He finds it so easy to take up a new character, a new accent, a new face. For a long time, his friends expected him to be a kind and loving man, and he was. Now, don’t get me wrong. I think that Fjord has a true nature of his own, and it is, at its core, good.  But for a character who takes on so much of other people’s expectations, weeks – months, even, now – of taking on blame for things that are (for the most part) not his fault has got to have an effect. This is why I say it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Not that Fjord’s actively thinking “well, as long as they think this of me, I might as well act like they expect”; I doubt it’s conscious at all. With his friends withdrawing from him, though, and them (and the fandom, by the way) acting as if he’s already  given into his curiosity or his hunger for power or anything of that nature, he acts as he’s expected to. Fjord likes fulfilling people’s expectations, doesn’t he?

No one really seems to trust him anymore. No one bothers to ask him how he feels – hasn’t since he said he felt like he was swimming in the deep end, didn’t know what he was doing. Since he responded to a suggestion that he might be murdered with just so.

I don’t know if this is an accurate read; I don’t know what’s going to happen next. But I’m concerned that it’s a spiral feeding into itself. His friends expect the worst of him, so he fulfills their expectations (Fjord, the people-pleaser; Fjord, desperate for people to like him), so they expect worse things of him, and he unconsciously fills that space as well, until he’s recklessly plunging into dangerous situations and trying desperately to do what people expect of him and snapping at Jester and –

– well.

If someone doesn’t talk to him soon – really  talk to him about himself, not about their expectations of him; if someone doesn’t believe he’s better than this; if everyone continues to assume the worst and usher him through the doorway marked Fjord is a reckless, unlovable man responsible for Molly’s death, along with everything that’s happened since they left Nicodranas…

The mask he’s been wearing, trying so hard to be what he needs to be – what he’s expected to be – may not be able to come off without taking a layer of his own face with it.

To put it another way: he’ll write his own tragedy.

[starcunning]

the-blogman replied to your post

“Three Lies the Seer Told Her”

This was awesome, but I feel like I'm missing a ton of background. Where do I start?

hi you! long time no see.

you probably are! this was something i wrote at or very close to the end of the last dark heresy game i played, four actual years ago at this point.

Evangeline Khione [more detailed character profile] began her life as my backup character for a previous mixed-system game (Ascension-level Dark Heresy / Deathwatch / Rogue Trader was in the mix for a while). She was at that time Sister Evangeline of the Argent Shroud, a Hospitaller. She had a very close and special relationship with Torin Firemane of the Space Wolves (that stuff’s on my AO3; you’ve probably seen it).

By “close and special” I mean “procreative.” The Inquisitor she was serving with, Markayus Baldwin of the Ordo Hereticus, was injured during the final actions of the Deathwatch/DH game. During his recovery, Evangeline discovered she was pregnant, which did not please her Sister Superior. She was excommunicated from her order and conscripted into the Inquisition directly as a result of her actions. Her daughter, Etain, was taken by the Sisters Famulous, who attempted to verify Evangeline’s claims with regards to the girl’s parentage. (Inquisitor Adrian Ghislaine, a Thorian, spearheaded the investigation, but could come to no conclusive decision without the aid of the Space Wolves, which he could not garner. Etain was dumped off in a Schola Progenium and would eventually become a Battle Sister herself, but that’s a story for another time.)

This story’s long enough as it is. Some of it I’ve told and some I haven’t. Let’s continue, shall we?

As Inquisitor Baldwin’s recovery slowly progressed, tensions mounted between his new acolyte and her former sisters. Eventually he was told to find a combat posting for her or she might meet with something unfortunate aboard his ship, so he transferred her into the service of his old mentor, Inquisitor Melchior Corax Amadeus. Amadeus was about to undertake action in the Kaurava system (yes, the site of Soulstorm...), and recruited Evangeline for that, regardless of her personal feelings on the matter.

He put together a team including Evangeline, an Arbitrator named Uriah Blackwell, a Blank assassin called Donovan, and a psyker named Carter Othren who may never have been sanctioned.

Evangeline was not well-pleased by any of these people, least of all Carter. He was adamant in his pursuit of her, despite her own indifference (she still loves Torin, and always will). Eventually he got straightened out a bit, but when he died I think he was still hoping Evangeline would drop her morality act and just be his friend--a hope made impossible by his actions and borderline heretical statements. (So Evangeline wasn’t the only apostate Amadeus was shielding--and he had high hopes for Carter, so Evie felt compelled not to shoot him.)

During action on Kaurava, Evangeline developed her combat talents and was eventually allowed to requisition something that definitely was not a Seraphim kit. She was an excommunicate, but there’s no particular injunction against a throne acolyte using powered armor, hand flamers, and a jump pack specifically ... (You may note that she’s never wearing Sororitas or Ecclesiarchal heraldry in her character portraits--only more general Imperial symbolism and Inquisitorial ornament. She actually used to have a regimental tattoo--beyond her fleur-de-lys, which she was allowed to keep--which had to be removed.)

I didn’t write much about the campaign except for early days with Carter and then a whole bunch right at the end, but in Three Lies I alluded to some things (the story moves backward in time, from the discovery of Nobody aboard Amadeus’s ship, to Baldwin’s earlier confirmation of Amadeus’s purity--knowing then that his master was keeping a daemonhost--and all the way back to the moment where Baldwin has to remove her from his protection). Carter flouted the rules around psykery a lot, allowed people who might have been Chaos-tainted to escape the perimeter the group was establishing, etc, while the group was supposed to be doing good works in the Ecclesiarchy’s name. During the course of their work they were sort of seconded to the service of an Ordo Xenos inquisitor named Gerard Doucault, who planted the seeds of doubt that would eventually have Evangeline accuse her own master of Radicalism.

When these machinations came to fruition and Evangeline confessed to having him covertly investigated, Amadeus realized there was some deeper game laid, and it was a shadow war between the two Inquisitors. Carter died somewhere in the crossfire (and while his player made a replacement character, he eventually decided to bow out of the game because the setting just wasn’t for him). He died still a heretic and with his duty undone while they were investigating a farm colony that had apparently been experimented on by dark eldar. Evangeline took Carter’s unredeemed death as a personal failing on her own part. Eventually, communications went dark with Amadeus, and the team infiltrated a fringe sect of the Cult Imperialis setting up a compound in the desert because they believed the group had ties to Doucault (and that Doucault knew where their master was, likely because he was holding him).

Evangeline also contacted Inquisitor Baldwin to let him know that Amadeus was missing and ask for any support he could offer. Baldwin agreed to come to the Kaurava system, and said he would send an astropathic communiqué to the team letting them know where they could find a powerful weapon to use against Doucault. Nobody will be there, he promised. The team agreed to retrieve it once they knew where Doucault and Amadeus were. Evie suspected that Doucault had entered a carta against Amadeus, so she swore the team to Baldwin’s rosette. That way, they had an active inquisitor to oversee and take responsibility for their actions.

Evangeline had always been sort of the de-facto leader of the team, as she was the only one experienced in working with the Inquisition beforehand. It was during this action that she actually grew into that role somewhat (she’d been leaving a lot of it to Uriah where possible--she trusted him the most out of her team, and she assumed he had leadership experience). This culminated in her ordering Donovan Valance, a Blank, to undergo a painful procedure so that they would at least escape with evidence. The process would obliterate his soul ... if he had had one. Since he did not, she sent him to it anyway.

Oddly enough, this actually served to bring Evangeline and Donovan closer together. In the aftermath, she discovered that Donovan’s own father had worked with the Inquisition (or will have worked with the Inquisition, or something--Donovan is time-displaced from a few decades in the future. He was found on a space hulk that had drifted backward in time because of warp fluctuations, and raised in this time with a Schola education). Thus his ability to accept that hard call, and his respect toward her for making it.

By the time the team escaped the Sin Eaters, Baldwin had sent word and was making his final approach to the Kaurava system. The team made their way to Amadeus’s ship to retrieve the weapon, and found in the place described a daemonhost, bound and helpless. The daemon’s name, apparently, was Nobody.

Evangeline Khione was not a trusting person, and, like all Sororitas, had a particularly suspicious nature where psykers were concerned. In the earliest days of her service with Inquisitor Markayus Baldwin, she had chafed under the knowledge that she served at the whim of a witch. But Baldwin had been kind to her, and temperate, and used his powers only at great necessity. A diviner, he had used his visions to save many lives by intervening before terrible tragedies could befall the Imperium. He had been a patient tutor, and saw to it that Evangeline and the others under his command had a familiarity with the writings of Inquisitor Gideon Ravenor, who wrote often about the nature of psykery, and of corruption, and of the duty a man has when his master has betrayed the ideals he once taught you to love.

Markayus Baldwin told her where to find a daemonhost and the command words with which she might use it. She was gutted by what she saw as the most potent and terrible betrayal. Baldwin had saved her life. She loved her master, was proud to be in his service. She had wanted to return to his cadre after her tenure with Amadeus was ended. But he had committed an unspeakable heresy by suggesting she loose the daemonhost on her foe, and she found this unforgivable.

Evangeline and her team used a book, written by a Jericho de Riv of the Ordo Malleus, detailing how the daemonhost had been created to determine how it could be destroyed, and then they destroyed it--something Baldwin was unable to bring himself to do, because the body that had served to bind Nobody was once someone he loved.

Rather than go directly to Doucault’s ship, which they had discovered in geosynchronous orbit over Kaurava III, Evangeline sent a communiqué to the ordos, entering four cartas for investigation:

Inquisitor Gerard Doucault, for conspiring with xenos breed and consorting with heretics within the Imperium to undermine good order within the Kaurava system

Inquisitor Markayus Baldwin, for commanding the use of daemonic forces against his foe

Inquisitor Melchior Amadeus, for keeping a daemonhost

Inquisitor Jericho de Riv, for practicing forbidden arts of daemonology.

Then they went after Doucault. Along the way, Evangeline had a strange dream, and a more unsettling thought: these people might actually be her friends now. They infiltrated the ship’s staff of mercenaries, recovered Amadeus, and then Evie just sort of locked him up herself because there are rules, you know, and you have to establish a chain of custody. They spoke in private while she put him away, and at last they seemed to have understood one another.

What can I say from there? They fought, and they won. They returned to face the Novena, and to stand triumphant before the people, much in the way that Markayus Baldwin--no longer an Inquisitor by then--had prophesied years before, when he was unsure what service to send Evangeline to.

And it was ashes in her mouth.

We were supposed to run a follow-up! De Riv is still out there, making daemonhosts. He had fled to the Scarus Sector by then. Evie was going to get her wish, where Donovan was concerned, and he would join her team. It was supposed to be a dual-format adventure with an ensemble cast--each player would have two separate character sheets. One for the investigative phase, and one for the combat phase. I’m not sure what Donovan’s alternate would have been.

@castellankurze would have brought back Torin, and he and Evangeline would have worked together during the action phase. Our investigative characters I think you already know--Inquisitor Edrick von Hemel, OH Scarus, and Coralie “Calamity” Keynes, once a Curst of Sancour.

Buuuuuuuut that DM and I are not on speaking terms anymore and the game never materialized. I want to revisit the Sancour novella at some point, by which I mean actually finish it. Maybe next spring, by which point I hope to have two other long-form fics under my belt.

(I mean, do you like Final Fantasy XIV? because, unfortunately, they’re about my Warrior of Light. She’s a rigger too. =P)

[richincolor]

It’s good to be back! We’ve got four books on our radar this week–are any of them on your TBR? I’m personally excited for Let’s Talk About Love.

Let’s Talk About Love by Claire Kann Swoon Reads

Alice had her whole summer planned. Non-stop all-you-can-eat buffets while marathoning her favorite TV shows (best friends totally included) with the smallest dash of adulting–working at the library to pay her share of the rent. The only thing missing from her perfect plan? Her girlfriend (who ended things when Alice confessed she’s asexual). Alice is done with dating–no thank you, do not pass go, stick a fork in her, done.

But then Alice meets Takumi and she can’t stop thinking about him or the rom com-grade romance feels she did not ask for (uncertainty, butterflies, and swoons, oh my!).

When her blissful summer takes an unexpected turn, and Takumi becomes her knight with a shiny library employee badge (close enough), Alice has to decide if she’s willing to risk their friendship for a love that might not be reciprocated—or understood.

Markswoman (Asiana #1) by Rati Mehrotra Harper Voyager

Kyra is the youngest Markswoman in the Order of Kali, a highly trained sisterhood of elite warriors armed with telepathic blades. Guided by a strict code of conduct, Kyra and the other Orders are sworn to protect the people of Asiana. But to be a Markswoman, an acolyte must repudiate her former life completely. Kyra has pledged to do so, yet she secretly harbors a fierce desire to avenge her dead family.

When Kyra’s beloved mentor dies in mysterious circumstances, and Tamsyn, the powerful, dangerous Mistress of Mental Arts, assumes control of the Order, Kyra is forced on the run. Using one of the strange Transport Hubs that are remnants of Asiana’s long-lost past, she finds herself in the unforgiving wilderness of desert that is home to the Order of Khur, the only Order composed of men. Among them is Rustan, a young, disillusioned Marksman whom she soon befriends.

Kyra is certain that Tamsyn committed murder in a twisted bid for power, but she has no proof. And if she fails to find it, fails in her quest to keep her beloved Order from following Tamsyn down a dark path, it could spell the beginning of the end for Kyra–and for Asiana.

But what she doesn’t realize is that the line between justice and vengeance is razor thin . . . thin as the blade of a knife.

A Land of Permanent Goodbyes by Atia Abawi Philomel Books

Narrated by Destiny, this heartbreaking — and timely — story of refugees escaping from war-torn Syria is masterfully told by a foreign news correspondent who experienced the crisis firsthand.

In a country ripped apart by war, Tareq lives with his big and loving family . . . until the bombs strike. His city is in ruins. His life is destroyed. And those who have survived are left to figure out their uncertain future.

In the wake of destruction, he’s threatened by Daesh fighters and witnesses a public beheading. Tareq’s family knows that to continue to stay alive, they must leave. As they travel as refugees from Syria to Turkey to Greece, facing danger at every turn, Tareq must find the resilience and courage to complete his harrowing journey.

But while this is one family’s story, it is also the timeless tale of all wars, of all tragedy, and of all strife. When you are a refugee, success is outliving your loss.

Destiny narrates this heartbreaking story of the consequences of war, showing the Syrian conflict as part of a long chain of struggles spanning through time.

An award-winning author and journalist–and a refugee herself–Atia Abawi captures the hope that spurs people forward against all odds and the love that makes that hope grow.

I Am Thunder by Muhammad Khan Macmillan Children’s Books

Fifteen-year-old Muzna Saleem, who dreams of being a writer, struggles with controlling parents who only care about her studying to be a doctor. Forced to move to a new school in South London after her best friend is shamed in a scandal, Muzna realizes that the bullies will follow her wherever she goes. But deciding to stand and face them instead of fighting her instinct to disappear is harder than it looks when there’s prejudice everywhere you turn. Until the gorgeous and confident Arif shows an interest in her, encouraging Muzna to explore her freedom.

But Arif is hiding his own secrets and, along with his brother Jameel, he begins to influence Muzna with their extreme view of the world. As her new freedom starts to disappear, Muzna is forced to question everything around her and make a terrible choice – keep quiet and betray herself, or speak out and betray her heart?

A stunning new YA voice which questions how far you’ll go to protect what you believe in.

[kuno-chan]

The Book of War - Ch. 18, Korra and Nuka: Of Wicked Mind

   Rating: T

   Summary:The New Earth States are unstable. Avatar Korra must conquer the war within her and the one on the rise after the instability of the New Earth States turn into tragedy and the Southern Air Temple is attacked by a legacy of the late Earth Queen. Peace is fragile, but Korra is determined to protect the future of her children and the children of her friends and their families as well.

  Please consider reviewing on fanfiction.net

–

   Korra and Nuka: Of Wicked Mind

--

Nuka could barely breathe.

Not necessarily because he was running, but rather at the constant memory of the earth crumbling at his back. Of Osina trapping herself under rock so he could escape. It’d happened so fast. All of it so fast that he was barely still able to believe that it’d even been necessary, but he couldn’t think of another solution. Another way they could have gotten out of there without somebody dying. And at that idea… it occurred to him that Osina felt like he was worth saving far more than her. For some reason.

It was hard for him to see how.

With a tight feeling in his belly, he tried to recall the path Osina told them to take when they started their trek. Thankfully, he had a good memory and a decent sense of direction because at least that wouldn’t make him feel like he’d wasted the chance Sila’s mother was giving him.

He refused to believe she was gone.

She could still survive and he wasn’t going to give up on that until he absolutely had to.

He quickly made his way through Osina’s path with a mental map in mind, turning corners and going through large caverns where there was several tunnels, but he took a deep breath each time he saw those and tried to remember which path was the right one.

He didn’t know whether it was luck or misfortune that he found his destination so quickly, an entrance way hidden in ice that led up a flight of stairs and into what looked like some kind of control room. Lucky for all these people that he found them without delay. Those soldiers knew how to get down here now and who knew before somebody sent more?

He saw his father speaking with a man that looked to be in charge: a man with blue eyes and braids. Then, he saw Sila. That tight feeling in his belly became almost unbearable when he strode over to him, her brows furrowed. Spirits, she already knew something was wrong. Of course, how could she not when he showed up alone--

“Nuka… You took a while. We we’re getting worried.” she began, quiet and slow. Her brows remained knitted. “Why are you… where’s my mother?”

Nuka was at a loss for words. He didn’t know what to say. What to do. If he dared. But he had to. How could he not tell her that her mother was possibly--

He looked in those eyes. Eyes that were fully trusting of him. Ever since she’d met back up with him on this trip she had never shown him a thread of distrust.

He couldn’t lie to her.

And, that meant, he couldn’t lie to himself. Everything he told himself earlier suddenly couldn’t stand. Sila’s mother was lying underneath that rubble and there was a good chance.... a damn good chance that she wasn’t walking out of there. His eyes much have gone glossy because he blinked away the wet feeling as his father also came over, opening his mouth to say something, but pausing at the apparent look on Nuka’s face.

Sila stepped forward. “Nuka, where’s my mom?”

“I…” He couldn’t. He couldn’t do this, but spirits he had to. He shook his head at her. “There were… there were soldiers down here. Men who must have followed us from earlier. They weren’t going to let us pass and your mom, she…” Nuka swallowed as Sila’s eyes went slightly wide. “She made sure that I did to warn you all. She… she made sure the tunnel collapsed.”

Mercifully, Nuka’s father didn’t say anything. In fact, he took a step away. Sila, on the other hand, just stared at Nuka.

It was only in that moment that he realized most of the room was staring at him.

He let her die. That was what he felt like they were thinking. How could he just let someone die like that? So easily.

There was that crushing weight in his chest as he tried to speak. “I’m…” he tried. “Sila, I’m so sorry. I should have--”

He felt her hand on his arm. A firm grip that didn’t waver. To steady him. To steady her. He didn’t know. Looking at her again, there was a pain in her eyes, but she shifted into that warrior he knew. The girl as sturdy as the shield she carried. He didn’t know what to say when she told him, “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, something in him breaking as the words escaped him. Spirits forgive him, he let her mother die. He let another human being just… die.

“So am I,” she croaked, pausing as she turned to face the room, giving him one last squeeze of the arm. She faced a large man standing next to Nuka’s father now and talked to him directly. “Soldiers know there are tunnels down here now. It will only be a matter of time before they bring more and find this place. I think we need to move.”

The man, clearly in charge by his stance, regarded her with an evaluating gaze. He looked over Nuka with that same look. “You’re sure these were enemy soldiers?”

Nuka nodded miserably. “Positive. They wore the uniform.”

“Then Osina bought us precious time,” he said, his voice growing into a loud boom. “And we will not let it be in vain. Everybody pack up! Gather all important files and information you can carry and get to the exit in an organized fashion! We’re moving out of here in fifteen minutes tops!”

The man turned away from them to begin grabbing things. Nuka, on the other hand, could barely move.

“Sila--”

Sila looked at him, her face calm but tempered by something somber. “Nuka, I don’t blame you,” she said point blank. “But right now we need to move.”

Nuka shook his head, moreso at himself than at her, “I’m sorry.”

She sighed. “I know you are. But right now is the time to focus. My mother would want you to--” Her voice broke. “ To focus. Please.”

A plea. Her eyes were brighter than normal and she was stiller than usual. As if inside and out she was struggling to function, but her mind was forcing her into some kind of action. Any.

“...alright,” he said quietly. She didn’t even nod at him and turned away. Some part of him sinked into the hollow place that had formed in his belly.

It had all happened so fast.

-:-:-:-

Korra

-:-:-:-

Korra was a smart woman.

For all the things that she was, an idiot was not one of them. But she sure did feel like she was making a stupid move by climbing up the ladder of this blimp. It’d fallen from the blimp for her -- a clear invitation. Just climb right into the enemy clutches. She supposed Mako had a reason to worry about her so often.

Still, if Hanyo was still Hanyo then that was her saving grace. This way of coming back into public eye sure was him -- out in the open, dramatic and utterly time wasting. He liked his entrances. She wasn’t even remotely surprised when she climbed up the opening and into a room with nothing but a radio on a table against the wall facing her. She looked up, nobody even among the inner workings of the blimp for her to see.

Typical. After all these years, he clearly hadn’t changed much. If anything, the only thing he seemed was crazier if all these attacks were to go off of.

She approached the radio and snatched the end of it to her mouth. “I see you’re still the same,” she said, pressing the button. “You haven’t changed.”

The radio took a moment, then spurred to life. “I see you haven’t either, Avatar Korra.” His voice was still creepy as ever. That polite monotone. A pleasant something there that just wasn’t right with the world. “You were always a gracious guest.”

“Cut it,” Korra snapped. “You were the one behind the Air Temple Island attack. And the attempted assassination on the Beifongs in Zaofu… why?”

She still couldn’t believe she hadn’t saw it. Hadn’t thought of it. Her hope was that he had wasted away somewhere where he couldn’t hurt anybody else. Apparently she was wrong.

“But my dear, Korra, why not?”

Korra frowned, resisting the urge to crush the radio speaker in her hand. “I can play twenty questions just the same. Why are you here in the North Pole?”

When he didn’t answer, her grip on the radio tightened. Always playing games. Games that he never cared involved people’s lives. How many people had died because he thought the world was one giant pai sho game?

And this man wanted to be a king?

Never. Korra would never allow it as long as she was breathing.

“The North Pole,” Hanyo’s voice finally came out of the radio again. “Is a wealth of what I need.”

Korra frowned. A wealth of what he needed? And what exactly was that?

And then the world stopped when it struck her:

The spirit portal.

It hit her light lightning. Her eyes widened and she looked back through the window, at the spirit portal a pillar of light in the sky. The vines. Everything about the attack on Air Temple Island had been about the spirit vines. All of it a distraction so that she wouldn't feel the spirit vines in distress while she was distressed about her friends and family being in peril.

Despite it’s age, the Northern Water Tribe capitol was still smaller than Republic City. On top of it all, it’s government was built like a monarchy. If you had the chiefs then you had the keys to the city.

“You want the portal.”

“Correction, Avatar. I need that portal. It’s going to deliver me my crown. One you stole from me after you helped tarnish my country with this so called democracy.” She could almost hear him smiling like nothing but a man bemused by a simple joke. “How might that be coming by the way? I’ve heard terrible things over the decade. The war never did end for you, did it? For my beloved country?”

“Beloved.” Korra scoffed, but her jaw tightened. “Don’t make me laugh. You killed anyone in your way. Even people who weren’t. You were there when you slaughtered the airbenders and air acolytes at the Southern Air Temple. You killed them for no reason at all.”

Hanyo sighed. “Always incorrect. I didn’t kill them for no reason.” He chuckled. It made Korra’s blood run cold. “I killed them because it made you finally listen.”

It took all of Korra’s strength not to outright break the radio even as she heard it crack in her hand. Hanyo was the same. Slimy, apathetic and above all, a coward.

“And where are you now?” she said coldly, bracing on hand on the table. “Hiding? I know you’re not on this blimp. You only show your face when you know you’re going to win. Or when there’s carnage that’s extra satisfying to you. Don’t think anybody’s fooled by you. You’re just a sadist. And you listen to me and listen good: You will never be king. I will never let you. Even if they crown you, I will come for you and I will end you in your sleep. I swear it on my honor as an Avatar. Hanyo of the Hou-Ting dynasty, you will never wear that crown physically or in formality so long as you shall live.”

Silence. Utter silence over that radio. It was too long for him to have just shrugged off her words. She wondered if he was just staring at the device in front of him or if he was smashing something in his wake. Knowing him, he was probably doing the former and would do the other later.

The radio fizzed to life again. “Such empty promises. You promised to bring balance to the world and, yet, war has ravaged my people for a decade because of you. You promised to protect your child and, yet again, you failed and she left you. A failed Avatar and a poor mother.” Korra’s stomach lurched. “Worry not. It’s all going to be over soon. Today, I wonder, if I will decide that you die. Or would it be much more interesting to see you resist me before I crush you? Perhaps Tikaani would like to see that?”

“You leave my daughter out of this!” Korra felt the radio cracking in her hand. “What do you know about her?”

“I know she left you. As does the whole world.”

It was Korra’s turn to take too long to answer. Finally, she replied, “You sure do love hearing yourself talk, don’t you?”

“As I said, Avatar… soon. Soon this will all be over for you.”

Korra shook her head and… and she smiled. A wicked smile when she realized one thing. “Oh, it will be over for me. And for you. You’re so confident when you talk that I can just hear the spoiled royalty in you. I bet you’re somewhere just drinking tea and waiting for someone to come tell you that you’ve won. You don’t even know what’s going on, do you?”

That undiluted silence.

She went on. “Well, to give you an idea, you should at least know enough that you’re well aware your forces only have so much time for your attack. It’s very time sensitive with that United Republic military base not too far from here.” She snorted. “You didn’t know about the second wall, did you? It’s such a new thing, why would you? You’re little pincer attack to trap the chiefs isn’t going to work here if you’re men can’t storm the palace. And if my calculations are correct, the United Republic air support should be here any minute. You’re just about out of time.”

“And you’ve always been such a gracious guest. I’m sure you won’t mind helping with that.”

Metal chains exploded from the ceiling, reaching down like vines right toward her. She rolled back and out of the way, diving for the exit on the floor that was closing for her. Her leg caught, the metal chain reeling her in as the floor completely closed up on her. She crunched her body up, commandeering one of the chains for herself and adding a little bit of firebending behind it to free herself. Landing on her back, she jumped right back up, coming face to face with more of those black clad fighters she’d encountered on Air Temple Island.

“Sorry. I have another appointment I have to get to,” she growled and spun, a wheel of fire dancing from her hands and onto the floor. The fighters moved and raised their arms to shield themselves. Turning her attention to the metal door on the floor, she ripped it and open and leapt through, airbending guiding her safely to the ground. On the way down, she looked up. The blimp began to move away, back toward the ocean.

She snorted. “He never was a good general.”

Hanyo, if anything, always reminded her of a bad mob boss with too many people under his command that were probably much smarter than him.

Of course, all of what she had said to him was mild conjecture. Did she think the United Republic Airforce was coming? Probably. Did she know? No. If anything, she was expecting him to let her know that he had them in his claws too. She wouldn’t have been surprised. If there was anything Hanyo had under his belt it was influence. His name and money always were his biggest strengths. They were his driving forces.

That was what the Monarchists had clung to at his height almost a decade ago. That had been what was on its way to bring a nation to it’s knees. She went over it in her head sometimes. What Hanyo had at his disposal at the time. A nation in borderline anarchy -- pure anarchy in some cases -- a verified name and bloodline that legitimized and enough people who thought that was enough to make a king. Not to mention the desperate people. The people who were desperate for anybody who would end their suffering.

She understood what that felt like.

-:-:-:-

“What do you mean we’re retreating?”

Namada revealed the blinker in his palm, red light pulsing. “It’s the signal, sis. We’ve got to go. Mission aborted.”

“But we’re so close!” Gurana punched the cavern wall. “What’s wrong? Why do we have to go? Look, we’ll stay and--”

“And be trapped behind enemy lines.” Tikaani said frankly. “We don’t have enough time, apparently.”

“Shut up.” Gurana growled viciously at a stony Tikaani. “This is your fault! You stopped to have that little reunion with your stupid brother and now we’re behind!”

Tikaani raised a brow. “None of us even knew the entrance into the caverns. That was part of the entire plan--”

“Making it all time sensitive--”

“And the girl he was with--” Tikaani went on, ignoring Gurana’s fuming. “Knew the entrance to the catacombs intimately well. It was the shortest route.”

And still not enough time.

All of this, in reality, had been a waste of their time. So much effort and so many resources poured into half hearted attacks that achieved little. A showboat. A peacock eagle’s dance to the world.

All a waste of time.

Gurana glowered at her, eyes flashing with that lack of something. Lack of a few things, really. And all sparks in her mind. “If you had anything to do with this failure,” she seethed. “I swear to the spirits, I’ll--”

“I happen to be on this mission with you. If you hadn’t noticed,” Tikaani interrupted. “And, now, if you’re done we can go before we get left behind. I doubt you would want Lord Hanyo to do that.”

All that fire and spark in Gurana died and she went white. “He would never--”

“She’s right,” Namada put a hand on Gurana’s shoulder. “We need to go before somebody finds us down here and we get put in some prison.”

Gurana, apparently taking all of that into consideration as she stared hard at the ground, clenched her fists. The earth beneath her feet cracked a little. She glared up at Tikaani. “Fine.” she said through gritted teeth. “But if Lord Hanyo asks, this is your fault.”

Tikaani turned on her heel and began to walk back the way they came.

An absolute waste of her damned time.

--

I am so sorry it's taken almost a year to update. And it's not even a long update, but next chapter should be the last chapter in this arc (if not this one then the one after that) and we can move on to the next part in this story. The highlight of this chapter is definitely Korra and Hanyo talking. Setting up that dynamic, for me, is really important because this is the guy who was the bane of Korra's existence back in the day. He's unlike any of Korra's former villains in that any composure he has is fake and apathetic and it's just such a veil to Korra. She sees right through him and that helps pan out their dynamic going forward.

Once again, I'm so sorry. If you're reading this then thank you! I really appreciate it and I'm so grateful! As always, guys you know that I love those reviews! It really keeps me motivated and keeps me writing and that's something this story definitely needs! Thank you for reading! Tune in for next chapter!

[loveiscosmicsin]

Picturesque

FFXV Spoilers

I’m writing this by the ear and not using much reference or information. The timeline of FFXV is confusing so whatever. I wanted to write about Ardyn and Gentiana or Gentianardyn or Ardiana. There’s something going on, but nobody’s saying much about it (much like the plot of XV, basically). Can’t help imagining Ardyn/Gentiana/Luna except, not a poly ship, but a complicated love triangle of new loves, lovers spurned, and portions of hearts remaining with the other person. As far as this fic’s concerned, Gentiana had a thing with Ifrit, Ardyn, and Luna. Let me tell you that I prefer Brotherhood!Gentiana because at least she doesn’t speak in confusing riddles and actually was at Luna’s side. Might become part of a series: The Accursed and The Liars. Posted on Ao3.

-

She is free in her wildness, she is a wanderess, a drop of free water. She knows nothing of borders and cares nothing for rules or customs. ‘Time’ for her isn’t something to fight against. Her life flows clean, with passion, like fresh water. - Roman Payne

-

“Lady Lunafreya, would you like to hear a bedtime story?” Gentiana proposed to the former Tenebraen princess one night.

Lunafreya’s brilliant amethyst flickered to the older woman’s face. Her confusion was understandable. There was no precedence leading up to the inquiry. It came unexpectedly. “A little old for bedtime stories, I’m afraid,” she replied reluctantly, tucking short blonde hair behind her ears.

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret was a young woman  at the tender age of fourteen. Gentiana never paid much heed to mortal lifespans for she knew that when there’s a beginning the end not far behind. Everyday was either a celebration or a curse. Lunafreya attained an air of maturity for someone barely at the peak of womanhood but Gentiana would consider her a child.

“Forgive me. I mean no offense, I seek to assuage feelings of self-doubt and reinvigorate your will.” Gentiana hovered her hands over the girl’s legs and concentrated white magic over worn muscles, her eyes shut not to betray her thoughts. “Lessons can be interpreted from stories.”

Gentiana came into Lunafreya’s service as a lady-in-waiting and her Messenger two years ago. It won’t be until two years later Gentiana would re-introduce herself as the Glacian, Shiva, one of the Six Astrals that safeguarded Eos. Though the Fleuret heiress was destined to accept the role of Oracle in the near future, there was little that the two maidens knew about each other. Lunafreya was the youngest acolyte placed in Gentiana’s care but possessed great promise. She would make a powerful Oracle under firm guidance.

Before a woman of the Fleuret lineage ascended to her calling, she must undergo a set of arduous trials. Queen Sylva, the former ruler of Tenebrae and Lunafreya’s predecessor, too, endured the training.

The princess suffered considerably through hers. Her spiritual energy was spent after dispelling a miasma that Gentiana projected. It was minuscule in scale and non-threatening, but Lunafreya collapsed after containing most of it. She was unsuccessful today, but improving with each attempt, refusing to be discouraged by present limitations.

It was nightfall now. Lunafreya’s body was plagued by severe chills and cramps that left her whimpering involuntarily and restless, a frequent occurrence. Even as Gentiana tended to the young girl, sympathy for her charge was inevitable. Lunafreya had no liberty to protest about burden when so many cannot find solace in this world. A calling must be heeded and the Oracle shall go to those in need. She accepted the hardships rather than to defy them, an attitude Gentiana herself had fostered.

One day, Gentiana would instruct the rites and the Oracle must be ready to commune with the Six so the King of Kings could fulfill his destiny. By then, the Astrals shall bear witness to humanity’s determination. After all, Lunafreya had already won over the Glacian’s unconditional admiration.

Lunafreya was silent even after Gentiana ceased healing. The servant bowed her head, interpreting silence as an answer and it was her time to retire. But the girl spoke with unwavering resolve to compel the Messenger to remain, “I’ve a feeling that this isn’t a mere children’s bedtime story. If this one is as important as you assert, I’d like to hear it.”

“Very well,” Gentiana nodded.

Once upon a time, there was fox king. He was neither of light or dark. He alone illuminated the world and fearlessly ventured the bleakest regions no one dared walk. But for that, his people loved him. He possessed a pure, uncomplicated heart that rivaled even the brightest of stars.

The gods awarded him with a bejeweled crown in all the colors of the rainbow.

A beautiful crown fit for a spectacular king! Everyone, in all the land, lauded over it.

But the gemstones on the crown were heavy, so heavy, they banged against his eyelids and weighed him down.

No one, from anywhere, wanted to hear the king’s voice again. The neglected soul contested to remove the crown.

He walked to the ends of the world to uplift his burden, but to no avail. A hole awaited him.

The fox king fell into the hole. No one remembered the fox king.

Everyone had forgotten him. Poor king. Poor king.

Gentiana paused with a grimace. That tale went untold for over a millennia, but the wounds were as fresh as received on that day. Not a day went by that she hadn’t thought of him and the Messenger lived many years. She brought a hand to her breast, feeling the medallion concealed there. It was far more than a trinket, it was a music box, the melody jarring after it had been exhausted repeatedly. A memento of better times and what could have been.

“Is there more to the tale?” The girl asked, perturbed by the ending.

Yes, Gentiana thought immediately before resigning with a painful lie, “No. This was his fate.”

Lunafreya pursed her lips, pensive as she leaned in the palm of her hand. “Gentiana, did you know this fox king?”

Gentiana laughed softly but no humor came of it. “Is that assumption you have derived from the tale, m'lady?”

“If I may be so bold, I’d say that you knew this fox.”

“The fox’s tale is a chapter read and closed by those who walked that path until they met their demise. The fox saw the world through a different lens, did what he felt was right and perhaps condemned for a nature that was but a dark seed in his heart. Perhaps he was destined to bring ruin unto others. Who could say?” The Messenger paused, extending a finger over the promised Oracle’s heart. Perhaps the girl would understand the hardship. “Tell me, Lady Lunafreya. What is heavier? The world or its people’s hearts?”

Lunafreya glanced down at the Messenger’s hand, puzzlement touched her features briefly before an eerie answer left her mouth, “The heart holds as much as it would allow, Gentiana. If we were at any liberty to choose, the weight could be lighter or heavier as we wish it.”

Gentiana tilted her head, envisioning the girl who once sewn her crown with delicate blue flowers. A halo of holy light glittered around her, leaving the Astral enraptured. “You would submit yourself to the latter if you had the choice?”

“I would, but I already do. Even if it meant giving up my life, I will defeat the Starscourge. I must.” Unwavering dedication resounded in her words.

Gentiana took the girl’s hand between her own and the Oracle-to-be flinched, never had the attendant been so forward as to touch her. A mortal’s warmth was something the goddess hadn’t felt in a long time, chipping the glacier around her heart. Gentiana had known two great tragedies in her lifetime, there won’t be another, she would rather die first before anything happened to Lunafreya.

Both the girl and the fox were willing to sacrifice their lives for the greater good. Their hearts had the capacity to hold the world and its habitants, a pure and idealistic love, but naïve. The fox possessed the eyes to distinguish the light of expiring souls yet he was determined to avert certain death or at least, ease suffering. His final act of love should’ve marked him as the last king, unparalleled and forgotten by descendants after him. The kings of yore saw to this banishment of their ilk.

She cannot erase the fox from history, this Gentiana knew, but she wouldn’t make the same mistake with her charge. Lunafreya was a paragon of the peace and should she die, then the world would come to an end.

History had its eyes on Lunafreya, after all.

-

“I sense you, but I find your power wanting.” Ardyn Izunia hummed to the sound of his own noncommittal tune, swishing brandy in a glass.

The mauve-haired chancellor chuckled, finger tapping against the glass impatiently. It had been a millennia since he had been ignored, having grown accustomed to commanding gullible audiences who latched on to his every word.

The uninvited guest was nothing like that. A force of nature, elusive and omnipresent. While Ardyn’s words corroded and dominated willpower to a world he made for himself, planets orbited around her without consequence. It didn’t matter to her how many devotees clung to her tits like babes or treated her name as it was a curse in itself.

“I confess, I didn’t expect your intervention. I thought you would be too preoccupied mourning your darling Lunafreya. Extinguished like a star, that one.” Feigning pity, he raised the glass to toast in the late Oracle’s memory, “A shame that her lungs weren’t in agreement with the sea water.”

Silence persisted, but the room had progressively gotten colder. Frost crept up around the rim of the glass. He took a sip.

“The cold never bothered me anyway,” he chuckled as he finished the drink. The glass shattered in his hand, crystal fragments spilled on the floor. “Come now, do show yourself. I’ve no quarrel with you though my feelings are a little hurt.” He shook his head in dismay, clicking his tongue.

A flurry of ice stormed into the room, projecting frost within the vicinity. The dance ended as the crystal particles revealed a woman donned in a black and gold dress. Her ivory face was devoid of emotion, but her temperament spoke otherwise. That woman always had an inclination for the theatrics.  

“Ah, the heavenly ice goddess herself appears before me of her own accord.” Ardyn rose from his chair, removing his fedora as he bowed humbly. Though his grin was amicable, anger glinted in his amber eyes. “I must be truly blessed.”

“You lost the Gods’ favor.” The raven-haired woman brought her hands forward, the movement as gradual as glaciers coming together. “The stars no longer shine for you, fallen king.”

“I’ve made my dwelling in the darkness.” The man sighed as he readjusted his hat. “After all that has happened, still you live. I’m rather curious why you persist using that form, masquerading as something you’re not.” He paused, hissing a word as it was vile through clenched teeth, “Human.”

“A question I pose to you,” The Glacian reached out to touch the chancellor’s ageless and handsome mask. “You call yourself Ardyn Izunia.” The illusion came undone, gold pupils glinted violently through obsidian, tan complexion paled, and the ebony blood oozed from his hollow eyes and cracked lips, dousing the Messenger’s hand in its viscous taint. “Now the vessel emulates its essence.”

Demonic. Grotesque. Unclean. Accursed. Let the entire universe bear witness to his true face. The form bestowed when he was denied to pass over and condemned to eternal life. He was no longer human.

The Immortal Accursed snarled with penetrating roar and lashed out, his grip a vise around Gentiana’s throat. The Messenger’s head jerked back by the impact, but her emerald eyes bore down on him. His fingers dug deeply, searching for vitals to snuff out, crush and claw until nothing remained of her. It was unfortunate for him that the Glacian’s life couldn’t be ended in such a crude method.

Gentiana’s other hand joined on the Accursed’s face, fingers delicately wiping at the scorned sludge. They were reminiscent to tears though she doubted that he shed them still.

He was a vessel of darkness and it poured out of him endlessly; submerge the both of them in this very room, if it were possible. She soiled her hands, anointing the sanctity of her office with Ardyn’s taint. Before him, she was a sinner, embalming for a funeral, but the man knew no grave, thus, he had no need for one.

Ardyn ceased squeezing and in a huff of disgust, almost as if he lost interest, released Gentiana. The Astral lowered her hands, sludge evaporated harmlessly out of existence. The Accursed’s exposed mask lingered for a moment before the man she knew as the former King of Light stood before her. His face never left her dreams. Old wounds carved deeply into the goddess’s soul as Gentiana had guided and loved Lunafreya as immensely and passionately as she did this man.

He couldn’t end her life no more than she could his.

Even when she wished destruction upon the pariah who brought harm to the prophet.

Gentiana’s beloved Lunafreya. It wasn’t the Oracle who granted the Glacian reprieve and boundless solicitude, but the woman behind the authority.

The goddess felt the bonds she forged with the Accursed and the Oracle still, if not more strongly than ever. Those connections were all that remained. Time of separation and death could never sever them.

“Eirlys.”

Gentiana’s heart crashed like an avalanche  against her rib cage. She had not heard that name in a long time, having discarded it when she was reincarnated as Gentiana. Those that knew that name had been permitted entry to the Kingdom of the Dead, Ardyn was the only exception who bore knowledge of it. Eirlys was never Gentiana’s true persona, but it was an element of herself. Part of her resonated strongly to the past and all the memories she held dear and promises gone unfulfilled with it.

“Why are you here?” The inquiry was void of malice and honeyed threats. It was hollow and splintering. When Gentiana looked to him, Ardyn’s eyes were no longer hot coals in a fire but mirth curled a corner of his mouth. “Revenge? To declare war? To ask for my forgiveness? Why, my snowdrop Messenger, does the passage of time run by too slowly for the Six? Even though it’s you, I don’t sway to the temptations of the flesh as easily as I did in my youth.”

“It is none of your concern.” The frostbite in her tone went unheeded when the man clicked his tongue.

“Ah, a courtesy call then.”

“A courtesy call would be to those holding reputable offices, correct? What is yours when your actions vanquished an empire and ultimately betrayed those who trusted you?”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Ardyn sighed deeply as he extended a hand to the ice goddess. “I hope you see the world has made liars and traitors out the both of us, Eirlys. Allegiances fickle affairs, promises are meant to be broken. Today’s allies become tomorrow’s enemies. What comes up, must come down.” He dramatically made a circular motion. “And etcetera, etcetera. You get the picture. Deities have witnessed the worst of humanity and are no strangers to it themselves.”

“An Astral’s word has and will always be their bond.” Gentiana asserted, apprehension boiled deep within her. It took her back to the day she saw Ardyn’s face and all those promises exchanged came crashing around her. Mortals were indeed cruel.  

“I recall that same gimmick that long ago so don’t delude yourself now,” Ardyn waved off as he walked past Gentiana. “And so you forged a covenant with the Chosen King. Your second choice and only hope. Save one, let your fair maiden die, too little, too late, to stop the darkness that’s to come.”

Lunafreya’s death was unavoidable but Gentiana didn’t expect her to fall at the Walls of Water. The Astral couldn’t bear the alternative even if the Oracle survived, a vessel of otherworldly power succumbing to rotting flesh and uncooperative limbs, her beloved Lunafreya paralyzed for life, losing all functionality of what made her human until her mind remained. Drowning was a mercy in comparison to fading out of existence and Gentiana knew she had no regrets.

Lunafreya had asked Gentiana not to intervene, to then form a covenant with the King of Stone to bring light back to the world. It was the most excruciating order the Glacian had to follow, she after all sought mankind’s salvation from the plague.

There was nothing else that needed to be said, Gentiana realized. She wished that she found solace in seeing her former charge and lover once more. The Glacian didn’t come to wish the peace or to free him from a millennia-old curse. There was only one king, rightful and true, who she willfully tethered herself to and even then, she had her own objectives to see to fruition.

Perhaps in another life…

“What will become of you, Ardyn Lucis Caelum?” Though Gentiana already knew the outcome of Ardyn’s plan. A goddess of death needn’t a crystal ball or tarot cards to predict the end of the Caelum bloodline. What began in blood, must also end in blood and the world would become whole again.

Would she see Ardyn welcomed to the Gates of the Undead?

“Never you fret, my dear. I’ve always been a man of no consequences. Ah, don’t tell me that there’s still a flame in that tundra you call a heart.”

Ardyn turned around, finding that the goddess was no longer there. She left no trace of her existence, but he would always remember this conversation until the end.

“My heart will always belong to you.” Ardyn whispered, remnants of his former self, a humanity he thought long forgotten, loathed the emptiness. “As it always had.”

[bluewatsons]

Simon Hattenstone, Mike Tyson: 'I'm ashamed of so many things I've done, The Guardian (March 20, 2009)

The temperature seems to drop by 20 degrees when Mike Tyson and his minders enter the room. "Have I got to be nice to this guy?" he asks the film-maker James Toback. "No," Toback replies. "You can be as hostile as you like."

Yet Tyson doesn't seem to have the energy to muster up much hostility. He is wearing a baggy pinstripe suit that fails to disguise what's going on underneath. His belly squeezes out of his black shirt, and he can barely drag his size 15 feet along with him. His almost-beard, white flecked, is more oversight than design. His head slumps to the side as if his massive pit bull neck can't quite bear its weight. Everything is such an effort. He speaks quietly, lethargically, like a man who has been on a heavy dose of antidepressants for too long. His Maori facial tattoo, once so warrior-like, looks benign today. He could be Lennie in Of Mice And Men, the half-gentle giant who strokes the things he loves to death.

"Hello, legend," I say. Tyson looks confused, uneasy, says he doesn't take compliments well. But, for good or bad, Mike Tyson is a legend. Many experts would argue that he was the greatest heavyweight boxing champion - or at least should have been. Sure, he didn't have Muhammad Ali's wit or grace, but as a knockout puncher, none could match Iron Mike. He won his first 19 professional fights by a knockout, he was the youngest world heavyweight champion at 20, unbeaten in three years, so far ahead of the pack that there were no rivals. Then things started to go wrong.

His wife, the actor Robin Givens, went on television in 1988 alongside him and announced that he was a terrifying manic depressive and that their marriage was pure hell. In 1990 he lost his first fight to 42-1 underdog Buster Douglas. He'd become lazy and complacent, seduced by alcohol and drugs. In 1992 he was convicted of rape and deviant sexual misconduct, and served three years in jail. It should have destroyed him, and he might well argue that it did, but, amazingly, within a year of his release he regained his world title. Then, once again, he chucked it all away.

Since retiring four years ago, Tyson has done little with his life. He has boxed in a few exhibitions, put on more weight, got in trouble with the law again: in 2007, he was convicted of drink-driving after almost crashing into a police car. Three bags of cocaine were found on him, and he was given a day in jail, three years' probation and ordered into rehab. That is when Toback, an old friend, asked Tyson, now 42, if he could make a film about his life.

The result is extraordinary - pretty much a 90-minute monologue, some of it stream of consciousness. What emerges is a man who finds it impossible to censor himself. He talks vividly about growing up with a promiscuous mother who might have been a prostitute and about a father he never knew, stealing drugs from dealers as a 12-year-old, detention centre and being taken under the wing of the boxing coach Cus D'Amato, all while he was barely into his teens. Tyson is not a man who went off the rails. He was born on the skids. Somehow, and all too briefly, he managed to transcend his traumatic destiny

We arrange to meet in the Hollywood Hills at the opulent house of another film-maker friend, Brett Ratner. There are Warhols in the loo, Bacons in the kitchen, Giacomettis on the sideboard, Toback at the centre of the conversation, but as yet no Tyson. "We could be here a while - Mike's been held up." Toback and his entourage grin at each other. It's not the first time the boxer has delayed them.

Toback is disarmingly honest about why Tyson makes such a great subject. "The movie is like the aftermath of an earthquake. It's Mike standing there amid the rubble and wondering why he has survived. Ultimately, what I feel comes through is a struggle to justify his continuing existence because the highlights of his life are gone. Usually tragedy ends in death, but here's a tragic figure who has survived. And now that I'm here, what do I do?"

Their friendship goes back 23 years. Toback, an experimental film-maker obsessed with all things sexual, had just finished making The Pick-Up Artist with Robert Downey Jr when Tyson popped into the wrap party. "He was 18, hadn't become world champion yet. He'd heard about the orgies in [American footballer] Jim Brown's house and he was like, 'Tell me about those orgies.'" Then there were the acid trips. Toback felt that young Tyson was almost too curious.

Tyson arrives a couple of hours late. Years ago, there would have been dozens in his entourage, now there are only three. One stands over me, legs splayed, eyeballing me as I talk to Tyson. It's intimidating, but also quite funny - rather than protecting Tyson, he seems to be making sure I don't escape. It's a hot winter's day in LA. We are in the garden, the sun is beating and a rivulet of sweat is running down Tyson's nose. I ask what he has learned about himself from the film.

"When I watched it alone, I realised why people had certain opinions about me. When I was upset, I got upset like everybody else, but I'm an extremist, so when I got upset, I took it to the next level. I took it to the level of being almost violently upset. And I realise, if I was sitting next to that guy, he'd make me nervous. That guy was impulsive. Unpredictable." He wants to believe - he has to believe - that is the old Tyson.

What shocked him most? "I thought I was a dick when I was crying." This is Tyson the macho man speaking, wary of losing face in front of his buddies. But that's one of the most moving moments in the film, I say - he's talking about how he was bullied as a boy. "Well, that's your opinion, of course. Only." He talks quietly, with that familiar lisp, but the answer carries a hint of menace.

As a boy, Tyson was small, fat and bespectacled, weak with asthma and alone but for the pigeons he bought with stolen money. When kids picked on him, he just ran away. One day an older bully took one of his pigeons and popped its neck in front of him. That was the first time Tyson hit out. He surprised himself because he was good at fighting, enjoyed it, found it empowering. After that, he says, people wanted to be his friend.

"I'm a good guy, I'm a good brother. There's nothing wrong with me. Just don't push me too far, you know. I'm sure everyone has a breaking point in their lives." It's hard to know whether he's addressing the old bullies or me. Tyson's speech has a hypnotic, incantatory rhythm to it.

It was D'Amato who transformed his life. After being picked up by police at 12 with $1,500 in his pockets, Tyson was sent to a detention centre, where he learned to box. On his release he was put in touch with D'Amato, a Bronx-born coach in his 70s who had discovered Rocky Marciano and Floyd Patterson. D'Amato welcomed him into his home, fed him, educated him, trained him, disciplined him, loved him. Tyson had never known anybody like this. The two became inseparable.

"Me and Cus were two megalomaniacs sitting there talking about our future, what we could do. You understand? Two guys - we didn't have anything - talking about what we could do. I imagine myself being 13, 14, watching a great fighter fight, talking about why he is a great fighter, and asking Cus, 'Cus, how could I beat that guy if I was to fight him? What would you tell me to do to beat that guy?' " D'Amato told him that becoming a champion was more a mental and spiritual discipline than a physical one.

In 1982, aged 14, Tyson went to the junior Olympics and broke any number of records, including the fastest knockout (eight seconds). D'Amato told him he needn't worry about being bullied again, and Tyson knew he was right. He chokes on his tears. "Coz I knew I would fuckin' kill them if they fucked with me."

The most important thing he learned, he says, is that he wasn't dependent on others for his survival. "I didn't need to take the handouts. It was just psychological motivation, refusing to accept what you had always accepted, refusing to accept welfare, refusing to accept being bullied any more, refusing to live your life unlawfully." As he talks, the who man minutes ago was paralysed by uncertainty radiates a frightening conviction. "I took it to extreme levels. Success is something you work hard at, you put your nose to the grindstone and you do everything you can. You're hungry, you're grinding, and you're still not guaranteed success. So I took it to another level. I said, I'm going to die to get this. I'm going to dedicate my whole life to it. Second place is not going to do it, I'm going to be champion. And being champion is not going to do it, I have to be the champion that nobody will ever forget to the end of this planet."

Millions dream of being champion. Did it feel good being one of the few who succeeded? The diffidence returns: "That's where it gets complex. It gets tricky. I think anybody can do it because I don't think much of myself. I think if I can do it, anybody can do it." The trouble is, he says, he hears so many voices in his head, and they are so often at war with each other.

I ask if he feels more pride for the great things he achieved or shame for the bad things. "I don't know. Both become irrelevant. By thinking about the bad things, I start to feel really low and depressed. When I start to think about the good things, I just get pride and egotistical. So I try to leave them both alone."

Maybe the great tragedy in Tyson's life is that by the time he became world champion, D'Amato had died. He lost his moral compass and found himself surrounded by acolytes who encouraged his excess. He bought houses by the dozen, he had more than 130 cars, he bought lavish gifts (usually cars and jewellery) for women who had sweet-talked him for a couple of minutes. At his peak, he could command $30m for a night's work, and he earned more than $300m in his career. By 2003, he was bankrupt.

Now, he worries the film might be too successful and he will end up with "too much money and pussy" again. "It's pretty dangerous. I become accustomed to it." He has either had no money or a ridiculous amount in his life, and he feels safer with none. Does he miss the drama of his old life? "No, I was addicted to drama."

In the film he calls Desiree Washington, the woman he was convicted of raping, "that wretched swine of a woman" and insists he was not guilty.

Yet he talks explicitly, often alarmingly, about his sexual preferences and how he has treated women. "I like strong women, not necessarily masculine women, say a woman who runs an organisation, I like a woman with massive confidence and then I want to dominate her sexually. I like to watch her like a tiger watches their prey after they wound them. I want her to keep her distance for at least 20-30 minutes before I devour them and take them to the point of ecstasy. I love saying no when making love. What I want is extreme. Normally what they want is not as extreme as what I want. I want to ravish them. Completely... I may have taken advantage of women before, but I never took advantage of her [Washington]."

At times Tyson paints himself as a victim - of circumstance, of liggers, of women on the make - but in the end he says he has nobody to blame but himself. I say that the strength of the film is he doesn't absolve himself: "You say you didn't do the rape, but you did some bad things to women."

"I know. The fact is, I'm not trying to win no friends. I don't want you to think I'm doing this to try to get a clean-up job, or I want people to like me. I don't care." It's true, you don't feel he's trying to pull the wool over your eyes.

Tyson shakes his troubled head. "No... sometimes my mind tells me, you think you've got these white people fooled, that they like you - you're a fucking fraud." Now he's talking with visceral intensity. "My mind is not my friend: 'You're a fraud, you're trying to fool these white people.' And I have to contain that. That's the addict talking. That's the guy who wants to get high. The guy who wants to drink the Hennessy, the guy who wants to gallivant in the street with a bunch of crude women, that's that guy talking right now. That's not you talking, Mike."

He pauses, the sweat dripping from his head. "When you go to a doctor or a psychiatrist, and they say, 'Do you hear voices?' of course we say no, because if you say, I hear voices, they go, 'Have that guy straitjacketed' and you go to hospital. But we do hear voices. Our mind does tell us things. So your mind is not your friend if you don't discipline it and control it." He tries hard now to filter his thoughts, but he worries that it's a form of lying. Thankfully, he says, he doesn't have the same intensity of feeling any more. Maybe the antidepressants have made things easier. In 2001, he told reporters, "I'm on the Zoloft to keep me from killing y'all."

When Tyson went into rehab in 2007, he admitted being addicted to cocaine and alcohol. "I'll never beat that. That's going to be a till-the-day-I-die job. That's an inside job. Nothing to do with anything else. That's just a disease I have received hereditarily."

"Simon, keep the questions to the movie," says a minder. "We don't want to talk about stuff."

"OK, I'm sorry," Tyson replies meekly, but then goes on to ignore him. "Listen, I'll talk about anything. I'm not ashamed of who I am. I understand I've got to be sold in a certain way, but I'm not ashamed of anything I've done in my life. After all, my journey, I know who I am. And I'm cool with who I am." For a second, he believes it.

But there are so many incidents in his life that he knows he can't begin to justify. On his release from prison in 1995, by now a Muslim with the name Malik Abdul Aziz and his body tattooed with images of Mao and Che Guevara, he launched the following tirade on a reporter who suggested he should be in a straitjacket. "I'll put your mother in a straitjacket, you punk-ass white boy. Come here and tell me that, and I'll fuck you in your ass, you punk white boy, you faggot... I'll eat your asshole alive, you bitch... You scared, coward, you're not man enough to fuck with me, you can't last two minutes in my world, bitch. Look at you, scared now, you ho. Scared like a little white pussy, scared of the real man. I'll fuck you till you love me, faggot." It didn't help his protestations of innocence.

After being headbutted by Evander Holyfield in 1997, he bit off part of the boxer's ear in the rematch seven months later and spat it out into the ring. Tyson was fined a maximum $3m and had his licence revoked. But boxing needed Tyson as much as he needed boxing, and a year later he was given a final opportunity. By now, though, he had lost the pace, accuracy and hunger. His sense of fair play had also gone for a burton. In 1999, he was accused of trying to break Frans Botha's arms in the ring. That same year he was sentenced to a year's imprisonment after assaulting two motorists following a traffic accident. On his release, he fought Orlin Norris and knocked him down after the bell rang. A win in 2000 over Andrzej Golota was overturned when Tyson tested positive for marijuana. His second wife, Monica Turner, the mother of two of his six children, divorced him in 2003. In his final fight, against the journeyman boxer Kevin McBride, he was a pitiful figure - slumped in a corner, legs splayed, unable or unwilling to stand himself up. Straight afterwards, Tyson announced his retirement. "I don't have the stomach for this kind of thing any more. I don't have that ferocity. I'm not an animal any more. I'm not going to disrespect the sport by losing to this calibre of fighter."

When he talks about biting Holyfield's ear or beating up boxing promoter Don King in public, for example, he simply says he was insane.

Does he think the boxing led to that type of instability? "Boxing is nothing to do with madness, it's all about control and discipline. Madness has nothing to do with it. It's what you do with the discipline, it can drive you mad, but it depends on the individual, whether they allow it to drive them mad."

Today, Tyson lives by himself in a modest house in Las Vegas. A friend, Darryl, spends a lot of time with him and manages his affairs. His great hope for the future is that he catches up with his children, and becomes the kind of father he should have been years ago. "They never had a chance to hang out with me, like all these freeloaders did. 'Dad's an awesome guy, he's a fun guy, he's a goofy guy, he likes to make people laugh, he likes to buy gifts for people and stuff' - I never experienced that with them. I've worked hard all my life to give them a great life, and I never enjoy it with them. They get to go on all these great trips to Europe, and I should be with them."

Are they seeing a different you, the goofy guy? "I don't know - they tell me that I'm funny. Ha! I don't know. I'm just glad my 11-year-old kid doesn't have to live the life I did when I was 11."

Does he box? "Oh man, no, this guy's an erudite, he's not a boxer."

And if he got into boxing? "Let him go. There's nothing more humbling. Trust me, he'd become humble." Why? "Because it's for uniquely special individuals to do that stuff. You know, you got to strike a guy, you've got to attack the guy, but you're not mad at them, they didn't say nothing bad about your mother, then you're going and your objective is to dismantle him."

Looking back, he says, perhaps the biggest problem was achieving so much so young. "If you want to see a tragedy, just take a kid who's 19, 20 years old - some kid from the hood who's got some talent - and give them $50m. I didn't know what to do. By society's standards, you reach that level and people bow down to you. I never understood that."

Is there a danger in people treating you as a god? "No, there's a danger in that I might believe it. It's not dangerous that they say it. It depends what side of the bed I wake up on, I might believe it, then it's all downhill again, and I'm in for a big crash."

Moments later he's über-man, telling me just what made him a winner: he turned apparent disadvantages (such as his height: 5ft 11in, short for a heavyweight) into pluses (surprising challengers with his upward punching); he won fights before they started by staring out the opposition. "When you look at me, you think I'm a tough guy. I'm not a tough guy. I'm a smart guy. This is not a tough guy's sport. A tough guy gets hurt in this sport. This is a thinking man's sport. You see what happens to the tough guys; you see how they start talking, you see how they start looking. Later, they become more decrepit. This is serious stuff at the highest level. This is a brutal game."

What does he think D'Amato would say to him if he saw the film and knew how his life had panned out? " 'You swear too much!' " He grins. "I never swore in front of him."

A while later, Toback calls me over, and asks me to look at the film's trailer. It's early evening, the sun is setting and the sky is a salmon pink. The trailer is book-ended by Tyson quoting Oscar Wilde's The Ballad Of Reading Gaol:

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

Tyson says it was Toback's idea to read the poem, but he is a fan of Wilde's. "Do you know who his lover was?" he asks. "The Marquess of Queensberry's son, and you know it was the Marquess of Queensberry who invented the rules of boxing. How strange is that?"

He seems exhausted. By the afternoon, by his life, by his mind, by everything. He says he thinks it is unlikely he will ever have anything to do with boxing again. I ask why he hasn't considered television commentary. He thinks some time before answering. "I am ashamed of so many of the things I have done." In boxing or in his private life? "In the ring, too."

It's not so long ago that he told me there was nothing he was ashamed of. He smiles, and points to his head, suggesting that the last thing you should ever expect from Mike Tyson is consistency. "There's a committee going on up there." And he laughs, a little desperately. "A committee! A committee going on up there! Oh God help me!"

[gyrlversion]

Review: In Tarantinos latest, a radiant Hollywood fable

Quentin Tarantino has, for a while now, been reminding us what’s so great about movies — or at least, what he thinks is so great about them.

He’s made an old-fashioned double-feature (“Death Proof,” of “Grindhouse”), resurrected the wide-screen format of 70mm Ultra Panavision (“The Hateful Eight”) and generally presided as the pre-eminent B-movie evangelist for a generation. The power and thrill of exploitation movies, he has earnestly espoused, can conquer all evils — or at least slavery (“Django Unchained”) and the Nazis (“Inglourious Basterds”).

But “Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood,” set in 1969 Los Angeles, is Tarantino’s most affectionate and poignant ode yet to the movie business. It’s a breezy, woozy Hollywood fable that luxuriates in the simple pleasures of the movies and the colorful swirl of the Dream Factory’s backlot. Some pleasures are nostalgic, and some — like driving down Sunset Boulevard or martinis at Musso & Frank — are everlasting.

Here, movie love feels contagious, like something in the air. In one of the film’s best scenes, Margot Robbie’s Sharon Tate explains at a theater’s ticket office that she’s in the movie, the newly released caper “The Wrecking Crew,” (“I’m the klutz!” she says cheerfully). Inside, she giggles with delight at seeing herself on the big screen, giddily mimicking her character’s martial-arts moves and watching to see if the audience laughs at one of her lines. (They do.)

The pleasures in “Once Upon a Time” are also ours. Tarantino, has lowered his typically feverish temperature to a warming simmer, bathing us in the golden California light and the movie-star glow of his leading men, Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt. They spend copious amounts of time driving through the Hollywood Hills in a creamy Coupe de Ville, riding along like Butch and Sundance and just as nice to look at.

DiCaprio is Rick Dalton, a Burt Reynolds-type actor of TV Westerns (his claim to fame is the ’50s hit “Bounty Law”) whose career is stalling. Pitt is Cliff Booth, his stunt double and best friend, a war veteran with a bad reputation but a friendly, relaxed manner. They have a natural, easy rapport, with Booth doubling as a drinking buddy and support system for Dalton, who’s increasingly anxious about his typecast future. (Al Pacino, as his agent, urges him to head to Italy for a spaghetti Western.)

In DiCaprio’s finest sequence, he chats between takes on a Western called “Lancer” with a frightfully serious Method Acting 8-year-old co-star (Julia Butters) before forgetting his lines. After a bout of self-loathing in his trailer, he returns and nails the scene. DiCaprio, a preternaturally self-possessed actor himself, captures the whole arc beautifully.

When word got out that Tarantino’s latest film would take place around the Manson murders, it was easy to wonder what genre mayhem the director would bring to this epochal moment. We know what carnage resulted when Zed was dead, so what did Tarantino have in store for the demise of the ’60s?

It’s not that “Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood” doesn’t revolve around that grisly tragedy. It looms always in the background, and eventually in the foreground, too, after Booth picks up a hitchhiker (Margaret Qualley) who leads him to the Manson compound at Spahn Ranch, the former production site of TV and film Westerns where Manson’s mostly female acolytes emerge and Booth goes to check on the owner, an old friend, George Spahn (Bruce Dern). Dalton and Booth are fictional concoctions surrounded by real people, including their neighbors: Tate and her husband, Roman Polanski (Rafal Zawierucha).

By the film’s climax, blood will spill and movie-made historical revisionism will have its day. But I suspect a lot of Tarantino fans will be taken by surprise at the film’s leisurely pace, set more to a (and this a good thing) “Jackie Brown” speed. As in that film, Tarantino isn’t purely living in an over-the-top movie fantasy world, but one teetering intriguingly between dream and reality. The dialogue and action has slowed down enough to allow a little wistfulness and melancholy to creep in.

At times, his path is a little wayward and prone to digressions. Tarantino feels perilously close to simply turning his movie into several of Dalton’s, so eager is he (like the Coens were in “Hail, Caesar!”) to lovingly adopt those period styles. But usually, the detours are hard to resist. In one, Booth ends up in a fight with Bruce Lee (Mike Moh) on the set of “The Green Hornet.”

And if you’re going to make a movie that celebrates what’s grand about Hollywood, it helps to have Brad Pitt in it. The chemistry between him and DiCaprio, together for the first time, is a delight; I would gladly watch them drive around lacquered, golden-hour Los Angeles, with cinematographer Robert Richardson trailing them, for longer than the already lengthy running time of “Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood.”

Pitt, in particular, appears so utterly self-possessed. It’s a swaggering grade-A movie star performance in a movie that celebrates all that movie stars can accomplish — which, for Tarantino, is anything. That the youthful, exuberant Tate was robbed of that potential is one of the wrongs Tarantino is righting here. But his fairy tale also swells with an even larger and optimistic vision. For today’s doomsayers of movies, which are seen by some as a less potent art form, “Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood” imagines an apocalypse denied. Tate, and the movies, will live forever.

“Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood,” a Sony Pictures release, is rated R by the Motion Picture Association of America for language throughout, some strong graphic violence, drug use, and sexual references. Running time: 161 minutes. Three and a half stars out of four.

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MPAA definition of R: Restricted. Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian.

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Follow AP Film Writer Jake Coyle on Twitter at: http://twitter.com/jakecoyleAP

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