#the inevitable march of time and the imminent change that comes with it and all that

[spinspoon]

yknow, im having one of those moments where i'm feeling nostalgic yet sad but also content all at the same time...

[fortifice]

The Captain of the Silvermane Guard? He’s young, exceptionally handsome, respected by all those who know him. He comes from a noble, wealthy family, he’s kind hearted and brave, loyal to his people to a fault, and he never wavers in his dedication to protecting them even when he’s on the verge of collapse. By all means, you would think someone like him has everything and more a person could long for in this world. It’s unfortunate that it’s all a mask and nothing more. I don’t see someone’s who has the entire world in the pan of their hand. More like… someone who has been forced to bear the weight of it on his back for as long as he can remember. Has he ever once in his life been asked what he wanted? Does he even know? Can he name to you his closest friends, or the last meaningful relationship he was in without having to stop and mull it over?

I can admire his more impressive qualities, of which their are many, and still feel a vague sense of disgust at a population who would expect someone who hasn’t even had the chance to live yet to lay down his life so they can continue their own uninterrupted. Where is the justice? If someone born into that kind of privilege can be sentenced to a prolonged, inevitable death in the freezing cold, surrounded by monsters and fallen comrades, what the hell is there to hold out hope for? I won’t pretend to understand what happened with the last Supreme Guardian, but all I know is that for a planet that claims to embody Preservation, it’s pretty damned pathetic that no one thought of looking to alternate solutions instead of sending their sons to die every few years. To allow a tyrannical monarch to segregate the population in half and leave the less fortunate side to rot should have been a cal to serve her head on a platter and take control back of their own destiny.

What was done to those guards that they were okay with leaving some of their people for dead instead of standing up for what was right?

What came first, the people of Belobog losing faith in the idea that circumstances could improve if even just a fraction of them stood up and rallied for change? Or the previous generation breaking down their children to the point where complacency and absolute obedience was the only thing they were permitted to do?

But things are improving now. Belobog has outside help, allies, friends. They have options. It’s time to let the guards live instead of expecting them to sacrifice their bodies and souls to death only to raise their children to do the same thing.

If I could ask the Captain two things it would be this: what does he truly want? And would he ever willingly force his own child into the position he is in now? If the answer is no, then somewhere song the way, someone failed the guards.

It was painful to hear the truth so candidly, for they had grown complacent when facing the imminence of death at every dawn and laying their fallen brethren as dusk settled. It was not to say that it was a merciful thing, it was to say that they expected it, it was the way things had always been, would always be. He had seethed with the unjustness of it for so many years, trod the path of his forefathers and accepted that he would die, it was fate, for someone to stand up and ask who wanted this ? who asked for this, there wasn’t an answer he could give that was truthful. No one wanted to die. The men he had marched into battle with that had lost their lives had wanted to live more than anything else, when someone had seen them huddled around a fire laughing heartily, sharing meals together, living together, it became so excruciatingly obvious that none of them had asked for this. He does not take his position as captain lightly, for as much as it is a shackle he has always walked with it with pride. It was an intrinsic part of who he was, but to ask what he wanted, would he be an honest man if he answered that this was all he had ever coveted, that it was not imprisonment, condemning young men to die for the sake of preserving normalcy. Not many were brazen enough to speak up against the Supreme Guardian’s will, it had encompassed belobog for decades, in the wake of her death things were changing but it was like thawing frozen, brittle cogs. Everything would take time, it was an inevitable thing that, because these people had become accustomed to survival, not living. This commanding letter imbued with all that fervent emotion makes his chest ache, because he knows it’s not wrong - he knows he does not have the answers that they might want. But when they ask him, implore him for his own feelings, is this what he wanted ? would he force his children to take up the mantle and die for the people of belobog. He looks haunted by that revelation, because he knows that his truth is not in accordance with the Supreme Guardian’s will that had dictated so much of his life. “ No..” it sounds pained, like he were gritting it out from between his teeth, like every breath in the wake of change was excruciating for him. He was having to learn about himself, about others, when his whole life had been shaped for one thing and now he was left to reel in the aftermath of it, change wasn’t easy - it wasn’t pleasant, it hurt. “ I would not condemn anyone else to walk the path I have, it is far too imbued with suffering and death.” he could envision the other’s hands clenched into fists, grabbing his white livery and shaking him until he realized that he did not need to die for them, no one wanted him dead. “ If I was afforded the opportunity I would leave this place.” it’s such a blasphemous thing to say, that his whole soul keens beneath the weight of it. “ I have spent much of my life protecting it but all I have wanted is to leave.” wouldn’t it make others recoil from him, knowing that the pristine white of the captain’s uniform was stained with the desire to walk away from it all. The death was too much, when someone asked for him to be honest he thought he may be crushed under the corollary of his confession. “ Their words are harsh but they are not wrong, Belobog needs to change.” and this letter he crumples up, he doesn’t throw it away, he thinks if another’s prying eyes were to lay upon it they too might suffer with the revelations he did. 

[azenari]

24 | 3.14.18

originally published on TinyLetter I actually really like the number 24. frankly, I'm not too sure what there was to dread about tomorrow, soon to be today. (t-minus 2 minutes to go!) the whole house is asleep. I've got about 60 seconds left. midnight will come. nothing will happen. I'll know, though; we create infrastructure to make sense of things, to cultivate the sensation of living in motion, to fight the easy death of complacency. midnight. and there it is - I know now, in a way that I did not know before, that I am no longer 23. 24. now that we're done with the suspense of that tiny tumult, I want to think about 23 for a moment. 23 was a transition year, and not just for me. when you're 22 you're still overwhelmed by your imminent ejection from the structure of educational institutions. whatever comes next, you're happy just to have something. happy to be employed at ALL, if you're anything like me; happy to be traveling somewhere, happy to have things to do, happy to have food on the table, happy to be even a little less desperate. by the time 23 comes around, though, you're pretty disillusioned. you didn't really have expectations for adulthood to begin with (it's not like you ever had the time to build them). but whatever you did or didn't expect, it wasn't this. the rigidity of responsibility suffocates your weak and vulnerable spirit. you don't miss feeling like you're constantly in free fall, but you miss... racing to keep up with the passage of time, a perpetuum mobile that now sinks slowly into your tired limbs like certain death instead of dragging you along by your fingertips. in college, you were haunted by imposter syndrome. ​I don't feel a day over 13. and yet the birthdays kept coming, so you became more frantic with each one, thinking you'd be found out for the child you still are. these days? you're not old yet, not really. it just feels like it. so you can keep marching towards death or you can change still the only inevitability besides death and taxes, though these days I'm starting to think that way more people can get away with evading the 'tax' part than I previously imagined - not by moving to California though - so I guess I changed. 23, huh? after a few months of staring in openmouthed terror I leapt onto the bull that was Bridgewater (the company, the team, my own terrible self), locked my hands around its horns, and held on for dear life. we fought. for the same cause, maybe, but it was still a fight. I won one round, perhaps the most important one for the little girl resurfacing in my half-dead body; it proved that the impossible could still be possible for us. I lost the second one. and then, incredibly, I recognized - was FORCED to recognize, thank god - that I'd throw the third if I didn't stop playing. not that it ever stopped me before. this time, though... a month. sleeping, staring into the distance, steeping in warm water, searching through abandoned memories for any semblance of meaning. talking to myself. reading about weightlessness. meditating on the indubitability of tidal waves crashing over a four-foot-ten-inch body, even after the extra ~15 lbs. then I went back, won round 3, and even more incredibly, quit while I was ahead who is this girl? she wonders. who is this girl that starts, and stops, and starts again? who is this girl who opens her mind to the vast terror of space, and welcomes the internal unknown that is always murmuring within us (instead of trying to drown it out with the external unknown of the world) - who stops running long enough to consider whether there was actually anything worth running from? who is this girl, with her habits? her roots? I thought I would have a hard time being more shocked by the miracle of A (who A was, who A is, who he could be) than I was when I first discovered him, in all his fatal springtime glory. I was wrong. I have never been more shaken - uprooted and anchored - than I am now, having lived through 23. the overtures of love that came from near and far at his behest. the overture to drown all others almost precisely halfway through as we renewed our vows to go all in on our dreams and therefore our lives. and now? stunned, again and again, by the miracle of him and the things he is doing, the miracle of him even being alive, the absolutely infuriating miracle of him beating me over the head with the wonders of my own stupid(ly) miraculous life. what is left to put into words? what love songs to write when I see a god I don't know and yet can't deny in his everyday eyes? what singular human creation could capture the vast humanity of faith? stephen hawking died, today-now-yesterday, and in doing so revived the eternal question of what the hell the point of all this might be and whether we get to think about it after we're too deep in the ground to do anything else. I've always wanted to believe, I think. I don't see any other reason why my adolescent body would walk willingly into the ghosts of Eden with my grandparents, my aunt, my cousins, read Genesis in the hotel room with my mother when I was six. talk to youth group leaders. ask questions. learn hymns. I was born with so much faith, it almost made me sick to have nothing to put it towards. I still don't know if god is there. I don't think anyone ever really does, deep down. but I know I thought of A in the same category as I thought of god, sacrilegious as that may sound. I couldn't see how it was possible for him to be real, but neither could I bring myself to conclude that he wasn't. someone to marvel at and wonder with. someone with whom to share the vision of life, the burden of eternity, the weightlessness of love. someone to believe in, a set of hands and bones in which to inter the heart of dreams. in that moment, I didn't just say yes to him. I said yes to the concept and reality of yes - I said yes to yes, to life, to myself, to him, to our children, canine and human alike, to death, to God. I know my voice was quiet but I felt it reverberate in the fabric of everything that is anything; in the core of my flowering faith. yes. yes. just over a year from now, we will be married. I may worry about a lot of things, but not that. I am so far past worrying about that. it's one of the only things that has me convinced I've actually grown quite a bit these last few years. marrying A will be flying, surely. I am so certain it stings the back of my eyes when I pause to consider the gravity of it. remember the 'game over' t-shirts we saw in department stores as a kid? remember the broken mothers and fathers who warned you with their dying bodies that it couldn't be done? well, you can burn all that, in memory and otherwise. because when I walk down the aisle, reaching the end will mean feeling more alive than I have ever felt. there's more. but I suppose it doesn't matter, relatively speaking, because it all started and ended and started again when he asked me a question and I said yes. we're a family. there are four of us, now. we live in California (though I'll always be from New York). my very own baby boy was born here, inseparable from his bonded sister. miracles beget more miracles; dreams fuel the miracle of life. I'm only 24. I don't know much. but I know love is the greatest of all miracles, and I know what - and who - I love. we're here. we live, breathe, eat, sleep, shit. cry. laugh, alone and together. hope, whether together or apart. our dreams are alive in the city of angels. our miracles are real. 

[calamity-callie]

New Beginnings ~ Wiztober Day 1

Edited by @spiralcompendium

“So.” The single, stern word broke a heavy silence that had been present since their private airship left the port in Hamamitsu. “How was your first year at the Imperial City Dragon Academy?” Alia flinched. They had been hoping and praying that this question would never come but knew it was inevitable. ‘Why did it have to be this soon though?’ they cried internally, cursing themself for not already having a full speech prepared for this. “Well?” their mother snipped impatiently, interrupting Alia’s thought process. Under pressure to deliver positive results, they opened their mouth to reply and a flood of words poured out.

“Dragon Academy? Oh, it was great!!! The Imperial City is such a cool place, and I loved seeing the inside of the Imperial Palace - did you know it contains 75 bedrooms?! 75!!! Also -”

“Alia,” came the first interruption.

“Also it turns out I have a natural talent for gardening! See I joined the gardening club and I was the only first year in the history of the school to actually raise a maelstrom snap dragon to elder! A Maelstrom! Snap! Dragon! That’s senior level stuff!!! Oh oh also -”

“Alia…” their mother interrupted again, this time with slightly more insistence.

“- alsoalsoalso it turns out I’m real good at alchemy, too! So much so that a potions vendor in the city took me as an apprentice! My first job, and something I love too! Can you believe it?!?!? Also also oh oh also also also -”

“ALIA!” The third interruption came as a full on yell. They gasped, taken aback by the intensity. “You know exactly what I mean. I don’t care about your extracurricular activities, your clubs, or how many bedrooms the palace has. Your grades. Let me see them.”

“Well, I got one A, uhhhh...” Alia trailed off, panicking. Their off-the-cuff plan hadn’t turned out quite how they hoped. As they desperately tried to brainstorm ways to stall for more time though, their mother, growing ever more impatient, demanded yet again, “Show me your grades. Now.”

Defeated, a crestfallen Alia opened up their bag, pulled out an official looking envelope, and handed it off without a word. The seconds felt like hours as their mother peeled off the wax seal, opened the top flap, and pulled out the parchment inside. Her face morphed from concentration, to confusion, to rage. She opened her mouth as if to yell, but at the last second changed her mind. Putting the sheet back into the envelope, she simply said, “We will discuss this with your father when we get home.” Not a single word was uttered for the rest of the flight.

Some hours later, the two arrived at their home in Kembaalung. Their father initially greeted them with a smile and open arms, but their mother quickly trotted over to him and they began talking in hushed tones. After a moment their father turned with a grim face and said, “Alia. Go to your room. We will call you when we are ready to talk.” 

“Talk. Great. They want to Talk.” Alia laid on their bed, speaking their thoughts aloud, thankful for the magical soundproofing their parents tended to use during their private conversations. Looking over at the bookshelf on the opposite wall, they contemplated how things ever got to this point. The shelf was full of thick tomes on dragon magic: grimoires they could remember being forced to read and memorize for hours at a time, beginning as soon as they learned to read. They had every word of every thick volume on that shelf memorized, but not a single line made any sense. This collection of facts served them well enough to pass the entrance exam though, and they held out hope that maybe actual teaching would be the missing link; maybe seeing these incomprehensible concepts in action would be all it took to help them finally understand this strange breed of magic. Unfortunately as the school year wore on, they only found themself falling farther and farther behind, and though they aced every written test, they never managed to cast a single spell.

“I really just am a failure aren’t I,” they muttered, burying their face in a pillow. Their mind began to race with all sorts of possibilities. “I’m going to get lectured, I’m gonna be confined to the indoors for the whole season reading these awful books again and again, I’m gonna be kicked out, they’re never going to want to talk to me again, I’m a disappointment to the whole family…” Their thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud knock. Jolted out of their downward spiral, Alia slowly crawled out of bed and opened the door. Their parents, stiff and stern as ever, marched in as Alia sat back down on their bed. The silence was thick with tension when their father opened his mouth to speak.

“We are… disappointed in you, Alia. You failed every class.” The lecture began in a smooth yet stern tone, but Alia wasn’t fooled. The escalation was imminent. “I just… I just can’t believe you failed every class!” A thick lump began to form in their throat as his speech heated up. “You studied those books every day! You had everything memorized and aced the entrance exam! All of our hopes were riding ON YOU, ALIA!” As the lecture finally escalated to full on yelling, they felt tears begin to well up but tried their best to force them down as the lecture continued. “Have you forgotten that we are the oldest clan of warrior monks in all of Mooshu??? And now thanks to THIS-” he held up the parchment, displaying all seven failing marks, and the single passing grade “- OUR TRADITION IS OVER!! OVER!! DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH YOU HAVE FAILED US??? WHERE DID WE GO WRONG!?!?!?!”

Alia stood up and burst into tears. “I don’t know what more you want from me okay??? I read your stupid books, I memorized your stupid facts, I did everything you wanted me to do, but you never even cared about what I WANT!” Her father prepared to yell in response, but before he could Alia shouted again, “I never wanted to be a STUPID FUCKING WARRIOR MONK ANYWAY! I HATE YOU!!! I HATE YOU!!!!!” With that, they stormed out of the house, leaving a deafening silence behind.

Dusk began to fall as Alia sat on a bench next to a frozen lake. Though it was the middle of summer, Kembaalung was always cold and snowy, and this night was no exception. They huddled in a blanket and began to sob uncontrollably. How had their life come to this? Through the frozen tears their mind began to wander into dark places again. “Where will I spend the night? Nobody here will take me in, they’re all monks… I don’t even have any friends… Does anyone even really care? I could just sit here on the bench and freeze…” 

Their thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a splash of green in their peripheral vision. They turned to look and, despite the freezing temperatures, a single young plant had sprouted out of the snow. Alia got up, walked over to it, then kneeled down, cupping their hands around the base. “You understand what it’s like, don’t you?” they muttered. With a pang of empathy, they cupped their hands closer and started softly singing. The snow around the plant began to melt as a single sunbeam materialized, piercing the night seemingly from nowhere. Alia sang louder and closed their eyes, truly becoming engulfed in their song, letting the melody flow through their entire body. As if channeling power from old Bartleby himself, the sprout grew, slowly at first but then quite rapidly. When the song came to an end, Alia, feeling calm and peaceful for the first time all day, opened their eyes. Before them was a now tall, proud sunflower towering in defiance over the whole cold landscape. They stared in awe for a short time, but were again snapped out of it upon hearing footsteps in the snow from behind.

“So it seems you do have a knack for gardening then.” The sharp voice instantly brought Alia back to reality. They turned their head and saw their mother standing there, arms folded. “I’ve come to collect you. Now, come.” Alia began to protest but realized that they didn’t have much choice. They grudgingly began following her back to the family home. 

The next morning, Alia trudged downstairs, awaiting the fallout of yesterday’s scene. As expected, both parents were seated and silently gestured for Alia to join them. As they sat down, their father began speaking. “Your mother told me of everything that happened at the lake last night. You channeled the Song of Creation, didn’t you?” Alia gasped, but before they could speak, their father continued. “We have decided you will enroll in Ravenwood, effective immediately. You are free to choose your own path from there.” Alia’s face lightened up for a moment as her father continued. “But there will be conditions. You may no longer associate yourself with our family. You no longer share our last name, you no longer share our lineage. You will be welcome here for short visits until you come of age, at which point you will be expected to find your own way. Do you accept this arrangement?”

 Alia sat, dumbstruck at what had just laid out before them. Leaving their home forever was a terrifying proposition, but after only a single minute of thought, they confidently said, “Yes. I accept.”

For the first time in their life, Alia saw shock on their parent’s faces. It was soon wiped off and replaced by the typical stony looks, but it was unmistakable. “V-very well,” their father stammered as the shock wore off. “We depart immediately. Your first day is tomorrow.”

------ One Week Later ------

Alia sat alone at a table in one of the many Wizard City student dining facilities, again deep in thought. “Was it even worth coming here?” they asked themself. “Classes are fine I guess, but I haven’t met any friends here, I don’t know anyone who lives here at all, my parents will probably never want to see me again… Oh, what have I gotten myself into this time… Maybe they’ll take me back if I ask -” 

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice snapped them out of their spiral of thoughts as a girl who looked to be about the same age as them sat down. “First week’s rough, huh? I struggled to adjust at first too, but don’t worry, it’s gonna be great! Heyyyy, now that I think of it, I’ve seen you in some of my classes, haven’t I? You’re Alia, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Alia responded somewhat hesitantly, holding out their hand to shake.

“My name’s Keira,” she said as she ignored the hand and went in for a full hug. “And I can already tell we’re gonna be best friends!”

[nicklloydnow]

"Hereditary monarchies represent the historical example of privately owned governments, and democratic republics that of publicly owned governments.

(...)

From the vantage point of elementary economic theory and in light of historical evidence, then, a revisionist view of modern history results. The Whig theory of history, according to which mankind marches continually forward toward ever higher levels of progress, is incorrect. From the viewpoint of those who prefer less exploitation over more and who value farsightedness and individual responsibility above shortsightedness and irresponsibility, the historic transition from monarchy to democracy represents not progress but civilizational decline.

Nor does this verdict change if more or other indicators are included. Quite to the contrary. Without question the most important indicator of exploitation and present-orientedness not discussed above is war. Yet if this indicator were included the relative performance of democratic-republican government appears to be even worse, not better. In addition to increased exploitation and social decay, the transition from monarchy to democracy has brought a change from limited warfare to total war, and the 20th century, the age of democracy, must be ranked also among the most murderous periods in all of history.42

Thus, inevitably two final questions arise. What can we expect? And what can we do? As for the first question, the answer is brief. At the end of the 20th century, democratic republicanism in the United States and all across the Western world has apparently exhausted the reserve fund that was inherited from the past. For decades, real incomes have stagnated or even fallen.43 The public debt and the cost of social security systems have brought on the prospect of an imminent economic meltdown.

At the same time, societal breakdown and social conflict have risen to dangerous heights. If the tendency toward increased exploitation and present-orientedness continues on its current path, the Western democratic welfare states will collapse as the East European socialist peoples' republics did in the late 1980s. Hence one is left with only the second question: what can we do in order to prevent the process of civilizational decline from running its full course to an economic and social catastrophe?

First, the idea of democracy and majority rule must be delegitimized. Ultimately, the course of history is determined by ideas, be they true or false. Just as kings could not exercise their rule unless a majority of public opinion accepted such rule as legitimate, so will democratic rulers not last without ideological support in public opinion.44

Likewise, the transition from monarchical to democratic rule must be explained as fundamentally nothing but a change in public opinion. In fact, until the end of WWI, the overwhelming majority of the public in Europe accepted monarchical rule as legitimate.45Today, hardly anyone would do so.

On the contrary, the idea of monarchical government is considered laughable. Consequently, a return to the "ancien regime" must be regarded as impossible. The legitimacy of monarchical rule appears to have been irretrievably lost. Nor would such a return be a genuine solution. For monarchies, whatever their relative merits, do exploit and do contribute to present-orientedness as well. Rather, the idea of democratic-republican rule must be rendered equally if not more laughable, not in the least by identifying it as the source of the ongoing process of decivilization.

But secondly, and still more importantly, at the same time a positive alternative to monarchy and democracy — the idea of a natural order — must be spelled out and understood. On the one hand, and simply enough, this involves the recognition that it is not exploitation, either monarchical or democratic, but private property, production, and voluntary exchange that are the ultimate source of human civilization.

On the other hand, psychologically more difficult to accept, it involves the recognition of a fundamental sociological insight (which incidentally also helps identify precisely where the historic opposition to monarchy went wrong): that the maintenance and preservation of a private-property based exchange economy requires as its sociological presupposition the existence of a voluntarily acknowledged "natural" elite — a nobilitas naturalis.46

The natural outcome of the voluntary transactions between various private property owners is decidedly nonegalitarian, hierarchical, and elitist. As the result of widely diverse human talents, in every society of any degree of complexity a few individuals quickly acquire the status of an elite. Owing to superior achievements of wealth, wisdom, bravery, or a combination thereof, some individuals come to possess "natural authority," and their opinions and judgments enjoy widespread respect.

Moreover, because of selective mating and marriage and the laws of civil and genetic inheritance, positions of natural authority are more likely than not passed on within a few — noble — families. It is to the heads of these families with long-established records of superior achievement, farsightedness, and exemplary personal conduct, that men turn with their conflicts and complaints against each other, and it is these very leaders of the natural elite who typically act as judges and peacemakers, often free of charge, out of a sense of obligation required and expected of a person of authority or even out of a principled concern for civil justice, as a privately produced "public good."47

In fact, the endogenous origin of a monarchy (as opposed to its exogenous origin via conquest)48 cannot be understood except before the background of a prior order of natural elites. The small but decisive step in the transition to monarchical rule — original sin — consisted precisely in the monopolization of the function of judge and peacemaker. The step was taken, once a single member of the voluntarily acknowledged natural elite — the king — could insist, against the opposition of other members of the social elite, that all conflicts within a specified territory be brought before him.

From this moment on, law and law enforcement became more expensive: instead of being offered free of charge or for a voluntary payment, they were financed with the help of a compulsory tax. At the same time, the quality of law deteriorated: instead of upholding the preexisting law and applying universal and immutable principles of justice, a monopolistic judge, who did not have to fear losing clients as a result of being less than impartial in his judgments, could successively alter and pervert the existing law to his own advantage.

It was to a large extent the inflated price of justice and the perversions of ancient law by the kings which motivated the historical opposition against monarchy. However, confusion as to the causes of this phenomenon prevailed. There were those who recognized correctly that the problem lay with monopoly, not with elites or nobility.49 But they were far outnumbered by those who erroneously blamed it on the elitist character of the ruler instead, and who accordingly advocated to maintain the monopoly of law and law enforcement and merely replace the king and the visible royal pomp by the "people" and the presumed modesty and decency of the "common man." Hence the historic success of democracy.

Ironically, the monarchy was then destroyed by the same social forces that kings had first stimulated when they began to exclude competing natural authorities from acting as judges. In order to overcome their resistance, kings typically aligned themselves with the people, the common man.50

Appealing to the always popular sentiment of envy, kings promised the people cheaper and better justice in exchange and at the expense of taxing — cutting down to size — their own betters (that is, the kings' competitors). When the kings' promises turned out to be empty, as was to be predicted, the same egalitarian sentiments which they had previously courted now focused and turned against them.

After all, the king himself was a member of the nobility, and as a result of the exclusion of all other judges, his position had become only more elevated and elitist and his conduct only more arrogant. Accordingly, it appeared only logical then that kings, too, should be brought down and that the egalitarian policies, which monarchs had initiated, be carried through to their ultimate conclusion: the monopolistic control of the judiciary by the common man.

Predictably, as explained and illustrated in detail above, the democratization of law and law enforcement — the substitution of the people for the king — made matters only worse, however. The price of justice and peace has risen astronomically, and all the while the quality of law has steadily deteriorated to the point where the idea of law as a body of universal and immutable principles of justice has almost disappeared from public opinion and has been replaced by the idea of law as legislation (government-madelaw).

At the same time, democracy has succeeded where monarchy only made a modest beginning: in the ultimate destruction of the natural elites. The fortunes of great families have dissipated, and their tradition of a culture of economic independence, intellectual farsightedness, and moral and spiritual leadership has been lost and forgotten. Rich men still exist today, but more frequently than not they owe their fortune now directly or indirectly to the state.

Hence, they are often more dependent on the state's continued favors than people of far lesser wealth. They are typically no longer the heads of long-established leading families but "nouveaux riches." Their conduct is not marked by special virtue, dignity, or taste but is a reflection of the same proletarian mass-culture of present-orientedness, opportunism, and hedonism that the rich now share with everyone else; and consequently, their opinions carry no more weight in public opinion than anyone else's.

Hence, when democratic rule has finally exhausted its legitimacy, the problem faced will be significantly more difficult than when kings lost their legitimacy. Then, it would have been sufficient by and large to abolish the king's monopoly of law and law enforcement and replace it with a natural order of competing jurisdictions, because remnants of natural elites who could have taken on this task still existed.

Now, this will no longer be sufficient. If the monopoly of law and law enforcement of democratic governments is dissolved, there appears to be no other authority to whom one can turn for justice, and chaos would seem to be inevitable. Thus, in addition to advocating the abdication of democracy, it is now of central strategic importance that at the same time ideological support be given to all decentralizing or even secessionist social forces; that is, the tendency toward political centralization that has characterized the Western world for many centuries, first under monarchical rule and then under democratic auspices, must be systematically reversed.51

Even if as a result of a secessionist tendency a new government, whether democratic or not, should spring up, territorially smaller governments and increased political competition will tend encourage moderation as regards exploitation. And in any case, only in small regions, communities or districts will it be possible again for a few individuals, based on the popular recognition of their economic independence, outstanding professional achievement, morally impeccable personal life, and superior judgment and taste, to rise to the rank of natural, voluntarily acknowledged authorities and lend legitimacy to the idea of a natural order of competing judges and overlapping jurisdictions — an "anarchic" private law society — as the answer to monarchy and democracy.”

[slippinmickeys]

Of the Eight Winds, Part 8

This is the last chapter (there will be an epilogue) from the prompt from @sunflowerseedsandscience : “Mulder is unhappily married when Scully is partnered with him, and while he doesn’t cheat (because sorry that’s not romantic), he falls for her so hard that he finally gets the courage to end the marriage and start fresh.”

Links to parts one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven.

1

He wanted to go to Scully’s door the second he left the courtroom after his divorce was finalized but it felt sordid, fast. He needs to try to be on his own, live in his own head, if only for a few weeks, months. The thing is, needs and wants are two different things.

They took a few out of state cases, and one local one. He discovered that she had a cat.

Skinner sent her to the West Coast and after three days, he decided he was done waiting.

2

His divorce was final and their coupling was imminent. She could feel the inevitable slide toward him like she was teetering on a hillside, his pull as inexorable as gravity.

They were tentative and shy with each other in the office, and the whole waiting thing felt as stupid as it felt necessary. She had to wait until he came to her. The weeks grinded on, a weight pressing onto her.

Skinner asked her for a consult and so she flew west. With every mile that passed below her, something unclenched around her heart, so by the time she pulled into the small parking lot of the Santa Barbara Field Office, she felt an insouciant lightness.

The local SAC was a woman, and they formed an instant rapport. On her last night, Agent Fielding took her to a small tasting room just off the beaten path and they got tipsy on the local Pinot Noir and shared trench stories from the field and Quantico.

“I had this one case,” Fielding said, draining the last of her glass, “where the local Sheriff called the two other male agents working the case ‘Special Agent,’ but insisted on calling me ‘Miss.’”

Scully gave an exaggerated eye roll.

“Exactly,” Fielding went on, “Finally, I told him if he was going to call me miss, he’d better use my last name along with it, and when he asked what it was, I told him it was ‘Andry.’”

“Oh no,” Scully said.

“Oh yes. That fucker called me Miss Andry for the better part of a week and had no clue.”

They both laughed.

“Tell me about your partner,” Fielding said, running her fingers over the rim of her glass.

“Mulder?” Scully said, “He’s never treated me as anything but an equal.”

“So he’s a good one, huh?”

“The best,” Scully said, missing him suddenly.

As if they shared a heart, her cell phone chirped from her pocket.

It was after midnight on the East Coast.

“Mulder, everything okay?” she said, holding up a finger to Fielding, who watched with interest.

“I miss you,” he said, point blank, “when are you coming home?”

She could feel her cheeks color, adrenaline dumping into her bloodstream.

“Tomorrow,” she said. Tomorrow is a Friday.

“Tomorrow,” he said, the word imbued with implication. They both hung up.

“One of those good ones,” Fielding said, wearing a knowing smile.

Scully nodded, returned the smile. He was.

When she flew back east, his pull was as strong as the jet stream, and everything about the air was verging, each breath in; anticipation, each breath out; hope.

3

Two weeks in and she didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. This kind of sex was as desperate as it was sweet; pure and carnal and sybaritic. They’d scarcely left the bed in two days and she was certain by Monday she’d barely be able to walk.

She stared at her reflection, at her bee-stung lips, the beard burn scrape along her throat. It was 7:00am, time for her contraceptive. She’d gotten on the pill a month ago, and even as she understood the science, she has the urge to take two, just in case—she’d never had so much sex in her life.

Pop it through the foil, water from the faucet. She let it drip onto her bare chest from her chin.

When she got back into bed, Mulder, newly awake, reached for her.

“Is there a word for this?” he whispered to her, his nose pressing into her neck, his erection into her thigh.

“Satyriasis,” she said clinically, and he huffed a laugh into her skin.

“I knew you’d know,” he said.

She rolled to face him.

“I was thinking we could just call it love,” she said, and she saw emotion reach his eyes.

He gave her a tiny, serious nod.

4

They investigated a mercenary rainmaker in a drought-stricken Midwestern town and encountered a force more powerful than the weather. Here was a man who may love a woman with more passion and devotion than he loved Scully. He was humbled before him; a man with the improbable name of Holman Hardt.

When Holman came to him for advice, he gave it freely. Yes, he was in love with Agent Scully. There was a reason for the mutual gazing. He told him how he had been married to someone else but had been in love with her for five years before he had the courage to end his marriage and tell Scully how he felt. He encouraged Holman to do the same.

“If you love her,” Mulder said, growing emotional despite the ridiculousness of the entire case, “Holman, you gotta tell her.”

Holman marched to Sheila’s office and kissed her soundly.

The happy couple invited him and Scully to join them at their high school reunion, and they surprised themselves by accepting.

They danced to 10CC and The Hues Corporation and they drank watered down cocktails and made out in a high school hallway.

When they flew out the next day, the clouds--every last one from here into the horizon—were in the shape of hearts.

5

“There’s a place I want to show you,” he said, “get dressed.”

He hauled on jeans and had to lift up Blackwell to find his other sock, which she’d been using as a pillow.

He’d been wanting to broach the topic of moving in together for months, though when he’d asked her five minutes ago, he did so casually, like he’d only just thought of it.

When they pulled up to 42 Magnolia Avenue in Alexandria, Scully looked over at him, confused.

“Mulder, what is this?” she asked.

The house was gorgeous. It was a two-level, craftsman-inspired behemoth with a large two car garage and a deep front yard. There were twin magnolia trees on the front of the property, and while the yard was shaded, it got lots of light.

“It’s an Open House,” he said, not quite lying.

“Mulder, we could never afford this,” she said, looking at the neighboring houses. This was a neighborhood of lobbyists, congressmen, even. The lots were large, beautiful, and so were the homes.

“So?” he said, stepping out of the car, “we’ll get an idea of what we like.”

She looked dubious, but got out of the car, too.

When they got to the front door, the realtor opened it and gave Mulder a nod.

“Welcome,” she said, “come on in and take a look around.”

“Wow,” Scully said, impressed. The foyer wasn’t overly large, but was big enough for bench seating and and had a decent sized closet. But what was beyond the foyer seemed to have grabbed her attention. It opened up to a large open concept living room that rolled into an impressive kitchen. The appliances were new and stainless steel. There was a fireplace in the corner and a large bay window that looked out over a spacious back yard dotted with dogwoods and lined with large trees.

After touring the upstairs (“Blackwood would love the sun in that third bedroom,” she said “and that master bath is lovely,”) she came to stand in front of the big window in the living room, looking out over the back. The realtor was standing in the kitchen with her arms behind her back and a confident smile on her face.

“So,” Mulder said, coming up behind her, “can you see yourself living in a house like this?”

“Only if I’d married that thoracic surgeon,” she said wistfully, stepping into him and smiling into his chin.

“Is that a yes?” Mulder said.

“It’s a yes,” she said, tilting her head back, “this house is perfect. Maybe it’ll be up for sale in another 20 years when I’m running the Bureau.”

Mulder turned to the realtor.

“What do you think, Marie? Could you see us in this house 20 years from now?”

“And beyond,” Marie said, with a pleased smile.

Mulder nodded at her and she nodded back, stepping out into the foyer and closing the front door behind her softly.

“Mulder?” Scully said, giving him a look, “what’s going on?”

“I’m glad you like the house, Scully,” he said, leaning down to give the end of her nose a gentle peck, “it’s yours.”

Despite the huge fight it had caused, he was glad he had gone ahead with the pre-nup with Lauren. The money he’d inherited from his maternal grandmother had finally been put to good use.

Scully’s brows were creased in confusion.

“Both of our names are on the deed,” he said, “it’s just waiting for your signature. Marie has it out in her car.”

6

In Winston-Salem, she would not leave his bedside. He was her medical puzzle to solve and she left the policing to Skinner. Weaver, Drs. Voss and Scobie, even the malevolent Morley Tobacco Company, none of them mattered. Eventually, she figured it out, and Mulder was saved.

It wasn’t until nearly a week later that she looked at her birth control pack and realized that the days did not line up. Somewhere in North Carolina, she lost track of time.

7

Scully was waiting on a bench outside of the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History when he pushed Lily up in the stroller. The baby was making fretting noises, just on the verge of all-out tears. She stood when they approached.

“Hey you two, everything go okay?”

Mulder nodded and kicked the brake on the stroller, lifting the muslin blanket he’d had draped over the top of the bassinet compartment.

“Someone’s getting hungry,” he said, and Scully reached in and pulled Lily out, sitting down on the bench and unhooking the strap of her nursing bra.

Mulder dug a hand deep into the pocket of his jeans as if checking for change before he sat down next to her. Lily latched on and began to nurse. He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind Scully’s ear.

“Is Lauren okay?” Scully asked kindly.  

He leaned back, surveying the mall behind the Smithsonian.

“She’s good,” he said.

“I’m glad.”

He felt a sense of peace descend on him. A part of him had always felt responsible for the bad years with Lauren--he should have never asked her to marry him in the first place. To see her happy and light brought him a lightness, too.

8

His father died when Lily was 15 and William was 12. The whole of the Scully/Mulders packed up for a week and drove up to Massachusetts.

His mother met them there from Raleigh, looking frail. There was a dowager’s hump starting to form on her spine and her hair looked thin and impossibly white. Looking at his father’s casket, he felt all of his fifty-five years.

He recognized nearly everyone at the wake, but there was a woman lingering over the cheese plate that looked out of place, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. When he approached her, she drifted away ahead of him and he was about to search for her in earnest when Scully grabbed him by the arm.

“I’m going to take the kids down to the beach, give them a little reprieve from Aunt Edna asking about Tinder.”

He nodded, kissed her cheek.

He was grabbed by a distant cousin as soon as Scully left his side, and was caught in small talk for the next forty five minutes.

9

“You’re… you’re what?” he asked, certain he didn’t hear right. He’d been expecting the worst.

“Pregnant,” she said again, and for a moment he was too stunned by the reversal. Then it dawned on him that it was not bad news. That it was traditionally good news.

He grabbed her face in both hands and bent his knees until his face was level with hers.

“Holy shit ,” he said, practically laughing. He flashed on the moment he found out she was pregnant with Lily and felt a kind of synergy.

“You’re happy?” she asked, hedging.

“I’m… are you ?”

“I’m stunned,” she said, “after Will was born…”

Mulder remembered her slick hand in his, her white-knuckled grip when Dr. Wong told them she would no longer be able to conceive.

He dropped to his knees before her, put his hands on her hips, his forehead over her womb. After a moment he leaned back.

“We got rid of all our baby stuff,” he said.

“We did,” she said.

“We specifically had a garage sale to get rid of it.”

“Yes.”

“Our hoity-toity neighbors were really irritated by the whole thing.”

“They were.”

“We’re going to have to buy all new stuff,” he said, his enthusiasm starting to wane.

“We are,” she said, “though the safety stuff would be expired now, anyway.”

The wheels were spinning in Mulder’s head. They would have to start a whole new college fund.

Scully grabbed his hands and sunk down to sit next to him.

“I was afraid you were going to be upset,” she finally said.

He gave her a look and squeezed her hand.

“Never,” he said, and she nodded, believing him.

“I warn you now, if you bring up my age in relation to this pregnancy, I will handcuff you to the pipes in the basement.”

Mulder pursed his lips, huffed out one small laugh.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Scully,” he said.

She shook her head, tipped it until it was leaning on his shoulder.

“Do you really think we can do this again?” she asked him earnestly.

He grabbed both sides of her face and they connected eyes.

“You might be the skeptic here, Scully,” he said, “me? I’m the believer.”

[godfather1w1]

Time for Daily Existential Dread

Oftentimes i find myself consumed by existential dread. I can try in vain to escape this consuming plight by clinging to memories of the past. Long distant sanctuaries to which i will never return. While the monster which looms over me may change, the sensation is constant. Whether it be the prospect of a life of work, the void into which i will soon step, as my education stops and my existence turns stagnant. Or the inevitable end of everything, all matter, all energy. The constant marching of every molecule, every atom; every energy expenditure bringing us closer to the inescapable heat death of the universe. Perhaps the monster of the day is the wholly preventable, yet readily imminent, death of our planet. The loss of cool summers. The day that a Washingtonian must say goodbye to walking in the rain. No longer will the forests be lush and full of life, replaced by graveyards, reminders of the beauty humanity choked out of existence. The sun and moon turned red by the smoke from our fires, the ocean turned black from our pollution. When winter comes the once peacefully world, draped in a white blanket, silent as if life itself has begun to slumber; will be replaced by a world shrouded in black, sickly and coughing from the disease,  which now infects it. We, humanity, are both cursed by existence and a curse on others existence. We destroy all around us. Why, because so much of our world seeks our destruction. From the creatures of the jungle down to the atoms which make up our being. Peace, true peace, is a pleasure we are cursed to never receive. 

[hopebliss]

RED ROOK: red riding hood au, gender!neutral deputy & jacob seed-centric, wc: 2k

now on AO3, albeit with a tense change and some edits.

Once upon a time, in the slanting, pine-covered hills of the Whitetail Mountains, a little Rook packed a basket of fresh goods and treats. They packed everything that they would need for a walk: sturdy boots for the loose earth, tinder and flint, a thick red cloak that had been given to them by their family (made by the family, blessed by the family and when the little Rook wore it, they thought they felt blessed too.)

To be blessed is to be protected and the little Rook set off on their journey with their red cloak and their boots and their basket. They walked in time to the beating heart of the forest, to the wayward lapping of the streams. They walk under the sun, they dodge the rain under thick branches, they spread their tinder and their flint on the floor of a cave and watched the fire as it blossomed.

The night fell, rather than crept in. Colour bled from the sky. The little Rook pulled their cloak around them tighter, fingers catching themselves fumbling for a moment, indecisive of whether to bundle underneath thick red or to press against the flames.

In that moment, the wolves outside began to howl.

_____________________

It was a wolf -- singular, not plural -- that found them on the second day.

He was a monolith walking. The little Rook watched, limbs rooted still as they glimpsed sunset fur through the maze of twigs and thick trunks. The wolf circled three times before approaching, its sheer width parting the coiling nests of sticks and clumped muds of the wilderness. The wolf approached with bright blue eyes; the little Rook thought of ice that could cut, dagger-sharp.

“What is your purpose here?” The wolf asked with neither a kind or unkind expression.

“I am going to visit someone.” Said the little Rook.

A snout pressed against their basket. “You are taking something to them?”

“Yes.” The little Rook peered down at the carefully wrapped treats, “I’m bringing them gifts.”

A huff from the great sunset wolf, an amused breath against the little Rook’s tightening knuckles.

“You’ll be lost in the forest, at this rate.” There was something odd about the wolf’s speech, words rolling in that maw that rumbled like rocks, that plumed like smoke. Lingering in a state of permanent dissatisfaction. “There are three roads to cross. I will take you there. The forest eats the weak.”

The wolf began to walk. A long stride, but quiet. He was far enough away to nearly lose sight of him before the little Rook could gather the splinters of their voice.

“Am I weak?”

Ice that cut. The wolf’s ears flattened.

“You are slow.”

The little Rook fell into line with his march. One, two, three.

_____________________

The first road was, in fact, a river.

As broad and as wild as the wolf, seeping with the same kind of menace, with imminent danger, the little Rook thought, cupping their hands around their eyes to see if they could see the end of its stretch.

“There are no bridges.” They said, and the wolf snorts, testing his paw in the raging waters.

“There are no bridges.” He confirmed, “Because the strong must swim.”

To the little Rook’s surprise -- and the surprise is, in itself, a surprise, because the little Rook did not believe themselves to be well-acquainted enough with this beast to be wrong in their assumptions -- the wolf did not swim first. He waited and watched them with those blue eyes, before his teeth were bared in grim amusement.

“To be strong,” The growl courses across their skin, unearths their very bones, “Would be to go first.”

The little Rook swallows, and they nod, because they want to be strong, and they want to please this wolf. It’s an innate feeling, burrowing and consuming. They lift the basket over their head and wade into the surge.

Immediately the river grabs them, whips its grasp around their legs with an incessant need to pull them down. Pressure almost folds their spine backwards, mouth gasping for dregs of air before the inevitable grip drags them under. Noise turns to crushing, to a swelling, too-full echo --

And then there are teeth digging into their collar.

The little Rook is tugged upwards. They heaved as the wolf dragged them through the current, arms aching as they still held the basket upright (and they allow themselves that commendation. No, big wolf, they did not drop their gifts.) The wolf swam easily, wrenched them upwards onto the muddy bank.

Winded, the little Rook twists onto their side, ribs expanding to the point where they seem to want to strain free of their very chest. A hand reaches out towards the dampened fur of the wolf.

A paw crashed down on their wrist before they could even blink.

The wolf watched.

The little Rook smiled. Their head still span around and around and around.

“What big eyes you have.”

A sharp laugh from the great wolf, unkind and as cold as the river water.

“All the better to see you with.”

_____________________

The second road was a cliff outstretched towards the heavens. A colossal thing, marred with hand holds and sharp cracks in the rock, hewn out by countless climbers over time.

The wolf had breathed out a story to the little Rook on their way here, a story about families and generations, about people who had arrived in the mountains without a purpose, without anyone to visit. They simply drifted until the trees and the stone spoke to them, until the wolves chased them until their bones turned to steel and their blood to iron.

The little Rook shivered and gripped their red cloak.

“Did the wolves ever catch them?”

“Yes.” The beast hums. “The ones that were weak.”

The wolf rounds their body and nudges them with a snout to their back.

“Go on. Climb.”

The little Rook slung their basket over one of their shoulders and reached up, finding the first place where the rock gave away and began to climb. The stone stretched them until their arms screamed and their shoulders burned with slipstream fire. Fingers clawed at loose edges, nails blunting.

It hurt. It hurt. And, almost as if dispensing mercy, the cliff let them go.

The world upended. Stomach lurching, and the little Rook could only see the ground - but they did not fall. Breath bloomed across their neck and they realised the wolf had caught them again. With a snappish turn of his neck, they were thrown upwards and onto the flat of the clifftop.

Not a particularly graceful landing, but the little Rook was glad to be at the top, glad that the wolf and his sun-blighted fur crawled up beside them with little trouble. They reached out again for him, and again his paw pressed down against their wrist. Heavy, and it hurt, and the little Rook breathed out their protest, fingers curling upwards to touch the back of his leg.

This close, they realised there were patches missing. Great scars unfolded across the length of the wolf’s body.

The wolf snarled in their ear.

“What big hands you have.”

And perhaps it was the pain, perhaps it was placating, because the great wolf was strong, and the little Rook wheezed out a sob.

“A-all the better to touch you with.”

_____________________

The third, and last road, was fire.

It arrived, suddenly, in the first line of trees they came across after the cliff. An inferno to shake your bones, crumbling wood into ash. The flames moved quickly, with fervour, devouring and rife with gluttony.

“We’re nearing the end.” Said the wolf beside them, blue eyes reflecting gold and amber, raging red and and black. “You must go through it.”

Through it. Through the churning, wrathful red. Through the roar of cracking and kindling devastation. Be strong, little Rook.

“Remember your purpose.”

“Yes.” The little Rook said, and ran forward.

Time only allowed them a few seconds before their clothes started to singe, before smoke curled into into their nostrils and their legs -- tired and aching after the river and the cliff -- had to react on instinct to the branches falling from the sky. Leaves smashed with them against the ground, disappearing in the flurry of an instant.

And the little Rook kept running.

And the wolf ran beside them. In the split seconds of clarity  as the world crumbled down on them both, the little Rook could not help noticing that he seemed pleased.

They reached out a hand, fingers coiling into the thicker layers of fur at his neck. They choked on the fumes and they ran, still, in time with his great strides. And when they broke through to the clearing on the other side, where the fire stopped shortly, as if paused by divine intervention, a God the little Rook could not understand, and they staggered down onto their knees.

The little Rook coughed and the great wolf rounded on them. They blinked, and all they could see was blue. That blue that could slice, could sever the very-making of them.

His snout pressed against their ashen-forehead, sniffing out at the wayward embers in their hair, across the shoulders of their red cape. A tongue, rough, large, swept up the side of their cheek.

“Excellent.” Hummed the great wolf, and the little Rook was shaken, could feel a burn against their mouth, and their hands reached up to the great beast’s neck.

“My,” they whispered in the clearing, “what a big mouth you have.”

And the wolf simply smiled. His teeth reflected the coiling inferno behind them. 

Without pause, he ate the little Rook whole.

_____________________

Once upon a time, there was a cabin.

“Are you leaving now?” The little Rook asked the great wolf as they readied themselves to enter, red cloak pulled tight, basket swinging languidly from their grasp. At the edge of their gaze, they could swear the world seemed to be burning, still; locked in tumbling, churning fire.

“That depends if you come out.”

“If I-?” The little Rook blinked, stared down into the basket, “I have to go give these to someone.”

“Someone.”

“A friend.” The little Rook confirmed, “Do you want to come with me?”

The great wolf snorted, “No.”

And then he said. “You must go in alone.”

And then he said: “Only you.”

And the little Rook turned and strode forward. They entered the cabin with their basket in their hands and smiled at their waiting friend, listened to his relief and a dry joke of greeting. Something about the forest, something the unhinging jaws of wolves, judges of men and little Rooks alike.

And the little Rook laughed and reached into the basket for their gift and gave it gladly to Eli Palmer.

His skull split into two.

“What.” Said the little Rook.

“What.” They said again, as their cloak became heavier, as it mottled against their shoulders and back.

 “What.” They said again amongst the screams and shouts, the gun pressed to the square of their chest, the echo of protests and curses. What have you done?!

It was when the despair heightened, reached its peak that the little Rook ran out of the cabin, their cloak dripping behind them, their basket discarded and their breaths harshly stalled in their throat, awaiting the order to inhale, exhale. They cry out for the great wolf, for the cutting blue eyes, for the edges of his teeth. They cry out and they feel the answer, teeth in between their shoulders, colliding with the dark.

_____________________

Once upon a time, there was a cage and a music box just beyond the bars. Split-second instinct dictated that Rook scrambled for it, hand outstretched, barely reaching and grazing before a boot collides with their wrist, embedding it into unforgiving ground.

Once upon a time, not a wolf, but a man grabs them by the collar and lifts them to unsteady feet. Not a wolf, but a man, with steady blue eyes that cut and cut and cut.

Not a wolf, but a man, a man with scar-pocketed skin, a man with sunset hair that hums his amusement, rolling against their skin like thunder, a mirth to command the echelons.

Me.

“Only me?” The little Rook says.

“Only you.”

[thinkingthedivide-blog]

A Rational Case For Optimism

Those who know me will know that I have generally not been an optimist about most things. I wouldn’t categorically call myself a pessimist, but when it comes to macro issues such as industry, government, and organized religion, it has seemed as though the powerful bodies that be are always a disappointment. Given the assumption that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior, it seemed logical to surmise that large groups of people (except for the ones I belonged to of course) would generally not act in a manner that benefits the greater good. This rationality, however, is flawed on many counts.

Now in some sense, the pessimist is correct: negative and painful things will most definitely occur. But by that logic, the optimist is also correct. People will always find things to be happy about. We always have. If we did not find moments of joy, even in dark times, then I’m not sure our species would have gotten this far. Given this fluctuation between subjectively good and bad experiences, both the pessimist and the optimist have ample “objective” evidence to support their claims. This makes building an argument based on fact and historical evidence a futile exercise, as both sides will be more than able to render a case that demonstrates the virtue of their worldview. So if easily manipulated facts cannot get us to the ideal schema, then we must depend on a bit of rationality.

Knowing that death is inevitable, it is highly improbable that I will escape pain (both physical and emotional). When people close to us die, it is an intensely painful experience. If everyone dies eventually, then this pain is ineluctable. Worrying about pain only causes me to suffer more now (when there is no apparent need for suffering). Drawing conclusions about the future that predict an adverse outcome (as pessimism dictates) seems only to cause worry in the present. Is such cynicism objectively incorrect? As previously established, no many “bad” things happen all the time. Yet by focusing on the potential for future “bad” (which is a given), pessimism only serves to provoke anxiety in the now.

Why are worry and anxiety in the now unfavorable? Here I will invoke some objective facts and subjective experiences as this is a verifiable point. While our acceptance of the importance of mental health is still in its nascency, we generally tend to agree that physical suffering is “bad.” Well, it turns out that anxiety is implicated in a range of physical maladies such as heart disease, gastrointestinal disorders, and respiratory disorders. If we are in agreement that physical suffering is bad, then logically we must conclude that anxiety (a potential cause of physical suffering) is also bad. (To my fellow anxious folk who are now spiraling at the thought of their anxiety causing a multitude of physical maladies, please read the italicized postscript at the bottom of this page, the point of which is: everything is ok.)

Speaking as someone who has lived something of an anxiety-ridden life, I can tell you that it is indeed physically uncomfortable. My partner and I lovingly refer to my amygdala as “Big Myg.” (The amygdala is associated with regulating emotion and anxiety is linked to large amygdalas.) This makes sense right? The brain generates emotions and is also responsible for coordinating muscle movements. If the brain is creating anxiety (regardless of whether or not there is an external cause), then fight-or-flight instincts would dictate that the brain must tell the body to tense and prepare for whatever threat is on the horizon. As no actual threat can be assessed and subsequently countered or dismissed, the body and mind remain tense. I can attest to the muscular tension, nausea, clicking jaw, and marinara-esque body odor (anyone else? no?)  that are attributable to anxiety. I consider these states to be less-than-optimal.

You might posit that my physical anxiety is a “first-world problem” and not something worth this magnitude of verbiage. This is a valid point. Is my physical discomfort resulting from anxiety such a terrible thing? Perhaps my anxiety comes as a natural cost to creating a more technologically developed world. Perhaps that technologically developed world, in turn, alleviates the more severe physical suffering of people in objectively more dire conditions. That is a fair position and one I would wholeheartedly agree with. But does that mean that I and my anxious brethren must live in an anxiety vortex (because it is one hell of a vortex) indefinitely for the sake of alleviating more severe physical suffering?

As a human, I am programmed to desire the most efficient course of action. We would not use tools or depend on agriculture if this were not the case. With this premise in mind, I ask whether anxious thoughts, not spurred by the present context, are efficient? Modern science is pretty clear on the fact that multitasking is a myth. The brain can only focus on one thing at a time. If you’re anything like me, worrying involves obsessing over scenarios yet-to-come (or ruminating on outcomes that were not to taste). If waking hours are limited, and if we can only focus on one thing at a time, then cycling through a series of possible adverse outcomes reduces the quantity of time that can be spent thinking about other things.

If pessimism induces worry and anxiety, then it must reduce the time and brain-space for potentially more constructive thought processes. The neuronal circuits devoted to worrying could instead be put to use creating strategies to empower the developing world. They could be used to invent technologies to address issues of climate change and sea level rise. They could be used to identify a neighbor’s needs and what resources you might possess to help them. They could be used to better understand a point of view you disagree with. There are infinite positive possibilities, big and small, for the use of those neurological networks. Remaining in a pessimistic state eliminates these possibilities by virtue of limited time, and must inherently create a less ideal world. Pessimism, at best, is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Optimism, on the other hand, is not anxiety-inducing. It may help now to clarify what I am not arguing for. I am not arguing for an optimistic view in which we ignore the present situation and simply believe against all odds that things will work out with no positive inputs from us. I am not arguing that people daydream of specific positive scenarios that may or may not come to fruition. That is akin to worrying about specific negative events the future may hold and is a similarly useless application of brain cells in the context of progress. Rather, I am suggesting that in our efforts to combat the ills of our society we take a more general optimistic view. This view is something to the tune of “If I do good, the world will be ok” or whatever mantra works for you. This leaves headspace to address specific strategies and present-day facts with a clarity that pessimism does not allow.

In order for me to take action, I must believe that my effort will yield a positive result, and action is undoubtedly needed in the face of our current political toxicity. Remembering that even the largest groups are comprised of individuals, we can rightly assume that individual actions and speech contribute to zeitgeists at large. If, like me, you need the promise of a result to inspire your own efforts, then keep that simple premise in mind. Poof! That, my friends, is optimism. Our actions and speech, positive and negative, do not exist in a vacuum. We may never know the impact of our deeds or ideas, but an impact will most definitely be felt. The question is, which way do we want to move the needle?

Activism is essential and an undeniable component of widespread change. But marches, elections, and phone-banks take but a small fraction of the time we have available to us every day. In each moment of our day-to-day lives, we have a choice about how to approach the tasks at hand. We can choose to be friendly or distant. We can choose to pick up the trash on the road or to leave it be. We can choose to check in on our neighbors or bunker down in our households. We can choose to be kind or harsh. But make no mistake, every action and inaction is a choice and has a consequence.

Imagine what the world would look like if every single individual were optimistic about what they could accomplish with a friendly smile and a conversation. Imagine the needs that could be met, the information that could be shared, and the human connections that would undoubtedly ensue. I think we would agree that that would be a positive thing in and of itself. Optimism, too, is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

*To my fellow anxiety tornadoes: I alluded to several physical ailments that can be the result of anxiety. Try to remember that we do not know what the future holds. If you are presently cycling through the "what-ifs" of those diseases, take a moment to think about it this way: if you are able to think about what might happen in the future, is there anything right now that is a threat to your safety or life? If you are reading this, then you are likely not in imminent danger.

I suggest the following only because it is the course I have taken, there are infinite paths you can choose to deal with anxiety (and it can be dealt with - that's the good news). If anything in this post made your stomach drop and sent your mind spinning on an "I am going to die/suffer because of___" spiral, then I recommend that you talk to a friend or therapist. My anxiety reducing cocktail consists of the following: therapy, friend-dates, exercise (any flavor), an SSRI, and an educated/conscious understanding of each of these ingredients. Your cocktail might look different. Ask yourself this: do you have anything to lose by tackling your anxiety head-on? What is the worst that could happen? If you are dying of one of these anxiety-induced diseases (which you are likely not), wouldn't it be more pleasant to not be anxious in the process?

[a-splash-of-stucky]

A Messed Up Place | Four

Pairings: Bucky x Reader || Steve x Reader

Summary: Bucky sees something that leaves him shaken up and makes some bad decisions after. 

Warnings: One mention of sex, alcohol abuse, a lot of swearing. BUCKY FEELS SHIT ABOUT HIMSELF -- and the language of the chapter reflects this.

Notes: Written for @hellomissmabel. Y’all like angst, right? Because I’m feeding it to you by the bucketload. 

and random, but: sorry that things keep happening in the kitchen. idk, I just have an obsession with kitchens, i guess?? Also, sorry if there are any typos. Didn’t really have a proper read-through of this. 

AMUP Masterlist

True to your word, the day after your date with Steve, you come in search of Bucky in order to have a chat. Despite the fact that Bucky is expecting it, an uneasy sense of dread settles in his gut all the same.

Though he tells himself otherwise, Bucky knows that he’s skipped breakfast today because he doesn’t want to risk bumping into you in the kitchen. Though he tells himself otherwise, he knows that he’s opted to go for a long run outside today, in lieu of training in the gym, just so that he can stay out of your way for an hour more. Though he tells himself otherwise, he knows that he chose to sneak into the compound via the back gate, just to delay the inevitable.

Though he tells himself otherwise, Bucky knows that he’s more affected about the Steve ordeal than he’s willing to let on.

Unfortunately, Bucky’s avoidance tactics only get him so far. Eventually, hunger wins out and he is forced to wander into the kitchen in search of food. Lo and behold, who does he find there?

You, of course.

You’re standing with your back towards him, fixing up a sandwich by the counter, humming tunelessly under your breath. As always, Bucky is left breathless by your beauty; god, you’re not even doing anything, yet here he is, pining after you like a puppy without its owner. You’ve just showered, so your hair is slightly damp and plastered against your scalp. You’re dressed in a pair of leggings and an emerald green hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Fuck, why do you look so good in that outfit?

It is at that moment that you turn around, a flicker of an amused smile passing across your lips.

“Hey there, Buck,” you say, setting your knife down and putting a hand on your hip. “Why’re you being a creeper and just standing there?”

Bucky shakes his head as he walks over to the kitchen island and takes a seat on one of the bar stools. “Jus’ watching,” he murmurs, folding his arms and resting them on the countertop in front of him. A moment of silence passes between the two of you. The tension in the room is palpable, thick enough that Bucky could probably slice it with a knife, if he tried. Unspoken words hang in the air, just waiting to be said.

In the end, it’s Bucky who — for once in his life — plucks up enough courage to make the first move.

“So, Steve, eh?” he asks casually.

Just like that, something inside you snaps. You lean heavily against the countertop behind you as you cross your arms over your chest. “Bucky…I didn’t…I knew you’d be hurt. Or something, I dunno. I just—fuck, I know I should’a told you, but I didn’t ‘cause I was scared,”.

“Of what?” asks Bucky, cocking his head to the side in curiosity.

You shrug helplessly. “Dunno, how you’d react? How you’d feel about it? I just…I didn’t wanna hurt you, ‘cause…” your voice trails off.

“Cause what?” he prompts gently.

You sigh. “‘Cause I was already…y’know, breaking things off with you. I didn’t wanna pile on too much of the bad news all in one go,”

“Y/N,” Bucky murmurs, forcing a smile onto his features, “You don’t have to worry about it. Was I surprised? Hell yeah, I was. Does that make me angry? No, no it doesn’t,”. He’s telling the truth. Bucky was surprised to find out that you and Steve are seeing each other, but he’s not angry about it.

Upset, would perhaps be a better word. No reason to tell you that, though.

“Y/N, m’ being serious with you,” Bucky says, “Really, really serious — you wanna be with Steve? You go ahead. Don’t hafta care about me,”. Bucky has to hide his wince at those words, because really? That’s a lie — he wants you to care, wants it more than you’ll ever know.

You cock your head to the side, assess him for a moment longer, then nod firmly, accepting his response.

—————————

That was the last time you and Bucky had a conversation that lasted for more than five seconds.

Bucky spends his days moping around the compound, not talking to anyone unless it’s entirely unavoidable. Most of all, he does his damn hardest to keep his distance from you. He’s been avoiding you like you’re some sort of deadly disease.

It’s hard, Bucky won’t lie. The two of you used to be pretty close friends, once the sex broke had broken down the barriers between you. Having to rip you out of his life is — it’s a tough choice, but one which Bucky feels like he has to make, if only to preserve his sanity. Being around you just reminds him of things he’d rather forget. He doesn’t want to constantly be thinking about what he doesn’t have.

What he can’t have.

Of course he’s happy for you. Of course he’s happy for Steve. In fact, he’s ecstatic for the lil’ punk — not so little anymore, Bucky thinks ruefully. He’s so indescribably happy for the two of you, but his joy is dampened by a pain that is more severe than anything he could have ever imagined. Bucky would gladly take ten years in that god-forsaken, wretched chair, than another half-second of heartbreak.

But he can’t.

And so, Bucky finds himself hiding his emotions behind an increasingly strained smile, saying some variation of “S’all good” to throw people off his scent and going on with his day like nothing’s amiss.

Of course, this is easier said than done. Nowadays, he doesn’t even know what his body wants anymore. Bucky doesn’t know whether it’s even what his body wants at this stage, or whether it’s his head and heart warring for control over his self. God, love is one confusing puzzle, is it not?

—————————

It’s a quiet evening in the compound tonight. Everyone is off doing — whatever is is they do whenever they’re not saving the world from imminent danger. Hobbies, or something mundane like that.

Bucky snorts inwardly. Maybe he should think about getting a hobby. It’d certainly be one way of getting over you.

His stomach growls menacingly, reminding him that he hasn’t had anything for dinner, despite it being almost half-past ten at night. With a tired sigh, he switches off his tablet, tosses it onto his pillow and rolls himself out of bed. Bucky slides his feet into a pair of fluffy Captain America-themed slippers — a cheesy present that Sam had gotten him a couple of months ago — then trudges out of his room, towards the kitchen.

He’s been feeling out of it today — hell, he’s been feeling out of it most days, lately. Bucky finds himself in a permanent state of disregard, not really caring about the world around him, not really paying attention to what’s going on. Of course, all that changes when he’s on a mission, but even in that situation, he feels like he’s running on autopilot, living solely off the adrenaline pumping though his tired veins. Once the mission comes to a close and the wheels of the quinjet kiss the asphalt of the compound’s airstrip, he closes in on himself again, existing as nothing more than a shell of a man.

It’s unhealthy, he knows it. But fuck, you’ve been with Steve for just over two months now, and the fire of your romance has not yet died down to smouldering embers. It kills him. Everyday, Bucky feels like he dies a little more inside.

He doesn’t let it show, though.

Every morning, Bucky goes through the ritual of donning a mask of bravery which he parades behind for the rest of the day. He makes sure to keep the facade flawless and polished, not a single crack in sight. It’s a routine that’s as easy now as brushing his teeth or making his daily cup of coffee. No. Not easy. That’s the wrong word. He’s become accustomed to it. It’s part of his life now, and will probably continue to be part of his life in the foreseeable future.

Because if there’s one thing Bucky knows how to do well, it’s pretend like everything’s okay.

Bucky rounds the corner and is about to beeline for the fridge when—

—his heart freezes over. He forgets how to breathe. He forgets who he is, why he’s here, what his plan was. He feels ungrounded, like his soul is detaching from his body. Rage and misery, sorrow and jealousy — a tidal wave of emotions slam into him at full force.

Steve has you pinned between his body and the kitchen counter.

Steve has you pinned between his body and the kitchen counter, his arms encircling your waist and his lips locked onto yours.

The way Bucky’s always wanted to. The way Bucky’s always dreamt of doing.

You’re standing on your tip-toes to reach Steve’s lips. The fingers of your right hand are curled around the nape of his neck, whilst your left hand is idly roaming over the defined muscles of his back. The two of you are wrapped up in a little bubble, that much is clear; consumed as you are in each other’s taste, neither of you notice Bucky standing there by the entrance to the kitchen, rooted to the ground in shock.

Equally, neither of you notice when Bucky — as silently as he can — turns on his heel and quick-marches the hell out of there.

Bucky is in pain.

He thought he was in pain before, but really, that was just a strange kind of numbness. It was blissful, with its quiet peace. The roiling agony inside his chest right now? This is pain; acute and sharp, like someone is jamming a serrated knife through his ribs and gouging him open in the most brutal way possible. It’s raw and it’s violent and what scrap of control he was holding onto vanishes at the sight of you and Steve in each other’s arms.

Happy.

Content.

In love in a way that Bucky can never hope to experience.

His feet carry him to the end of the corridor and down the fire escape. He’s cruising on autopilot again, so it takes Bucky’s brain a while to realise where he’s headed. When he does make the connection, however, it’s like he can’t get down the stairs fast enough.

One of the benefits of it being a quiet evening in the compound is that no one is there to catch him as he sneaks down to Basement-3. Otherwise known as the high-security storage area within the building, otherwise known as the place where the Avengers keeps the things that probably shouldn’t reach the hands of the public.

Bucky has clearance to enter, obviously. He places his palm on the reader beside the reinforced door, punches in his access code, lets FRIDAY run the retinal scan and voice recognition software and just like that, he’s in.

Steve had brought him here once, not too long after he’d moved into the compound. It’s a nifty little place, full of all kinds of toys he’d like to get his hands on, as well as several things he’d rather not. About a third of the stuff in the vault has a note saying something along the lines of ‘Do Not Tamper’ attached to it. The Hulkbuster armour is here, as is one of the prototypes of Steve’s shied.

Bucky isn’t interested in any of those toys, however, He heads towards the back of the room, towards a small wooden crate filled with fluorescent pink packing foam. After scooping some of the foam aside, Bucky shoves a hand in and roots around until his fingers close around cool glass. With a triumphant grin, he fishes out a medium-sized vial of Asgardian mead, which Thor left on his last visit.

Stuffing his treasure under his arm, Bucky puts the foam back into place as if it’d never been touched — although he doesn’t know why he bothers, really. FRIDAY will have a record of his visit and the place is bugged with cameras, anyhow. Still, Bucky’s always been taught to tidy up his messes and that’s what he’s doing now.

He leaves the vault and takes the stairs three at a time, bounding his way back to his room. Once inside, he kicks his bedroom door shut, then locks it, for good measure. Bucky grabs his tablet, heads into his bathroom and locks himself in there.

It’s pretty spacious, as far as bathrooms go. One would expect nothing less, in a compound built with Stark money. Bucky plops himself into his enormous bathtub, lets his head thump against the headrest, pops open the cork and takes a hefty swig.

The alcohol is powerful stuff — and it needs to be, in order to intoxicate a god, he muses. Like Steve, Bucky can’t get drunk because his metabolism’s too high. But, even an enhanced liver is no match for a drink as strong as this. He savours the feel of the mead as it travels down his throat, swirling down with a pleasant, welcoming burn. It’s accompanied by the loosening of the tension in Bucky’s body, the alcohol hitting him almost immediately, sending a pleasant buzz through his veins and making him feel like he’s unmoored, like someone’s cut the tether of his boat.

Without prompting, the memory of you and Steve cozying up to each other in the kitchen hits him again, a sudden flash of vibrant, all-too-bright colour in his consciousness. The vivid image makes Bucky wince.

It’s a scene that will forever be seared into the back of his head, he knows that. No amount of drink will chase away the dark sorrow threatening to consume him, but he takes another swig anyway, just to keep the demons at bay.

God he wants you. No, more than that — he wants you to want him, wants you to love all the broken pieces of himself.

Bucky knows that that will never happen. He didn’t have a chance before and certainly doesn’t have a chance now, when you’re so clearly caught up in the torrent of Steve’s love. Steve is good. Steve is perfect. Steve has been through so much in his life and still has the capacity to love with all his heart; of course he deserves you.

It’s an odd kind of torture, watching you with him.

On the one hand, Bucky feels like he’s in sheer agony every time he sees you together. On the other hand, he feels strangely at peace, knowing that the two of you — the two people he cares most about — have found happiness in each other. It’s conflicting, it’s confusing and at this point, Bucky gives fuck-all about it because goddammit why can’t things be simple, for once in his life? Why can’t he get what he wants, for once in his life?

Because no one cares about what Bucky wants, that’s why. HYDRA didn’t care, the universe doesn’t care, so why would you?

Bucky brushes the back of his hand over his eyes and is surprised to find them a little wet.

Weak, Barnes, he thinks dryly.

A thunderous crash draws him out of his gloomy downward spiral. He feels like he should care — this may be a sudden attack, after all — but if someone could kindly kill him where he lies, Bucky would be more than willing to go. He hears muttered curses, loud footsteps and then the sharp rap of knuckles against the bathroom door.

“Bucky?”

It’s Steve. Bucky groans internally. The punk means well, he knows, but Bucky just doesn’t need to see him now. More importantly, Bucky doesn’t need Steve to see him when he’s like this.

Steve knocks on the door again, more insistently this time. “Bucky? I know you’re in there. You okay, pal? FRIDAY— never mind. You okay, bud?”

Again, Bucky doesn’t answer. He knows he probably should, knows that his failure to answer is only making Steve more anxious, but truth be told, he just doesn’t have the strength to say “I’m fine”. He’s been pretending for too long. He can’t do it anymore.

Steve jiggles the handle and growls quietly when he finds that the door is locked. “Bucky, I’m gonna come in there, okay? Jus’ to make sure you’re okay,”. A moment of silence passes, then Steve throws himself against the door with a low grunt. The door, to its credit, shudders violently, but holds.

Even so, no door is a match to the enhanced strength of a super-soldier, so after a few more shoves, it finally gives way, coming off its hinges with a small flurry of dust. Steve bursts into the bathroom and looks around wildly, chest heaving and cheeks slightly flushed with exertion. When his eyes land on Bucky, he calms down, taking stock of the situation.

“Heya, Buck,” Steve murmurs, “Is it okay if I come over?”

Bucky shrugs indifferently. Steve accepts the unspoken invitation and timidly makes his way over to the bathtub, kneeling down beside it so that he is eye-level with Bucky.

“You wanna talk, pal?” Steve asks quietly. The concern is evident in his tone, yet he tries to keep his expression calm and neutral. With Steve in this position, Bucky’s eyes can’t help but be drawn to the movement of his rose-pink lips, the way the move so seamlessly as they shape the words that fall from Steve’s mouth. Is that the view that you had, just seconds before Steve leaned in and kissed you? Or did you reach up and pull him towards you?

How many times has he pressed his lips to yours? How many times has he tasted you in a way that Bucky was never privileged enough to enjoy? He can’t get the image of your lips out of his head now, perfect and oh-so-kissable. They are the epitome of a forbidden fruit; ripe and tempting, but never for him to touch.

WHY?!

Bucky snaps.

“You don’t know what it’s like!” he shouts suddenly, his words coming out a little slurred. Bucky glances at the hand still clutching the vial and is stunned to find that it is almost completely empty, nothing but half a mouthful still inside. Huh. No wonder he feels drunk. Bucky’s forgotten what it felt like to feel drunk, hasn’t had to deal with that issue for a long while.

Steve blinks, but otherwise shows no other outward response to Bucky’s outburst. “Don’t know what what’s like?”

“You don’t know how lucky y’are, Steve!” Bucky snaps, “To have her. To—to be together the way you want, to—,”

“Bucky what on earth are you talking about?” Steve asks, brows knitting together in confusion. God, Bucky’s half-tempted to slap him around, make him see sense.

“What do they taste like, Stevie?” Bucky continues, rolling over Steve’s words as if he’d never spoken. “Bet’cha they’re real sweet, huh? Fruity, or somethin’? Bet’cha they feel real nice and soft, yeah? Ya’ don’t know how lucky y’are to have her, Stevie, don’t know how good she is, how fuckin’ perfect she is, she’s a fuckin’—fuck, I don’t know! But she’s good and she deserves the world,”. Bucky knows that he should stop talking now, because with every word he lets slip, the deeper his grave becomes.

But he can’t stop, that’s the problem. The train is rolling down the hill in an uncontrollable plummet and there’s nothing he can do but hang on for the ride. Bucky doesn’t care anymore, at this point. After bottling his emotions for so long, it’s a relief to finally be able to get something out there. This is the closest that Bucky’s ever gotten to confessing his feelings about you to someone.

“What’re you talkin’ bout, Buck?” Steve breathes, before shaking his head decisively. “Never mind. You’re drunk, c’mon. Up,”.

“Fuck you, Steve,” Bucky growls halfheartedly, “You don’t get it, do ya? Stevie — ya gotta ‘ppreciate her, you hear me? Like—she’s the fuckin’ queen, or somethin’. You gotta do it, ‘cause I can’t. I can’t do it, so you gotta do it for me,”.

“Okay, Bucky,” Steve breathes, getting up onto his knees and moving to help Bucky out of the tub. “I will. C’mon, now,”.

He doesn’t get it. Steve doesn’t get it.

“Never mind,” Bucky grunts, batting away Steve’s hands. “M’fine. Forget about it. Forget everything I said. Go. Leave me alone,”.

“Buck—,”

“I said go, Rogers,” Bucky growls threateningly, not caring about the fact that Steve’s face visibly falls at his tone. Bucky’s pissed off at himself, at you, at the fucking universe and Steve’s the one unfortunate enough to have to deal with consequences. A part of him knows that he should feel remorseful and indeed, a part of him does want to take back the sentiment, but it’s there, it’s been said and there’s no going back now.

Recovering from his shock, Steve hardens his gaze and stands up, using his height to his advantage. Bucky could’ve laughed at the irony if he wasn’t so messed up; once upon a time, Steve Rogers had to stand on a crate if he wanted to pull off the same stunt. “Gimme the drink, Buck,” he says firmly, holding out his hand. There’s no anger in his tone, but when Bucky’s eyes flick to his neck, he can see the tension in his muscles, the way the vein is threatening to bulge out of his skin.

“Bucky,” Steve repeats, firmer this time.

With a heaving sigh, Bucky hands over the nearly-empty vial. “Now go, will ya? Leave me alone,” Bucky mutters, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the cool wall.

He sense Steve hovering beside him, as if he has something to say, before the punk realises what’s good for him, turns on his heel and strides to the door. “I’ll—I’ll leave some water and some pills on your bedside, ‘kay? Not sure how much help they’ll be, but just take ‘em, yeah?”. When Bucky doesn’t answer, Steve sighs and leaves, leaving Bucky alone.

Leaving Bucky alone, like he’s doomed to forever be.

------------------------- Tags are open (permanent and for AMUP), but I’m only accepting tag requests from asks or PMs. Replies/comments will be ignored. 

[tomorrowedblog]

Friday Releases for March 12

Friday is the busiest day of the week for new releases, so we've decided to collect them all in one place. Friday Releases for March 12 include Cosmic Sin, The Human Voice, Once Upon A Time, and more.

Cosmic Sin

Cosmic Sin, the new movie from Edward Drake, is out today.

Bruce Willis and Frank Grillo star in the new epic sci-fi adventure set in the year 2524, four hundred years after humans started colonizing the outer planets. Retired Military General James Ford (Willis) is called back into service after soldiers on a remote planet are attacked by a hostile alien fleet. The threat against the human race escalates into an inevitable interstellar war. General Ford teams up with General Eron Ryle (Grillo) and a team of elite soldiers in a race to stop the imminent attack before it is too late.

The Human Voice

The Human Voice, the new movie from Pedro Almodóvar, is out today.

A woman watches time passing next to the suitcases of her ex-lover (who is supposed to come pick them up, but never arrives) and a restless dog who doesn’t understand that his master has abandoned him.

The Truffle Hunters

The Truffle Hunters, the new movie from Michael Dweck and Gregory Kershaw, is out today.

THE TRUFFLE HUNTERS follows a handful of men, seventy to eighty years young, in Piedmont, Italy, on the search for the elusive Alba truffle. They’re guided by a secret culture passed down through generations, as well as by the noses of their cherished and expertly trained dogs. The documentary subtly explores the devastating effects of climate change and deforestation on an age-old tradition through a visually stunning narrative that celebrates life and exalts the human spirit.

Yes Day

Yes Day, the new movie from Miguel Arteta, is out today.

Always feeling like they have to say NO to their kids and co-workers, Allison and Carlos decide to give their three kids a YES DAY – where for 24 hours the kids make the rules. Little did they know that they’d be going on a whirlwind adventure around Los Angeles, that would bring the family closer to each other than ever before.

Insight

Insight, the new movie from Ken Zheng and Livi Zheng, is out today.

Two brothers, Jian (Ken Zheng) and Bao, are martial artist with extraordinary ability of clairvoyance. Despite sharing a strong bond during their childhood due to surviving their father’s abuse together, the two grew apart and choose different paths in life. Having not seen each other for several years, Jian one day hears a shocking news; Bao apparently committed suicide in Los Angeles. Jian refuses to believe that his brother would commit suicide and resolves himself uncover what really happened to his brother. He flew to the US to investigate and find justice for Bao’s death. LA detective Abby (Madeline Zima) and Carl (Tony Todd) under Captain Duke (Keith David) became involved in the investigation. Initially, they did not believe in Jian’s sixth sense. But, after Jian helped solve a case, Abby began to believe in his intuition. Together they sought justice and risked their lives fighting against a high-tech criminal who sought to exploit the sibling’s ability for his own gain.

Long Weekend

Long Weekend, the new movie from Stephen Basilone, is out today.

Bart’s (Finn Wittrock) chance encounter with the enigmatic Vienna (Zoë Chao) leads to a whirlwind weekend together. The two fall fast and hard, but both carry secrets that could be their undoing or the chance for a fresh start.

Paper Lives

Paper Lives, the new movie from Can Ulkay, is out today.

In the streets of Istanbul, ailing waste warehouse worker Mehmet takes a small boy under his wing and must soon confront his own traumatic childhood.

The Inheritance

The Inheritance, the new movie from Ephraim Asili, is out today.

A young man inherits his grandmother’s house and, with the encouragement of his girlfriend, turns it into a Black socialist collective where community forms the basis of family.

Come True

Come True, the new movie from Anthony Scott Burns, is out today.

Looking for an escape from her recurring nightmares, 18-year-old Sarah (Julia Sarah Stone) submits to a university sleep study, but soon realizes she’s become the conduit to a frightening new discovery.

The One

The One, the new TV series from Howard Overman, is out today.

The One is set five minutes in the future, in a world where a DNA test can find your perfect partner – the one person you’re genetically predisposed to fall passionately in love with. No matter how good your relationship, which one of us can honestly say we haven’t thought about whether there is someone better out there? What if a hair sample is all it takes to find them? The idea is simple, but the implications are explosive. We will never think of love and relationships in the same way again.

Once Upon A Time

Once Upon A Time, the new EP from Chika, is out today.

[orbemnews]

It May Be a Nice Yr, if Your Enterprise Survives Winter For Ashlie Ordonez, proprietor of the Naked Bar Studio, a spa in Denver, vaccinations for the coronavirus can’t come quickly sufficient. Whereas she anticipates higher days later this 12 months, surviving till then will probably be a battle, and he or she is aware of the following few months will probably be lean ones. “I offered my wedding ceremony ring so we might pay the payments and preserve the doorways open,” she stated. “I’m sacrificing every thing to make it by means of this pandemic.” Vinay Patel, who manages a sequence of 9 motels in Maryland and Virginia, is wanting even additional out for a restoration: “2022 is once we’ll see the true true potential of the vaccine.” Mr. Patel added that his greatest hope for the approaching 12 months is a measure of stability, if not prosperity. As 2021 begins, enterprise house owners huge and small confront a quickly shifting panorama. An finish to the pandemic is in sight as inoculations start, however the gradual tempo of vaccinations has delayed the turnaround they have been relying on. Hanging on is the chief purpose for a lot of, whilst others stay up for what they contemplate to be an inevitable rebound. This 12 months “will not be going to be a stroll by means of the park, however I’m optimistic,” stated Jimmy Etheredge, chief government for North America at Accenture, the technique and consulting firm. “The eggs are within the vaccine basket.” Whilst he anticipates a turnaround, Mr. Etheredge emphasised that lots of the adjustments wrought by the pandemic, equivalent to working remotely and a shift to cloud know-how by firms, are right here to remain. “Ten months of pandemic has accelerated technological change by 10 years,” he stated. “We’re by no means going to return to the way in which issues have been earlier than.” Within the meantime, it’s clear that there will probably be winners and losers this 12 months. Restaurateurs, leisure and hospitality companies and the journey business will proceed to battle as a surge in Covid-19 instances prompts renewed lockdowns in lots of elements of the nation. Few count on imminent salvation. The largest firms, alternatively, are positioning themselves for what could possibly be a surge in consumption when the pandemic recedes. Expertise, manufacturing, well being care and another industries are booming. Certainly, the distinction was evident final week as main inventory indexes notched new highs even because the Labor Division reported that the financial system misplaced 140,000 jobs in December. It was the primary decline in months, with the leisure and hospitality sector alone dropping half 1,000,000 positions as lockdowns are enacted. “There’s gentle on the finish of the tunnel,” stated Brian Moynihan, chief government of Financial institution of America. “However there’s a aspect of the financial system that’s nonetheless in bother. There’s a gaggle of Individuals who wish to go to work however can’t as a result of work isn’t open.” Mr. Moynihan stated he was happy that the $900 billion pandemic reduction package deal was handed and signed into legislation after many matches and begins, and he favors extra stimulus if obligatory. Roughly 19 million staff are amassing unemployment advantages, and the employment image stays bleak for a lot of lower-wage staff within the service financial system. President-elect Joseph R. Biden Jr. signaled Friday that trillions of {dollars}’ price of recent stimulus could possibly be on the way in which, and the approaching Democratic management of the Senate makes that rather more doubtless. As attempting as the following few months appear, the financial system is in higher form than within the months after Covid-19 first struck, when unemployment soared to 14.8 p.c. The jobless charge in December stood at 6.7 p.c. Vacation spending by Financial institution of America clients was 2.5 p.c greater than final 12 months, and account holders even have extra in financial savings than they did earlier than the pandemic. “There’s a bunch of sectors which can be doing very nicely when it comes to earnings,” Mr. Moynihan added. Even so, these stay occasions of limbo for a lot of executives and enterprise house owners, when the previous guidelines now not apply however the post-pandemic actuality has but to materialize. Up to date  Jan. 12, 2021, 3:19 p.m. ET “The times of getting a everlasting funds or a everlasting plan are gone for some time,” stated Mercedes Abramo, chief government for North America on the luxury-goods purveyor Cartier. “You’ve acquired to handle by means of this ambiguity.” Adaptation is a method that Ivan Kane, proprietor of a restaurant and nightclub in Columbus, Ohio, is aware of by coronary heart. To adjust to social-distancing necessities, he diminished the venue’s capability from 320 to 117, filling what was previously a dance ground with tables to offer ample area between friends. To draw clients, he purchased 15 hospital-grade ultraviolet disinfecting lamps, and he not too long ago acquired an igloo to permit friends to dine exterior whereas protected against the weather. Within the coming months, Mr. Kane hopes he’ll have the ability to break even, however he predicts that will probably be a 12 months earlier than he is ready to usher within the crowds essential to make his enterprise worthwhile. “The margins are razor-thin,” he stated. “It’s nearly conserving the lights on.” However for different enterprise house owners, the vaccine has arrived too late. In September, Camilla Marcus closed West-bourne, her restaurant within the SoHo neighborhood of New York, after she was unable to renegotiate her lease to scale back lease prices. Ms. Marcus has stored a trickle of cash coming in by promoting packaged meals on her firm’s web site in addition to holding digital occasions. However she has no plans to open one other restaurant. “It’s going to get so much worse earlier than it will get higher,” she stated. “It’s going to be a protracted haul.” Others, like Roy Paulson, a manufacturing facility proprietor in Temecula, Calif., are feeling safer. Like many producers, he has had robust demand throughout the pandemic for the commercial face shields and goggles his firm makes for the likes of welders and electricians. The Second Stimulus Solutions to Your Questions In regards to the Stimulus Invoice Up to date Dec 30, 2020 The financial reduction package deal will difficulty funds of $600 and distribute a federal unemployment good thing about $300 for a minimum of 10 weeks. Discover extra in regards to the measure and what’s in it for you. For particulars on how one can get help, try our Hub for Assist. Will I obtain one other stimulus cost? Particular person adults with adjusted gross revenue on their 2019 tax returns of as much as $75,000 a 12 months will obtain a $600 cost, and a pair (or somebody whose partner died in 2020) incomes as much as $150,000 a 12 months will get twice that quantity. There’s additionally a $600 cost for every youngster for households who meet these revenue necessities. Individuals who file taxes utilizing the pinnacle of family standing and make as much as $112,500 additionally get $600, plus the extra quantity for kids. Individuals with incomes simply above these ranges will obtain a partial cost that declines by $5 for each $100 in revenue. When would possibly my cost arrive? The Treasury Division stated on Dec. 29 that it had began making direct deposit funds, and would start to mail checks the following day. However will probably be some time earlier than all eligible folks obtain their cash. Does the settlement have an effect on unemployment insurance coverage? Lawmakers agreed to increase the period of time that folks can acquire unemployment advantages and restart an additional federal profit that’s supplied on prime of the same old state profit. However as an alternative of $600 every week, it could be $300. That can final by means of March 14. I’m behind on my lease or count on to be quickly. Will I obtain any reduction? The settlement will present $25 billion to be distributed by means of state and native governments to assist renters who’ve fallen behind. To obtain help, households will have to fulfill a number of circumstances: Family revenue (for 2020) can not exceed greater than 80 p.c of the realm median revenue; a minimum of one family member have to be prone to homelessness or housing instability; and people should qualify for unemployment advantages or have skilled monetary hardship — immediately or not directly — due to the pandemic. The settlement stated help will be prioritized for households with decrease incomes and which have been unemployed for 3 months or extra. New fashions of shields, initially set to be launched final 12 months, will probably be popping out quickly, which Mr. Paulson hopes will additional increase gross sales. Final week, the Institute for Provide Administration reported that its manufacturing index jumped in December to its highest studying since August 2018. “Manufacturing is alive and nicely in Southern California and the U.S.,” Mr. Paulson stated. “I’m anticipating a superb 12 months.” Whereas the scenario could be very totally different for eating places, some are assured that the business will rebound. “We predict issues will flip the nook within the not-too-distant future,” stated Brian Niccol, chief government of Chipotle Mexican Grill. He’s eyeing summer time or early fall for a return to regular, including that “folks will wish to eat and socialize and eating places will probably be nicely positioned.” Mr. Niccol has some main benefits over small entrepreneurs — his firm is debt-free with a powerful money place and a inventory market capitalization of practically $40 billion. However some small enterprise house owners share his optimism. Andy Rodriguez, co-founder and chief government of the Salty Donut, an artisan doughnut store and low bar with areas in Texas and Florida, believes that the pandemic will strengthen his enterprise in the long term. After the virus struck, Mr. Rodriguez needed to quickly rework his firm’s enterprise mannequin, which used to rely closely on in-store site visitors and company catering. He made the doughnut store’s full menu out there on Uber Eats, and beefed up its social media presence to encourage clients to position on-line orders. Mr. Rodriguez hopes that the work the enterprise has completed to construct its digital gross sales platform will enable the enterprise not simply to recuperate, however flourish, because the pandemic subsides. “We’re going to be in a much better place than ever earlier than,” he stated. “We’re going to be firing on all cylinders.” Audrey Hoyt, who owns the Seattle-based co-working enterprise the Pioneer Collective along with her husband, can also be assured that within the coming 12 months there will probably be extra demand for his or her firm’s companies than ever earlier than. She believes that co-working preparations will probably be engaging to many companies in search of versatile workplace area throughout the transition to a post-pandemic world. Ms. Hoyt stated she hoped that Democratic management of the Senate would clear the way in which for extra stimulus efforts. “The implementation of extra loans and help to get small companies by means of this era is crucial,” she stated. “Now that the Democrats have extra energy, I’m extra hopeful we’ll have the ability to get the assistance we want.” Ms. Hoyt has been working to develop the corporate’s actual property holdings, whilst enterprise income has been lower in half due to the pandemic. As a result of business landlords are keen to draw tenants, the enterprise has had extra leverage in negotiating favorable lease phrases, Ms. Hoyt stated. She plans to open a brand new constructing in downtown Seattle in April. “It was a deliberate determination: Both we shut totally or we dig deeper and discover a option to stick this out,” she stated. “Hopefully we are going to come out stronger on the opposite aspect.” Ben Casselman contributed reporting. Supply hyperlink #Business #Great #survives #winter #Year

[trulycertain]

For Now

The Arbour Wilds fallout, and the "I’m going back to Tevinter” conversation. Angst, 5.1k.

Dorian nearly says it then. His fingers are trembling, and they’re about to march on the Arbour Wilds to face the thing of his very Tevene nightmares, with no guarantee of victory and survival. He’s standing in front of a man who kisses him without looking to see who’s watching, who admired him even after meeting his father, who smiles every time he takes his heart into his throat and says amatus and yet doesn’t even know what it means. There’s an army assembling outside, and everything feels so terribly final. This may be the last opportunity they have to be alone. It feels like unforgivable cowardice not to tell the truth. And yet...

He tries to say, I’m almost certain I love you and it terrifies me that I can imagine some sort of future with you because I’m not used to any of this, but I’d like to be someday. I’d like to take certain things for granted the way you do.  But that’s too much like making promises when an impossible quest and a demon army await them. What actually comes out is: “While you should be fine, seeing as you have me at your back… do at least try not to die. Leliana would destroy me.”

Gal blinks at him, and then looks pained. “Oh.” Gal swallows. “Look, if I - If I don’t make it - “

He thinks he knows what those words are. And… not now. Not like this.

“Don’t you dare.” His voice shakes and nearly fails. “We still have things to discuss, you and I. Don’t you dare promise me more and make me think - ” He can’t, he can’t. Damn it all. He kisses Gal, then, fiercely, trying to press Don’t leave me to Gal’s mouth. He manages, after too long a pause, “If you die on me, I may have to kill you.”

Gal laughs, low and trembling slightly. “Yes ser.”

Dorian takes Gal’s face in his hands, takes one last kiss while he still can. Then he tries to regain his focus, snatches up his staff and says, “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” And yes, in that moment, this is us. “When you’re the great Inquisitor and I’m just some footnote in a history book. A decent one, mind you. With sub-footnotes.”

Gal snorts, even breathless as he is. “Footnote? Dorian, you’ll need your own volume.”

And then they open the doors, into blinding sunlight.

Some time after they survive, after he begs Gal not to abandon him for the sake of knowledge – and it hurts, having to be content with the not knowing, to step away from unknown truths that could be the key to everything, but too long in the Imperium has taught him that unimaginable power and smarter than everyone else come with hefty prices, and when Gal looks him straight in the eye and then steps away from the Well, he can finally breathe again – he has a realisation.

He stands in the wreckage of a half-dead civilisation, looks at corpses and broken stone, and listens to stories of his people as scavengers. He stands there and feels history and pride unravel around him, bit by bit.

It wasn’t them. For once, his countrymen and their idiot pride didn’t wade in and destroy a world, a people, a -

We can be better, he thinks, the way he always has. And then, abruptly: I can make us better.

It terrifies him. He all but physically backs away, thinking of his father telling him he was made for the Magisterium, he could be great, it’s his duty, he needs to see -

But what if - ? his mind starts. And aren’t those words the worst and most insidious in existence.

What if?

He tries to push the thought away. When he sees Corypheus breaking through, when Gal grabs them and runs through the Eluvian, he almost manages it.

He slams gracelessly into the floor and groans in pain, biting his lip and tasting blood. He notes that the rug in this room is truly abominable and the Inquisition needs to rethink its taste – and then he realises. Gal hasn’t come through.

He looks up, palms still on the floor, and thinks, no, because Corypheus was right behind them. After everything, surely -

There’s a sound, and then a clank of armour, and a crash. There’s a muttered curse, and all Dorian can think is, He’s alive, then. Thank the Maker.

Gal says, “Everyone through?”

They all grunt the affirmative, attempting to stand and mostly succeeding.

There’s the sound of a very heavy man in equally heavy armour climbing to his feet, and Gal looks at Cassandra, Sera - until his eyes meet Dorian’s, and he smiles, ever so slightly.

Dorian’s mouth runs on before he can stop it. “Oh look, you’re alive.”

“So are you,” Gal says, quietly.

Sera pipes up from behind them. “So’re we. And you’re not as sappy about us. You should… I dunno, take it to a cupboard or something.”

“Well, seeing as we’ve arrived ahead of our dear advisers… war table?” Dorian says, with increasing cheer, throwing Gal a rogueish grin.

“Dorian,” Cassandra says, in the tone of a dragon that’s about to burn him to a cinder. He looks over his shoulder, and notes the hint of pink in her cheeks.

“No?” he tries, watching Gal try not to laugh. “Just a suggestion.”

“I think I would have preferred to die in the Wilds,” Morrigan mutters.

“We ought to get out of armour, if we’re just waiting for the others,” Gal says. There are noises of assent, and they all start the walk back to their respective quarters. Gal falls into step with Sera, and throws an arm round her shoulders. “Of course I’m sappy about you.”

Sera makes a disgusted sort of noise. “Just don’t put the eyes at me, right?”

Gal chokes in an appalled sort of way, and there’s probably a retch in there somewhere. “I would never. But if you’d died, I would have made them build you a statue.” There’s a pause. “One with two fingers up.”

Dorian can’t help himself. “Or mooning the populace.”

Sera says, “Yeah, see, that works.”

Dorian watches them walk up ahead, exhausted and blood-covered and yet still somehow bright in the sunlight, pride and something quieter, more painful, welling in his chest. They said he was a Marcher nobody who should have died at the Conclave. And in a world that lets someone like that be an Inquisitor, do so much, perhaps a Tevinter pariah can…

No, he thinks, and then, He’s alive. Kaffas, we’re alive. Everything else can wait.

After a brief, but decent bath, he ends up lying on his bed, savouring the only half-decent patch of sunlight his quarters get, dressed but trying to make himself move and put his leathers on. He aches from the fight, and the simplicity of cloth is soothing, somehow. It reminds him that for a moment, he can breathe, and he isn’t about to be called out on some wild goosechase. The goose being... a very ancient, very angry magister. He winces. Now there’s an image.

He looks up when there’s a knock on the door, knowing exactly who it is. “Come on in. I’m not stopping you.”

Gal quietly steps in and closes the door behind him. He looks exhausted, and there’s a healing cut on his forehead, but he’s clean and here and oh yes, breathing. “You asked for me?”

“When you had a moment, I said. You should get that seen to.” Dorian looks pointedly to the cut.

Gal shrugs. “Always have a moment for you.”

“I should be rolling my eyes. No, in fact, they should almost be falling out of my head.”

Gal crosses the room and flumps down onto the bed next to him. “Dorian.”

“I just wanted to say thank you. For surviving. For walking away from the Well, when the alternative must have been tempting.” He clears his throat. “And I’m sure you’re terribly busy, what with all the adoring followers and the army you’ll have to prepare a welcome cake for. And weren’t you meant to judge the red templars’ general, or have I found Sunday’s itinerary? It happens, sometimes - ”

Words desert him after that, because he’s being pressed to a broad, lye-scented body. He tries to think of something to lighten the mood, possibly a comment about needing to breathe sometime soon, but the world has narrowed to warm skin and a fundamental, painful relief. He tucks his face against Gal’s and inhales, closing his eyes.

He says, after a moment, “You’d think we’d be used to this. The imminent death thing, I mean.”

Gal sighs. “I used to be. Don’t know what changed.”

I have an idea, Dorian doesn’t say. Instead, he says, “You smell like embrium.”

“Might have checked on the gardens while I had the time.”

“Hmm. The great Herald, gardening. Did the Revered Mother have a heart attack?”

“She told me something about it being good for morale.”

Dorian snorts. “Of course she would.” He sighs, and reflects that a man made of muscle really shouldn’t be so comfortable. “You have to go, don’t you?”

“And you’ve got research to do.” Gal pulls away gently, and retreats to the door. When he looks back, hesitates, Dorian just gives him an imperious, off you go sort of wave, not moving from his horizontal recline. Gal leaves, but does it with a smile.

Dorian tries to push aside the thoughts that enter his head. They’ll probably die long before any of it becomes relevant; there’s no reason to consider it. For now, he can have this.

But that night, lying in Gal’s bed, he extrapolates, because that’s always been what he does. He takes his tentative future from where he’d locked it away in the back of his mind. He unspools that future ahead of him, thinks if and then and but and tries not to drown under the weight of them.

He thinks of leaving, heading back to sneers and old rumours and his father’s disappointment following him, constantly, and his mother drinking rather than dealing with the truth of their existence. He thinks of the inevitable, That’s the Pavus boy, isn’t it? He thinks of being laughed out of rooms, of Circle enchanters snickering behind their sleeves when they see the drunkard layabout. Of being the poor, idiotic fool who comes back with wild stories of the South and a band of heretics, of a world without slavery, of working next to elves, of… courting Southern barbarians. Of laying with the same man twice, and wasting amatus on some Marcher soporati who doesn’t even speak the language and… loves him. Perhaps. He thinks.

Unfair, really, to measure it that way. This entire thing has been an unexpected variable, a hitch in the works, a – a -

A gift. More than he ever thought he’d be allowed. And perhaps he isn’t – allowed, that is. Perhaps he never was.

He thinks of staying here. Experimenting with the rifts, waking up with the same warm body next to him, drinking with his friends. Whispers in corridors and staying in the Inquisitor’s shadow, watching his homeland rot, knowing he didn’t do all he could. The slow drifting away of everything he is.

But he’d have friends to miss him, and for once in his life, he’d be more than the resident disappointment. He’d…

He’d have this. Maker, he’d have this.

He runs a finger through Gal’s hair, watches moonlight on sharp cheekbones and broad shoulders, thinks of the softness of that mouth and the way Gal’s entire face changes when it lights in a smile.

He could stay. It would be good, it would be kind, it would be… so easy. And he’s never been good at easy, because easy is so rarely the same as right. If he’d wanted to go for the less painful option, he’d have drowned himself in a bottle and watched the end of the world from the comfort of someone else’s bed.

He knows, in his heart. Perhaps he’s always known.

It was a nice dream while it lasted.

He quietly starts to climb out of the preposterously-sized bed. He has both legs out from under the blankets when he hears Gal mumble his name and then ask, “Something wrong?”

He pauses, and then looks over his shoulder. “Nothing. Go back to sleep, amatus.” He tastes the word in his mouth, lets himself feel the truth of it, as he touches his hand to Gal’s forehead, briefly strokes back some of that sleep-rumpled mane.

Then he puts on his boots and leaves, thinking that he used to be so much better at sneaking out of men’s beds. He’s been here too long.

He thinks he’s going to drink. Instead, he ends up leaning against the library window, watching dawn bleed into the sky and trying to become used to loneliness again. He hasn’t missed it.

“You all right?”

He looks up from his book, and knows that he must seem tired. He’s run his hands through his hair enough times while thinking over his options that it’s probably a mess, one that would frighten the Orlesians – though that’s rarely a bad thing. He considers undoing a few more buckles and “accidentally” sauntering past the Revered Mother, just to give her a conniption, and the thought is cheering.

Gal, on the other hand, looks much better, leaning against the shelves and regarding him with nothing more than gentle curiosity. Trust. “You didn’t come back to bed. Wondered if you’d got caught up in something.”

He attempts to smile. “I find all this concern for my welfare rather touching, but is there a reason for it?”

Gal takes a few more steps and stands next to his chair, glancing out of the window before looking back to him with the hint of a smile. “Not sudden at all.”

All at once, Dorian feels as if his heart is in his throat. “I see. Like that, is it?” When Gal just raises an eyebrow, amused, he continues, “I was just researching. Considering some options for flushing out the Venatori. It’s all usually tedious enough to send me to sleep, but… not last night. I thought I’d let you get some rest.” He pauses, looks up at Gal, and says, “By the way, I continue to be glad you’re alive and also not an agent of some elven goddess. The alternative would put a dampener on things.”

Gal’s mouth twitches. “I agree.”

He glances back to his book, briefly, gathering his words, and then says, “Do you ever wonder whether things would have been better without all… this? A quiet life. Some sort of cottage or hideously adorable mongrel, or woodcutting in a village, or whatever your heart desired.”

“The woodcutting was only for a year. And I was running from the Chantry, or from my parents. I was never going to have a quiet life.” Gal looks at him levelly, but there’s something gentle in it, too. “Don’t think you were made for one either.”

“You’re quite right. What about me screams ‘quiet,’ exactly?” He sighs. “I just meant that… it must be so easy, not knowing you could be more, do more. You could have had a life without the Inquisition. An easier one, maybe. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Gal shrugs. “Not really. And this has given me… good things, too.” He glances at Dorian, then away just as quickly. He pauses, and seems to consider it. “And it’s not like there was anyone else lining up to do it, either. Might as well be me. No-one else could.”

Dorian rubs a hand over his forehead, absentmindedly smooths his moustache, knowing it must be wilting. “I… Forgive me. I blame tiredness for making me morbid.”

“You’re a necromancer. Part of the job description.”

Dorian barks a laugh, and puts the book aside, standing. “Good point. However, I’m sorry for not being there. It meant I missed what’s probably my favourite sight in the morning.”

Next to him, Gal gazes out of the library window, looking genuinely thoughtful, and then nods. “Glad of the balcony. You can almost see out to the Hinterlands.”

Dorian stares, thinking that Gal’s not usually this dense. Maybe the head wound was more severe than they thought. “Yes,” he says dryly, taking Gal’s head in his hands and stepping around him until their eyes meet, stroking a thumb over Gal’s cheek. “The balcony.”

Gal looks at him with surprise and dawning, pleased realisation, and then it becomes a smile that’s almost blinding.

Go south? they said. It’s nothing but swamps and barbarians. They’ll burn you as soon as look at you. What do you expect to find?

Not this, he thinks. Never this.

He steps back, and it feels like loss.

The conversation happens eventually, because it must. He’s put it off long enough, and he knows he’s beginning to seem distracted. Distracted is acceptable – frequent, even, what with the amount of magical mishaps and cultural barriers he so often finds here; there’s so much to consider, to try and understand – but distant is another matter. Distant can be cruel, and distant is the mage in his study, drawing maps of the future and his grand plans for conquest and lineage, not looking up to see the people around him leaving. Distant is cold, and he’s never been good at cold, no matter how much he’s tried to practice. That’s gotten him in trouble enough times.

He tries to put together the words as Gal watches him expectantly. “What happened at the elven temple – it’s got me thinking. I should go back, shouldn’t I? To Tevinter. When this is all over. If we survive.” He lays it all out, the thoughts he’s been having. The dreams he’s been turning over, again and again, staring at the ceiling. Not just now – for years, really. But he’d never thought there might be a way...

For a moment, he almost misses that inscrutable Chantry calm, and the five layers of war paint - the Gal in front of him is barefaced, and briefly looks like he’s been slapped, all wide-eyed, pale pain. “You’d just… leave? What about… us?”

And there it is, the most difficult question, yet somehow the easiest to answer. Dorian inhales, and decides, for one of few times in his life, to be entirely serious. “Trust me, amatus, it would give me no pleasure to leave your side. But,” and he knows the truth of the words as he says them, “you make life-changing decisions every day. How can I not consider some of my own?”

Gal frowns. “You said the Temple. Why then? Seems like you’ve been thinking this a long time.”

Dorian tells him of standing in a pile of broken history and knowing that the Imperium had to understand the truth. To stop priding itself on death and destruction and fabulous silks above common decency. To face the truth of what it truly is, and what it can be.

Gal watches him with something bright, something… proud. It hurts to see, finds an answering echo in his chest. He remembers that look from after that mess with his father, but this is more, if possible. Something deeper and altogether quieter.

He realises that silence has fallen after his fine, noble declaration of change; Gal is silent, thinking, head downturned.

When Gal looks up, those eyes are wide and blue and frighteningly earnest. “You’re right. You wanted to change things.” Gal swallows. “You could do great things. You’re... brilliant. Always were. And I’m not going to force you to stay here. It’s not like I haven’t seen the way people talk to you, or how much less you have here, or… the things I’ve read about alti. The things you could do. If you want to.” He pauses and flounders, attempts to be the strong, certain Herald again. It’s strange to be able to the see the act, the careful rearranging of his face that wasn’t nearly as obvious before, when Dorian thought him unreadable.

Dorian waits for the But…  For the argument, or the anger, or the quiet breaking of ties.

Instead, Gal offers, “I could go with you. If you’d like me to.”

Dorian tries not to stare. For some reason, he hadn’t expected such a thing, but of course, Gal, with no home to go back to and that terrible, easy earnestness; Gal, who will do anything for a friend, never mind… more. Of course. For a moment, he wants it, fiercely, damn any thought of being careful or the political risks, or any of what he was taught. The thought of that quiet, solid calm at his back and those dependable arms, even back North? Maker, he wants that more than he can say.

And yet he imagines watching Gal wilt, day by day, alone and uncertain. Imagines receiving the blithe letter one day telling him of the inevitable assassination, or even simply being in the Inquisitor’s shadow once again, having doors closed on him at every turn.

He knows. No. Some things simply can’t be.

“Leave all this? I can’t ask that of you. And besides, much as it would amuse me to see my homeland beaten into submission, this is something I have to do.” And there it is, the simplest truth. It will take one of their own to break it all down from the inside. Someone who can say the right words, play the right games, wear the right titles, profit off an old and noble family name.

It’ll take him.

He expected a fight, perhaps. An argument, a declaration of what exactly this thing between them is, or… something. Instead, Gal looks at him with that dull-eyed resignation that’s so familiar, and he realises where he’s seen it before: the siege at Haven. That quiet acceptance of pain. “If that’s what you have to do… I understand.”

His heart is sinking in his chest. Perhaps, he realises, he wanted a fight. He’s never had someone fight to keep him before. An arrogant desire, yes, but… novel. Important, maybe.

Gal smiles, and it’s wholly unconvincing. “You’re right. You should go.” Then it’s gone, and back in its place is that silent, unnerving blankness. He glances down the stairs. “Morrigan asked to speak to me. I’ll… see you.”

Dorian opens his mouth, tries to say something that might fix this, even if it can’t be fixed. Not really. “Ask her if she’s got a recipe for that mana resilience potion. It works wonders.”

Gal nods, and then leaves, silently as a shadow.

Hours pass. Night falls, and eventually Dorian finds himself back in the library, trying to focus on the notes in front of him. Prolonged effects of red lyrium. Yes. Instead he shifts, restless, and tries not to think of this morning. Tries not to think of Gal’s easy acceptance, the quickness with which he was happy to let him go.

He looks up at the sound of footsteps.

“I lied,” Gal says quietly, standing on the other side of the desk, cheeks shadowed by candlelight.

Dorian raises an eyebrow, trying to find his bearings. “About what?”

“About you leaving.” Gal’s eyes close, and he looks away, leaning a hand on the desk, putting another to his forehead. “…Fuck.” He seems unsteady on his feet, and it’s strange to see, even if it isn’t the first time: it’s akin to watching a great oak sway in the breeze, suddenly, worryingly fallible.

“Have you been drinking?” Dorian asks. A stupid question, really: as he straightens, walks around the desk, he can smell the ale. Not that that’s saying much: the scent can probably be picked up in Antiva.

Gal nods, ashamed, resigned.

Dorian keeps his voice soft, even in his confusion. “What is this?” And what was so difficult to say that it needed intoxication to even make an attempt?

“I wanted to smile and wave you off, or… I wanted to be better.” Gal inhales, bracing himself, and then looks up. Their eyes meet. Gal says desperately, “Please. After all this, if there’s a way… stay. At least for a little longer.”

“Gal…”

“I want you to do it, I… I... don’t want to keep you here if you shouldn’t be, but – I need you. At least until we close the rifts, or...” Gal mutters something. “Long as you can. Long as you want, whatever you want.” Gal sways, and falls back against the bookshelves, his eyes closing. “I… Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

Dorian tries to breathe. “I’m not sure I can. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say some of this before, when you could stand?”

Gal’s eyes open, slowly, and focus on him. “Because I meant what I said.” Warm hands come up to cup Dorian’s face and probably destroy his hair entirely, gentle even with their owner’s unsteadiness. “So proud of you. Brave. But fuck, I’ll miss you.”

Then Gal’s pushing away from the shelves, starting a long-legged, unsteady walk back down the stairs.

Dorian stares after him, tries to say something. Loses… whatever it was.

He blinks once, twice, too rapidly, and decides that it’s time to have a drink or ten.

Too much whisky later, by the time he’s swaying up the stairs to Gal’s quarters, his head is somewhat clearer. Or foggier. He has a few thoughts arranged in his head, visions of what he’ll say, even though some are blurrier than others. He has a faint idea, at least.

He knocks on the door, and it opens to reveal a frowning, only mostly-awake Gal.

“Look, there’s something I...” Dorian begins. And then he pauses, and stares.

Perhaps it’s the pillow-crease on Gal’s face, or the fact that even in a bloody freezing winter fortress, the man only ever seems to sleep in trousers. Perhaps it’s the half-tattoo peeking out from Gal’s waistband, something small and familiar that no-one else truly knows about. Perhaps it’s the way Gal visibly brightens at the sight of him, even through tiredness and half a beard. Perhaps it’s the whisky.

Perhaps… It could be so many things. Or everything.

All he knows is that he doesn’t even manage to complete the sentence before he’s throwing himself across the space and kissing Gal desperately, deeply, plastering himself to Gal’s chest and getting a hand on the back of Gal’s head to pull him closer.

Gal doesn’t even hesitate before kissing him back.

Dorian can’t make himself care about the unshavenness and the taste of ale, knowing he must be as bad; all his brain can manage is some combination of real and Gal and keep this and please, please.

It’s a white-knuckled thing. He manages to flail a hand behind him to close the door, and then he’s being pressed against it. He kisses Gal’s cheek, his eyebrow, the line of ink on his nose, anywhere he can reach; nips at Gal’s earlobe, briefly, a sharp reminder that he’s here and not across an ocean.

“Dorian,” Gal says, roughly.

“Amatus.” Dorian breathes the word against Gal’s throat, kissing the skin there and feeling the way Gal trembles. He works at Gal’s trousers with fumbling fingers, unable to stand not touching him, trying to memorise the skin under his fingers and the breath next to his ear, the warmth of the man who’s holding him.

“Stay.” It’s an exhalation, too, as though Gal’s had the word dragged out of him. A plea. Gal freezes and looks at him after saying it, as if wanting to take it back.

“For you, anything,” Dorian says, before he can help himself.

And then Gal’s lifting him off his feet entirely, and his back hits the door. He should care about that, really, or consider that he’ll miss this, that he’s never been with anyone else who could do it. Or they should talk this through, sit down and discuss it like the rational, semi-drunk adults they are -

Instead he clings to Gal, who kisses him like a man drowning.

In the end, they don’t even make it to the bed.

The rug in here is rather more impressive than the one in the Eluvian room; perks of being the Inquisitor, he supposes. It’s comfortable, even if he has the vague thought that he’s probably too old for this kind of thing. He’s tired, he can feel it, and yet he’s almost afraid to sleep. If he sleeps, he won’t be able to feel Gal lying beside him, and the way that he’s here, not in some lordling’s summer mansion.

“Amatus?” he says.

“Mm?” Gal’s mostly asleep, face half-submerged in the rug, and doesn’t open his eyes.

“I’m a bloody fool, aren’t I?”

“Good man,” Gal mumbles. “Just a fucking idiot sometimes. Best fucking idiot I’ve met.”

Dorian laughs at that, unable to help himself, and reaches out, managing to grab one of the blankets from the bed they ought to be in – but that would require moving, and he’s drunk and tired and most importantly, he doesn’t want to. He drags the blanket over both of them, tries to shake it out slightly and eventually gives up. He settles down, staring at the ceiling, fingers tracing over Gal’s shoulder.

It almost startles him when Gal speaks. “They’ll be lucky to have you. Nearly as lucky as me.”

“That is, if we survive this,” Dorian says airily. “If there’s one thing our time here has taught me to be wary of, it’s guarantees.”

Gal grunts, acknowledging that. “Did you mean what you said? That after Corypheus, we’d talk?”

Dorian swallows. “I meant it,” he says. It’s all he can say.

“Am I your... port in a storm?” The words are low, and there’s an edge of pain to them, not quite hidden.

“What? No. You’ve never been that.”

Gal says, half-into the rug, “Good. Told you. Not mine either.”

Dorian tries not to let the world make him a liar. “Let’s just focus on getting through this alive first. And if we do, I’ll think about it. Staying on, I mean.” He feels a warm hand on top of his, and at first thinks that he’s irritated Gal and he’s being told to stop pawing him – then calloused fingers wrap around his, and stay there. He wonders if he’ll ever be used to that. Probably not.

Gal murmurs, “See you in the morning?”

Dorian smiles. “I told you. I wouldn’t want to miss waking up to my favourite sight.”

He drifts to sleep with steady breathing next to him and Gal still holding his hand, and his last full thought is that for now, perhaps Tevinter can wait.

[autodidact-adventures]

World War I (Part 53): The Russian Revolution

In January 1917, Russia's military situation seemed not too bad; in fact, slightly promising.  The Brusilov Offensive had won many victories, and given the Russian commanders new confidence.  They had the winter to regroup, as there wouldn't be any major fighting during it.  Austria-Hungary was no longer a major threat, and even Germany wasn't as dangerous as before, with its forces stretched thin. Britain & France were sending huge quantities of equipment to them, especially artillery and shells.  Churchill would write after the war that from 1917 onwards, all Russia would have had to do was to maintain an intact front.

In late 1916, Joffre suggested the multi-front offensive for 1917, and Russia showed no reluctance.  Then he was replaced by Nivelle and his Chemin des Dames offensive, and Russia stated that they'd have 70 divisions ready by the time it started; they would be equipped with 10,000's of guns and artillery pieces.  Even Evert, whose over-cautiousness had saved the Germans in 1916, was willing to attack with these numbers.

But the home front was a different story.  The winter of 1916-17 was terrible even for Russia, with extremely deep snows, and temperatures so low that over 1,000 steam locomotives froze and exploded.  The railway system was never more than satisfactory at the best of times, but now it was barely functioning at all.

Most of Russia was still able to cope, but the largest cities had it the worst because the food & fuel coming in had slowed to a trickle.  Petrograd (not only the capital, but also Russia's most important industrial centre) was the worst of all, because it was so far from the interior.  By early January, factories were shutting down because of the lack of fuel.  The workers had nothing to do, so they roamed the streets, hungry, cold and angry.

The bakeries couldn't make bread (even though they had flour) because they couldn't heat their ovens.  Women waited in line for hours and still couldn't get their usually-tiny rations, so they began looting. There were 10,000's of troops stationed in the capital, but many of them were untrained recruits, and not up to coping with the situation.  People wandered around, calling for revolution and an end to the war, and angrily haranguing the troops.

By now, almost everyone was demanding change.  The biggest demand was for a “responsible” Council of Ministers to be appointed, one that would be willing and able to carry out the duties that the tsar's cabinet was responsible for.  Nothing was happening, though, and it seemed almost certain that a crisis would happen, one that would probably topple the Romanov regime.

Even in privileged circles, hostility against the tsar & tsarina was common.  General Sir Henry Wilson was a senior member of the British general staff, and when he visited Russia, he reported that “everyone – officers, merchants, ladies – talks openly of the absolute necessity of doing away with them.”  The civil authorities issued the police with machine-guns, as they believed an uprising was almost  inevitable.

Alexander Kerensky (a 36-year-old democratic socialist) told the Duma that the tsar & tsarina must be deposed “by terrorist methods if there is no other way.”  The newspapers suppressed his words, but he was cheered and promised protection; and his statement spread throughout Petrograd and was applauded.

On February 23rd, the Duma president had a meeting with the tsar, and at the end of it he said that he thought they wouldn't meet again, as revolution was imminent.  The tsar said nothing – he had retreated deep into himself.  By now, he was isolated, exhausted, incapable of acting, and not listening to advice.  He may have been aware of what was going to happen & mentally preparing himself for it.

Nicholas had spent most of the winter alone with his family in their palace at Tsarskoe Selo (near Petrograd).  Almost everyone who did have access to him was begging him to appoint a new cabinet.  The tsarina did the opposite – she wanted him to rule on his own. After he left for the army headquarters, she would write to him, “Lovy, be firm, because the Russians need you to be.  At every turn you show love & kindness – now let them feel your fist, as they themselves ask.  So many of late have told, that we need the knout. It's strange, but that is the Slav nature.”  But he barely responded even to her.  He was detached from it all – he'd listen patiently to appeals and demands, and smile & say or do nothing.

Alexander Protopopov was the only official in whom the tsar & tsarina had any confidence, and he was a terrible choice.  He was Minister of the Interior (and his duties included getting essential supplies into Russia's cities) but he was more focused on holding séances with the tsarina, trying to contact the dead Rasputin.  He was a manipulative sycophant – when in the presence of the tsarina, he would drop to his knees and declare that he saw the figure of Jesus behind her.

[The dates below are in the current Gregorian Calendar, rather than the old Russian calendar of the time.  The revolution began on March 8th New Style, or February 23rd Old Style.]

Wednesday, March 7th

The tsar suddenly announced that on Thursday, he would go to the Duma and announce his intention to appoint a new cabinet.  But in the evening, he broke his promise, announcing that he was leaving immediately for army headquarters.  He left Petrograd within hours.

Actually, there was no need to visit army headquarters, as nothing was happening on the Eastern Front.  But he may have gone just to escape from everything.  He may also have gone both at the insistence of the tsarina (who thought that he shouldn't even acknowledge the existence of the Duma, as it made him incredibly weak) and to get away from her constant demands.

Thursday, March 8th

Street demonstrations turned into riots (mostly women) & looting. The Cossacks (cavalry) were traditionally used by the tsars to control civilian populations, and they were brought in to restore order.  However, the more experienced Cossack troops had been sent to the front, and these ones were young, inexperienced and only half-trained.  They didn't even have the whips that the Cossacks usually used to control crowds.  All they did was mingle with the rioters and assure them that they were in no dancer.

Friday, March 9th

The crowds were larger and more violent.  Petrograd's most radical leftist groups had been strongly repressed for years, and now their leaders began calling for a general strike.

Saturday, March 10th

The Cossacks were ordered to fire on the demonstrators, but instead fired on the police, ending generations of Cossack loyalty to the tsar.  The cabinet panicked, and some cabinet members sent a telegram to the tsar, in which they offered their resignations and asked him to return to Petrograd and form a new government.  The tsar replied, “I order that the disorders in the capital, intolerable during these difficult times of war with Germany and Austria, be ended tomorrow.”

Sunday, March 11th

On Sunday, the streets were almost empty.  Before leaving for army headquarters, the tsar had given the newest prime minister (an elderly, well-intentioned, experienced, but ineffective member of the Petrograd bureaucracy) a signed order for the Duma's dismissal. However, he had told the prime minister to hold it aside, and use it if necessary.  Now he took it to the assembly, and the members voted to ignore it, effectively joining the revolution.

Monday, March 12th

10,000's of troops joined the revolution – many just deserted; others joined the civilians in another outbreak of looting.  They attacked & looted the Petrograd armoury, seizing thousands of rifles.  They set fire to courthouses, and to the offices of the secret police; they broke into prisons, and some of the prisoners joined in the revolution.

Tuesday, March 13th

The tsar finally left army headquarters to return to Petrograd.  He travelled by train, and chose to follow an indirect route so that he wouldn't interfere with the trainloads of troops & equipment going to the front.  Because of this, he had to travel 800km and his progress was slow.  As he got closer to Petrograd, there were increasing signs of the disorder going on, and eventually, long before reaching the capital, reports of violence ahead down the line forced them to stop.  The train halted at Pskov, an obscure provincial town.

Here, telegrams arrived from senior military commanders (including the Grand Duke Nicholas, who was in the Caucasus region) telling him that he would have to give up the crown.  Nicholas was concerned for his family (who had been prisoners at Tsarskoe Selo ever since the 40,000 troops of the garrison had joined the revolution), but he seemed unsurprised at this news.

At Tsarskoe Selo, his five children had the measles (still quite a serious disease at this time), and the tsarina had greatly struggled at first with all that was happening.  But she recovered quickly, focusing on looking after her children, organizing meals and warm quarters on the palace's ground floor for the two Cossack companies that were still loyal to the regime.

Thursday, March 15th

Two Russian governments were created – 1) one proclaimed by the Duma, and dominated by Kerensky, who now became Minister of Justice; 2) the Soviet of Soldiers' and Workers' Deputies, made up of army unit & industrial labour representatives.  These two governments were rivals, but they set themselves up in the same building, and agreed that the tsar had to abdicate.  The cabinet members [of the former government] didn't resist, but presented themselves to the Duma and asked to be arrested for their own protection.

A delegation was sent to get the tsar to sign an act of abdication. By the time their train reached the tsar, he'd already decided to abdicate, anyway.  But when asked to pass the crown onto his son, 12-year-old Alexei, he refused.  Alexei was delicate because of his haemophilia, and Nicholas didn't want him to be looked after by strangers.

So the crown passed to Grand Duke Mikhail Alesandrovich, Nicholas' younger brother.  Mikhail was the black sheep of the Romanov family, as in 1912 he'd married the commoner Natalia Brasova, whith whom he'd already had a son.  He became the new Tsar Mikhail II, but was afraid for his life and abdicated almost immediately.  He declared that he was willing to take the crown later, if an assembly of the people's elected representatives asked him to.  The Romanov dynasty had ended.

The Duma's provincial government announced that it would continue fighting the war.  Nicholas showed no bitterness, and supported them in this completely.  In a farewell message to the troops, he said that “whoever now dreams of peace, whoever desires it...betrays...the land of his fathers.”

The other Entente members were delighted at the news – Britain and France had been rather embarrassed to be allied with tsarist Russia, especially as they were trying to present the war as a conflict between democracy and dictatorship.

[andrewuttaro]

New Look Sabres: GM 80 - NSH - Didn’t Suck

John Vogl of the Athletic wrote an article last week called “How a Tuesday Night in December set a fateful tone for the rest of the Sabres’ Season”. It’s another excellent work by one of the better elder statesman of Buffalo Hockey media but more importantly it helps one in having an honest conversation about what this season is, was, and will be remembered as. One might look back on February 20th as some kind of turning point this season as well when Jason Botterill said he supported Coach Housley and a coaching change was not imminent. The post-vote of confidence part of the season, roughly Game 60 on (Buffalo has been 3-14-3 in that time), has been so bad it’s forced even optimists like me to swim in the deep ocean of miserable Sabres takes. I hate doing that if that hasn’t been clear and I was the kind of guy who didn’t think their playoff chances were really dead until that four-game losing streak earlier in February. I’m rehashing all these turning points for a couple reasons. For one, I’ve already spent one of these blogs covering an Amerks game and another entirely on coaching. I’m running out of shticks and there are still two games left. The other reason is that facing Nashville tonight got me thinking about turning points. The only other time the Sabres faced the Preds this season was an early December loss three games removed from the end of the winning streak. At that point we all knew nothing except for joy and happiness; I was strung like a loaded coil to go to the first Leafs game in Buffalo. I recall the other Nashville game clearly: it was a neutral zone battle that made me proud to be a Sabres fan, but it ended 2-1 in favor of Nashville. I was still so pompous at the time I was prepared to make a sign for the Leafs game to follow that referenced there almost being a team in Hamilton, Ontario! What a different time that was. This whole trip down memory lane I just took would’ve been a little monotonous and stupid, kind of like the Sabres season at this point, if I didn’t lead off with a bump for John Vogl. He is worth your time and money so go subscribe to the Athletic Buffalo. I guess I have to talk about the game we had tonight now… ugh, okay: The Sabres lost again. This time they didn’t seem completely lost.

The Nashville Predators have been the subject of some discussions of playoff readiness. The defensive juggernaut that isn’t too bad on offense either has been just ok lately. The 2017 Stanley Cup Finalists have been outmaneuvered or outright smashed in several games in March resulting in some upset fears going into spring. The Buffalo Sabres playing with Nashville as close as they did, particularly for the first two periods of this game, is in some degree attributable to this sagging Preds team. Nashville’s Craig Smith opened up the scoring in the first frame at a little under 9 minutes into the game. As the game continued the play of both teams opened up a bit; chances became more plentiful for both as each team kind of tripped over their own defensive schemes. It was the Preds defense struggling to get into to position that allowed for a tic tac toe pass play in the offensive zone for the Sabres. Kyle Okposo ended up getting the puck behind Pekka Rinne and tapped it in. It was 1-1 through the first intermission but that changed awfully quickly in the second period. P.K. Subban got out all alone against Carter Hutton and shot it past the former Predator in net. It was practically off the faceoff. It was 2-1 for a very brief time again before Conor Sheary thought he evened it up about three minutes into the middle period. The ref said it did not count. Before we go on it’s worth mentioning this was probably the best effort the Sabres have completed in several weeks. Jack Eichel, Sam Reinhart, Casey Mittelstadt, really all the guys, even the ones who aren’t big names did good tonight. The key follow-up there is they didn’t win. You guys got to figure out how to do that more consistently. Nonetheless, it felt nice to not watch another skating clinic.

Jeff Skinner evened up the game at 2 after gathering a nice rebound off the back boards with mere seconds left in the second period. I tuned into the third period full of hope Buffalo would make a real game out of it. They did but Ryan Johansen snuck a puck high on Hutton: it was one of those bounce in bounce out goals that gives Philadelphia Flyers flashbacks to the 2010 Stanley Cup Final. I built that up like it was a momentous play, but it was just a goal and it put Nashville up 3-2 where the game would end. The boys in blue and gold put up a good late effort to tie it, but the third equalizer never came and this one will look like just another regulation loss in the history of this season. This game didn’t suck and that maybe the summation of the only things that make this game watchable. It was so refreshing to see Jeff Skinner scored again that I wear a smile thinking about this game; maybe that’s a sign of just how far we’ve fallen. The Skin Man Skinner is now being treated as a departing hero by some and free agency seems like an inevitability with him at this point but silly optimists like me will continue to concoct ways he stays. The rumor mill has been so silent on him lately it feels like no one will even tolerate us being hopeful about the situation. On the other hand, I heard a theory Skinner is waiting for Phil Housley to be fired to sign. That’s probably some smelly bullshit but if that were true how quickly would Jason Botterill drop Housley? Immediately? That leads me to the considerations of everyone’s favorite weekly hockey column: 31 Thoughts by Elliotte Friedman.

This time we look at Friedman’s writings with a little skepticism. He states in thought number 8 that Jason Botterill doesn’t want to do a coaching change because there have been five coaches of the Sabres since Lindy Ruff left back in 2013. That doesn’t meet the smell test by way of the simple fact Botterill has only been here for one coach. If he has been indoctrinated with the concerns of ownership that’s another story but I don’t see him worrying about past bench bosses. The other half of the thought is that if the Sabres can’t get one of the big names this offseason following firing Housley (cough Joel Quenneville cough) than it makes since given Jason Botterill’s history in the Pittsburgh Penguins organization that he’ll promote Chris Taylor. Firstly, I want to point out I called it and have now been vindicated by Elliotte Friedman and second, why not? There is a glut of good AHL coaches and NHL assistants soon to be finding new jobs. Imagine this: The Rochester Americans win the Calder Cup after a hard-fought season and as reward Chris Taylor is announced as the replacement for the vacancy in Buffalo (because we know they’re firing Housley, right?). This allows you to hire one of half a dozen great AHL coaches to fill that void instead of taking another risk with an unproven guy for the NHL job. I will continue building this case until it comes to fruition. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

You know what to do: like, comment and share this blog around with friends and family. There is a certain dark-side of Sabres fandom that has reared its head in recent days that I have relegated to the P.S. of today’s blog. Instead of talking about that stupidity with any degree of credence we’re going to have a little talk about women’s hockey. I am an asshole, or at least I feel like one. I have only really mentioned the Buffalo Beauts or women’s hockey in passing this season and that’s not great considering the real titan of a team we had in Harbor Center this year. Now with the sudden folding of the Canadian Women’s Hockey League (CWHL) the whole professional outfit of women’s hockey in North America has suddenly gone into crisis mode. NWHL looks to be expanding to Toronto and Montreal to help the cause but this is really an issue all hockey fans should be screaming from the rooftops about. I waited far too long to do so myself. So that’s all for tonight folks, we only got two more of these Sabres games left! Let’s Go Buffalo!

Thanks for reading.

P.S. He is everything and definitively not the problem. Stop. If you bring up the Eichel-hater discussion going on right now in the Sabres Noise-o-sphere I am going to block you immediately. Just an fyi.

[waringout-blog]

WIN IT ALL (2017) | Dir. Joe Swanberg

Rating: 🍿🍿🍿

In March, during a particularly boring college Chemistry lecture, I compiled a list of must watch films coming out of SXSW. As I was perusing the festival catalogue I came across Win It All, a film written/directed by Joe Swanberg (Drinking Buddies, Digging for Fire) and co-written by Jake Johnson of New Girl. The film is a gambling movie that involves seedy, alleyway casinos and soul-crushing debt. Gambling/poker films with these tropes bear the weight of nostalgia for me and often cross into guilty pleasure territory. At an early age, my brother was fascinated by the game Texas Hold'em; his obsession kept him (and me, considering we shared a room) up all night, reading books and watching random 2 AM poker tournaments. To this day he still loves the game and cleans up nicely among friends willing to lose their money. As is the case with siblings, I mirror my brother’s interests, specifically in regards to poker, albeit with less intensity and skill. I don’t gamble, but I like the strategy involved with playing cards and the verve with which people like my brother play. He and I bonded over Rounders growing up and watched it so many times that I think we broke the DVD copy we owned. Suffice it all to say, I blame my brother and Matt Damon for my gambling film addiction.

Okay, Win It All is not Rounders but the tropes and the themes of the latter abide throughout Swanberg’s film which stars Jake Johnson, Keegan-Michael Key, and Joe Lo Truglio. The film follows Eddie (Johnson), a man labeled a loser by his Gamblers Anonymous sponsor (Key) who is equal parts caring, enabling, and kind of a dick. Eddie works as a parking attendant for the petty cash that he loses to gambling. There are highs that he experiences while winning at cards and it is his pride, or lack thereof, that prevents him  from walking away while he’s ahead. The McGuffin arrives in the form of a black duffel bag offered to him by a friend who asks him to hold on to it for safe-keeping while he does a short amount of time in prison. The duffel is (of course) filled with $100,000 in cash and Eddie is promised that if he can hold onto it for six months that he will be rewarded $10,000. It must be common of the criminal type to not think through their decisions, the fact that this friend holds a known gambling-addicted, loser accountable for a copious amount of cash is a poor life choice. As predicted, Eddie gambles most of the money away and garners the inevitable debt. Johnson offers a strong performance here and the film focuses more on his reactions to his bad luck and decision-making rather than the technical aspects of the game.

Act 2 is an exercise in turning his life around as Eddie finds stable work under his brother’s tutelage, is guided by his GA sponsor, and forms a budding romance with a woman he meets at a bar. This part of the narrative is genuine, heartfelt, and a complete tonal shift from the classic gambling movie. This is life building 101 and Eddie seems to be on a path towards success and freedom from his addiction. Truglio, Key, and Johnson respectively provide enough wit and charm to carry the audience through this otherwise (and I’m sorry to say it) boring part of the film. The sense of a relapse looms over this segment and everyone, especially the audience, anticipates an imminent decline. Enter our McGuffin. Early one morning, Eddie receives a call from his duffel-bag wielding, convict of a friend stating that he’s being released early. Being nowhere near paying the balance of his debts, Eddie despairs. The film once again resumes its gambling tropes, and as all such films end, Eddie must gamble his way to victory in one last high-stakes game. The question lingers, will he succumb to his vice and further his problems, or will he win it all?

The film is enjoyable and I’ve already admitted to taking pleasure in the poker players’ comeback story arch, but beyond the humor and the quasi- feel good tone, the film has a difficult time transcending genre. The intention is for the protagonist to build upon and establish new relationships in an attempt to reform, but reform in Eddie’s case seems to be a matter of happenstance via excruciating deus ex machina, rather than by the support offered by those close to him. The narrative is also regurgitated from better films (you thought we wouldn’t talk about Rounders again didn’t you? Think again) and does little to enhance the standard ethos of these types of movies. It wants so desperately to be a high stakes film that gambles with adult responsibilities, but does little to encourage realistic change within our titular character. Again, I enjoyed the character building among the cast and watching Jake Johnson confidently bumble through dire circumstances, but the movie only manages to be charming and not groundbreaking. Spoiler alert: Eddie wins it all, but the film doesn’t earn the payoff. Before watching the film I was going to call my brother and recommend it based on our mutual love for Rounders; I’m glad I didn’t because it is nothing like it.