#the day tennyson died

[all-or-nothing-baby]

“Life, for all its anguish, is ours, Miss Ives. It belongs to no other.”

— Ferdinand Lyle.

(Penny Dreadful: The Day Tennyson Died)

[adventuresofalgy]

It wasn't exactly wet, and it wasn't exactly cold. It wasn't even particularly windy, at least, not by the standards of the wild West Highlands. But it was grey, grey, grey… Just grey, grey, grey… And that was enough to dampen the spirits of anyone, even a daft fluffy bird.

Uncertain how to occupy himself on such a dreich day, Algy decided to profit from the dismal weather by catching up with his reading. He had been asleep for such a very long time that he was sure he had forgotten much of what he once remembered. Recalling some famous lines from The Taming of the Shrew:

No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en; In brief, sir, study what you most affect.

he selected a volume from his own personal set of poetry books, and settled down to study it.

The grass was still uncomfortably moist, and the garden was hushed and still. The bees had not bothered to come out today, to buzz about the hydrangea flowers which they normally loved, and the robin only trilled a few desultory notes from time to time and then stopped. But Algy was undeterred. Taking great care to keep his book away from the damp foliage, he opened it in the middle and read:

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He passed by the town, and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he set him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, The snake slipt under a spray, The hawk stood with the down on his beak And stared, with his foot on the prey And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away."

[Algy is reading the poem The Poet's Song by the 19th century English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson.]

[rosanna-writer]

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (18/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~5k

Content warning for the aftermath of a massacre and preparation of bodies for burial in this chapter. Some dialogue is pulled directly from A Court of Mist and Fury, and the poem quoted in this chapter is Tithonus by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

On a lighter note, shout-out to @thesistersarcheron for beast Rhys tongue inspo and to @popjunkie42 for all her Feysand poetry thoughts <3

Read on AO3 or you can find the eighteenth chapter below the readmore.

ch. 1 - 10 | ch. 11 - she underestimated just who she was stealing from | ch. 12 - no amount of freedom gets you clean | ch. 13 - stay stay stay | ch. 14 - call it what you want to | ch. 15 - even when you're sleeping, keep your eyes open | ch. 16 - you drew stars around my scars | ch. 17 - do you remember all the city lights on the water? | ch. 18 - and it smells like me

Rhys halted, taking in Mor's news. "Who," he said, and I hadn't known such utter rage could be conveyed in a single word.

I set the paintbrush down and stepped closer, feeling sick. If the priestesses were anything like the ones I'd come to know at the library…

At that thought, both our anger surged down the mating bond, and it felt as if my chest had been set ablaze. There had already been too much senseless violence Under the Mountain.

"We don't know," Mor said. "Azriel is investigating now."

Rhys began to pace. He'd hidden his wings to avoid them dragging on the floor when he'd sat with me, but shadows rolled off his shoulders as they appeared again, almost involuntarily.

But his voice was still soft as he said, "Does he have any initial theories?"

"You know Azriel—he won't say until he has enough information in hand to be sure. Cassian is pissed, though. He’s convinced it must be one of the rogue Illyrian war-bands, intent on winning new territory."

The rest of the Inner Circle must have heard this news first, then. I watched Rhys carefully for a reaction, unsure if that was how things were typically done. He didn't seem any more agitated than before, and I took that as a positive sign.

"I'm worried he may be correct."

"What are your orders?"

"For tonight, there's nothing to be done in Illyria that we aren't already doing. I'll discuss everything with Cassian in the morning. Mor, you and Amren will assist Azriel with whatever information-gathering he needs done. Be ready to field questions from other courts as news spreads. I'll inform Clotho myself and handle incoming correspondence."

Mor's eyes slid to me, and I nearly jumped—she'd been so focused on Rhys that I'd assumed she'd forgotten I was there. "Cesere is within the Night Court's borders. It falls to us to handle this alongside the priestesses," she said, obviously for my benefit.

"How can I help?" I said, fully expecting to be told to stay out of the way.

"The priestesses at the library will need assistance. Our kind bury our dead as swiftly as possible and keep watch until funeral rites are complete. It will mean something to have you there, Feyre, even if you're only comfortable sitting through the service as a representative of my Inner Circle," Rhys said.

There had been no similar sense of urgency among the mortals. When my mother died, there had been a wake, and for several days before her burial, our house had been full of friends and family paying their last respects. I wasn't surprised to hear things the fae did things differently.

For a moment, my mind flashed back to the sight of Tamlin carrying the bloodied corpse of a Summer Court faerie out of the manor. Tonight would be more of the same. And Rhys was giving me an out to avoid the grisly work if I couldn't stomach it.

I didn't hesitate. "I'll do whatever's necessary," I said. If the priestesses needed me to spend the night digging graves, I would.

With one last promise to keep Rhys informed, Mor winnowed away, and there was nothing left to do but head to the library. Before long, Rhys had left to make arrangements for increased security at the other temples, and I made my way down to the spare rooms near the dormitories to help in whatever way I could.

Merrill, a silver-haired scholar I'd once overheard terrorizing a research assistant, was organizing the efforts and barked out orders at me. I rolled up the sleeves of my tunic and got to work.

The carnage turned out to be exactly as horrific as we'd feared. And in Prythian, a land of immortals, there were no morgues or funeral homes. The gore, the obvious evidence of violence…for many of the priestesses, it brought back too many dark memories for them to even approach the bodies.

I choked back bile as I wiped tear tracks from cold cheeks and scrubbed dried blood from every body part imaginable. Gently, I slid soiled nightgowns and torn robes from stiff limbs and replaced them with shrouds. It was difficult, with the extent of some of the injuries, to create any sort of illusion of peaceful repose; whoever had done this hadn't made these deaths quick or painless.

As we worked, the sisters took turns singing prayers. I didn't recognize the language, but I sensed that it was ancient, the tune slow and mournful and in a key I'd never heard before. Down here, surrounded by the red rock of the mountain and no windows, the repetition was the only thing marking the passage of time.

Eventually, all the bodies were laid out in neat rows—too many rows, the scale of the devastation laid painfully bare. Each was clean and covered in a white linen shroud, ready for burial. For a moment, I just sat with the heavy awareness that each one of the bundles was a life—a world, really—that had been snuffed out. So much loss, just to loot a trove.

Rhys hadn't exaggerated when he'd said the fae moved quickly—as soon as the work was finished, I followed the rest of the priestesses towards the sanctuary for the service. I hadn't expected it to be so soon; one of the sisters caught my look of surprise and gently explained that according to faerie traditions, the soul was in a state of confusion between death and burial, and it was cruel to let it linger like that any longer than absolutely necessary.

The sanctuary was a massive cavern, full of dark wood pews surrounding a plain dais at the center. Though about half of the mourners finding their seats were priestesses, all in their identical pale blue robes, faeries from Velaris were there as well. The news had spread, then.

There were more prayers and singing in that strange, ancient language. No instruments, only voices that echoed in the cavern, beautiful yet melancholy. A candle was lit for each slain priestess as their names we read out one by one.

Unable to follow it, I stood and sat in time with everyone else and allowed my mind to wander. The bond had been quiet—presumably, Rhys was busy but otherwise fine—so I took in the assortment of faeries who'd come to pay their respects.

Perhaps it shouldn't have been such a surprise, but I recognized a few of them. Evelyn, the priestess who'd been teaching me to read, had nodded hello, and I spotted faeries I'd seen a few times in the library or out in the city. I doubted every single one of them knew any of the victims; this was just the community coming together.

That thought made Velaris feel a bit more like…home.

And though Rhys hadn't said it outright—and seemed so intent on not pressuring me that I doubted he ever would—I wondered if attending a vigil like this was something expected of the Lady of the Night Court. Since we'd decided to keep it a secret, we hadn't spoken about my title at all. Or any obligations that came with it. My lack of understanding of the situation when I accepted the bond didn't make me any less of a High Lord's mate, though.

My family's money had run out when I'd turned eleven—my sisters had been the ones raised to be ladies. They'd been the ones expected to someday be the wife of a rich, powerful man, to run households and host balls and busy themselves with charity work that made their husbands look good. I was just the hopeless, half-wild heathen.

Rhys loved me, had confidence in me like no one else, and I doubted I could ever be a failure in his eyes. That wasn't true for the rest of Prythian. I didn't take representing him lightly, especially not for something like this.

Before my thoughts could spiral any further, the funeral ended. The bodies had been winnowed to the graveyard, and there was nothing left to do. It was the middle of the night when I headed towards the townhouse.

I reached down the bond for Rhys as I walked, careful not to startle him. The thread between us went taut anyway, and I could sense that he was instantly on alert.

I didn't even give him a chance to ask if something was wrong I'm fine, home soon. Do you need anything else from me?

Go rest while you can. I've sent Azriel, Mor, and Amren to do the same.

But you aren't? I wouldn't let him talk around it.

I am High Lord, and some things can't be delegated.

For once, he didn't sound arrogant, just matter-of-fact. There was no point in attempting to mother-hen him out of finishing whatever he was obligated to complete tonight, so I didn't bother. I sent a pulse of affection down the bond, assuming that was the end of the conversation.

But he added, None of us liked the thought of you in the townhouse alone. Mor is there.

I was so unused to being looked after that I almost asked why anyone would be concerned. But Mor had mentioned them all being duty-bound and overprotective on my first day here, so perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise.

And at least it wasn't Amren babysitting me.

Something pleasantly warm crossed the bond, along with the strange sensation of a soft kiss pressed to the back of my mind. Then Rhys's shields went back up, and the rest of my walk home was uneventful.

Mor was in the living room when I arrived. At first, I'd thought she must have just been waiting to make sure I'd gotten home safely, but before she'd turned around at the sound of my footsteps, I'd noticed the empty wineglass and the way she'd absentmindedly pressed a hand to her lower abdomen. And then I understood—I wasn't the only one who was better off with company tonight.

I'd never asked about the scar I'd seen peeking out from the waistband of Mor's pants on days she wore something that bared her midriff. She would have covered it if she'd been ashamed, but…it seemed private. Some of the priestesses laid to rest that night had been ripped open in the same place, and I could guess what weighed on Mor.

But still, she brightened immediately at the sight of me, the light coming back into her red-rimmed eyes. I sank into the chair next to her.

"It was good to finally see you painting earlier," she said, voice warm.

I shrugged. "It was just a decoration, not something on canvas or paper. It doesn't really count." Flowers on a table were a start, but it wasn't quite the same as capturing an image that had plagued my mind or using paint to express a feeling that words couldn't.

She nudged me with an elbow. "It was also the happiest I've ever seen you. That counts for something too, you know."

For a while, Mor and I talked about nothing consequential. We both needed it. After everything we'd witnessed, it helped to pretend for a while that nothing was wrong. It made the violence feel more distant, enough that I was able to fall asleep when we both went upstairs, even without Rhys back.

My sleep was fitful, but each time I woke, a caress of talons against my mind—and once, loud purring and a wet scrape against my shields that would have made me think I was being groomed by a cat if it weren't for the forked tongue and rustle of feathers—relaxed me enough to drift off again.

It was nearly midmorning when I got out of bed, the latest I ever managed to sleep. I sensed that Rhys was nearby, and I followed the bond down to the kitchen, where I found him sitting at the table, head in his hands and wings drooping. He didn't look up at me.

"How bad is it?" I said, lingering in the doorway. It was late enough that he must have already spoken with Cassian.

He rubbed at his temples. "No definitive answers. I'd hoped there would be proof that this was nothing more than rogue war-bands that can be put down. Whoever it was knew what they were doing and covered their tracks. It could still very well just be Illyrians…or an act of war."

My blood ran cold. I knew it was foolish to think that killing Amarantha had ended the danger—she had been connected to Hybern, and Rhys and the rest of the Inner Circle had already discussed the possibility of opportunists taking advantage of a weakened Prythian after fifty years of Amarantha's rule. But something about Rhys putting it so plainly suddenly made it hard to breathe.

Before I could say anything, Rhys continued, "This needs to be dealt with swiftly, so I've moved up my visit to the Court of Nightmares. I'll go tonight, take tomorrow to plan. Cassian, Azriel, and I will hunt down the war-bands that are hiding out in the forests."

I knew Rhys—the security of the Night Court was at stake, so he'd find a way to push through it, even though I doubted he was ready to face the very court Amarantha had modeled hers after and his wings were still weakened. He'd tear open as many wounds as he needed to keep his people safe.

But perhaps…I could make sure he didn't have to.

I crossed the room, standing next to the chair and looping an arm around his shoulders to pull him close. He curled a wing around me and hid his face in my shoulder.

"If war comes, we'll face it. Together," I whispered against his hair as plans formed in my mind.

He said nothing, too overwhelmed to do anything but tug on the bond. I held him like that for a while, and with my shields firmly in place, I considered how exactly I'd lighten those burdens for him. Neither one of us was alone anymore.

"Have you slept at all?" I said eventually.

He sat back, tipping his head up to look at me. "No. It's—"

"Then go rest, Rhys."

"Is that an order?" Something sparked in his eyes, and I could have sworn amusement had crept into his voice.

"The point of this visit is to show your face in the Hewn City again. You need all the beauty sleep you can get."

His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close to it. My hand had been resting on his shoulder, and as he stood, I let it trail down his arm. He interlaced our fingers, and for a moment, just from the way his eyes went soft as he looked at me, I was sure he was about to ask me to come to bed with him, risk of slashing talons during a nightmare be damned.

I would have said yes. And even if he never asked, I still had half a mind to follow him upstairs anyway, just to give into the feral, protective instinct to keep watch while my mate slept.

But Rhys didn't ask. Instead he pressed a kiss to my knuckles and said, "Make sure you eat something."

I knew what that meant. "I love you, too."

He squeezed my hand once, then winnowed upstairs. For the next few hours, I could feel through the bond that he'd at least managed to catnap before he had to leave. I had things to do as well, but I wouldn't let Rhys sleep in an empty house, either. And I did need to eat. So I paced the townhouse restlessly with food in hand.

Then once Rhys left, my first order of business was making my way to the House of Wind.

I could have asked him to bring me there—and probably saved myself the trouble of climbing ten thousand steps again—but for now, I didn't want to tell him exactly why I wanted to go. As I climbed and climbed, I hoped my assumptions about who might be in the training ring were correct.

And they were. "Is everything alright, Feyre?" Azriel said, without turning from the target he was sinking a dagger into.

"I'm fine," I said, and at the very least it was true that I wasn't in danger. "I wanted to speak to you."

"Now?"

"Yes. While Rhys is busy." That finally got Azriel to drag his attention away from target practice. The way his gaze swept over me was an obvious assessment, as if he was cataloging all the information he found at the sight of me. I didn't mind. When Azriel didn't say anything, I added, "I think I should come with when you go to Illyria."

I'd half-expected him to immediately tell me no, that it was too dangerous. But Azriel tipped his head to the side and asked, "What makes you say that?"

I sat down at the edge of the ring, more grateful than ever that Rhys surrounded himself with the type of people who'd hear me out. Azriel sheathed the dagger and sat down beside me.

"I know I can't take on an Illyrian, and I'm not stupid enough to try," I said, choosing my words carefully, "but I'm concerned it will be difficult for him if we're separated again so soon after….everything. You and Cassian will need him to focus, and he can't afford to make a mistake and appear weak."

Azriel was silent again, clearly mulling it over, but I couldn't read much of a reaction from him beyond that. It was unsettling to consider much that impassive face could be hiding. If I didn't trust already him, I would have nervously blurted out all of my thoughts right then and there.

"It's an angle to consider. Is there…something you had in mind to do while you're there?"

It was a valid question, though I hadn't expected Azriel to ask how I intended to ensure I wasn't a deadweight so tactfully. And at least I had an answer prepared.

"Let me hunt so the three of you can focus on the task at hand instead of trying to feed yourselves or carry rations. You'll get done faster."

Azriel raised an eyebrow. I was ready to remind him that I was still a competent enough tracker to avoid anyone in the woods I might not want to run into. My muscles tensed almost involuntarily, my body preparing for a fight.

But instead he said, more gently than I'd ever heard him, "Tell me why you really want to go."

I stared out at the mountains in the distance and thought about what to say. Even though I knew there was nothing to be ashamed of, it was still difficult to find the words. Azriel just waited, patient as ever.

"I need to be outside for a few days straight. After— After being stuck in that cell, I just want to be able to pick a direction and run, somewhere there's so much space that I'll tire myself out before I find a single building."

I almost told him that I didn't want to sit behind in Velaris and wait for Rhys to come back, but that seemed cruel, all things considered. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Az rub his thumb along the spot on his hand where the scarring was the most obvious.

"I know the feeling," he said quietly. I started to respond, but he added, "You can't scream in Velaris, at least not without scaring the neighbors. But if you ever need to…let it out, I'll show you the empty places in the Illyrian Steppes."

Azriel knew. Just like with Mor's scars, I'd never asked about his, but whatever had happened, he'd been confined in the dark once. I hadn't realized it—I'd come to him first because he'd supported me trapping the Suriel on my first day in the Night Court.

"Thank you."

"You haven't brought this up to your mate, have you?"

There was no accusation there. Azriel's voice was even, and I had the sense he was just…gathering more information.

"Not yet. I wanted to see what you and Cassian thought first."

A single nod. "Prudent."

"Do you think it's a good idea, then? For me to go?" I said, once the silence stretched on long enough that it was clear he wasn't going to elaborate.

"It's worth discussing. Even after the frenzy, mated males are…volatile."

Azriel shifted awkwardly, tucking his wings in tight. And I understood—I didn't particularly want to discuss the mating frenzy, either. Especially not with someone who was more or less family. But after the way Rhys had growled at Cassian over me, we were right to consider what those instincts might mean, whether being apart or potential danger in the woods was a bigger risk.

I thanked him again and got up to leave, but the sound of Azriel's voice, midnight-dark and more stern than I'd ever heard it, stopped me in my tracks. "Where do you think you're going?" I turned, and Azriel had already gotten up from where he was sitting and unsheathing another blade. "You climbed ten thousand steps to get up here, so make it worth your while and work on your knife skills."

Azriel had earned that reputation as a hard bastard. Even today, I wasn't going to get out of training.

And if war was coming, I'd need all the training I could get. I took the knife and got to work, if only for a short lesson.

When we finished, Azriel flew me to the townhouse, and Rhys wasn't back yet. That was fine—there was still more I needed to do. The chances of a nightmare were too high that he'd share a bed with me that night. But he needed sleep, and he'd said that I smelled like safety.

I was used to hiding my scent, not spreading it. With the glamour on me, I wasn't even sure my idea would work, but it seemed worth a try, even if it did make me feel faintly ridiculous.

I dug my clothes out of the laundry and tucked them in the corners of Rhys's room. When I'd hunted, I'd kept a specific set of clothes for the woods and washed them as infrequently as possible, minimizing the scent of laundry soap. If it worked in the forest…maybe it might work here.

Then I hesitated, just for a moment, to touch the bed. Before, I'd only ever ventured into his bedroom when Rhys had a nightmare, and I couldn't quite shake the feeling that this was somehow a violation, ridiculous as that was when there was an unbreakable thread connecting our souls and my bite marks made him preen.

I pushed those thoughts aside and crawled under the covers. Trying my best to be thorough, I rolled around and rubbed my hair against both sides of the pillow. I repeated the process under both the sheet and the duvet for good measure, then made the bed and spent some time on top of it.

I hoped it was enough. I doubted we'd take a sleeping draught tonight; being difficult to rouse if there was another emergency was too much of a risk.

By the time I finished, it was getting late, and I wasn't sure now was the time for Rhys to come home and find me waiting in his bed, even if it was…tempting. I filed that thought away for another time.

I was still restless—too long without anything to do, and I found myself thinking of the slain priestesses again, the sight of mutilated bodies flashing across my mind again. In search of another distraction, I wandered back to the living room and looked at the bookshelves lining the walls. I'd never paid much attention to them before. But apparently Rhys considered them mine too, and perhaps there was something worth copying for handwriting practice.

I pulled the book with the most cracks in the spine off the shelf, idly wondering if it was his favorite. I'd ask, but…misplaced shame still made it difficult to talk about reading. Still curious, I flipped it open to a random page and struggled through what appeared to be poetry.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,

The vapours weep their burthen to the ground…

I scowled and put the book back. Years of hunting had been more than enough decaying woods for a lifetime, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know what a burthen was.

I tried another book and found more poetry—Cauldron, how much of it did Rhys read? But the words were shorter, which I felt better about, so I found a pen and paper and brought the book to the roof with me. The full moon and the light of the stars and Velaris were enough to read by.

I didn't pay much attention to what the poem was about, just focused on copying the letters as neatly as possible. Something about the work and sitting under the stars was strangely meditative.

But I didn't relax completely until I heard a soft rustle of wings and turned to see Rhys landing a few feet away. Something inside me settled. Perhaps some of my restlessness had just been the mating bond railing at him being away, even for only a few hours.

Rhys nearly always looked elegant, but for the Hewn City, there wasn't a single speck of color on him. There was no sheen to the fine black fabric of his suit, no embroidery like he often favored, just cloth so dark it seemed to gobble the light, buttoned up to hide his tattoos. The night itself clung to him more tightly than usual.

His grip on his power was still a bit looser than usual, and though it was faint, I felt familiar darkness reaching for me.

I watched his feet touch the ground, the movement far more graceful than the last time I'd seen it. For a moment, I just savored it—the wingspan, the promise of death in just the way he carried himself, my blood singing in answer to the darkness rippling from him.

I almost didn't notice the ebony crown. He'd never worn one in front of me before.

"Is there magic keeping that on your head," I said, "or did you have to learn to fly without it falling off?"

He snorted. "Hello, Feyre."

A flick of his wrist as he sank into the chair next to mine, and the crown disappeared and the top button of his jacket loosened itself. His gaze landed on the open book and notepad in my lap. Before he could ask about it, I said, "How did it go?"

"I didn't have to make an example of anyone, so as well as could reasonably be expected," he said, rolling his shoulders with a pinched expression on his face.

No violence, then. It felt like the first respite in a while.

We sat on the roof and talked for a while about nothing in particular, a silent understanding passing between us that we both didn't want to feel enclosed or alone. I summoned up the courage to ask about the books downstairs; my visible relief at the lack of dirty limericks Tamlin favored made Rhys snicker and tell me the awful verses were still a mercy compared to fiddle music.

Until he'd spat those last two words like a curse, I hadn't realized I'd put enough distance between myself and the Spring Court to joke about it. Despite everything that had happened in the last day, I felt…lighter.

Exhaustion still settled over both of us as we'd talked, and in just the set of his shoulders and wings, I could see the way being underground had taken something out of him. It was an early night.

As I slid into bed, I was tired enough that I'd nearly forgotten what I'd done in Rhys's room earlier. But his voice floated into my mind, as if a night-kissed wind carried it through the crack in my shields I'd left for him.

Feyre darling…

"Yes?" I said aloud. He'd hear it from across the hall.

Do I want to know what you were doing that involved rolling around in my sheets and leaving your socks for me to find?

My cheeks heated, and even though couldn't see it, I rolled over and hid my face in the pillow anyway. "Tonight might be another bad night. I thought my scent might help. Because I can't…"

For the length of a heartbeat, the bond lit up with gratitude. Then there was a dip in the bed next to me, and Rhys's arms were banding around my chest and pulling me to him. He'd winnowed right to me.

"You are impossible to stay away from when you're being brilliant," he murmured against my hair.

I nearly asked him to stay. But I knew it was hard enough for him to let me in enough to see the aftermath of a nightmare, and that was when there was no risk to me. He didn't say it, but…I suspected he was only holding me until I fell asleep.

I twisted in his arms so we were face-to-face, then kissed him gently. "It won't always be like this. The bad nights will be behind us eventually."

He sighed and let his head tip forward until our foreheads were touching. I closed my eyes and let my breathing slow, warm and comfortable. We stayed like that for a long time, until he finally winnowed back to his room.

I scooted over to the warm spot he'd left, already aching for him. It would still be a while before my thoughts stopped racing enough for me to finally drift off, but Rhys didn't need to know that. I'd pretend anything at all to give him peace of mind.

Sleep finally claimed me as his side of the bed went cold again.

[dearorpheus]

Penny Dreadful 1.03 | The Day Tennyson Died

[hey-jac]

Little cousin—

Last month, I turned 37, but today you will not turn 36. A fundamental law of the universe has been broken. Nothing makes sense. I haunt my own home, restless, murmuring Tennyson: “Ah yet, ev’n yet, if this might be: I, falling on his faithful heart, would breathing thro’ his lips impart the life that almost dies in me.”

Apart from my parents, you are the person my heart has loved the longest. You are the quiet and safety we carved out for ourselves in spaces where conflict was the status quo. You are the smiles and laughter that would disappear or take on an edge of artifice when harsh reality intruded. You are the silences of things remembered but rarely spoken.

You are also the voice of defiance that reminds me it is worth it to fight back even when the battle can’t be won.

You told me once, in adulthood, that I was your “happy thought.” You, in turn, have always been mine.

You are lemon Italian ice in the hot sun; you are days spent at the pool, the skating rink, DZ Discovery Zone, Whitewater University, Adventureland. You are the train whistles we listened to from the wrong side of the tracks and the pulse of adrenaline as we rode our bikes away from The Monster Place. You are the joy that comes with discovery & adventure—the purest, most indescribable feeling, and so much harder to find as I age, but every time I do, there is an echo of you there with me.

You are with me, too, whenever I catch the giggles with someone: the strain in my sides and my too-wide grin never fail to bring to mind you & me and our helpless laughter late at night as we tried to fall asleep. Every time we thought it under control, one of us would snicker again, re-igniting the contagion. That sort of giddy, half-hysteric laughter is healing; I am grateful we shared it so often.

I suppose it’s no surprise I miss you, when so many of the best things in life make me think of you.

I miss your smile, your real smile, the one that came so easily when we were alone together. It reached your eyes and brought out your dimples; it was powerful and perfect. I miss your laugh, and the way you said my name. I miss how easy it was between us—how we could coexist without conflict; how we were always cooperative, not competitive. (You are the reason everyone looks at me strangely when I do not want to play PvP.) You were precious and good and fun and kind and I couldn’t have asked for a better or more worthy companion. I wouldn’t trade my childhood with you for anything—and isn’t that saying something?

The last time we spoke, you made one thing clear: you desperately wanted to be loved for who you were, not what you could do for other people. I know you confided this to me because I have only ever loved you for who you are and have never demanded anything. But sweetheart, how could you not understand that there was, in fact, one thing I would have begged you to do for me? How could you not know that in order to be content, I needed you to be alive & breathing somewhere in this world?

You were supposed to outlive me, kid. I thought we had more time. I had lived my life without regrets—too attached to my mistakes to ever consider them as such—but now my cup runneth over: a veritable sea of shame and guilt and utter devastation. I would give anything for more time.

Ten months have passed since your death, yet nearly every night I dream of you. Mostly, I beg you to stay. Recently, I ran to you and held your face in my hands. I said, “If I don’t see you again, I need you to know that I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. It’s you & me and nothing will ever change that.” We were both crying. You clung to my wrists and nodded. You told me, “I know.”

I hope someday to dream of better things. Your happiest memories were of us playing video games together—The Legend of Zelda, Dragon Warrior, Banjo-Kazooie—and I would gladly have those dreams instead. Especially if it meant I could watch those adorable quirks of yours once more: the way you felt compelled to pull your socks up multiple times during every single boss fight (despite my many exclamations of, “Seriously, Beej?!”), and how, once the environments turned 3D, you would be up on your feet, moving about the room as you tried to look around the corners of the game. Even now, I’m smiling as I picture it.

You are the oldest part of my heart, kid. I miss you more than any words could ever say.

— Jac (July 11, 2024)

[ellorypurebloodculture]

a bit of Tennyson for title tales!

Break, break, break At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me

Severus Snape & Lily Evans genfic.

When Mister Severus Snape was a child, he had a best friend. She died, exhausting her magic, saving him. He's never had a friend since. Loving and losing one was already too much.

[zynart]

humanity is worth loving, humans are worth saving

(yes we are. we absolutely are. and cynicism and nihilism is lame)

i was dwelling a lot on that idea a lot this afternoon about my views of humanity and my conviction in us, inspired by the central theme of the show and movies, which is that maybe loneliness and yearning for connection is the most human possible feeling, and that most human beings are to some level closed off from human connection that there's a hedgehog's dilemma among humanity — that fear of connection, fear of being seen as a mirror of what you most fear about yourself/fear of hurt from both vulnerability placed in others and the inevitability of change/the inherent inability to ever be truly known when human minds are fundamentally separated from each other — is inherent to humans

so to contextualize the rest of this post i’ll describe things i’d been thinking about today. evangelion rebuild 2.0 and the ending of that movie, the choice that the characters make there. the ending of life is strange and the choice that you make there (i said fuck arcadia bay). and then the mirror examples, that one episode of angel where angel becomes human, or the ending of final fantasy x. every piece of fiction where people face a choice between saving someone they love and saving the world and they say fuck the world. even when it makes no sense and even if it means they and you both will die soon enough in a destroyed world anyway, even when it’s morally indefensible and unquestionably selfish. every time that question comes up, it’s so obvious what the right answer *should* be, but how human is it to just choose wrong anyway? that’s what i did when i had to choose and i said fuck arcadia bay. at that moment i felt such a sense of connection with what it meant to be human

in the original neon genesis evangelion it’s an argument between a worldview that it’s the inherent flaw of human nature, which would mean that the ideal vision of heaven is all-as-one where all humans exist together in kind of a hivemind free-flowing soup of minds (or with how little we know ourselves, that maybe even worldview is just being so afraid of connection that you’re afraid to reach out and try unless it’s with the safety of it being complete and universal and inescapable)… or whether what is special about humans and the most human thing possible is humans choosing, with full knowledge of the fear and hurt and inability to ever be known and the inevitability of change with passage of time and death, to put fear aside and connect with others

that latter view has long been the frame of thought where i feel most tender and optimistic toward humanity and individual human beings as creatures of grace. what takes away times where i feel jaded or cynical or fatalistic or disgusted or hopeless, which it is easy to be. often when people talk about being proud of humanity is pride at collective humanity and amazed at what the human race could achieve working together, but that’s barely part of the equation for me. it’s just that one single core aspect of the human soul, that every day humans choose to put aside all that fear about things that are right to fear and just choose human connection anyway. better to have loved and lost than never loved at all isn’t a platitude or an expression, it’s a summation of the most fundamental element to being human — its just that it’s not only about romance, it’s about all love — for friends, family, children, pets, characters in fiction, music made by others, art created by others, memories with others

(this made me google that phrase, to learn more about this phrase that puts the deepest truth about being human into 13 words, and turns out it’s by tennyson writing about the sudden death from a cerebral haemorrhage of his friend— or maybe more, we don’t know, but it’s besides the point that it was someone that he loved dearly — arthur henry hallam, who died aged 22 when tennyson was 23. and it’s a line from a 2,916-line, 133-canto poem titled “in memoriam a.h.h.” that he spent 16 years writing. 16 years where the pain didn’t stop. they met each other as teenagers, knew each other for about 3 years, and that was it. when he finished that poem after 16 years, he’d lived almost half of his life with that pain. he’d lived with that loss for almost five times longer than the time he’d had with him. and he still felt it was all worth it. it was better to have had the honour and privilege to feel that love, even at the price of decades of pain, than it would’ve been if he’d never gotten to feel that love at all)

caring about anyone is opening yourself up to a world of hurt in so many ways outside your control and humans are the only beings we know of that actually has that knowledge but we choose to care anyway. we have children, we attach to family, we form friendships, we fall in love, we even get emotionally attached to pets with short lifespans and emotionally invested in fictional characters

animals don’t have that knowledge. it’s easy for me to imagine many rational beings or sentience that could have that knowledge and optimize toward the pain-minimizing path of closing off completely and dying off in a generation. if pain is the price we pay for the ability to live and feel things and love things, is the price of entry worth it at all? i think most versions of a fully realized consciousness that wasn’t human would think that it wasn’t worth it at all. nonexistence over pain feels rational. but we don’t make that choice. human beings choose over and over and over to love things. and when i think about it, it makes me feel proud and giddy even for inherent human nature, it makes me feel in love with the concept of people with the same butterflies, and it makes me a firm believer that we should exist and humanity deserves to exist

one could say that it’s very stupid to love. it's very stupid to make an active commitment to inevitable future pain. it’s suboptimal for an entity that optimizes to avoid debilitating, all-consuming pain in a world where the passage of time can never stop and loss is inevitable, where there is literally no possible ending in which there isn’t an ending. and it’s kind of a miracle that we choose to do so, billions of people, every day

if you liked this, feel free to check out my other 'essays' on internet/pop culture stuff on my homepage. here's a selection:

· “book lovers” don’t love anything about books and it’s weird (or, defending classic novels)

· there are things we owe to each other

· i trained a neural net on 10,000 irony-poisoned tweets and it just gave me cringe?

· what makes someone good, bad, cancelled, or redeemed? i don't know either!

· please tell me if you have a definitive answer on what makes someone a bad person

· ok, fine, my social justice politics feel a bit like religion sometimes and that’s ok

· after the deluge (short story) (dispatch from an island state post climate apocalypse)

[silvestromedia]

Saints of the day August 01

Bl. Thomas Welbourne, 1605 A.D. English martyr. Born in Hutton Bushel, Yorkshire, he worked as a schoolmaster until his arrest for preaching the Catholic faith. He was arrested and condemned with Blesseds John Fuithering and William Brown. He was hanged, drawn, and quartered at York. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Welbourne

The Blessed Martyrs of Nowogródek, also known as the Eleven Nuns of Nowogródek or Sister Stella and Companions were a group of Roman Catholic nuns from the Sisters of the Holy Family of Nazareth killed by the Gestapo in August 1943 in present-day Belarus.Aug 1 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martyrs_of_Nowogr%C3%B3dek#:~:text=The%20Martyrs%20of%20Nowogr%C3%B3dek%2C%20also,Gestapo%20in%20August%201943%20in

St. Almedha, sixth century. Virgin and martyr also called Aled or Filuned. The Welsh tradition reports that Almedha was the daughter of King Brychan. Having taken a vow of virginity and dedicated to Christ, Almedha fled from her father's royal residence to escape marriage to the prince of a neighboring kingdom. She went to three Welsh villages - Llandrew, Llanfillo, and Llechfaen - but the people turned her away, despite her promise warning that dreadful thing calamities would befall anyone who denied her sanctuary. Almedha reached Brecon, where she took up residence in a small hut, but the king arrived and demanded her return. When she refused him, he beheaded her. Tradition states that a spring of water appeared on the site of her murder. The three villages that refused her were visited by disasters. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Eluned#:~:text=Saint%20Eluned%20(Welsh%3A%20Eiliwedd%3B,Tennyson's%20Gareth%20and%20Lynette.%22.

St. Dominic Van Honh Dieu, Roman Catholic Dominican Priest and Martyr. A native of Vietnam. He was martyred at the age of sixty-seven. Feastday Aug. 1

St. Sofia, Eastern allegory explaining the cult of Divine Wisdom, Faith, Hope, and Charity were the daughters of Wisdom (known as Sofia in the Roman Martyrology on September 30th), a widow in Rome. The daughters suffered martyrdom during Hadrian's persecution of Christians: Faith, twelve, was scourged and went unharmed when boiling pitch was poured on her, was beheaded; Hope, ten, and Charity, nine, were also beheaded after emerging unscathed, from a furnace; and Wisdom died three days later while praying at their graves. Feast day - August 1st. https://www.st-sophia.com/about/saint

St. Ethelwold. Bishop of Winchester, England, called “the Father of Monks.” Born in that city, he was ordained by St. Alphege the Bald. In 943, he joined the Benedictines at Glastonbury under St. Dunstan. He became the abbot of Abingdon in 955 and bishop in 963. Ethelwold worked with Sts. Dunstan and Oswald of York in bringing about a monastic revival after the Danish invasions. He also expelled the canons of Winchester, replacing them with monks. Ethelwold founded or restored the abbeys of Ely, Chertsey, Milton Abbas, Newminster, Peterborough, and Thorney. He authored Regularis Concordia, a monastic decree based on the Benedictine Rule, and his school of illumination at Winchester was famed. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%86thelwold_of_Winchester

St. Peregrinus, 643 A.D. Irish or Scottish hermit. Peregrinus was originally a pilgrim who, on his way home from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the holy places, chose to become a hermit in the area around Modena, Italy. He remained there for the rest of his life. https://www.bartleby.com/210/8/015.html

St. Rioch, 480 A.D. Bishop Abbot of lnisboffin, Ireland. He was a nephew of St. Patrick and the brother of Sts. Mel and two others, Melchu and Muinis. They were the sons of Conis and St. Darerca. Rioch was a missionary bishop.

ST PETER FABER, JESUIT,A roommate of Ignatius of Loyola and Francis Xavier from their university days, this gentle guide of souls was a master at giving the Spiritual Exercises. He allowed himself to be spent for the Lord and his Church, helping the Jesuits to become established all over Europe. His feast day is August 1. St Peter Faber, Jesuit - Information on the Saint of the Day - Vatican News https://www.vaticannews.va/en/saints/08/01/st-peter-faber--jesuit.html

ST. ALPHONSUS MARIA DE’ LIGUORI, ST. ALPHONSUS MARIA DE’ LIGUORI, BISHOP AND DOCTOR OF THE CHURCH, FOUNDER OF THE CONGREGATION OF THE MOST HOLY REDEEMER https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alphonsus_Liguori

STS. SEVEN BROTHERS MACCABEI

[themuseumwithoutwalls]

MWW Artwork of the Day (3/21/24) Sophie Gengembre Anderson (French/British, 1823–1903) Elaine (or "The Lily Maid of Astolat")(1870) Oil on canvas, 1584 x 155 cm. The Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool UK

Sophie Gengembre Anderson was a French-born British artist who specialised in genre painting of children and women, typically in rural settings. The painting is based on a poem by Lord Tennyson. It tells the tale of Elaine, an innocent country girl who falls in love with Sir Lancelot. He abandons her in favour of Queen Guinevere and she dies from unrequited love. Anderson’s picture depicts a servant rowing Elaine’s body to King Arthur’s palace at Camelot.

[kariachi]

Some 'Mike on Osmos V 'fic! A prequel to the one with Kevin.

Mike is having a bad time, thankfully he has family there.

~~

“Shorty?”

More the shape on them in the light of the richellu’s webs than the sound of Sulla’s voice made Mike clench his teeth. He’d managed to find a secluded area of the dens, drive the richellu off, and for what? So a cousin could track him down. At least if it’d just been their voice he could ignore it. Tail painfully still, they hesitated, moved like they might call back up the tunnels, before slipping deeper in after him.

“Are you alright?” The temptation to ignore them was strong. To snipe at them stronger. To just-

“Stop.” They did. Something in his gut relaxed at the same time another twisted. Out of arm’s reach but not from- Fucking fuck. “No.”

“Okay.” Slowly, they moved to the wall opposite his own, sliding down to sit on the floor in a near mirror of his own position. No action brought them closer, and his feelings were painfully mixed. “Want to talk about it?”

As if just admitting he wasn’t okay wasn’t hard enough. Like his hackles hadn’t gone up the second he’d said it, mind crackling at the display of weakness, of vulnerability. But the past week had been so stressful. They’d found a local food he couldn’t eat, a harsher blow to someone who’d never seen something edible he couldn’t or wouldn’t consume in his life than it probably should have been. He and Vani weren’t speaking, but he still had to help her with the dimuri. This latest part of his language lessons was killing him. He’d had a nightmare just the night before about bags, cells, and family that was still stuck in the center of his chest. And just to put a topper on the damn cake-

“Levin is coming to visit.” Sulla just blinked with a curious, pitying noise. Taking a harsh breath, Mike gestured back in the direction of their room. “The Hero.” Their eyes went wide.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He almost managed to laugh. “Because that’s what I need, is to see him.” Another gentle noise from his cousin, their tail giving a single swish. Another thing he didn’t need, to be reminded how dusty the floor they were sat on was. A cloud of dust and a small sigh.

“Disya won’t embarrass you, you know,” Sulla said, “Crysie might but, everybody is going to be on good behavior.” He couldn’t help but cringe. Ah, yes, for a moment he’d forgotten Disya existed. Not the worst cousin he had, there was a whole clan of the things for him to compete with, but the one carrying the ‘the Hero might be courting him’ torch ever since that charm debacle. Add that to the list of problems then.

“That’s not it. We have a history,” Mike said, because it was true, because his cousins never let anything go, because he had to get this all out somehow and the teeth digging into his legs weren’t helping at much as he wanted them too. “It hasn’t been good since we were young enough for the creche.”

Since before Kevin’d moved back out east. Before Mike started having full school days with people who didn’t like his teeth, his appetite, the way his looks faded at a single missed meal. Before he’d stopped coming to the pack’s Solstice celebrations. Before the Validuses vanished, his dad died. Before he’d been alone in the guest house, cast aside for a normal life with a normal man. Before he’d seen him again, with the Tennysons, and realized he’d come back, been back. That nobody had told him and he hadn’t come around to visit.  Before he’d ruined everything.

Mike hadn’t had a relapse in four months, not since he’d done the math and realized that it’d been a year Earth time, that he’d missed the anniversary of his dad’s death, that he was homesick.

He was so fucking close he could almost feel the power under his skin.

“Mike,” Sulla leaned just a bit closer and for a heartbeat he almost expected a hug- if it weren’t for an inability to trust himself just then he could have really used a hug- “everything’s going to be fine. It’ll be a quick visit, we’ll make it one if we have to, and then everything will be back to normal. And if they start something, just because they’re higher status doesn’t mean the whole damn clan won’t chase them from our territory if needed.”

It didn’t hit the hearts of the problem. At tattered pride, creeping guilt, and a betrayal (now he cared to see him) that rubbed badly against the hurts that had led him down this path to begin with. But, the idea of his clan being willing to throw out a Hero, of the Imperial Clan no less, did soothe those age old pains some. Even if Sulla was probably lying, the idea helped. Not enough to take the teeth from his flesh, but enough to take a hint of the tension from his shoulders.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Mike said, forcing a small smile onto his face.

“Well, you are kin,” they said. With a deep breath, they looked down the tunnel and slowly returned to their feet. “I’m going to tell the others I found you, and then go grab us some snacks, okay? I think there’s still some leftover cheese from the Solstice in the main kitchens, you liked that right?” The smile got a little more genuine. Osmosian cheeses were only similar to Earth ones on the basis of being, well, cheeses, but it had been enough to ease the homesickness a bit.

“Bring whatever you can,” he found himself asking, a vain hope that soothing his stomach would keep the worse hunger at bay. “I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving!” Sulla’s laughter carried as they walked away, leaving Mike to take a deep breath and lay his head on his knees.

Everything was fine, he wasn’t alone, food was coming- He could do this. It would be okay.

[crystal-moon-101]

Name: Eldrigma Nickname: Shadow Man, The Mystery, Forgotten One, The Last Tacenscous Age: 4598 Gender: Male Birthday: ??? Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual Ethnicity/Specie: Tacenscous Personality: Cold, Quiet, Stern, Focused, Intelligent, Direct, Loyal, Protective, Private, Vindictive, Resourceful, Alert, Empathic. Hobbies: He’s not seen to have a lot of hobbies outside of his mission of revenge, mostly spending his free time training, reading spells and upgrading his tools, weapons and armour. However, he does seem to be into stargazing, and enjoys reading a book or two here. Family: 

??? - (Wife*Deceased*/While very little is known about him and his species, it is discovered that he did once have a family, with a loving wife that’s name has yet to be revealed. But it’s clear he loved her, as the metal bands around his horns are actually his species version of wedding rings. He has not taken them off since the day his family died, and has no urge to find another lover.)

??? - (Son *Deceased*/Similar to his wife, it’s been found he once had a son, who was a young child by the time he died. While still being rather private about his past, Eldrigma has mentioned to Vesper that his son suffered from a birth defect, and he always despised how people looked down on his own child. So it’s clear he was a loving and protective father.)

Friends: 

Vesper - (Ally/Friend?/Eldrigma came across Vesper after she had a brief fight with the Omni Squad kids, almost dying due to her condition. He ended up taking petty on her, sharing his own mana/magic to save her, and in return she now assists him on his path of revenge, as no one has shown her this kind of kindness with the state she was in. Their dynamic is rather complicated, starting off as strictly professional, planning to part ways once they achieved what they wanted. But as time passes, there’s signs they’re starting to care for each other, being two lost souls that might find peace in each other. But with Eldrigma always being so distant, and Vesper untrusting of people, it’s hard to say where it might go.)

Enemies: 

Jay Tennyson - (Enemies/Admitly, out of anyone in the Omni Squad, Eldrigma seems to not like fighting Jay the most. He sees the boy as a good person, one with ideals that wants people to follow, and appreciates the kind and forgiving person he is. But sadly they are always bound to fight, with Jay always wanting to get in the way, trying to learn more about Eldrigma, believing he can help. It’s a complicated villain vs hero dynamic, but not even Jay can make Eldrigma stop his path of vengeance.)

Thea Levin - (Enemies/While he doesn’t like fighting Thea, like the rest of the crew, he’s not particularly fond of her either. She’s loud, brash, and clearly doesn’t understand that things she says can sound more rude or hateful than she realises. Given Thea seems to have an issue of seeing things black and white, it sets Eldrigma off, reminding him too much of certain incidents in his past. Also doesn’t help that she is an anodite, another creature from his grim past.)

Malax Shard - (Enemies/He is rather conflicted with Malax, because on one hand her two alien sides he hates, having connections to his past. But on the other hand he knows she is not to be planned for what happened to him, and does take into account how good she is as a leader and person, respecting her choice to fight and protect. So he often stays quiet around her, unsure what to say to her.)

Rook Rilla - (Enemies/He interacts with her the least out of the team, but they still have their opinions on each other. While she can be standoffish, he can tell she is a caring person, given she is the team’s medic. He’s seen her throw herself in danger to protect people, often innocents around them, and that sometimes makes him hesitate. Unlike the others on the team, she can’t really fight him, so he never feels fair to get her involved. But if she chooses to, he can’t really stop her, as she too will get in his way.)

Vanessa - (Enemies/Like Thea, he doesn’t seem too fond of her. Both because of her heratidy and because of her actions and personality. She’s flighty, unsure, and sometimes pushes her luck, with him finding her childish at times. He can respect that she is willing to help out the group when they need it, but highly doubts she has what it takes to be the ruler of Ledgerdomain one day, not unless she cleans up her act.)

Many Alien Species - (Enemies/Whatever happened in his past seems to be connected to many alien species across the galaxy. Such as anodites, galvans, necrofriggins and so on. It’s unknown as to how many he has issues with, or what connects them, but it’s clear he’s out for revenge, and that they did something to him a long time ago. Something that seems to have been erased by history somehow, and it looks like he wants to put them through the same treatment. He sometimes loses his cool around these people, especially those in leadership positions, or old enough to know what might be going on.)

Representing Song: Conquest of Spaces - Woodkid

Skills: Natural Magic/Spell Casting, Enhanced Intelligence, Flight, Natural Strength/Endurance, Knowledgeable On Technology (Even from other races), Crafting/Creating, Minor Regeneration, Represents/Has Powers in Biology, Magic and Technology, Multilinguist, Marksmanship, The gems that grow in between his horns can be harvested to make talismans and runes, Prehensile Tail, Anti-Magic Cloak. Weakness/Flaws/Fears: He does seem to suffer from a form of PTSD and Depression, still dealing with grief and anger from his past. He can sometimes lose his cool around certain people, making him briefly lose control over himself. While he can regrow the gems in between his horns, if he loses them all his magic will struggle to work properly. He’s not good with connecting with people, even someone like Vesper, preferring to suffer silently, and never wants to choose another option that isn’t revenge.

[ben-10-setting-omnicrom]

Hello

I wanna talk about something that really bugs me and that is people claiming that Ben deciding to Kill Kevin in the short yet cool Ultimate Kevin Arc was unreasonable and out of nowhere all while ignoring the context of how and why he goes to those extremes.

Short answer: Everything in between Aggregor and Ultimate Kevin broke him down drove him to those extremes.

Long answer?

Ben has tried so hard are to rescued the Andromeda aliens from Aggregor only to fail with the Osmosian becoming Ultimate Aggregor and he understably beats him down in a fit of rage yet Gwen stopped him as was about to continue, keeping him from going to far but Aggregor got back up and defeated all of them.

Throughout his missions to acquire the pieces of Map of Infinity Ben was continuously beaten and outsmarted by Aggregor despite always trying to do the right thing like helping Charmcaster stop Addwaitya and free her people or pulling a planet back together with his own body as Goop.

I think the worst I felt for him was during the ending of the Perplexahedron where the Sentinel berated him for choosing to save his life instead of the map and he dies anyway with Aggregor succeeding yet again. And Ben's response?

"I...I didn't-"

That one line as well as his expression said it all in this scene, he's shocked saddened that it was all for nothing there's a part of him that feels like if he was completely ruthless things wouldn't get this far, Gwen and Kevin try to comfort him by saying that he never leaves anyone behind that isn't who he is, that he did what he thought was right. It's true he was being who he was and always will be.

A Hero.

But he felt like he messed up cause of that which is unfortunately also true and that had to have hurt his soul to realize that.

And Kevin absorbing the Ultimatrix and then betraying his team as well going insane again, going around hurting people (He attacked Ken for owing him 2 dollars for gods sake!) all while refusing attempts to reach out to him from his Best friend and Girlfriend, added to the termoil.

By Absolute Power he thought enough was enough, deciding to stop Kevin for good because after everything that's happened and how his failures let it get this far? He has to do this, because that's seems to be the only other solution and there is no other way this time, but even then he shows remorse during all this but ultimately they found another way in the end.

Ben even says sorry to Kevin at the end. Yet people still see this as out of nowhere even though it's onscreen and has been justified by other characters andUltimate Kevin acts during the time.(Kevin's one of my favorites but even I can say he was wild.)

Ben Tennyson is a good Man, it's just the whole situation breaking him down, but he still pulled through in the end.

It's neither unreasonable or out of nowhere. As you said the show blatantly lays it out why he's doing what he is. Everyone Kevin hurts or kills is on Ben's hands because he's one of the few people alive who can stop him. Every second he's out there he gets more energy and more power. He's an existential threat.

The people who say that are the same people that claim the Galvans/Plumbers are secretly evil/bigots and that Ben is a narcissistic sociopath/psychopathic womanizer who only saves women to get in their pants. Fuck I've even seen someone claim with their whole chest that the reason Ben wanted to kill Kevin was because he was jealous that Kevin stole his "saving the day" hero shtick.

It's all in my delusional Ben 10 tag lol.

Ben has shown time and again he's perfectly willing to kill others, have them die by their own evil, and kill himself to save more lives.

It's literally canon that if Ben didn't stop when he was beating Aggregor in a rage when Gwen told him to that he'd have won in that fight just fine too.

Thanks for the ask, feel free to ask more lol.

[scotianostra]

On June 27th 1857 Daniel MacMillan, Scottish publisher, died.

Daniel MacMillan was born on 13 September 1813, in the Isle of Arran to a crofting family., he was apprenticed to a bookseller in Irvine, Ayrshire, at the age of ten. Daniel moved to Glasgow where he taught in a school for several years, before joining a firm of booksellers in Glasgow and, in 1833 he moved to London, England, with little more than his canny Scottish instincts and a strong desire to succeed as a book publisher.

At first, he worked in a bookstore, which was located near Cambridge University and which specialised in classical authors. MacMillan soon gained a reputation amongst University students as a well read, reliable guide to recent publications. Daniel next spent a brief period with a London bookseller, where he was joined by his younger brother, Alexander.

In 1843, the MacMillans opened their own shop, D. & A. Macmillan, at 57 Aldersgate St., in London, and published their first two books, which hardly set the world on fire, their first few years were hard and they flirted with bankruptcy, but stuck to their task and slowly turned things around. Their first big breakthrough came from their friend a backer Charles Kingsley who penned Westward Ho! which was published in 1853. Another success was ‘Tom Brown’s Schooldays’, by Thomas Hughes. Books such as these, laid the foundations for Macmillan’s strong fiction list.

MacMillan’s went on to have some of the most well known authors of the 19th century on its books, Lewis Carroll, Charles Tennyson, Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling, Maynard Keynes to name but a few.

Together with Maurice and Archdeacon Hare, Daniel and Alexander became supporters of the reform movement known as ‘Christian Socialism’ and most of their early publications reflected the liberal sentiments of that group, such as its commitment to universal education and as a consequence, the firm became a leading publisher of textbooks and other educational material.

Daniel had suffered ill health from a young age and passed away aged 43 in Cambridge, where he is buried at The Mill Road cemetery.

The firm Macmillan Publishers was run by the family into the 70’s and survives, albeit in name only, with no family connections, to this day., last year marked 180 years since it was founded.

[sim-ply-lilacs]

As soon as the wedding was over, Josef, Bea, and her mother left for the farm. There was no time to linger over the old cottage and all its sweet memories and bitter remorses, no time to brush fingers across the spot on the wall where Beatrice had spilled a bottle of ink as a child, or to kiss goodbye the trees she'd climbed as a girl. It was planting season, and she was a farmer's wife now. The farm must come first.

Except, Bea didn't yet feel like much of anybody's wife. Other than the addition of her new ring and the sight of her things in the bedroom and communal areas of the cabin, ever since she'd returned her borrowed wedding gown to Mrs. Landgraab, there wasn't much to signify that much beyond her location had changed. With the rush to resume planting, she had barely seen her husband save when they brushed up against each other while in the fields, or when he offered her a small smile at the well when they paused for a drink.

And yet, Bea knew Josef loved her. She knew it in that smile, she knew it in the way he took time to plant her a garden of herbs and flowers by the kitchen, she knew it when she saw the amused twitch of his mustache as he watched her coo over the baby chicks. They loved each other, the bustle of the farm just sometimes made it hard to show that.

Despite the hardships inherent in farm living, Bea loved their little patch of earth. The animals, especially. Bea had always loved animals, but hadn't had any since her last cat had died some months before her father grew ill. Oh, how she loved a warm, purring kitten—not that they had room for one on the farm. Farm animals were a different, but no less wonderful, source of joy. The chicks were an endless source of fluffy, fuzzy joy (and soon eggs) and the cows, with their large eyes and even temperaments, were sweet companions who didn't mind listening to her prattle on and who could be trusted to keep her secrets.

"I'll admit that farm life isn't necessarily what I thought it would be, Daisy," Bea chatted companionably with the Holstein cow Josef brought home the day he and Bea married, "but I do like many parts of it. I wasn't raised to be a farmer's wife, you see. I was supposed to be heading off to the University of Britechester this fall to get my B.A. in literature. There isn't much use for Chaucer or Dante on the farm, I'm afraid." At this, she laughed. "Unless of course you'd like to discuss Purgatorio or Boethius with me, Daisy dear."

"Sometimes, I confess, I'm still not sure how I ended up here after the life I planned for myself. Oh well, perhaps it is as our dear Mr. Tennyson said, 'Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die." Oh dear, that's a bit morbid, isn't it? Maybe a bit of the good book then? 'Thou waterest the hills from thy upper rooms: the earth shall be filled with the fruit of thy works: bringing forth grass for cattle, and herb for the service of men. That thou mayst bring bread out of the earth and that wine may cheer the heart of man. That he may make the face cheerful with oil: and that bread may strengthen man's heart.'"

"Well, bread certainly strengthens my heart—even if I haven't exactly perfected how to make it yet—and wine does cheer the hearts of men, so let's pray for the grass for the cattle and herb for the service of men, and all shall be well, indeed!"

Later that evening, after dinner was (somewhat pitifully—Bea was new to cooking, to say the least) made and eaten, Bea took some time to herself to think over the day before joining Josef in their bedroom.

While it's true that she was settling nicely into life on the farm, and while she remained sure of Josef's affections, there was one area of her marriage that Bea found herself worrying about. Namely, the physical side of things.

Oh, she knew it wasn't proper for ladies to think about things, and she wasn't exactly dwelling on the topic, but she was concerned that Josef hadn't, er, broached the subject. She knew he'd been exhausted since the wedding from managing the planting from sunup to sundown, but what if it was more than that? What if...what if he loved her, but not in that way? His kisses were just as nice and frequent as they'd been during their brief engagement. More frequent, even. However, despite working the land together and sharing the same room, bed, and last name, he still acted as though they were courting. She half expected him to hold her hand in the parlor and then walk her home!

Bea arose sharply. Enough of this, she decided. There was only one thing to be done: no matter how she blushed or stammered, she must go and speak to her husband.

With that, she strode across the room, head held high, into the hallway, through the door to her room...

...only to find a still clothed Josef asleep on the bed.

With a weary little laugh, Bea plopped down on the chair next to the mirror. Well, it seems her little conversation was going to have to wait for another day. Bea sighed. Time to get ready for bed.

Prev ~ Next ~ Beginning

[dnickels]

This is also making me painfully aware that I forgot every single bit of Grail-lore I ever knew. Tennyson sits me down: So do you remember when Merlin made a chair that kills people and called it the Danger Seat and then sat in it and died? Well they kept the chair around, and the one day Arthur was gone from Camelot handling some brigands personally because he felt nostalgic for a low-level Skyrim quests Galahad got a little too worked up and sat it in (the No-No Chair) and a mystical vision of the Grail appeared in the middle of Round Table Dinner (literally in the middle it streaked like a comet and landed in the roast) and everyone lost their minds hooting and hollering and banging on their shields and vowing to go on a one-year quest to find it whatever the cost, so they all took off for a year, leaving Arthur to return to his Castle excited to see his brave trusty knights only to learn that they had fucked off somewhere and he needed to very quickly make a bunch of new knights fast, and when they came back he very passively-aggressively asked how the Grail Quest when and everyone went some form of insane or was tortured in the desert for masturbating and he can only primly listen like "I told you so. You are going to miss me so much when my nephewson stabs me to death"

[killed-by-choice]

“Klotilde Roe” (Hungary 1968)

“Klotilde” was one of 34 pregnant people in a Hungarian study who were killed by legal abortion. Among these, sepsis and/or peritonitis as a category was one of the most common recorded causes of death. (Given that the cause of death was not given for some fatalities in the study, it is unknown how many more died the same way she did.)

Unless otherwise specified, the abortions in the study were almost always done in the first trimester. They were carried out in hospitals and most clients were observed until the day following the abortion to watch for any complications.

In 1968, Klotilde underwent her legal abortion in a hospital. The circumstances were described as “optimal conditions” in the study. However, it is important to note that abortion has inherent risks no matter how well-equipped the hospital is. All the expertise of “specialists who have acquired great experience and skill” would not be enough to stop her from developing sepsis and dying.

During the study period, more Hungarian women died of sepsis from legal abortion than from all causes of illegal abortion combined. While stringent regulations helped, allowing elective abortion at all enabled the deaths of women who were told that they were consenting to something “safe and legal.” It is also important to note that the difference in reported abortion mortality between 1931–1932 and from 1964–1972 (see American Journal of Public Health in June of 1976, page 571 for this comparison) had far more to do with medical innovations such as blood transfusions and antibiotics than with legalization status.

Even decades later, pregnant people still continue to suffer sepsis and die after legal abortion. These include Keisha Atkins, Alyona Dixon, Holly Patterson, Sarah Dunn, Gabrielle Ivy Felts, Hoa Thuy “Vivian” Tran, Allegra Roseberry, Maria Del Valle González López, Chanelle Bryant, Oriane Shevin, Sophie McCoy, Gail Wright, Christin Gilbert, Imari Lawson, Carolina Gutierrez, Angela Hall, Brenda Benton, Rhonda Rollinson, Michelle Madden, Semika Shaw, Linda Gayle Lovelace, Mary Ann Tennyson, Angela Reynolds, Debra Walton, Joyce Ortenzio, and many cases recorded in medical journals, adverse event databases and lawsuits worldwide.