#survived but i want nothing to do with people now

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 9 part 2

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2])

I'm glad nicky came up with a cool new tune because according to period movies and shows greensleeves is the only song anyone ever knew

look at that meek little smile, ughhhh. nicky is like two days old and this asshole has already figured out he's the perfect prop for her murder sprees. and these poor women are calling her sister and are willing to help too.

the spell is te accipimus in circulum, we accept you in the circle, and yes that makes me cry a little. we accept you in our community. and the spell is yellow air magic, which sounds like the most empathic kind if Lilia is any indication.

that's interesting, you can't really tell that well from screencaps but go rewatch the scene, this witch is making mushrooms grow with yellow magic instead of green?? is it just a spell (she is holding a book) or have I been getting it all wrong and color has nothing to do with the type of magic one has?

or maybe??? the color depends on the coven you're in?? the salemites all had blue magic for example. and now that I think about it the stone circle is a protection spell but it's not red/orange.

the meaning of this scene is so glaring dear lord. agatha was never going to give these women a chance to prove that yes, there are people out there who could love and help and accept her. she has shut herself up to that possibility a long time ago.

and she stole the soup too. awful.

I've seen all the different theories about nicky needing to feed on witches too, or nicky needing soul sacrifices to survive because he's the son of death etc. we don't have enough evidence to prove anything yet, but personally I headcanon nicky as a totally normal kid, that makes this story even more tragic.

and aww that baby suckling on the little pudgy fist

nicky doesn't look that happy about what he's been asked to do, does he?

we establish that nicky was sickly (maybe he was born with some internal defect that rio temporarily patched up?) we also see him steal the bell agatha will use for her Road scam in the future.

and we meet yet another witch being kind and wanting to help.

agatha: I love this six year old so much I'm gonna make him accessory to murder

dO yOU ShaME YouR MOtHER

and the big fake gasp too. as usual this bitch has conned a whole community

like, she's convinced herself that other witches are bad and are after her WHILE relying on witches's good hearts to con and kill them. what sort of mental gymnastics???

color goes from yellow to purple. nicky waits outside while his mom commits murder, it's not a good look on agatha. completely fucked up, actually.

(I'm terrified that the goat will end up being an agent of mephisto or something idiotic like that, lemme tell you. I hope they're just keeping it for milk and company.)

and here's the million dollar question. nicky has seen his mom kill literally since he was born, and now he's old enough to start realizing what that means.

oooh I know that look, that's agatha when she's put on the spot. she avoids his gaze, she can't be sincere with him.

and of course she's teaching herself spells from a book. nerrrrrrd

nicky, bless his soul, appears to give it a good thought and then offers a practical suggestion. I guess he wouldn't mind to have a roof on his head and some friends too.

GREAT acting from kathryn here. the quick OH SHIT face followed by the super final NO, with her jaw so rigid. in typical agatha fashion, when she's upset she becomes avoidant.

this is evanora's legacy. despite agatha's immense love for nicky, she is passing all that pain down and inflicting it on him.

remember when she called billy a survivor? this is the greatest asset in her opinion, the one she wants to teach her son. the truth is, she is angry at witches because she is scared of them, she's scared of being targeted again. but look at that kid's dark circles, I can't believe she's making him sleep in the woods, sick as he is!

really really fantastic subtlety. agatha wants to sound wise and strong, but she looks scared, uncertain, guilty.

see how nicky looks at agatha while he sings? he's checking to see if she's noticing, because his mom likes music and likes his voice. he's afraid he has upset her and wants to make her smile. he tried to reason with her, and now he tries to soothe her. this is what happens when you have an immature parent, a child will want to help, they will try to fix things. they'll end up parenting their parent, and it should always be the other way round.

agatha takes the bait. she's relieved that the conversation has moved to a safer subject. but oh, this script is so good. this is a mostly innocent, mostly sweet remark, but with a possessive undertone. don't forget that you are mine, she says.

and still, the love is real. even in a fucked up situation like this, these moment of happiness are precious and genuine and will linger on. look at how adoringly nicky looks at his mom, she's literally the sun and center of his small world, and that's how agatha likes it: she created nicky because she needed someone who could be hers without any baggage or consequences. but it turns out that raising a child is not a cheat code for love, it's one of the most difficult, most significant and impactful decisions a human can make.

go to episode 9 part 3

[cowboylikefaith]

with great power...

art donaldson spiderman! au x reader

summary: stanford has a masked superhero on the loose, and you're trying to crack down on his identity. little do you know, it's your boyfriend art.

warnings: cursing, injuries, reader highkey gets mugged, art is being mysterious af, reader is incredibly oblivious, sappy at the end sorry, not proofread

author's note: HI so this is actually my first time writing a fic ever... but this au idea has been absolutely rotting in my brain for the past week or so and i need to get it out. enjoy!!!!!!

╰🕸️ ₊✧ ﾟ❤️⚬𓂂➢

"dude!" you say barging into art's dorm (not realizing that your poor boyfriend was in the middle of a nap) "look at the topic the newspaper just assigned me. some shithead on campus is doing parkour in a scuba suit, people are calling him 'spiderman'."

art is pulled out of his trance-like state when he hears the name fall out of your mouth. you feel bad after realizing you woke him up, seeing him wipe his tired eyes with a pout on his lips. "hey pretty" he says with a lopsided smirk on his face "what were you talking about? some spider-idiot?" you hop into bed next to him "yeah it's nothing...sorry for waking you up, just go back to bed, 'kay?"

you don't know what's been up with art recently. he rarely returns your calls, he's always tired, and when he's awake, he's either in a rush or incredibly sluggish. you asked patrick about it and he said that the beginning of a new tennis season is wearing both of them down. seems reasonable, right?

now, it's been a few weeks since you were assigned this story, and jess (your senior editor) wants you to photograph and interview this spiderman guy, because apparently he's some kind of campus superhero (returning stolen laptops, helping drunk sorority girls avoid getting hit by cars, the usual) however you have no leads so far.

until one day, tashi tells you a story about how he saved a freshman from the tennis team from being hazed, and you decide to ask your boyfriend about it.

"you don't know anything about a kid named steven mcdonald, do you?" you ask art as you settle down to watch some gossip girl.

"that freshman who survived a hazing incident? yeah, i know of him" he replies as he pulls you into his arms and kisses your forehead.

you pull away with furrowed eyebrows "well did he...say...anything about that night?"

"uh no. no, not really" he says (a little distantly) "anyway! i seriously don't understand why serena loves dan so much, nate is obviously the better choice for her."

you roll your eyes sarcastically "wow donaldson...really smooth transition! way to change the subject there honey."

"i'm sorry.." he replies as he plays with your hair "it's just that...i don't want you getting mixed up in that kind of stuff. if you got hurt.." he sighs "i don't know what i'd do with myself"

and so you promise art that you'll stop working on the article...until jess says she'll kick you out of the stanford star if you do.

one night, as you're walking back to your dorm after dinner with tashi and patrick (third wheel much?), a man in a black ski mask suddenly approaches you and orders you to put your hands up.

"give me your fucking heels lady...and your purse!" he demands.

"oh god no" you shut your eyes and groan "please sir, these are really expensive and- and these are manolo blahniks!! my mom bought-"

before you can finish your rambling, you can hear a thud, and when open your eyes, you can see that he's been wrapped up in some web-like substance.

"don't worry, he's not dead" a figure says as he walks out from behind the criminal. you feel like you know him, you can't even see his face but something about him is just so familiar, and you can't put your finger on it. until..

oh my god

"oh my god! you're spiderman! thank you so much, seriously. that guy could've killed me" you say excitedly, forgetting about your past opinions about him.

art- i mean spiderman, chuckles and says that it's no problem, and asks if he could take you back to your dorm.

"yeah! i would love that, thank you." you reply "actually, could i take your photo? i'm doing an article about you for the stanford star." oh and art eats it UP. he's doing stupid poses and acting silly and goofy (just to hear you laugh of course).

you get back to your dorm safely, and spiderart bids you farewell. just before he leaps out your window, he pulls a red stanford cap (one that you've never noticed, and one that looks suspiciously like art's) out of his pocket.

"hey, maybe i'll see you around" he says as he puts the cap on...backwards. something that only art would do. lucky enough for him, you're too tired to notice.

"...and those are the differences between meiosis and mitosis." you're trying to study for another biology exam when all of a sudden you hear a tapping noise on your window.

at first you think it's a bird, or some frat boy trying to piss you off by throwing empty beer cans at your window, but the tapping turns into banging and you start to hear sounds of pain through the glass.

you run to the window and see a boy in a familiar red and blue suit sitting on the windowsill. this time with a huge gash in his side.

"spiderman? oh my god, get inside, what happened?" you ask while scrambling for a first aid kit. art falls onto your bed, unknowingly bleeding all over your new floral sheets. he groans and holds his side, mumbling something about...well god knows what.

art protests as you try to patch up the very open wound by his waist. "you're just like my boyfriend art," you say with a grin "he gets all fucked up during his tennis matches and doesn't let me help him out." you can hear him through the mask but you can't tell if it's a laugh or a whimper.

"jesus- how long is this going to take? i have an econ final to study for" he says with a wince. "not very long if you sit still, spiderboy" you retort "why don't you take off your mask? you must be dying with that thing on."

you feel his face, and it feels...familiar. you slowly take off the mask, and reveal art's lips, sculpted nose, blue and brown eyes, and tousled blonde hair.

suddenly you realize. you realize the reasons for the missed calls, hurried kisses, and rain-checked dates. all this time you've been thinking that it was tennis kicking his ass, when really art was kicking other people's.

"hi honey" art mumbles, same lopsided, boyish smile that you fell in love with gracing his face "i'm sorry. i should have told you." before you can say anything, he kisses you and sneaks his hands to the small of your back. you can feel him smiling into the kiss as he pulls you into his lap.

"i missed you" you say, pulling away with a pout. you card your hands through his blonde curls. "i know, i know, i'm sorry pretty girl, it's just that...i don't want you to worry about me." art replies, pushing your hair away from your face.

you flick his forehead. "you dumbass. of course i'm going to worry about you, whether you like it or not...because i like you. a lot. no matter what kind of freaky superpowers you have." art lets out a weak chuckle, then he kisses you like a man stuck in the desert for 40 days. you can feel him drawing small circles along your hips and caressing your thumb.

you pull away one last time. "now tell me spiderboy...how did you go from tennis team captain to stanford superhero?"

[thatbitchery]

Given everything you want will come from people just learn how to people. Exposure therapy and whatnot. Remember to learn to manipulate and gaslight bc are you even a woman if you cant? Manipulation is natural even nature does it why do you think ripe fruits are red and children are born cute with irresistible googoo gaga cartoon eyes lol authenticity on the outside is unnatural. We literally used to have camouflage be fr.

Remember to just have a superiority complex it's better than having an inferiority complex. If it has nothing to back it up ie. If you do not have tangible evidence then it will obviously crash its delusion but so is the inferiority complex and one of them feels better so.

Looking down on people >> looking up to people. Better to be on the pedestal than to hold people on the pedestal no? Being dominant >> being submissive obviously. Again, these are unbalanced positions and YOU WILL crash but better to crash from a high than a low, don't you think?

Master your masculine before you master your feminine. Creation is once in a while, sustenance IS FOREVER. Yes I know what the guru that wants you to speak in a baby voice and giggle once every two minutes said but forget her listen to me. Femininity is NOTHING without masculinity. It's useless. What's the good in creating if you can't sustain? First, Master your masculine. Then, master your feminine. Whether you like it or not no matter how much pink and Long hair you have and how many men provide for you , you will be in your masculine longer than your feminine. Again, what good is creation with no sustenance? And no sorry it's not supposed to come from outside you. Girly is not feminine, okay? Two different words.

I'll say this again, take the red pill, live like you're on the blue pill. Why escape the matrix when you can just dominate it?

It is, in fact. All in your head. This is an advantage.

Detachment. Seriously. When you stop wanting it, that's when it comes. Unfortunately that is how it works. Detachment IS abundance. It's not *there will be more* its *there will be*. It's not *Everything happens for the good* no, it is *Everything Happens* . It's not *God/ The Universe / Mythology of choice figurehead is on my side* it's *I am God/ The Universe/ Mythology of choice figurehead in a human body* . Detachment has no quantification, things just are. No good no bad no more no less no- just- *There Is* and *I Am* . That, that is when it all happens. Detachment is indifference. Detachment is femininity. Femininity is abundance.

Going ghost to work on yourself is like going to the curb to work on your driving skills. Isolation is death get this now againnn social species. That's like going away from water to learn to swim you are a cowarddd work on yourself in crowds THEN you'll be unstoppable. In face when you want to work on yourself throw yourself into people. Phobias are treated in presence of their triggers not absence? If you want to work on yourself as a gf get a boyfriend then work on yourself as a gf, how will you do that when you're single how does that work. Isolation is cowardice okay? No going ghost no sigma LEARN to survive with people and thrive, not despite them, but because of them. It's not like you're a cow so.

[lilmisshellfireswritingblog]

The Prophecy Chapter 2: Even Statues Crumble

Summary: Aurelia prepares for her wedding to Lucius Verus and marries him to save her own life.

A/N: Thank you for reading this little idea of mine. It literally came to me as I was listening to The Prophecy in the car on the way to work. If you have any requests as to like blurbs or one shots that happen within this universe, please let me know. I also don't do tag lists but, I appreciate the support! Warnings: 18+, arranged marriage, forced marriage, talks of death, second guessing, weddings, Geta being an a-hole, use of flashbacks, talking about wanting to die, emotions., and as always, let me know if I missed any.

Flashbacks are labeled as such.

Separator banner credit to: sweetmelodygraphics.

Aurelia’s gaze flitted to the reflection of the gown on the bed, her heart sinking. The fabric seemed to mock her. Every thread, every seam, a reminder of the future she never wanted. She felt suffocated by her obligations—by the weight of what was expected of her. Her father, her mother, the Senate, the people—they had all decided for her. They had all played their parts in crafting her destiny, and now she was nothing more than a pawn in a game of politics.

The door opened behind her with a soft creak, but she didn’t turn. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this—not tonight. Not before the wedding.

Her servant, Flavia, stepped in cautiously, her voice gentle as she spoke. "Your Highness, everything is prepared. The gown... the feast… everything is ready for tomorrow.."

Aurelia stood still for a long moment, her hands gripping the windowsill. The breeze from the open window fluttered her hair around her face, but she didn’t feel the coolness of it. She barely felt anything at all. She was numb.

“Aurelia?” Flavia’s voice was concerned now, soft but insistent.

Aurelia slowly turned toward her, her face unreadable, her eyes tired but defiant. “You were right to be excited for me,” she said bitterly, her words sharper than she intended. "But I’m not." She felt the sting of tears rising in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not cry in front of anyone—not now.

Flavia hesitated, her brow furrowing with worry. “You don’t have to go through with this. You know that, right? You can—”

“No,” Aurelia interrupted sharply, stepping away from the window, her voice suddenly hoarse. “I have no choice. I am to be the Emperor’s wife, whether I want to be or not. It’s this or die.”

Her words cut through the air, thick with the weight of resignation. She hated them. She hated the fact that her life was no longer hers to control. She had no say in who she married, no say in what her future would be. Her marriage to Geta had been forced upon her, too, but at least she had known him, had grown accustomed to his cruelty. This marriage—this union with Lucius Verus—felt like a strange cruelty of its own.

Flavia opened her mouth to protest again, but Aurelia cut her off with a soft, bitter laugh.

“You don’t understand, Flavia,” she whispered, her hands trembling at her sides. “Geta and Caracalla are dead. The empire is in the hands of men who would never think twice about tearing me apart. I am a puppet. A trophy wife. Tomorrow, I’ll stand before the Senate, and they’ll pretend to care, while they all gawk at the new Empress. And Lucius…” She paused, her voice thick with disdain, “He doesn’t want me. He’s just another part of the game. Another ruler who’ll sit beside me in the throne room and we’ll both pretend to love each other.”

Flavia moved closer, placing a gentle hand on Aurelia’s arm. “He’s not like the others, Aurelia. Lucius—he’s different. He was a gladiator. He knows what it means to fight, to survive. He’s not like the men who’ve ruled before.”

Aurelia’s lips trembled at the words. She wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that Lucius, this gladiator-turned-emperor, was different. That maybe, through some strange twist of fate, he might understand her pain. But the truth was more complicated than that.

She stepped away from Flavia’s touch, pacing slowly toward the edge of the room. Her fingers lightly brushed against the fabric of the wedding gown once more, the weight of it pulling her down. "I don’t want to marry him,” she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else. “I don’t want this life. I don’t want any of it."

The words hung in the air, thick with the despair she had not allowed herself to feel until now. There was a part of her, a small, fragile part, that wanted to scream at the heavens. Why me? Why is it always me who has to bear the weight of the empire’s cruelty?

Flavia, sensing the depth of her distress, approached her once more, her voice softer this time, filled with empathy. "You don’t have to marry him if you don’t want to. You are strong, Aurelia. You can walk away from this. There are other ways."

Aurelia looked at her, her eyes clouded with pain. “What other ways, Flavia? Do you think the Senate would let me walk away? Do you think I could just... disappear?” Her voice cracked, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, her composure shattered. "I am nothing but a political pawn in their game. If I don't marry Lucius, I’ll be executed. They’ll kill me and then they’ll put someone else on the throne."

Flavia’s heart broke at the words, but she stood still, not knowing how to comfort her. There was no escape, not really. Not for Aurelia. Not for the woman who had already lost everything.

“I have nothing,” Aurelia whispered, her voice hollow. “Nothing left. Nothing to give. Nothing to hope for. This marriage... this wedding... it’s all a lie.” 

Tears filled Aurelia’s eyes, but she quickly wiped them away, turning away from Flavia. “I wish I could die before tomorrow. Just to be free of all of this.”

Flavia’s breath hitched, panic rising in her chest. She grabbed Aurelia by the shoulders, turning her to face her. “Don’t say that, Aurelia. Don’t even think it! You’re strong. You have so much to live for.”

Aurelia pulled away gently, her voice strained and broken. “What do I have to live for? This empire? This crown?” She gestured helplessly to the room, to the gown she would wear tomorrow, to the life that awaited her. “I never asked for any of this. I didn’t want this.”

She sank into a chair, her head buried in her hands as she trembled. Flavia stood helplessly nearby, watching the woman she had served for so long unravel before her eyes.

And for a moment, the silence between them was unbearable, filled only with the weight of unspoken sorrow.

Aurelia’s thoughts were a whirl of darkness and pain but in the quiet, with the wedding gown looming in the distance, she knew—deep down—that she had to keep moving forward, whether she wanted to or not.

It was marriage or death.

For tomorrow, whether she accepted it or not, she would marry Lucius Verus and she would be Empress once more. 

Flashback ~ Before Her Marriage to Geta

The night before her wedding to Emperor Geta, Aurelia lay in her bed, the cool sheets tangled around her legs, but it was the storm in her mind that kept her awake. She stared up at the high, vaulted ceiling, the shadows of the room stretching long and dark, as if the very walls were closing in on her.

She had barely eaten at dinner. She had hardly spoken. The weight of the marriage, of the future that awaited her, hung like a shroud. Tomorrow, she would walk down the aisle in a gown of white and gold, and before the Senate and the people of Rome, she would become Empress Aurelia, the wife of a man she barely knew, a man she had been told to marry to secure her family's place in the empire.

But Aurelia did not want this. Not this life. Not with him. She never wanted the titles or the riches.

A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, but one was clear: she could not go through with it. She would not. If there was any way to escape, to avoid this fate, she would find it. She had to.

She slipped out of bed, her bare feet cold against the marble floor. She had worn the finest silken gown, but now she felt it like a weight—a symbol of the chains that bound her to this life she had not chosen. Moving quickly, she crept to the door, her heart hammering in her chest. The guards would be outside, she knew. They always were. But what if she could slip past them? What if she could leave the palace unnoticed?

Aurelia moved silently through the darkened corridors, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she pressed herself into the shadows, listening carefully for any signs of movement. The stone walls of the palace seemed oppressive in their silence, like the very architecture was conspiring against her.

She reached the door that led to the garden, the place where she used to play as a child, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like a distant memory. The scent of roses filled the air, the sound of the night insects buzzing faintly in the distance. She stepped outside, the cool night air hitting her skin, and felt a fleeting sense of freedom.

But just as she began to move toward the edge of the gardens, a voice sliced through the silence.

“Aurelia.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. She froze. Slowly, she turned to find Marcus Cassius, her father, standing in the shadows, his face unreadable but stern. He had been watching her. Of course he had. The guards would never have let her slip by without reporting it.

“You should be in bed,” he said, his voice soft but firm, like the press of a blade against her throat.

“I—” Aurelia began, but her words faltered. She had no excuse. No lie would work.

She was tired of lying.

“I can’t do this, Father,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t marry him. I can’t marry Geta.”

Marcus took a slow step forward, his face illuminated by the moonlight, and Aurelia saw the flicker of something in his eyes—concern, perhaps, or disappointment. It was hard to tell. His features were always so controlled.

“I know this isn’t what you want,” he said, his tone gentle, but there was an undercurrent of something darker, something unyielding. “But it is what you must do.”

Aurelia’s chest tightened, her breath coming faster as the weight of his words crushed her. “I don’t care about what I must do!” she snapped, her voice rising. “I care about what I want, what I need. And I need to be free. Free from this. I don’t belong with Geta. I don’t love him. How can you ask me to marry a man I barely know, someone I’ve heard only whispers of? How can you force me into this life?”

Her father’s eyes softened, but the hardness in his face never wavered. “It’s not about love, Aurelia,” he said, his voice almost too calm. “This is about Rome. This is about securing the future of our family. Your marriage to Geta will ensure that we remain in power, that our name remains in the annals of history. You were born to be a part of this.”

Aurelia stepped back, shaking her head in disbelief. “I never asked for this. You’ve always made choices for me, Father, but I’m not a child anymore. I’m not some pawn for you to place in a marriage bed just to secure alliances. I want my own life. I want to choose my own path.”

Marcus’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening. “You’ve never had a choice, Aurelia. You’ve always known that. The empire does not offer choice to women like you. You are a Cassia, and that means you have a duty. Do you think your mother didn’t know this when she married me? Do you think she didn’t understand that duty? That she didn’t make sacrifices for it?”

Aurelia recoiled, her breath catching in her throat. She had never heard her father speak of her mother with such coldness. It was as if the warmth of her mother’s memory—of her kindness and devotion—was gone, swept away by the weight of duty and power.

“I don’t want to be like her,” Aurelia said, her voice barely above a whisper, her hands trembling at her sides. “I don’t want to give up everything for the empire. I don’t want to be controlled.”

Her father’s expression faltered, just for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “You have no choice. Neither does Geta. The Senate has already approved this marriage. The people will expect it. If you do not comply, there will be consequences for us both.”

Aurelia’s world felt like it was collapsing around her. The walls of the palace, the stone and marble, seemed to close in on her, suffocating her. “I don’t care about their consequences!” she cried, her voice breaking, but even as she said it, she knew she was lying. She cared about the consequences—she cared deeply. A refusal would mean disgrace, dishonor, and ruin for her family. And for herself.

“You must go through with it,” Marcus said quietly, his voice final. “You will meet Geta tomorrow. You will marry him. And you will do it for Rome. For us. For your future.”

Aurelia’s knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the stone bench in the garden, her hands pressing against her face. The tears she had been holding back for so long finally spilled over, and for the first time in years, she felt utterly, completely powerless.

Her father’s gaze lingered on her, but there was no sympathy in it. Only the cold, unyielding expectation of a Roman nobleman.

“You will learn to accept it,” he said quietly, before turning and walking back toward the palace.

Aurelia was left alone, the sound of his footsteps fading as the weight of her reality set in. She could run. She could scream. But she knew, deep down, that there was no escape. Not for her. Not from the life her father had chosen for her.

Aurelia stood in front of the full-length mirror, her reflection hazy in the soft light of the candle-lit chamber. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the silk robe that clung to her skin. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional clink of jewelry being prepared by her attendants. The noise from outside—laughter, music, the murmur of the Senate gathering for the ceremony—seemed distant, almost foreign to her in this moment of solitude.

Her wedding day. It should have been a day of joy, of hope for a future that could be built in the light of love and partnership. But for her, it felt like the closing of a door she had never intended to open.

The door to the chamber opened slowly, and one of her handmaidens entered, holding the delicate wedding gown in her arms. Aurelia’s eyes flickered toward it for a moment before returning to her own reflection. The gown was a brilliant red, trimmed with gold thread, the fabric soft and weightless like a dream. The delicate embroidery along the hem and neckline sparkled faintly in the light—symbols of Rome's glory, of the empire's future that was now her responsibility, and her burden.

"Aurelia?" The handmaid's voice was gentle, tentative, as if unsure whether to interrupt her mistress's thoughts.

Aurelia turned, giving her a tight, thin-lipped smile. "Yes, Flavia?"

"The gown is ready to don, Empress. Shall I help you?" The woman’s gaze was respectful, but there was something else there too—a flicker of sympathy that Aurelia couldn’t bear to acknowledge.

Aurelia swallowed the lump in her throat. She didn’t want sympathy. She didn’t want pity. She wanted to scream, to break something, to tear off this crown of thorns that Rome had placed on her head. But she did none of that. She simply nodded.

"Yes," she said softly, turning her back to the mirror so Antonia could help her slip out of the robe and into the wedding gown.

The cold air of the room pricked at her skin as she stood there, exposed, while her handmaiden adjusted the dress. The fabric felt like it was suffocating her, the layers of fine silk pressing against her ribs, wrapping around her like a prison. Every movement she made seemed to tighten the knot in her chest, that feeling of being trapped.

“Do you want to wear your crown?” Antonia asked quietly as she fastened the gown with a delicate clasp at the back.

Aurelia’s eyes closed for a moment, the thought of the crown heavy in her mind. It was an ancient piece, crafted with intricate gold filigree and precious stones, a symbol of imperial power. It had once been worn by the great empresses of Rome, and now it would sit atop her head—whether she liked it or not.

But no. Not today.

“Not yet,” Aurelia replied with a sigh, her voice flat. She didn’t need the crown to feel the weight of this marriage. The crown would only serve as a reminder of the chains that now bound her to Lucius.

The handmaiden gave a small nod and moved to prepare the rest of the ensemble. Aurelia looked back at her reflection, her eyes scanning her face, her chestnut brown hair, now expertly arranged in a complicated updo, twisted with strands of gold. The gold accents in her gown glinted, catching the light like cruel promises.

Her heart thudded in her chest. It was not fear that made her body tense, nor anxiety over the marriage itself. It was the overwhelming weight of her own complicity. She was walking into this union with her eyes wide open. She knew what this would mean for her. For her future. For her identity.

"I should be happy," she murmured to herself. "I should be proud."

But she wasn’t.

She wasn’t anything but resigned.

She had spent her life surrounded by men who used their power for their own gain—first Geta, then Father, and now Lucius. Each had taken something from her. Her love. Her trust. Her belief in what a marriage could be. Now, this marriage would be no different. Lucius was no Geta, certainly, but the coldness that resided between them was something that neither of them could escape. He may have been the son of Lucilla, the true heir to the throne, but she knew him only as a gladiator—someone who had fought his way to power, someone who had been shaped by violence and bloodshed.

The door creaked again, and another handmaiden entered, this one carrying the veil that would cover her face. Aurelia stood still as it was gently placed over her head. She let the fabric fall into place, the lace soft against her skin. It was beautiful, but suffocating.

“You look stunning, Empress,” Antonia whispered, as if her words would somehow erase the tension in the room.

Aurelia didn’t respond immediately. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, to pretend for even a moment that this day was anything other than the beginning of something that she had not chosen.

The heavy silence settled between them, the air thick with the weight of her decision. The marriage would proceed. The ceremony would go on. She would stand by Lucius’s side. She would wear the crown, and she would endure.

In a fleeting moment, as the last of the attendants left the room to give her space, Aurelia allowed herself one last thought: Perhaps, somewhere in the depths of her heart, she still longed for a different life. A life where she was not bound by duty, not made to be the symbol of an empire, not forced into a marriage for the sake of political alliances.

But as the clock ticked, the reality of her situation gripped her again, cold and unyielding.

This was not her choice. Not really.

She was an empress and empresses did not have the luxury of choice.

Aurelia stepped toward the door, the faint sound of the wedding procession echoing in the halls of the palace. She walked down the corridors, her heels clicking softly against the marble floors, her breath steady. Her hands, now trembling once more, gripped the edges of her gown. She could feel her heart race. But she kept her face neutral, resolute.

The doors to the grand hall opened, and before her, in the vastness of the room, stood Lucius—waiting for her. The air buzzed with anticipation.

And she, Aurelia, stood at the threshold, ready to step into her new life.

The price of power. The price of survival.

And, most of all, the price of being an empress.

The grand hall of the imperial palace was bathed in golden light, its columns adorned with rich purple tapestries and intricate carvings that had witnessed countless ceremonies of wealth and power. But today, this sacred space seemed to pulse with an air of something darker—something forged by the sword, blood, and vengeance.

Aurelia Carina Cassia stood near the altar, her breath shallow and her body stiff with anger, her eyes dark and haunted as she gazed out over the sea of guests. Senators, generals, and various figures of power from across the Empire filled the space, their murmurs low and expectant. It was meant to be a celebration of Rome’s new era, but for her, it felt like a bitter mockery.

Her heart still ached for Geta, her late husband. Cruel though he had been, she had found a way to love him—a love that had never been returned but existed all the same. Now, the man who had taken his place as Emperor, Lucius Verus, stood in front of her.

Lucius Verus. He was unlike anything she had imagined. A gladiator. A slave. And yet, he bore the blood of the true Imperial line. He was her captor and her future husband, thrust into this role by the whims of power. He had murdered Macrinus, the usurper who had orchestrated the deaths of her first husband and his brother Caracalla, but in his victory, there was no joy—only a quiet fury that matched her own.

He stood tall and commanding, his piercing blue eyes scanning her face with an intensity that unsettled her. He was dressed in the traditional garb of an emperor, but his bearing—the broad shoulders, the ruggedness, the battle-worn look—betrayed his humble origins. He had spent most of his time in Rome now in the blood-soaked sands, fighting for survival, earning his freedom through the same violence that had stolen his childhood.

He was, in a sense, a mirror to her own loss. She, too, had been forced to survive in a world she could never control.

And now they were to be joined in marriage, a union that was born not of love, but of survival.

The officiant, a high-ranking priestess, gestured for them to stand at the center of the room, her voice smooth and practiced as she spoke the traditional words of union. Her gaze flickered between the two, noting the tension in their posture, the unwillingness that clung to them like a dark cloud.

Aurelia’s hands trembled as she reached out to take the hand of her new husband. His palm was rough and calloused, the grip firm but not comforting. She could feel the history of his life in his touch—years of hardship, bloodshed, and struggle. His thumb brushed against the back of her hand in a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture, but it was enough to remind her that despite all that had happened, they were bound by something now. A shared future of power, of control, and of the very Empire that had destroyed their lives.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she nodded, the ceremony continuing in its formalities, yet her mind was far from the words being spoken. She thought of the fateful choice she had been given: marry Lucius Verus or face execution. It was a choice she had made out of necessity, but every fiber of her being screamed in defiance. She had loved Geta, and in that love, she had found a strange semblance of purpose, even if it had been a hollow one. Now, that love had been torn from her, and she was left with a man she neither knew nor cared to know.

Lucius, for his part, said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something that mirrored her own anger. Perhaps it was the knowledge that neither of them had been given the luxury of choice, that their fates had been decided by forces greater than themselves.

The priestess continued with the vows, each word falling like the sound of a hammer on stone. As Lucius Verus spoke his vows, his voice was steady, though there was a quiet intensity beneath it, as if he were speaking not just to Aurelia but to the Empire itself, declaring his authority, his claim to this throne. He had killed Macrinus for the very right to stand where he was now. And she was his symbol of legitimacy, the last link to the imperial bloodline of the old regime.

Her turn came, and for a moment, she hesitated. The weight of what this marriage meant pressed down on her, the reality of her new life settling in. There was no love to offer him. No affection. Just the remnants of a broken loyalty to a man who had never truly loved her.

“I vow,” she said, her voice cold, “to stand by your side, as is my duty. I vow to give you the Empire that you now rule, for what it is worth. But know this, Lucius Verus—there will be no affection, no love between us. Only power. Only ambition.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence. The room held its breath.

Lucius’s blue eyes bored into hers, and for a long moment, she thought he might challenge her words, perhaps even reject her defiance. Instead, he simply nodded, as if he had already anticipated it.

“We will rule together,” he said, his voice steady and unwavering. “There is no room for weakness in Rome.”

And with that, the ceremony was complete.

As they turned to face the assembled guests, the crowd erupted into applause, their faces masks of politeness, their hands clapping with enthusiasm. The new emperor and his empress stood together, united in a marriage that neither had chosen but both were bound by. Aurelia could feel the coldness of her own heart as she stood there beside him, the weight of the imperial crown now heavy on her brow.

Her life, her future, was now irrevocably linked to this man, this gladiator-turned-emperor, whose blue eyes hid more secrets than she would ever be able to unravel. But as they walked down the aisle, side by side, she knew one thing for certain: in the world of power, there could be no true love. Only survival. Only Empire. Only Rome. Only duty.

Flashback ~ The Wedding To Geta

The sun was setting over Rome, casting a soft golden glow over the city that stretched out below the Palatine Hill. Aurelia stood before a tall mirror, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the folds of her wedding dress—a gown of delicate silk and rich embroidery that shimmered in the fading light. The dress, fit for an empress, was crafted from the finest materials, but it felt heavy against her skin. Every stitch, every detail, reminded her of the weight of the day, of the promise she was about to make, and the life she was about to step into.

Her reflection stared back at her, but she barely recognized the woman in the mirror. Gone was the spirited young woman she had been before her marriage was arranged. Gone was the girl who had dreamed of love and adventure. In her place stood a woman bound by duty—her fate sealed by the politics of empire, her future written in the cold, unfeeling hand of power.

Aurelia closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a steadying breath. She would have preferred to wait, to delay this moment, to take time to come to terms with the reality of her marriage. But there was no time. The people expected it. The Senate demanded it. And her father, always the pragmatist, had seen the union as an opportunity for political gain—an alliance that would strengthen the family name.

"Are you ready?" came a voice, breaking her reverie. It was her father, standing in the doorway of her chamber. His expression was unreadable, as it always was, but there was something behind his eyes—a flicker of concern, perhaps, or maybe guilt. He had done what was necessary. But Aurelia knew it had not been his choice either.

She forced a smile, the kind of smile she had perfected long ago when she was a child trying to please her father. "As ready as I’ll ever be."

Her father’s eyes softened for just a moment before he nodded. "You will be Empress. You know what that means, Aurelia. It’s a responsibility to Rome. To the future. Remember all that your mother and I have taught you."

Aurelia nodded, her throat tightening. Her future was already laid out for her, and it was not a future she had chosen. But she had always known that in the Roman world, duty outweighed personal desire. She was a woman of privilege, yes, but she was also a pawn in a game of power and politics.

The doors to the chamber opened, and Aurelia’s attendants entered, guiding her to the grand hall where the wedding would take place. The hall was massive, filled with marble columns and the scent of fresh flowers, the long tables draped in crimson cloths. Guests had already arrived, dressed in their finest to witness the union of the Emperor and the daughter of a noble family. But none of it felt real to Aurelia. It all felt distant, a pageant for the empire’s elite, a performance where she was expected to play her role.

Her heart beat in her chest, faster than it had been moments ago. Not from excitement, but from a deep, gnawing apprehension. This man— Emperor Geta—would be her husband. A man who had already shown her nothing but coldness and indifference. Their marriage, she knew, was not one built on affection or love but on the weight of imperial necessity.

As she entered the hall, she could feel the eyes of the guests on her, their gazes heavy, judging. The high-ranking senators, the nobles of Rome, all gathered to witness the consolidation of power that this marriage represented. But Aurelia’s mind was elsewhere, focused on the figure at the end of the long aisle.

Emperor Geta stood there, his back straight, his expression impassive. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his tunic was rich with gold embroidery, the imperial seal shining brightly on his chest. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met hers briefly as she walked toward him. For a moment, there was a flicker—an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze—but it was gone before Aurelia could understand it.

His presence was like a shadow, looming over her, a reminder of what was to come. He was not cruel—at least, not outwardly—but there was a coldness in him, an emotional distance that made her uneasy. The idea of this man being her husband was foreign, unsettling. And yet, as the ceremony began, she knew there was no turning back.

The high priest stepped forward, his voice solemn as he began the traditional rites. Aurelia’s gaze remained fixed on Geta, but he was unmoved. His lips were set in a firm line, his expression a mask of indifference. He did not seem to care for the ceremony, nor did he seem to care for her.

"Do you, Emperor Geta, take Aurelia Carina Cassia to be your wife, to rule beside you in both marriage and in empire, in joy and in hardship, in life and in death?" the priest asked.

Geta’s voice was low, almost detached. "I do."

Aurelia’s heart skipped a beat. He spoke the words with no passion, no conviction, as though the act was nothing more than a formality to be checked off the list. A formality for the empire.

Then it was her turn.

"Aurelia Carina Cassia," the priest said, turning his gaze to her. "Do you take Emperor Geta, to be your husband, to join with him in marriage, in rule, in life, and in death?"

Her lips parted, but for a long moment, no sound came out. Her mind swirled with conflicting thoughts—fear, doubt, and resignation. She had no choice. There was no turning back. The empire was watching her.

"I do," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.

The ceremony continued, the exchange of vows, the binding of rings, the symbolic gestures of unity. But even as the final prayers were spoken and the crowd cheered, Aurelia felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of emptiness. She was a wife, yes, but not in the way she had imagined. She was a wife in name, a wife to a man who would never truly love her.

As the final blessing was given, Geta turned to her, offering her his arm as he led her from the altar. His eyes met hers for a moment, and in the fleeting seconds, Aurelia saw something there—something cold, something distant. But she couldn’t place it. She wasn’t sure if it was pity, disdain, or something else entirely. But it didn’t matter.

They were married now. The empire will have its heirs. The empire had its future.

They walked together, side by side, but it felt as though they were walking in separate worlds, worlds that had collided for the sake of duty, of power, of an empire that demanded much and offered little in return.

As Aurelia took her place at his side, she couldn’t help but wonder what the future would hold for her in this cold, loveless marriage. Would she ever find warmth in his eyes? Or would she forever remain a figure beside him, a silent witness to the empire’s unyielding march?

In the end, she knew one thing for certain: the wedding had been the beginning of a new life, but it had not been the beginning of love.

The grand dining hall of the imperial palace was a breathtaking sight, adorned with lavish tapestries depicting the heroic deeds of the emperor's past. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed wine, and exotic spices, while gilded chandeliers cast their warm glow over the guests, whose laughter and chatter echoed off the marble walls. The feast had begun in earnest, but for Aurelia, it felt like an insufferable pageantry, an endless display of opulence that was as hollow as her own heart.

The high table, where she and Lucius Verus now sat side by side, was elevated above the sea of guests, an uncomfortable reminder of the power that now bound them together. At one end of the table sat the new Emperor of Rome, his piercing blue eyes cold and distant, as if he were already surveying the entire Empire with an authority that didn’t need to be spoken. At the other end, Aurelia sat stiffly, her hands clenched in her lap beneath the rich folds of her gown, unable to fully appreciate the luxury that surrounded her. She had been made Empress again, yes, but it was a title that seemed to mock her more than anything else. She had no love for Lucius Verus—her husband only in name—yet here she was, forced to play the part, to smile and pretend that this was all as it should be.

Her gown shimmered beneath the flickering candlelight. It was the color of Rome’s old blood—the blood of emperors, of gladiators, and of countless men and women who had fought for survival. She hated the irony of it all.

Lucius, for his part, barely spoke. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable. He lifted his goblet of wine to his lips and took a long drink, his eyes briefly meeting hers, but only for a second. The tension between them was palpable, like an invisible thread pulling them further apart with every passing moment.

The servants moved around the table with practiced efficiency, placing golden platters of roasted boar, venison, and lamb, their skins crackling with crisp fat, alongside bowls of fresh fruits—pomegranates, figs, and clusters of grapes—and loaves of freshly baked bread. An assortment of cheeses and honeyed pastries were brought in, and the scent of wine—sweet, tart, and heady—filled the air. Flutists played softly in the background, and a troupe of dancers from the East began a slow, sensuous dance, their silks flowing as they moved in perfect harmony with the music.

But despite the abundance of food and drink, despite the spectacle unfolding before her, Aurelia could not enjoy a single moment. Her mind swam with bitter thoughts: memories of Geta, the brutal coldness of his reign, his violence—yet, within that cruelty, she had found something to hold on to, something that had made him hers, even if only in the darkest corners of her heart.

She was brought back to the present by a low voice beside her.

"Not hungry?" Lucius Verus’s voice was quieter than before, his words heavy with something unreadable. It was not a question of concern, but one of curiosity, or perhaps challenge.

Aurelia turned toward him, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were sharp and intent, as though he were studying her, as though she were the next opponent to be defeated in his personal arena.

"I’m not hungry," she replied, her voice cool, and for a moment, their eyes locked, the silence between them thick and heavy.

Lucius’s lips tightened, though it wasn’t in anger. It was more a quiet acknowledgment of the tension between them. He turned his gaze back to the feast and picked up a roasted fig, placing it delicately in his mouth. There was something almost calculated about his movements, as if every action were part of a larger strategy.

Around them, the feast continued with laughter and revelry. A senator cracked a joke, a group of soldiers clinked their goblets together in a celebratory toast, and a young noblewoman tried to engage Lucius in conversation about the new laws he would enact. Yet, despite the outward merriment, there was an underlying current of unease. The guests were not so naïve as to ignore the strange and uneasy marriage that had just been sealed in the hall behind them.

Lucius shifted slightly in his seat, as though feeling the weight of the eyes that turned toward him.

"You don’t have to pretend," he said, breaking the silence again, his voice low and almost resigned. "I know why you’re here. You don’t have to like it."

Aurelia’s lips tightened at his words, but there was no anger in them. It was merely truth, blunt and direct, as always. She looked down at her hands, unwilling to meet his gaze again.

"I don’t pretend," she replied softly, though she knew the truth of her own hypocrisy. She was pretending, of course. Pretending that she didn’t care. Pretending that this was all something she could endure.

"Then why sit through this?" Lucius asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why endure this charade?"

Aurelia raised her eyes to his once more, meeting his gaze squarely. For a moment, she wanted to say because it’s all I have left, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she said only, “Because I have no choice, just as you have no choice.”

For a heartbeat, Lucius said nothing. He stared at her, as though seeing her for the first time—truly seeing her. His gaze was piercing, intense, yet something flickered in those deep blue eyes. Perhaps it was understanding, perhaps it was something more, but Aurelia could not bring herself to interpret it.

A loud cheer broke the silence, and Aurelia turned toward the noise. The guests were raising their cups in a toast, celebrating the new Emperor and Empress, raising their voices in the name of Roman glory. It was an exultant sound, but it grated on her nerves, like the clanging of swords against stone.

"To Lucius Verus, Emperor of Rome!" a voice cried from the crowd.

"And to Aurelia Carina Cassia, Empress of Rome!" another echoed.

The room erupted in applause, and for a moment, the noise drowned out everything else. Aurelia didn’t raise her glass. Instead, she simply sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her thoughts swirling in dark circles.

Lucius raised his goblet, the flickering light from the candles catching in the deep blue of his eyes, but he did not look at her when he spoke.

"To Rome," he said simply, his voice carrying authority that silenced even the loudest of voices.

The crowd echoed his words, and for the briefest of moments, Aurelia felt the weight of the empire—its triumphs, its cruelties, and its endless hunger for power. It was the weight she had inherited, and it was a weight that would forever bind her to Lucius Verus.

For better or for worse, she was now his. And he was hers.

The feast continued around them, but for both of them, it had already ended. 

The grand banquet hall was alive with the sounds of music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets, but amid the festivity, there was a tension that seemed to weave itself into the very air. The feast had stretched on for hours, but now the guests were beginning to murmur in anticipation as the next part of the evening approached. The moment that every wedding in Rome demanded—the first dance.

Aurelia Carina Cassia stood frozen at the edge of the hall, her gown heavy around her, the rich crimson fabric swishing as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She could feel the weight of every eye in the room, the glances that flicked between her and Lucius Verus, the new Emperor of Rome, her husband by forced choice. He was already standing at the center of the room, his posture perfect, his jaw set in that all-too-familiar way of someone who had long since learned to suppress any sign of weakness.

They were supposed to dance. They were supposed to take the center of the room and spin in graceful circles, the crowd watching and applauding as if this were a storybook wedding. But Aurelia didn’t feel like a princess or a queen. She felt like a prisoner.

Her eyes flicked nervously to the musicians at the far end of the room, their instruments ready, their gazes expectant. They were waiting for her to take the first step, to move toward Lucius and begin the ritual. Her chest tightened with the weight of it. She couldn’t do this. Not with him. Not when every inch of her body wanted to scream in defiance.

Lucius turned toward her, his gaze cool but unreadable, like a glacier that had been worn smooth by the passage of time. He was not nervous. Of course, he wasn’t. A gladiator, a warrior forged in blood, who had danced with death more times than he could count. What was a simple waltz to a man who had survived arenas and emperors’ plots?

"You’re stalling," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the growing hum of the room.

Aurelia didn’t respond immediately. She couldn’t. She simply stared at him, that same gnawing bitterness rising within her. She was trapped, caught in the unrelenting gears of this machine—this Empire, this marriage. And there was nothing she could do to escape it.

His eyes softened just the slightest bit, but it wasn’t with warmth. It was a recognition of the struggle she was facing, though he would never voice it aloud. Lucius knew what it was to be trapped in chains, though his were made of blood and iron, not silk and ceremony.

When he spoke again, his words were measured, as though he were giving her a final choice.

"You don’t have to like it. But we have to do this, for Rome." His words weren’t a command; they were simply a fact, one that neither of them could escape.

Aurelia took a sharp breath and glanced back at the crowd. She could feel their eyes on her, the heat of their stares burning into her skin. They were waiting for their Empress to play her part, to show the world that Rome was strong, unified under the rule of its new Emperor. She had no choice. She could feel the weight of it in the pit of her stomach.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back, trying to summon whatever dignity she had left, and began to walk toward Lucius. Each step felt like an eternity. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, the sound strangely amplified in the stillness that had fallen over the room. Lucius didn’t move, didn’t step forward to meet her. He simply waited, his posture as commanding as ever.

When she reached him, there was a brief, uncomfortable pause. He regarded her with those piercing blue eyes, his expression unreadable. Aurelia wanted to say something—anything—to break the silence. To tell him that she would never be the obedient bride he expected her to be. But instead, she lifted her chin, her jaw set in defiance, and placed her hand on his shoulder, offering him the coldest, most formal smile she could muster.

Lucius’s hand slid around her waist, the touch firm but not intimate. It was a touch that spoke of duty, not desire. He began to guide her into the first slow steps of the dance, his movements practiced and smooth, as though he had done this a thousand times before. Aurelia resisted the instinct to pull away, to lash out, but it was harder than she anticipated.

The music swirled around them, the sounds of the flutes and strings filling the room with a kind of ethereal, haunting beauty. The guests began to murmur, some of them leaning in to catch a glimpse of their new rulers, while others smiled and whispered praises. Aurelia could feel their eyes, their judgments, and it made her skin crawl. This was their moment, a moment they had all been waiting for.

Lucius’s grip tightened just slightly around her waist as they moved in time with the music. The movement was mechanical, almost rehearsed. She could feel the tension between them—an invisible barrier neither of them had the will or the desire to cross. Neither of them spoke. The only sound between them was the soft rustle of her gown as they moved in an intricate, slow circle.

Aurelia’s breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t the dance itself that bothered her—it was the feeling of being so close to him, so exposed. His scent, sharp and masculine, filled her senses, and she had to fight not to recoil. The proximity, the enforced intimacy, made her stomach churn.

Lucius seemed to sense her discomfort, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he gave a small, barely perceptible nod, as though acknowledging the weight of the situation. Aurelia couldn’t tell if it was sympathy, amusement, or something else entirely.

The music shifted, becoming faster, more energetic, but still they danced—two figures moving through the motions, a king and queen of an empire built on blood, sweat, and lies. Their feet moved in perfect time, yet there was a palpable distance between them, a gulf that no amount of waltzing could bridge. It wasn’t the graceful, romantic affair the guests had expected. It was a dance of survival. A dance of power.

Aurelia’s mind raced with thoughts of the life she had lost, the man she had loved, and the empire that had torn it all apart. She fought the urge to pull away from Lucius, but there was no escaping this moment. They were bound by more than the silk of her gown or the glittering jewels in her hair. They were bound by the expectations of Rome, by the empire that had demanded this union, this performance.

And so they danced. Neither of them truly present, both lost in the performance. And the crowd watched, applauded, and whispered their approval, as the two of them continued the endless charade that had begun with a marriage forged in blood.

When the dance finally ended, and the last notes of the music drifted into silence, Aurelia was left breathless. Her chest rose and fell with the exertion of holding herself together, and she quickly stepped back, her hand falling from his shoulder. The applause was polite, distant, but it was nothing compared to the silence between them now.

Lucius’s eyes met hers for a brief moment, his expression unreadable. His lips parted as though he might say something, but then he simply nodded.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet, though the words seemed hollow to her ears.

Aurelia didn’t answer. She simply gave him a stiff nod in return, the weight of the crown upon her head heavier than ever before.

Then, she turned and walked away, the crowd parting for her like water parting for a stone, their whispers now louder, more insistent but she didn’t care. All that mattered now was the emptiness she felt inside and the weight of the empire that bound her to a man she would never love.

[thewitchblue]

"I told you not to touch that."

You had warned a very curious Tim repeatedly. This one wasn't anything harmful. You simply didn't want him touching your potions. It was a very annoying potion to make.

You had left it boiling on a burner while you got a snack, but Tim shut off the burner to touch your half-baked potion. You had no idea how long he's had it off the burner, but it wasn't boiling anymore.

"What does it do?"

He didn't have the guts to do anything but hold the boiling hot beaker. At least, not in front of you. He felt like he was a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"It was SUPPOSED to be a present for Jason, jackass. Now it's ruined."

You aggressively took the breaker from Tim and borderline slammed it down on your windowsill. You stormed over to your burner and turned it on again. Maybe you can salvage it. It had stopped boiling because Tim was too curious for his own good.

"Oh."

Tim looked embarrassed. You didn't bother to tell him it was liquid weed, so Jason could stop stinking up the manor when he smokes.

You were sick of getting accidentally drugged because Jason left brownies out without a "do not eat" sign. You think Jason secretly likes drugging people, but there was an unspoken agreement: shut up and leave the drugged person alone.

You were hoping this potion would get him to go to you instead of some shady drug dealer, but Tim doesn't need to know any of this. This is between you and Jason.

"Do me a favour and never touch my stuff. My next potion won't be so friendly."

You grumbled. You were the family witch. Yes, the stereotypical potions and general magic. You learned from Constantine and Zatanna how to use spells, but potions are where you shine.

You are called The Alchemist at night and are feared mainly due to how prepared you are. You had a potion for anything and everything.

The villains actively avoid you as a result of your preparation. You're seriously more prepared and paranoid than Batman in a lot of cases.

Scarecrow is the only one salty enough to go after you. He wanted you as an apprentice, but he's not getting anywhere by kidnapping you on the occasion. Come on, just give him one potion that he can replicate if he can't have you on his side!

Joker found you boring, Bane doesn't want to tango when you take away his muscles with a potion, Ra cares more about physical combat, and the list goes on. It's ridiculous, truly.

You were actually quite close to Poison Ivy, however, and she supplies you with various plants for you to use. You even send her photos to update her on how the plant is blooming with a thank you text (yes, you have her number, score!)

Being a Wayne helps with the potions as well. You can get you an endless supply of various metals, chemicals, and powders to work with alongside the plants. You often question if you are on a government list somewhere. It doesn't look good to order 15 kilograms of gunpowder and potassium nitrate.

The family doesn't know any of this, but then again, they don't know much about what you do. They rarely ask questions about your potions except nosy Tim, who refuses to leave your room until he knows more about whatever potion you are making at the time.

"I was curious!"

He tried to defend himself, which failed as you retorted,

"And you could have had your finger dissolved if you touched it! For the brains of the family, you really are stupid."

Does he have no sense of self-preservation? Why on earth would he touch a mysterious liquid? Survival of the fittest indeed.

Tim scoffed. How else is he supposed to find out more information if he knows nothing about the process? You had all your potions memorised! No recipe book, no paper trail, you even have a witch/magic users pack between Zatanna and Constantine, so they won't tell the family anything. He can't even identify all the plants you use so he could test them.

"You're lucky I make weapons for you guys. Some of this stuff takes weeks! I have 9 of you guys running around, using MY supply because you guys don't use your potions wisely. What if I needed the paralysing potion for Bane, but uh-oh, you stole it from me, so I can't do anything."

Tim had no excuse. He's, admittedly, stolen more than a handful of potions to reload his weapons, and he's not the only one. He tried to smooth over your irritation. In a nervous tone, he said,

"I'm sorry. I would be surprised if you didn't notice the missing potions, though."

Damn right, you'd notice it. What kind of alchemist would you be if you didn't notice your missing stash and resupply? Granted, you also have the power of bullshit spells that you learned from John and Zatanna, so you aren't entirely helpless, but it's annoying reaching for an imaginary potion on patrol and needing to trudge all the way home just to restock.

"I think you need to keep your hands to yourself. I might have to redo this potion now. Please tell me you didn't touch the potion itself."

You wouldn't know how to handle a high Tim Drake. You tried to keep your eyes on him while putting your potion back on the burner. Is the weed in his bloodstream, or are you safe to continue your drug cooking?

He gave an awkward smile. He may or may not have smelled the potion. It smelled like a freshly mowed lawn, and the tiny sip he took tasted like an apple. When all you got was silence, you groaned and said in disbelief,

"Oh, fuck, of course you did."

Just your luck. The drug will hit Tim any second now. You ran a stressed hand through your hair before turning to him and saying sternly,

"You are going to sleep on my bed and let the potion run its course. Do. Not. Leave. This. Room. Got it?"

Tim looked confused, but what does he know about magical potions? If you say let it work through him, he'll follow instructions. He sat on your bed and then it hit him.

"Woah, what the hell did you do to me? Were you trying to lace Jason with something?"

You frowned and physically pushed him onto the bed. You quickly swaddled him like a baby in a sea of blankets.

He can not leave this room. Bruce would murder you. You were supposed to be the good one. The only one who caused no problems (to their knowledge).

"Tim, look at me."

Tim did not, in fact, look at you. He was distracted by all the plants you have in your room. Did someone drop off more plants in the time he's last been in here?

"Did you get more plants?"

You huffed. You didn't. They have only grown since he's been snooping in your room. You tried to get his attention by snapping your fingers and calling his name,

"Tim?"

When he continued to look around with rapidly reddening eyes, you squished his face in your hand and forcefully pushed his face until it faced you.

"Tim, you are going to sleep. I'm going to play some music for you and we are going to forget all about this when you feel better."

You can make a potion to erase recent memories. Tim can't know you are making drugs in your room. Nobody can know except Jason.

You decided to turn on some calming music in hopes he would drift off, which seemed to be working as his eyes drooped, and he smiled at you like he knew something you didn't. He was lost in his thoughts, clearly.

You wondered what was going on in that big brain of his. It didn't matter. He can blaze in blissful peace while you deal with his mess.

You kept the music quiet and soft like he was at a spa. You hoped the combined warmth of the blankets with the soft music would work faster.

With a sigh, you stood up from your position at his bedside. This is not good. Tim needs to learn when to leave your stuff alone. What if you boiled his blood or poisoned him? It's best to leave the witchcraft to the witch.

You watched him like a hawk. His thoughts seemed to be slowed and sluggish. You supposed you can bottle your potion after all. Should you put a dropper on it? Normally, your potions soak through the skin and clothes, but you were extremely careful with this one.

You gave his forehead a small kiss once he fell asleep. You went to your bottles while shaking your head in disapproval. You were very happy with the results of the potion, not so much with the tester. You would hate to think about what could have happened if you didn't swaddle him. Would he be walking around high and babbling about funny potions? Probably. He was already hallucinating pleasantly by the time he passed out.

You were so lucky that Tim didn't get the potentially dangerous symptoms. You can handle a mellowed out Tim, but not if he was going through psychosis.

After successfully bottling and hiding the potion, you pulled out one of your memory potions.

You felt bad drugging him then making him forget about it, but you can't have him telling anybody, whether accidentally or purposefully.

You know you could just tell Bruce that Tim touched a memory potion on your burner, and he'd believe you, but why draw in the eyes of Batman? He would want to know about all future potion making.

You frowned as you put one drop on his forehead and watched it sink in. He won't remember any of this.

You were a bit overprepared, but you were Batman and Constantine trained. Of course you'd have some weaselly way out of accidentally drugging someone.

Oh, John would be so proud of you.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jay Kuo for The Big Picture:

It’s been nearly 50 days since the soul-crushing election, and many of us are still in a bit of shock and experiencing continued denial. The headlines have been disturbing, to say the least, as they preview what the next four years could be like here in the U.S. and around the world. We are in dire need of some coping mechanisms. With 2024 drawing to an end, I figured it might be useful to compile some strategies and tips, gleaned from experts and from my conversations with many readers, on ways to survive these next four years, both individually and collectively as a democracy. These are in no particular order, and some of them may or may not resonate with you. I hope you nevertheless find them helpful and even practical.

Avoid the lure of nihilism

You feel it sometimes in your gut, and you see it in others’ comments: a sense of doom and despair. “There is nothing we can do.” “They will get away with everything.” “Nothing we can say will ever get through to the other side.” “Face it, it’s the end of our democracy.” Let me first say that anyone who hasn’t indulged in even a bit of this thinking hasn’t been paying attention. Things are bad, and in fact quite bad. So it’s perfectly natural and human to entertain these thoughts. But we can’t remain stuck in such thinking. So I want to offer some perspective from a great man who has seen and overcome many great challenges in his life. I worked for years with the actor and activist George Takei, who spent his childhood in Japanese American internment camps during World War II. He and 125,000 others in his community experienced what a fascist America really looked like: families rounded up and forced from their homes at gunpoint, forced to live for weeks in horse stables then for years behind barbed wire fences, with no charge and no trial, all for the “crime” of looking like the enemy. It would have been understandable for George to become embittered and to turn his back on this country. Instead he dedicated his life to a cause, working to deliver reparations for his community and to teach the history of the internment so that we would never repeat that terrible chapter of our history. He taught me a word in Japanese that I still think about a lot to this day: gaman. It means to face challenges with dignity and fortitude. Things have been bad before, and for many racial minorities, far worse than now. But they didn’t give up. They persevered, even in the face of the terrible dysfunction and injustice of our system. When I feel like throwing up my hands, I remember George Takei, and people like the late John Lewis, and I draw strength from their example. They did not let despair paralyze them or cause them to surrender.

Be a voice of hope, not fear

One of the ways fascism succeeds is through fear. And one way fear spreads is through public repetition and normalization. Some of our corporate and media leaders are already setting terrible examples by “obeying in advance” and capitulating to Trump’s threats. We shouldn’t be like them. But beyond that, it’s important to consider what impact our own attitudes have on others.

[...]

Support independent journalism

Many of our major papers, from the Washington Post to the LA Times, have billionaire owners who have recently demonstrated that they would rather please, or at least not ruffle the feathers of, the incoming administration than hold themselves up to basic standards of journalistic integrity. A small but collectively significant thing we as consumers can do is to vote with our eyeballs and our dollars. There are many independent sources of news with terrific reporting still happening. ProPublica was the one to break the stories on the corruption of Justice Clarence Thomas and the purchase of his support by wealthy benefactors, and I support them with an annual subscription. Another great outfit is Popular.info, which regularly exposes corporate malfeasance among other important topics. I have a favorite set of Substack journalists and analysts I support including  Heather Cox Richardson for news with a historical perspective,  Joyce Vance for legal news and analysis, Robert Hubbell for a daily news summary, and Talking Points Memo for political analysis. While these sources admittedly lean left, I also regularly read and support more centrist reporting from The Bulwark.

[...]

Defend institutions

There’s been a lot of attention paid to historian Timothy Snyder’s first rule in fighting fascism, which is not to obey in advance. But there’s not enough attention on his second rule.

[In his book On Tyranny, Snyder writes,

Defend institutions. It is institutions that help us to preserve decency. They need our help as well. Do not speak of “our institutions” unless you make them yours by acting on their behalf. Institutions do not protect themselves. They fall one after the other unless each is defended from the beginning. So choose an institution you care about—a court, a newspaper, a law, a labor union—and take its side.]

The great thing about this rule is that all of us can do something meaningful to help. Speak up for our court system and the rule of law, even when (or perhaps especially after) they fall short of expectations. The goal is to improve them as institutions, not to cast them aside. Support your local newspaper with a subscription. Rally at your state capital in support of laws protecting abortion rights. Support striking workers by avoiding companies that are anti-union. These acts seem small, but collectively they matter a great deal, and our institutions cannot succeed without support from the public.

Jay Kuo wrote in The Big Picture on the guide to surviving the next four years under the autocratic Trump Regime.

[mithosis]

"Do you know what lies on the path before you? I do."

Meet Stig, my little blind norn seer with his flock of bird friends :) A Herald with a twist. Eventually a Wayfinder, separate from the Commander!

Sooooo I've already had this character for a while, (both in gw2 and out). I have a sylvari version of him — and he will still be existing and thriving as a separate character! However, I wanted to bring the original version of him to life as well. He always had Nordic themes, so making this version of him a norn was an obvious choice

Anyway, there is lore and a funny sketch under the cut for those who'd want to look at them!! (a huge chunk of text again, yeah, I'm sorry. It's featuring @lady-quen's Numen, though!! *wink wink*)

Maybe the weakest, skinniest little norn with nothing much behind his name, Stig was somewhat of an outcast from the moment he was born. Blind since birth, he was "blessed" by an elusive Cuckoo Spirit to help him on his life's journey, yet unable to shapeshift into their form or communicate with them, no matter how hard he tried. He was considered unworthy of norns' boastful lifestyle by some, and pitied for his misfortunes by others, although nobody could ever compare to how he looked upon himself for the happenstance of his birth. Was he "defective" in some way, not worth the effort to lift him up and let him live a life, try to reach for something more?

Still staying loyal to Cuckoo even without their support, Stig turned to Raven after being noticed by him for the cleverness with which the little norn tried to overcome the burdens of his own existence — there, at a young age, was discovered his gift of foresight, an explanation to all the weird sensory visions he would receive; some of them even looked as if he could actually see. Different kinds, both cryptic and mundane. Finally, something he could do and help others with, right? It was probably nice for a time, until enough commotions or unfortunate events were caused, maybe even blamed on him for doing his job wrong, causing Stig to be ever more cautious with sharing what he had gleaned.

Two ravens he rescued were his main company, aside from occasionally the kid of the famous Eir Stegalkin and his little brother with a strange affinity for ice magic. One day, however, the scenery changed into a strange landscape, an echo of the real world, as Stig stumbled through a wayward portal into the Mists. He had to survive there for a time all alone, not even his feathery friends to accompany him, communing with Spirits — then anyone, who'd listen — and desperately trying to get back home. A subtle whisper in his head grew louder the more time he spent essentially meditating, a voice of a person, until it formed and presented itself as none other than Asgeir Dragonrender. With his, rather frustrated at first, help, the little norn managed to get back to the world of the living, though not before getting injured on the way home — a weird, potent surge of lightning struck him. He awoke back home already tended to.

Other norn don't believe him at first when he claims Asgeir was the one to help and guide him — it takes a bit of convincing, talking with the legendary hero's echo and showing Stig's newfound strengths. He can channel the power of the Mists through their connection now, something only havrouns of the Spirits of the Wild can typically do. This earns him the respect of his peers — after all, he is aided by Dragonrender himself. People around him wonder: this must mean he could be the one to crack the Tooth, the Norn of Prophecy, right? Someone Stig never even dared to believe he could be.

However, it was never meant to be. After all the extra training and tireless nights of adapting the chosen combat style to his needs, the one to challange the Tooth wasn't him — instead, it was the hot-headed son of Eir, his friend Braham, who's been adventuring with the famous Pact Commander away from Hoelbrak. One arrow was fired — and as the icy exterior of the trophy crumbled, so did Stig's hopes of proving himself worthy to these people. He became an outcast again. At least his birds and Asgeir were still with him. It didn't matter that Braham supposedly failed his mission to kill the Ice Dragon afterwards: the damage was already done.

Then everything started to go downhill once Kralkatorrik was slain. Unexplainable mysteries, strange fog, disappearances. His friend becoming more and more distant and physically cold until one day he was gone as well. One of the only people who showed Stig what kindness looked like, aside from his mother. It was distressing, scary, none of his visions showing him the way — so he had to find his own, once again. This was the decision that led him to join the Commander and Braham in their venture to the Far Shiverpeaks, and discover the true nature of the little elementalist he called a friend — a scion and champion of Jormag, Numen, who's been the mysterious Cuckoo "Spirit" this whole time.

The team has to confront this dragon on the surface of a cold, frozen Lake Doric — and Asgeir recognizes it. Every norn knows the story of the legendary slayer of Frostfang — Dragonrender killed Jormag's greatest champion in one blow with the help of the Spirits. It was a clear victory, the thing falling off a cliff from the sheer force of the blow, mortally wounded. So how could the very same creature stand before him once again?

The question was answered when the dragon showed the large scar on their neck; they didn't quite remember the fight, but the old wound spoke for itself. A surprise for everyone involved — the greatest kill of Asgeir turned out to be a failure. Remains of the beast were confused with those of Claws of Jormag. And maybe a fact worst of all for the echo of a fallen hero — the frigid monster he was sure he had slain turned out to be one of the very Spirits that helped guide his people to the new home.

(Cue the funny sketch I promised)

Even after that, the team managed to save Numen and end the terror of both Dragons of Fire and Ice.

Eventually, Stig would become Numen's Champion, wanting to be there for them like the dragon was for him. Maybe he had finally found a place he was meant to be in, beside this creature of ice — lonely, yet so full of love for the world. Asgeir wasn't too amused, but what is one more voice in Stig's head, right?

This would mean he'd continue to help the Commander further down the line, and maybe even meet the elusive wizards in their glittering towers — who might have a hand in him meeting Asgeir in the first place.

Woah, if you got to this part, thank you for reading!! I love you <3

[nicoleanell]

(actual link to gif set because tumblr's being weird)

Man it's the fact this statement is weirdly big and generous and brave in Armand's mind. I think it was Assad or someone else who said it was a moment of overconfidence or almost gloating, which is not the exact vibe I get, but I think there's something to that big-headedness of having survived and gotten through it and it's over now and just... He just wants to see. He just wants to skip that little stone down the cliff and see what happens. Maybe if nothing happens *then* he would actually be able to exhale. (He will not. He'd find something else. There's an itch in him that's never going to be secure enough in the bed he made.) Maybe it's just wanting to test something - Louis or himself or how many ways he can't die.

People tie it directly to Armand not being able to say the words in 2x05, which is probably intentional, but also it's not *exactly* the same because for one thing it's in the Past Tense now. It's very much meant as a moment of *closure* - he DID love you, past tense, we don't know where he is or how he feels now and that doesn't matter - while in San Francisco with Lestat right there on the mind telephone, it was the present tense terror that maybe that really was all Louis needed to hear to go running back to him.

But their relationship has also changed SO dramatically since San Francisco that it feels like even the past-tense version is a very, very precarious thing to admit. Because it's not about the material love triangle, it's not who-will-Bella-Swan-choose, it's about 70 years of mythmaking and storytelling.

SIDEBAR: The show left us IMO with a very frustrating ambiguity about the extent to which Armand has used his mind powers on Louis, like to the point where you have some fans believing that *every single fucking memory* we saw onscreen that they didn't like for the last two seasons is Fake News actually, and other fans believing it happened Just That One Time GOD. (I personally lean toward way *less* mind manipulation than other people assume, and if it was literally JUST the shit that happened in 1973 that's... enough to be messed up lol. I think the "love of my life" and finishing each other's sentences scenes have some unsettling implications. I *don't* think Louis having imperfect recall and limited perspective of stuff that happened a century ago is because of Armand all or even *most* of the time.)

But the fact no matter what is that Louis has a lot of cognitive dissonance around Lestat because he WANTS it acknowledged on some bone-deep level that Lestat loved him, because he loved/continues to love him too. And if we're gonna insist on throwing the word "gaslighting" around when we just mean "lying", then at the end of the day it's about Louis being told he's not crazy by someone who has at times made him feel that way.

Idk maybe this is me getting Too Deep about a finale I still think is kinda unsatisfying and already had way too much to do with Lestat and not enough with Claudia. But I do like that moment when I look past the toxic love triangle and more toward "hey buddy [my best friend Armand] why are you Like That" and Louis' little smile breaking my heart.

Something sad about that moment is Armand's right that saying those words *doesn't* end the world, and if nothing else had happened and Daniel and the Vampire CIA weren't on their divorce-attorney kick, that'd be the end of it. (Hot take I don't think saying the words or not in 1973 would've really made a difference either, and there's so much more nuanced and wild shit going on there than an undelivered message romcom beat.) And Louis would be *grateful* for that moment of understanding and closure between them.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Thank you, this covers several other things that I thought about that information! I was thinking about that page from the Daily Show book (a page I only know about because you took that picture and shared it some time ago) - the page that confirms that it is true that Ricky Gervais was involved in getting John Oliver the Daily Show job, though if I were John, these days I'd be backing Demetri Martin's claim that it was actually him who got John the job, even if there's no truth in it.

That page was the first time I learned that Andy Zaltzman was on The Daily's Show's radar at all, but as you say, there's nothing in that book that says Andy actually auditioned as well. I'd just been assuming they went to watch Zaltzman and Oliver perform as a double act, and of the two of them, John was the guy whom they decided to call in for an interview. Probably because... I know John Oliver isn't the most Hollywood-style/conventionally handsome man in the world, but he looks more telegenic than Zaltzman. Also, John Oliver's humour does tend to be a bit more grounded and accessible, while Zaltzman's the one doing the wildly convoluted flights of bullshit fancy. So I can see how TV people who watched them both perform would decide that John's the guy they want.

But the information that they both auditioned is new. I'm now seeing this through my lens as someone who was in highly competitive sport for many years - because I've already made it clear that I find it nearly impossible to describe the Zaltzman/Oliver dynamic without descending into sports metaphors. And it's because so much about how they work together reminds me of what I've seen from the very best teammates/training partners in sport, ones who bring out the best in each other and push each other to become better athletes. Ones who know each other's styles so well that each style have to evolve and adapt in order to respond to the other, their matches with each other reach deeper levels of the sport than anything else, just because they've learned how to get past each other's basic responses and they both end up finding new ideas.

In all my years as a competitive athlete and then as a coach to competitive athletes, one thing I learned is that when you have two teammates/training partners in a relationship like that, the worst thing that can happen is they get pitted against each other in a competitive situation. You want those people tearing each other to pieces in the practice room, but in a tournament, competing in different divisions so they can cheer each other on. If one beats the other when it actually matters, the friendship rarely survives, and the training relationship takes a big hit. They stop being able to work well together in practice, because they're trying to hurt each other instead of improve each other. And even if they try to go on as they did before, the bitterness comes out and messes with it.

...I am aware that Andy Zaltzman and John Oliver are not competitive athletes. But relationships like the ones I've just described are so common, and as a coach, trying to preserve relationships like that, even in the face of competition, is a big part of my job. Which may be part of why I find comedy dynamics like those described in article from the beginning of this post so interesting, the double act where both people make each other more than the sum of their parts, until it all implodes.

Point being, I already knew that the fact that the Zaltzman and Oliver working relationship lasted for so long despite the massive fame disparity means Andy Zaltzman is a saint who's largely resistant to the natural human bitterness response (not 100% immune to it, as evidenced when John Oliver finally left The Bugle, but Andy's good humour held on for a long time before that). But if they both auditioned together for a life-changing opportunity, and only of them got a callback? By rights, that working relationship should have imploded in 2006.

I realize that reading all this stuff into the situation between two people I've never met is incredibly parasocial of me, by the way. I don't have a good justification or mitigation for it, or anything. I just want to acknowledge that I know. Sorry. I would try to avoid getting too parasocial about Chocolate Milk Gang-era Zaltzman and Oliver, but I think that ship's sailed long ago, I'm leaning into it now.

Anyway, @lastweeksshirttonight, I also want to know whether they were auditioning to be the first double act on The Daily Show, or whether they knew they were both competing for a single spot. What a shame that I didn't come across this article until after it was too late to submit questions for the Zaltzman/Oliver 2024 Bulge Q&A. Which is coming out this weekend, and I'm sure we'll all be a normal and non-parasocial amount of excited about it.

I just came across the article today, and the whole thing is very interesting. I highly recommend reading it all, to anyone who's interested in the history of British comedy double acts. It's basic stories that I did already know - Cook and Moore, Lee and Herring, Newman and Baddiel, French and Saunders - but it juxtaposes them in a way that I quite enjoyed reading, and adds a number of details that I did not already know. I am interesting in double act dynamics, so this was a really cool article.

However, I am, of course, going to cut and paste on particular segment:

In 2006, Andy Zaltzman and John Oliver, who were at the time writing their third Edinburgh show together, travelled to London to audition for a role on Jon Stewart’s The Daily Show. Only Oliver, however, was called to a second audition. “When they offered him the job, unfathomably, John chose to go and work on the world’s leading satirical TV show rather than speak to 30 people in a tiny room in Edinburgh,” Zaltzman tells me over a Diet Pepsi in a London pub. After the swift departure of Oliver, who now presents HBO’s primetime political talkshow Last Week Tonight, Zaltzman was left to write and, two weeks later, perform the Edinburgh show alone. “It was difficult because I had nothing to replace this wonderful working relationship and friendship,” Zaltzman says. The year after Oliver left for America, Zaltzman “bumbled along” performing political standup. Then they were offered the opportunity to record a weekly topical podcast, the Bugle. Oliver agreed to rejoin the double act (albeit via a telephone line) as co-host. “It worked well straight away,” says Zaltzman. “There hadn’t been any great falling out, so in that sense it was easy for us to work together again.” The podcast, a satirical take on the week’s news, ran from 2007 to 2014 without a break. It then had a hiatus while Oliver focused on launching his new TV show; he soon found that the show was taking up too much of his time, and the Bugle came to an end in 2015. Then in 2016, Zaltzman relaunched it without Oliver, instead partnering with a roster of comedians including Nish Kumar and Hari Kondabolu. “To lose [Oliver] after having worked so closely for years left a void,” says Zaltzman. “But my frustration was not with his success. I like to think I haven’t become a bitter, twisted, resentment-fuelled showbiz cliche. But maybe there is a residual awkwardness about the different paths we’ve taken.”

Sorry, what the fuck? Did anyone else know about this? That apparently Andy Zaltzman also auditioned for The Daily Show, at the same time as John? I know a hell of a lot about the Zaltzman and Oliver history, and I never knew that. Which means Zaltzman's kept it quiet, in the all the times he's told stories in interviews about the paths their double acts took in those years.

I'd heard all that other stuff before. There's a Bugle quote (from 2018, the same year this article came out, so I guess Andy was into that phrasing at the time), in which Andy refers to: "June 2006, when [John Oliver] told me he wanted to do the Daily Show job instead of coming with me to Edinburgh to talk to 25 people a day in a darkened room." And of course I've heard Andy talk about how he felt like he was "bumbling" in the year between John going to America (June 2006) and The Bugle starting (Oct 2007), as he tried to get by without the double act. I'm convinced that the difficulty he had during that year is why he waited so long to pull the plug on The Bugle in 2015, when John had clearly checked out, and yet Andy kept doing filler episodes in which he'd tell us they're going to get this going with John again soon, like a mother telling the children that their dad has just gone out for cigarettes and will be back. Of all the double act stories in that article, Zaltzman and Oliver has to be one where one member tried the hardest to claw on after the other was out, not wanting to let go of it. And I include Lee and Herring, when I say Zaltzman and Oliver did that more than any others.

Anyway, the information that Andy Zaltzman had also auditioned for The Daily Show is a massive fact for this article to just casually drop. That recontextualizes a lot of stuff from around that time, and makes a lot of sense. @lastweeksshirttonight, @bimwi - as the other people here who know a lot about that history, am I the only one who didn't know that? Was anyone else aware of this?

[lunarharp]

played dragon age 2...just simple scribbles

[phantomsies]

literacy, empathy and nuance are dead fucking arts and there really is no coming back from it.

[randomnameless]

Do you think Edelgard perceives herself as a victim? I’ve been thinking and I can’t decide myself, on one hand she clearly hates the idea of people being victims or helpless, and constantly reframes the victims of the war as “necessary sacrifices” instead of, y’know, tragic causalities of a war she started. She plays up her sad backstory to try to get Byleth to join with her in WC, but then she does all these things to concentrate as much power as possible on herself. On the other (other) hand, she pushes the culpability of the war on everyone except herself, and has trouble taking accountability. She’s obsessed with controlling everything but she doesn’t want to be blamed for the problems she’s created. What do you think?

Oh!

(sorry for replying one literal month later lol)

I find Supreme Leader hard to write because of this, but in a way, I believe that yes, she does.

However, for all the flak Faerghus gets for "ToXiC mAsCuLiNiTy" and "Chivalry BaD", there's something very toxic with the way some Adrestian victims (often women... blame the writers I guess?) deal with their abuse.

I'm not going to spend a lot of time on Doro because I already typed a lot about her, but while she still sees herself as a victim from what she endured and suffered in her childhood, she adopted the toxic mindset of "this suffering is a thing of the past and I grew from that/beyond that to become the person I am now" - which we can also see in Manu who suffered from, roughly, the same traumas.

Petra also follows this pattern, being a hostage and treated like shit, but she grow "beyond" her status of a victim to become the strong person she projects and believes she is - it's only out of House that she realises more accutely her status within the Empire, the reality of her situation and, in Houses, refuses vassalage to Adrestia to make her country independent without having to "ask the Emperor".

It's the same pattern : "I was a victim" but "I became strong" so "I am not a victim anymore, this is something of the past".

Applied to Supreme Leader...

Well, trying to ignore the Agarthans and her dad's own infuence on her character (which is kind of hard, since the games try their hardest to make Agarthans responsible for everything BaD and we're not clear on how much they had an influence on her), I think Supreme Leader believes she was a "victim" of abuse.

But - through further abuse and surviving said abuse - she became strong* enough to "not be a victim anymore".

Which is why her line of "if the weak remain weak it's their fault" feels like it echoes part of her mindset : she was a victim but became strong enough, maybe by hardening her own feelings to become "strong", so she is not the same helpless "victim" she once was.

If she managed to do that, then everyone can do the same.

As for the "necessary sacrifices", since early 2019 someone theorised that "the people" she pretends the fight for as seen as some general "concept", much like the "greater good". So if some people are sacrificed, it's for her ideals - the goal and aim of her newfound strength - , and it piles on her drive, she must realise them otherwise those people would have died (and she would have suffered) for nothing.

However, despite acknowledging her past self as a victim, and because she's now "strong", she's not above using her past trauma (but actually, still present! Remember the rat scene?) to reach her goals, because, at her core, Supreme Leader is soemone who is very determined. Maybe it's her only drive to grow beyond the trauma, or her own illusions, or a mix of everything, but AM made it clear, Supreme Leader is not above, well, using herself if it means seeing her goals come to fruition : unlike Lobotogard from AG, AM!Supreme Leader willingly transforms in Hegemongard.

This is the cost she's willing to pay, so while the memes about Lord Farqaad were on spot, I still think that Supreme Leader is ultimately willing to sacrifice** herself for her goal (but only when there's no other way to ensure her future will come to fruition, and in a way, I guess she thought she would survive the Hegemon transformation, jury's out on what she meant to do in AM's finale, but imo, she still tried, even beaten and battered as she was, to claim Dimi's head).

Ultimately I think everything's a bit muddled by the fact that, as @fantasyinvader pointed out, Supreme Leader is a liar and knows the importance of maintening good PR.

She lies and manipulates the truth to reach her goals (which again, is a red flag when CF claims to want to restore the "distorted history" of Fodlan!) and for all the flak I give them, the devs managed to scrap enough material to give us a peek in Adrestia's mindset (or at least its top nobles), they're not people who self reflect, they are salty because they aren't ruling the world anymore, and they feel like they are better than the rest of Fodlan.

Put everything in the mixer, and you indeed have Supreme Leader (but also her court, especially Ferdie in SB who dares to say, as he is invading and trouncing people who don't really like and accept the idea of being invaded, that the fear those people feel are only in their mind, or something like that? Like, dude, you're rolling over their people and country, of course they'll fear and hate you!) giving her weird rhetoric lines (why are people opposing me if they are going to die?), victim blaming (something Treehouse swallowed like honey, if their lolcalisation is anything to go by, remember, it's Rhea's fault for not offering her head on a platter that is the reason why the War continues in CF!) and so on.

IDK if the devs wanted to bank that much on the Dany parallel with her "if I look back i am lost", but again, I don't know if her drive to make a "better Fodlan" is motivated by her trauma, Adrestian revanchism, Ionius telling her dumb things or Agarthans agarthaning, but her goal and vision are everything to Supreme Leader.

So she will do anythign to see them realised, even if it means sacrificing her people, starting a war, tweaking "the truth" or using her own trauma to motivate and recruit powerful people who might assist her with her goals.

To reply to your question, IMO she sees herself as someone who had once been a victim, but won't let that stop her from reaching her goals, even if it means creating thousands of "hers" in the process, because, in her mind, reaching her goal is more important than anything else.

*I know, she refutes Dimitri's claim that she is "strong" or laughs at it, but imo, it was more in the sense of "I was weak and became strong" so everyone can "become" strong.

**I don't think she wanted to throw away her life, but more something in the lines of "putting my life on the line" or sacrificing her precious (and to see how precious it is, just play CF lol) humanity.

[moonedman]

All other sagas done in previous or future posts

Underworld Saga

this is probably my favorite saga. and also probably one of the most important, fundamentally. i think i filled five notebook pages on these three songs.

The Underworld

“I no longer dream” what my friend was once saying about how the screams he hears are real since he’s no heard them and knows what they sound like

“Past seems close behind” it’s catching up to him

Ough his crew asking “when does a man become a monster”

Ok so whatever the spirits are saying is the last thing they thought, meaning Odysseus’ crew considered him a monster, Polites is still upbeat and bright, his mom will wait for him

“Nothing is as it seems” possible that he’s just hallucinating this OR he doesn’t want to believe any of it.

I’m insane about Mr. Jorge Rivera-Herrans’ voice acting

Reminder! Greet the world with open arms! Don’t turn evil!

I know he’s not evil

HIS MOM

The realization finally hitting him that he’s been gone twelve years he’s lost and missed out on so much and he needs to get home

I’m going to blow up

Just. like. The beginning of realization

I’m going to blow up!!!!!!!!

No Longer You

“There is a world where I help you get home, but that’s not a world I know” opening us up to that no longer you idea

“Past romance” past is really interesting because he’s still married but it connects to the no longer you part

“Sacrifice of man” Previous sacrifices and also warning of future sacrifice

“Portrayal of betrayal” Scylla and Thunder bringer, but also in mutiny. Also when the wind bag was opened.

“Brother’s final stand” Eurylochus in mutiny, maybe Polites in Survive

“On the brink of death” well yes

“Man who gets to make it home alive/but it’s no longer you” he’s changed and lost so much that there’s like no way he’ll ever be the same king and husband and father. Also in the odyssey story Odysseus has to disguise himself as an old man so he can win back his wife

He also kills all the suitors i hope we get to see that

Denial is a river in Egypt your men are doomed

“Palace covered in red” please please please be the suitors dying but also those suitors are violent in general (I am so grateful my prayers were answered)

“I see a wife with a man who is haunting/a man with a trail of bodies” “WHO”

a) he’s haunting her. His leaving haunts her because of the men in her house, telemachus and his whole “no dad” thing, and just not having your husband around. His absence affects her just as greatly as it does him

b) odysseus doesn’t realize it’s him. He’s got the trail of bodies. He’s so absorbed by the thought of penelope.

“Past romance” [again] oooohhh their marriage is fucked. It’s so different now

Backing vocals of future things [“Siren’s call, Scylla’s throat, mutiny, lightning bolt, Poseidon, kill the suitors for love”]

That’s so cool I’m INSANE

I hate him

Monster

“How has everything been turned against us” …hmm. I wonder.

“Do I need to change” YOU ALREADY HAVE but now he’s considering doing it on purpose

You’re in the underworld of course the souls are around you

“I’m the only one whose line I haven’t crossed” and you’ll keep crossing them!

“What if the greatest threat we’ll find across the sea/Is me” BLOW UP [he’s like rethinking but also plotting? Like what if he was the biggest danger?]

Remember remember

“Too kind to foes but a monster to ourselves” he’s realizing he’s realizing he’s self aware he’s going to treat his men unfairly

All the foes he’s encountered are all doing what they can to protect those they love and odysseus is starting to see the similarities between them [and also the ones he wants to protect gets fewer until it’s just him almost [because he needs to see his wife and son so he needs to live]]

Plotting to keep his men safer by being more cruel

Anything for them

He’s willing to lose all morals in order to get home and keep as many people alive as possible but accidentally loses those base morals in the process of doing so

The animation i watched in the playlist i found showed a hallucination of Penelope taking the headband Odysseus took from Polites and that’s such a cool detail [throwing away the morals of being kind and keeping an open mind all for his wife]

I based my current DnD character off this song.

I’m so insane about the Ithaca saga do you tumblr people want to hear my full analysis of each song to celebrate

[quietwingsinthesky]

the last unicorn post from earlier has me thinking about the master. that yana is still in there, you know? is still someone he was, if even for a brief flash across the life of a time lord. there’s no way to unlive that life. there are ways to twist it later, sure, to make utopia into hell on earth. but the life was lived. in much the same way that the doctor can remember, can feel, the love he held onto as john smith even as that life is ripped out of his hands. the doctor choose denial and then grief and then to shutter it all away. and so john smith died, and so professor yana died, and the doctor and the master live on. the doctor has done this before, and he lives in orbit around humanity, trying to keep the best parts of them and hold them deep enough to take root (which he can pretend he gets to choose, as a time lord. as a human, it all floods in and can’t be dug back out.) but what about the master, right?

to borrow a turn of phrase: i think there are two time lords left in the universe, and they both learned how to regret.

[naivety]

very weird to frame your abuse apologia as being aware that the writers intended to illustrate a mutually harmful dynamic and not an abusive one. when the writers in question also wrote the line 'once you put it out there, they [the audience] decide what it is' because nothing you ever create has any innate definition. when the writers in question decided to racebend major characters and then showcase them being harmed by white or nonblack characters in a repeatedly racialized pattern when they Did Not Have To Do That and then genuinely or disingenuously decide to dialogue about their directly or indirectly illustrated racialized dynamic of intimate partner violence within and outside the narrative. like to be quite honest it does not matter what they intended because this is what they made and this is how it Looks to a notably large amount of people. who just happen to be interpreting it wrong? according to what metric? the very metric they say Doesn't Work in their own fictional creation? ok

[hauntingblue]

Oh now the villagers know..... and arlong burned the town to punish her..... for some reason