#the inherent existentialism of longing for a family that looks like you even when you cant remember the last time you spoke to another human | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

essektheylyss · 2 years ago

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One thing that gets lost in ship discourse (or its hyper-positive opposite) is that regardless of your feelings on a ship, in order to tell a story, the character relationships do and should have an impact on a character's story arc, and not all relationships are going to offer the same emotional weight throughout any given character's story.

This is particularly true of actual play, wherein each player character is running a separate story as a protagonist, and therefore you have to consider each of them as an individual thread within one larger narrative, on top of the narrative itself.

That being said, the farther you get into the story and the closer to the end you are, the ways those threads can interweave get culled, simply by circumstances. Relationships (platonic, romantic, familial, etc) change over time, and whether they are narratively compelling changes as well. In contrast, "ship" is generally used to suggest a dynamic an individual audience member finds compelling, which may or may not have anything to do with the narrative, even if the dynamic is interesting for reasons of narrative potential (that isn't ultimately explored within canon). These are distinct concepts in terms of analysis. So as a disclaimer, this post is about character relationships within the narrative as it exists—essentially, what makes the story that exists work as well as it does, in the end.

Now that we've got all that out of the way, let's talk about Caleb.

Caleb's problem for much of the campaign is one of survival and self-preservation. His goal is simply to last long enough to find a way to go back in time. Because that is a very open goal, it doesn't inherently have much to tie him to another character in a relationship sense. He is not looking for that, he does not see himself as worthy of it, and it's really not a necessary narrative question, regardless of what attraction he does have.

But over time (and, I would argue, in a way that is fairly singular among the Nein, but I won't get into that here), his priorities begin to shift. Many of his needs are now met in ways that they previously weren't, allowing him to fully consider what he wants. For instance, between the start of the war and the time they reach Xhorhas, he has changed his mind about becoming involved in this war—because he is not being forced into it by possible conscription. He has significantly more options than he did at the start.

What he ends up realizing, as he finds the opportunity to put an end to the war, is that he cannot trust his own judgment. There is near universal support to end the war—even the nations involved are there because of what they view as existential threats. That opinion is not in question. But everything else is. Caleb is a victim of manipulation and brainwashing, and this is very apparent when he starts pleading with the scourger prisoner of war to give him some kind of proof that people like him can change.

And this is not something that anyone else of the Nein can offer him. They can tell him that they think he is a good person and that they trust him, but because of his history—and because he knows how smart he is, and how far he can fall—this isn't something he can take at face value, especially given that they have not seen or known him at his worst, and have not experienced it either.

Yasha may be able to offer some guidance in that area, but she is working through similar issues at both a different pace and in different ways than he is—she isn't seeking any situation where she would make potentially world-shaping decisions or have influence over others like he would. His goals are singularly risky. Veth comes closest to this, in that she very briefly considers prolonging the war to alleviate her own suffering, but it's not a decision she's ever forced to make.

(Honestly, thinking about this, an arc in which Veth does take that deal with Isharnai is a fascinating alternative universe to consider—it would certainly give her the opportunity to relate to Caleb in this way, but it would probably take another fifty episodes before Caleb could even bring himself to consider forgiving her, given it would be in direct conflict to the one thing he's been working at for a third of the campaign up until then. Still, a fascinating consideration!)

So between Caleb attempting to sway the scourger and going to Astrid's house in secret, this is the point at which it seems like the Nein cannot help him do the rest of the work. They have done a lot to get him here and considering what else he wants! But they can't offer him what that is, which is essentially tangible corroboration of what they've already offered.

And at this point in the campaign when taken as a whole, there's only one character who can actually offer that. Because to have real emotional weight, what Caleb is looking for is someone who is as smart as he has, who has made a similarly horrific decision even in spite of that intelligence, and who has now committed to actual change.

It's the commitment to actual change that is difficult, because it requires a support structure—and in hindsight, there's not enough time left to build that up for someone like Astrid or Eadwulf, but it's already partially in place for Essek.

(We can debate all day long about what could've been different if the hiatus never happened, or the campaign had lasted longer, but this is specifically about the campaign that we have. I think there is also an argument to be made that Astrid or Eadwulf would've required a much longer and more intensive timeframe to reach that point even if the campaign had continued than the format really offered, because they have preconceived notions about Caleb that complicates their ability to take what he says at face value even if they care about him succeeding in his goals—but that's also not relevant to this point.)

But I do think this is why Essek progresses very quickly, and is largely committed to aiding them by 124—he already has been aiding them, and has expressed loyalty to them above anyone else.

This is not as much of a leap as it may appear to some, because even by 91 and 97, he had done significant introspection on his own time. This is only a continuation of how he has been characterized thus far. He's expressed doubt from a very early point, whereas Astrid does not begin to express doubt (regardless of whether she feels it, because this is about capacity for willing admittance) until after the dinner with Trent.

What ends up happening is that Essek's the one who actually calls Caleb on things. He gives him an ultimatum with the conversation about Trent when the Nein won't. He offers reason and perspective in the paper room when the rest of the Nein get impatient. He checks off all of the boxes of what Caleb is looking for (which is essentially a narrative mirror), and very early into the Nein's trip through Aeor, Caleb seems to have forgiven him, and his fears and misgivings erode from there.

Only this corroboration, because his opinion of Essek is specifically about his opinion of his own capacity for change, allows him to recognize that returning to the past would simply make him the same person he had been at 17, and finally put that plan, the person that he was, and his parents to rest. If he is not able to be anything other than that boy, then he has no reason to not remain as such, and return to the past; but if he believes himself capable of change, then the question of going back in time is one of leaving behind the person he is now in favor of the boy who made that choice. He is asked, if he believes himself capable of change, to acknowledge that he was that person once, but can now be more than that and move beyond it.

And the proof that he needs in order to affirm that when he is given the opportunity to do so is standing next to him.

Fundamentally, this is not related to Caleb's long-term relationship with Essek at all. This could have been the end of it—they could've parted ways and the story would've still been told and completed.

But I think it is important that a) Essek does get to have some happiness, and b) part of that is with Caleb (though this still doesn't have any bearing on platonic vs romantic, only that they have some kind of close mutual relationship in the long run). On a very basic level, because he is now in this position of being corroborating evidence for Caleb himself, Essek becomes a stand-in for how the narrative sees Caleb, and how Caleb views himself.

If the narrative condemns him and leaves him out to dry, it is an implicit reflection on Caleb—and directly conflicts with the narrative implication that Caleb is not solely worth condemnation. And however much it has nothing to do with romance or a relationship of that kind, Caleb's choice to care about him in the long run is an acknowledgement of being willing to care for and forgive himself.

#critical role #caleb widogast #cr meta #fun way to die: take a shot every time i use the word 'narrative' while reading this #this has been a long time coming and everyone is very lucky it was only 1500 words.#there's literally so much more to say about this and how fascinating it is within the narrative structure but #that's an argument for a WAY longer paper #tbh i didn't even have space here to go into it and I'm not going to but #this also does mean that essek is not *in canon* a protagonist in the same sense the PCs are and he simply can't be #he has other purposes on a narrative level and that's really important! but as much as he has an arc that arc is For Caleb narratively

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greylunar · 2 years ago

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Hey, can I ask you an device in something very personal? I recently had some sucess with my art and is on track to becoming a career which makes me incredibly happy. But, like, I was born in an upper middle class family. I graduated high school at 16 and got into college at 17. I changed majors so much that now, at 24, I'm no close to graduate that I was back then, I actually just gave up engineering(my like 6th major). I've been very depressed since I got into college, actually, because yes I wanted to make money but I also really really wanted to like what I do for living and the only thing I ever liked was art but I never had the courage to take that risk which is so stupid. But, my point is, I don't deserve to be able to live off my art, you know? Im lazy and a fuckup. There are so many more deserving people out there. Even doing this, coming here and whining about it, just proves how out of touch I am. And I know this. I know this and I think i should step aways from the arts, I think it's not right for me to occupy a place there. I know all that people will talk is how I only succeeded because I didn't had to work(more like couldn't get work) until 23 and because my parents supported me(which fuck they are abusive asholes but they did). Look, I don't know, I know that if I say this stuff my friends will say that I'm crazy on giving up a dream but I just want to hear the truth from an unbiased person. I'm 24, never worked until 23, live with my parents still, a college dropout who spent 7 years fucking around in college with an existential crisis. There's people who suffer through uni, I just gave up. There's people who work awful jobs, I just rely on my shitty parents. There's people who worked harder, deserve it more, right? Besides, I tend to be so delusional. I told my friend I was self-made, can you believe it? That because I wrote my book and it was sucessuful then I was self made. She did right and pointed out all my privileges, and she had a point. A very valid point. Now I'm asking around for strangers opinions I guess bc I don't know what to do

Long reply under the cut c:

Alright, upfront I’m going to be honest friend, I don’t know if I’m going to be the person who’s able to give you what you’re looking for here. Even if this small look into your life allowed me to make some sort of unbiased evaluation of your situation and merit, I don’t think I would. I don’t think I have any right to do that for anyone. So this isn’t going to be like some sort of point evaluation of wether or not you tally up enough personal worth to deserve to do what you’re passionate about for a living, because blanket statement, you do. You’re not evil, you’re not unworthy of happiness, you’re not a fuckup, you’re literally just some guy who’s had a couple privileges but is obviously still going through a lot. That’s like half the population. It doesn’t make you an asshole, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be happy. It just means you’re a person. You’re just a person. And I think people deserve inherently to try and find what makes existing less shitty for them.

I’m going to be real bud I think it makes a lot of sense that you’re struggling with this. Like you graduated so early and it’s fucking insane trying to know what direction you want to go with your life when you’re 19 and 20 and in college, already it’s unreasonable to ask of someone and you started trying to do it when you were 17. No one could be ready for that. It doesn’t mean you were lazy or stupid it means you were 17 and scared and overwhelmed. You were just a kid. And of course throwing a kid in that environment would affect your depression, of course you’d be stuck in what felt like an endless existential crisis. There’s nothing wrong with dropping out. It’s not because you weren’t strong enough or determined enough or anything like that, it’s being honest with yourself and brave enough to acknowledge that college was not helping you, that in order to take care of yourself you had to admit that it wasn’t the right time for it. Relying on your abusive parents for money and housing? One, that’s a problem in its own right for you like it sucks to be financially dependent on your abuser. Two, fuck them, if you have the option yeah take their money. Three, having the privilege to not have to work is just that, a privilege. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person inherently. You being able to rely on your parents for financial help does not equate to “and so they don’t deserve to have an art career.” You’ve had a shitty couple of years. You don’t need to turn away a career that would make you happier as penance for stuff that was already shitty. I think you deserve this chance. I also think you deserve to give yourself a break. Self esteem sucks and I know it’s not as easy as just saying that, but maybe talking to a therapist would help if that’s an option for you. You’re beating yourself up for just trying to exist man. We’re all just trying to exist. I mean I changed my major a bunch, I dropped out (twice), I’m unemployed right now. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you don’t think it makes me a fuck up who’s unworthy of something good. The same goes for you, it’s just harder to see it when it’s yourself. I dunno if this will help at all, but even if it doesn’t I guess I hope things get better for you soon friend. In some ways I hope you let them get better for you. Take care of yourself, and try and be gentle with yourself, in the moments you can.

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vampiresuns · 3 years ago

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Look After Your Dead, Part 2 | Prologue, Part 4

✴︎ LOOK AFTER YOUR DEAD, PART 2 ✴︎

4.9k words. In which Anatole’s past catches up to him. CWs: Discussions of memory loss and amnesia, feelings of depression and inadequacy. There’s also a lot of talks of displacement, land and family. The writer gets a little too close to existentialism.

This piece introduces some of my ocs for the first time in an official rewrite: say hello to Leonore Kaur, the dastardly counsellor with a penchant for drama, Octavia Rei, the coffee wench by day and playwright by night, roommate of Milenko, and Sabine Rei, her younger sibling, all friends of Anatole.

Featured Radošević-Cassano: Valerius, Milenko, Vlad and Louisa (mentioned).

Other Lore: The ‘Antiqullan’ range is the furthest west end of the Bulan Mountains, were the country of Altazor, featured in Secrets of An Ancient Moon, is located. Louisa is Altazoreña, making Anatole a first generation Altazoreño.

With this piece we reach the last instalment of Anatole’s prologue, however, there’s one more step before the Routes begin: All characters featured here will come back in an interlude.

What to catch up with this series? You can do that here.

Some people couldn’t help being anything but themselves. It did not mean they were rigid, immutable or incapable of change or growth. No person was that way, and those who refused the inherent mutability of life were bound to break. Instead, these people had who they are, whatever they are, as their guiding horizon — a certainty, a principle they could not betray, a truth they couldn’t deny. When their true self called, they had no choice but to answer. Who they are meant to become is bound to unravel, and once it begins manifesting, these people cannot run from it.

The self can only be repressed for so long. It’s latency is temporary, and these kinds of people understand that. They cannot wear masks, they cannot be anyone other than themselves, whether it was for better or for worse, and their past was bound to catch up to them sooner or later. Anatole was such a person.

It didn’t matter he didn’t remember who he was, because it all existed within him and no matter how much he ran from it, no matter how much circumstance prevented it, his potential would meet him sooner or later. Unknown to him yet, that time was drawing to a close.

Julian had broken into his shop again, which Anatole did not find as surprising as he could’ve. Portia treating him too comfortably, with Nevivic names, was. The way they both pronounced things lingered behind them as Portia dragged him to a nearby alley. Alone in front of his front door, Anatole realised they both pronounced his name ‘Anatoliy’.

Like his father had done the day Anatole had told him that was his name now.

A father. Had he had a father? Where was he now? In a faraway land or dead by Plague like so many in the City? He felt a ripple of his own magic bubbling inside him, he could feel the warmth of it lace with his fingers. Faint and weak, like a newborn opening their eyes, something told him he had a father. If he concentrated enough he could feel a magical tether pulling him to somewhere. With a frightened heart, he realised this wasn’t the first time in the last three years when he had felt such a tether, but this was the first time the headache wasn’t stronger than the magic.

Noon chimed over the City and Anatole, realising he had forgotten the Masquerade announcement, had to let it go.

In the Heart District, a man called Vladislav Elyseo Radošević would grab the arm of his wife, a woman called Louisa Aureliana De Silva, and with tears in his eyes he’d tell her he could swear he had just seen their son standing right in front of him. Somehow.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

The announcement was a lot. Nothing bad happened during it, but Anatole couldn’t shake the feeling he had been there before, in a past he couldn’t remember. This time, he did flirt with a headache when he tried. Whatever magical thread that pulled to him before had seemed to grow into a tree, and the many languages and words of the people in the square hit him all at once.

As soon as he could, he retreated into an emptier corner by the cooler shadows of the marble pillars around the square. A tall person covered with a cloak, their scent myrrh-heavy was also around the corner. They seemed to want to avoid people at all costs, so Anatole gave them berth: sometimes you just wanted to be left alone to your own devices.

Away from the flock of people he began realising how much he had pushed away on the last days, because he had not had a moment to himself.

With every breath the scent of Myrrh reached his nose. Recognition hit him all at once. He turned his head to the stranger.

“You were guarding my shop the other morning.”

“I tried to warn you.”

When Anatole spoke again, the stranger turned. He followed them all the way into the market, but when he lost them, he began looking around him, not sure how he ended up in the market at all. Distracted, he collided into a cart as he turned around himself. Someone offered him a hand to stand up — a man with thick black hair that reached his shoulders, pulled away from his face in a half-bun, sparkling dark brown eyes and an easiness to his voice when he spoke, as if the entire world was his friend.

“Whoa, my guy, you took a pretty nasty fall, are you—”

The man went completely silent, his mouth hanging half open as Anatole stood before him awkwardly. He cleared his throat.

“I know you just helped me stand up, but are you alright?”

“I’m, I’m, sorry I must be seeing things because you look just like—”

Somewhere behind him, a willowy person with fair skin and purple eyes, short hair accompanied by someone who looked a lot like them but with long, curly hair walked towards the man.

“Hey, Leonore, what happened?” The one with curly hair asked, while the willowy one looked at Anatole and dropped everything they were holding.

“Holy shit. Holy shit. Anatole?”

The man who helped him stand, Leonore, shook himself. “It’s okay, Sabine, my guy here just fell, and I’m sure this is a very whacky coincidence since Anatole is d—”

“But my name is Anatole,” he said. Everyone looked at each other in silence. Anatole didn’t know what was happening, all he knew is that these people knew him, he knew nothing of them. He felt one of Asra’s cards tug at him in his pocket.

“Excuse me, I’m afraid I don’t know who you are and I, I— I have to go.” Before anyone could stop him, Anatole sprinted back to the Main Square.

The first time he felt that pull of recognition, that thread to be followed had been with his own name after he woke up from his ‘accident’. He had tried to ask Asra about it, but he couldn’t remember a time where the magician even tried to address the question. Anatole had asked him about that too, and satisfied with the truth in Asra’s words that it wasn’t about Anatole himself why he couldn’t tell him, he stopped asking. Whatever answer would either never come to him, or he would have to get it himself.

The second time was with Asra himself: he knew nothing of why or how Asra had become someone important to him, but he knew his was a well-loved face.

Then it was his aunt, Antupillán, until it was one little thing on top of each other forming a figure which stood in the fog, slipping through Anatole’s fingers every time. His headaches always made him recede, go back to the safety of a cool room with little light coming in. Now, he felt himself in the middle of the fog as Leonore’s face materialised in the same way the magical imprint that he had felt before the announcement, unknowingly connecting him to his parents, almost did earlier that day.

Anatole was a single boat in the fog, the sound of water around him as the oars moved him towards the direction of that figure standing in it. Like the people of a forgotten town in the Antiqullan forests who themselves had forgotten the name of everything around them, until they became completely still. Anatole rowed forward as names fell back in place and life compelled him to begin again.

“So you’re Aelius? I’m Leonore Kaur! Medea is also Vesuvian so I could show you two around if you wanna. You don’t mind if I call you my guy, do you, my guy?”

“No, not at all, Leonore Kaur. Though ‘Anatole’ also works, you needn’t just call me by my first name.”

“Leo is fine.”

“No, no, I will use your full name, always, at all times.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

During one of Asra’s travels, Anatole had seen a doctor behind the magician’s back about his memory. The visit was mostly unsatisfactory, except by some referrals and some exercises for when he felt he could almost remember things, but then couldn’t, and the other many moods of the standard amnesiac. Not that the Doctor had called it that, but Anatole had to make a little light-hearted fun at his own condition. It was like his attention and hyperactivity issues. He was going to coexist with it either way, so he better barter with them like old friends. At least on the days they weren’t awfully frustrating.

Hearing Portia describe the Court for him was nothing like that. He shuffled Asra’s deck as he listened, pulling the same cards in rotation: The Lovers, The Hermit, The Tower upright, The Fool, the Queen of Wands, and then Death reversed, Justice reversed, The Tower but reversed this time, Temperance reversed, the Hierophant and the Six of Cups reversed. Over and over again, no matter how many times he shuffled them.

He couldn’t have explained anything that Portia was telling him now —all the different Court departments and how they were interconnected, who did what and all the gossip she could fit during their ride back to the Palace— but the moment he said it, he knew it, somehow. He shuffled again. The Lovers, The Hermit, The Tower, The Fool, the Queen of Wands, Death, Justice The Tower and Temperance all reversed. The Hierophant seemed undecided in his position, sometimes becoming horizontal without Anatole touching it.

A card without meaning. A card undecided as Portia mentioned how the Consul’s real name was Valeriy, but everyone called him Valerius like it should be pronounced in the Vesuvian common tongue.

“I had no idea until I saw it on a record! ‘Valeriy of the Cassano of Vesuvia’. With how he acts you’d barely know he is a Cassano, right?”

Portia continued to talk as Anatole shuffled again, determined to do a reading for himself. To what end? He couldn’t say. He just hoped he didn’t pull the same cards as he had been pulling for most of the ride. Portia went on, saying how Consul Valerius was the most important, which didn’t mean he could not pay attention to the others. Anatole did not need Portia to tell him the Consul was the second most important political figure in Vesuvia.

He shuffled the deck the last time, then cut it. “If the Countess is incapacitated, the Consul rules in absentia, right?”

“That is correct! Wow, I didn’t think I was such a good teacher,” Portia said with a delighted laugh. Anatole smiled softly, as he pulled three cards.

The Hermit, reversed. He had lost his way. But why? When? The Ace of Swords. Maybe he’ll find his answers, maybe he is finding them. Anatole frowned at the cards, he hasn’t found shit. Or perhaps he wasn’t seeing clearly yet. As the carriage came to a halt, he pulled Strength, upright. Only it wasn’t from Asra’s deck, but from his own deck, the one which had belonged to his aunt. In it, a figure cradled a City against their chest, like a nurturing sort of Atlas, as light came from behind them mimicking a golden halo. Strength was focused, unwavering, wise, compassionate.

How the hell had this card gotten mixed with Asra’s? That was a question for later.

Had Anatole pulled one more card, he would’ve pulled the Hierophant again.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

The Countess looked at ease, wonderful in the afternoon light as she played the pipe organ. This would be fine, he thought, as Portia introduced him to the weirdest goddamn people he’s ever seen. If you could call them people — Volta, Vlastomill, Vulgora and Valdemar all looked and felt too off. Somehow the too open eyes, the moist skin, the despairing pulls or the sharp teeth weren’t the worst part: it was how their words made Anatole feel.

They triggered his magic, making his stomach drop. Not only were they lying, there was a threat in their words too. Magic that felt like a sharp note reverberating on every wall, on every new word they uttered.

The only one who still felt human enough was Consul Valerius.

Anatole had never seen a ghost, but he had read some accounts of necromancers and animancers about the sensory experience of encountering certain presences. It depended on the inclination of the magician, the story with the presence and why some of them may or may not feel like something meant to be encountered. Fate as something one could take or leave, as events which happened regardless of whether one wanted them to happen or not — ghosts where like the truth, Anatole remembered reading from one of them, not up to accommodate one’s expectations.

Seeing someone who made the same facial expression you did out of shock had to be like seeing a ghost. There was always something terrifyingly vulnerable about recognising oneself in others. Unlike the other moments of recognition Anatole had had through the day, this time, something screamed inside of him, making his head throb. From between the Consul’s feet, Antu scurried towards Anatole.

Antupillán, who followed Anatole like a guide and a support animal. Antupillán, who did not let people who did not know him be near him at all. Yes, he was a friendly and curious Raccoon who engaged with the world around him, not always heeling by Anatole but always close enough. But there was a difference with engagement and sitting by someone who made Anatole’s head throb when he spoke.

He better have an explanation.

It only got worse. Portia introduced them, but the room had fallen still, the tension palpable as the rest of the Courtiers watched the scene with morbid interest, except for Volta who just looked anguished as she muttered this was all very wrong. Quaestor Valdemar was staring unblinkingly at Consul Valerius, asking him ever so casually if there was anything that was the matter. The Countess looked between them in confusion, and tried to pry anything out of the Consul but he was not speaking. He just stared at Anatole in abject horror.

And was that panic in his voice when he spoke? Very faint, under the viciousness of his words as he demanded an explanation for the presence of such an offensive display? He was motioning at Anatole, rage and fear intertwined as he asked the Countess what sort of sick joke was this.

The Countess could not explain with anything else than how she had encountered Anatole, as she looked and sounded at loss.

Once again, his new found automatic pilot habit kicked into place. What he meant to do, was ask the Consul what was so offensive about him, letting him know he did not appreciate the tone or the sentiment from someone he did not know, so if he could please speak clearly.

What he did instead, though Antu tried to stop him, sounding apologetic and concerned —Why on earth? Anatole half thought in the background of his mind— was walking forward, with a lost and open expression to him, as he screamed at himself to stop. He couldn’t stop.

Like he was staring at himself from a distance, as if his own ghost was possessing his body. “Valeriy—”

But the Consul threw him the contents of his glass of wine. “Don’t you dare call me that, you witch.”

The Countess made everyone leave. She dismissed the entire Court without a second thought. The moment they were alone again, Anatole broke down into tears he couldn’t explain. Although the Countess was surprised at first, standing there awkwardly for a moment, she approached Anatole with gentleness, rubbing his back.

He wasn’t crying about the Consul, not really. He was crying about his fucking headache, and the powerlessness he felt. He knew he oughtn’t push himself into remembering, but he felt it would be all much easier if he did. Recovery was not a smoothly paved road, Anatole knew this, but right then, it was hard to accept.

“What the hell were you doing with him?” He asked Antupillán, angry and confused.

The Raccoon didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry, are you acquainted with Valerius?”

Anatole couldn’t answer that beyond an: “I don’t know.” He didn’t have any explanations, not even to himself. All he had was these unshakable certainties which were starting to materialise, without any mercy for his growing migraine. But he could not speak them yet, he could barely understand them.

He apologised again. The Countess told him it was no trouble. Her words did not have judgement, just honest, tender concern.

He felt Antu’s paws slide into his hands.

I must protect my Anatole, like my Anatole has protected me, he said.

Anatole sighed, wiping his tears away with the corner of his sleeve. A corner that wasn’t wine-drenched. “You better have a good reason not to tell me, Antupillán.”

He grabbed his familiar, plopping him onto his lap. Antu continued to hold his hand.

“I really am sorry, Countess.”

The Countess looked at him with fondness. “From what I’ve known of you, I think there is little which could make me change my regard for you, Anatole.”

She paused, looking like there was something else she wanted to say. “Why don’t we start by fixing your clothes? Such pettiness in a single Court. Whichever was your connection to the Consul, I am sorry it went sour, but I’m not surprised… he is an acquired taste. I have already taken the liberty with your wardrobe, so please, tell me what would you like and spare no expense.”

“You don’t need to. I really can spell the stains away… though I’d still need a shower.”

“Let me, as your host.”

“How about a compromise?”

“Do tell.”

“Using my own wardrobe as a canvas, we take items from it to replace them. They might not be courtly, but I have always been fussy about clothes. I think it matters what one wears.”

The Countess laughed. “I knew I was right in making you my friend.”

“On one condition.”

“Estate it.”

“You’ll let me pay you back.”

“Humble as ever. Very well, our side project will have to wait, as Portia will escort you to your chambers. Your own garments will be returned, but I think you must allow me to choose an outfit for you. I have the perfect one in mind… I do hope you change your mind about paying me back, you are my guest of honour. You could be more selfish, if you like.”

He smiled at her but did not say anything. Antu jumped out from Anatole’s arms as he stood up to spell-clean his clothes. The Palace staff who did the laundry did not deserve to work extra because of some Courtier’s tantrum. Placing his hands over his chest, he took a deep breath, moving his hands away from him slowly as he did. In front of his and the Countess’ eyes, the wine left his clothes, floating in the air like blobs Anatole gently deposited in the glass.

When he took all the stains out, he took a drink from it.

“Can I ask you something else? Do you know what wine this is, beyond well, red?”

“I could have it checked. It’s not from the Palace’s own cellar, I’m afraid the Consul brings his own from his own private cellar in the Palazzo Cassano. That is his family’s seat. From what I understand, the Cassano have been in hold of the Consulship for almost 500 years.”

Now that he heard the name again, Cassano, he felt like someone had hammered a silver plate which set a mechanism in motion. The words had the same feeling around them as the word ‘Balkovia’ did — home, holding hands with ‘unattainable’. Could it be that he was wrong? That home wasn’t unattainable because the gaping void of missing memories inside him meant he couldn’t reach it, but rather, than he hadn’t remembered yet?

There was only one way to know. He’d face the Consul again. He would as soon as he could.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

There had been a jewel with his change of clothes. An emerald necklace that had traces of Asra’s magic. Traces so strong Anatole could almost pull his friend back to him. He wanted to follow its guiding pull, but it wasn’t a good idea to do it when everyone was roaming around in the Palace still. He waited, and when the halls went quiet he stole out of his room, following Asra’s magic imbued in the necklace until a fountain in the gardens.

He let it drop into the water, watching it fall as the light caught on the faces of the gem, amplified as if the water itself was glimmering. He ran his palm over the water. The magic felt like his own until it stopped: the liquid now a mirror, showing Asra at the other end.

When Asra noticed him he looked surprised, full of pride and relieved to see him. His laughter was like music, like the sitars of street musicians from other corners of the world. His praise felt warm to Anatole, Asra’s eagerness always did, even when the magician felt like he had said too much —like right now, by calling Anatole a man of light, and a man of words.

His eagerness to see his friend won over his apprehension. Or perhaps, seeing his friend like he once remembered him, with his Prussian blue shirt with cream white bishop sleeves and ochre yellow pants. “Was it Rumi who said silence is the language of God and everything else is poor translation? Well, you might be the one exception to the rule.”

“If I did this, I did it in silence.”

“Light speaks through you, Nana Banana—”

“Do not call me that.”

“—It always has.”

Anatole wouldn’t have been able to anticipate the turns their conversation would have. It was heavy, filled with the request of honesty, and talk of the things Anatole had gone through. They talked about Nadia, once she had been Asra’s friends, even if he know claimed they were strangers. Anatole asked about justice, and if he could trust her that way.

“I want to but—”

“But you have a duty to Vesuvians?” Asra said, less heavy than when he was talking about Nadia. Instead, he sounded resigned, like he was starting to let go of a fight he fought out of habit, not because he should or because he’d win it.

“Asra the City needs justice, but not that justice.”

“I somehow knew you’d say that. You can take the boy out of politics, but not politics out of the boy.”

Anatole blinked. “Was I like this before? You promised to be honest.”

“I did,” the magician sighed. “You were. You were a beacon of hope in a hopeless situation.”

“Well, I most certainly have not been feeling like a beacon lately— I feel, misplaced. Like I know and I don’t know at the same time, like—” Anatole told him everything he had omitted before. Him speaking like he was on automatic pilot, like he could see himself from afar only both the speaker and the spectator were him. He was honest about pulls of magic he had felt through the years but never followed, afraid he’d get lost. He told Asra about the Consul, about so many things he had spoken to the Countess like he knew things he had no way of knowing. Not to that level of depth.

He told him he felt like he had been dead before and now he was being born again, only he didn’t know what kind of living he was supposed to be, while somehow walking with more hope and purpose than he’d suspect himself having.

He only noticed his eyes welling up with tears when Asra got blurry. “I want to find out myself, but I need to ask: I was not born here was I?”

Asra’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “No. No, you were not… is there something else on your mind? I didn’t think this was the turn the conversation would have.”

“Neither did I…” Anatole dried his tears again. “I’m so fucking tired of crying in front of people.”

“Yeah, you’ve always hated that.”

“Did I know the Consul.”

“Oh, Nana I really can’t answer that. I know I promised—”

Antole took in a sharp breath. “Then answer me this: I was never your apprentice before, was I?”

“Nana, I can’t—”

“Answer the damn question. You promised.”

“No, no you were not. You approached magic differently than I did, but you sometimes made mine look like a joke.”

“Don’t depreciate yourself to compliment me, that’s not how it works. If I can’t do it, then neither can you.”

Asra raised is hands in surrender. “It was, and is still very impressive.”

“Alright, I have one more question. You told me I had an aunt right? Paris, Paris De Silva… Asra did I have parents? Asra I need to know this.”

Asra was quiet for so long, Anatole thought he wasn’t going to reply at all, but before he could get angry Asra steeled himself and spoke again, looking directly into Anatole’s eyes. “You’ll tell me to stop the moment you get a headache, alright?” Anatole agreed. “You did, Nana. You do—”

Anatole heard footsteps and ruffling leaves behind him and turned away from Asra. “There’s someone. I’ll find you again. I love you.”

Without thinking, Anatole drew his hand over the water, making a closing motion and Asra dissipated before he could say anything else. He stood from his spot at the same time a voice he didn’t recognise asked him if he had, perchance, found a self-refilling quill around the fountain.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, it is that I finally broke from a very long writer’s block and funnily enough I lost my quill— Anatole?”

As the stranger said his name, Anatole felt one of the heaviest waves of sadness and grief he had ever felt from someone. The man standing before him was dressed head to toe in black, his chesnut curls moving very lightly with the breeze. He snapped out of his shock with a panicked look in his eyes, walking past Anatole fast enough that he could break into a jog as he muttered to himself, frenzied and confused, that this couldn’t be happening again. Anatole tried to help him, but the stranger jumped back as his eyes swelled with tears.

The man broke into a run, leaving Anatole alone and confused with no other option than going back to his room.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Once he was alone in his room once again, he cried. He cried until he couldn’t breathe. There was a gaping hollowness inside of him. Something locked away for reasons beyond his comprehension. He stared at his shaking hands, flexing his fingers, trying to anchor himself with the moment. What had happened to him? What had happened to him that he saw people he couldn’t know in his dreams, and friends in the faces of stranges? What had happened to him that one day he had nothing but a mismatched language, latching on his tongue as he asked Asra —who was unable to understand him— a thousand and one questions the magician could not answer. So many questions he could choke on them.

To speak, to exist in language is to exist, and what was he if he could not be spoken? If the faces his hearts conjured for him turned him in horror? If strangers like the man in the fountain walked away from him like he was some unspeakable thing walking on this earth?

If he laid on the floor and closed his eyes, he could feel the earth calling him, but not how it called the dead. If he focused enough on desintegrating into the earth, he could feel his veins open up and flourish until it carried him back to a city he has never been in before and even further than. It carried it to forests where lakes within lakes lied, and it carried him through the desert into flowers which bloomed despite its dryness. Like a stream turning into a river running to the sea, he was born in the high of the mountains, and the city of the wells surrounded by forests and marshes.

One thing he knew: Something had happened in Vesuvia. Something had happened to him, in Vesuvia. Something that made part of the flourishing blood of his open veins pull in the middle of the City, layers and layers down into the Earth like a beating heart underneath the floorboards, foreshadowing an encounter which was meant to happen. Anatole could only rise up to meet it.

Even if right now he felt lost and broken he would. His name was the name of the sun, and the sun always rises. He would be spoken, and he would find what happened to him and this City which had cradled him into existing. His blood flowed here for a reason, and he would find out that reason.

Some people can’t help to be anything but themselves. They will do anything in their power to speak that self into existence, even if they spent the rest of their lives on it. When he stood up from the floor to wash his face and go to sleep, he knew he’d find the truth about what happened that night in the Masquerade. He knew because he knew the secret of his own self was intertwined with it, in the same way he did not need Asra’s confirmation to know he had to have known the Consul.

Perhaps he was the figure in the fog, and it was time to reach it to light long forgotten lanterns.

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extremelyblackandwhite · 4 years ago

Text

handmaid - 33

PAIRING: mob!sebastian stan x ingenue!reader

WARNINGS: age gap, guns

A/N: we’re a few chapters away from the end and i’m much too emotional. hope you enjoy this chapter x

NEXT CHAPTER

Her reflection in the mirror was quite clear: the handmaid was dressed like a bridesmaid. She observed the tiny details of the dress which reached all the way to the ground, the same tiny details reproduced on every single dress any of her bridesmaids were wearing and in that exact moment, Y/N never felt more hypocritical than ever before wearing a celebration dress for a celebration she didn’t want to celebrate. She really wanted to be happy for her and if she were marrying anyone else, she would’ve been so excited, but she wasn’t. Gwen was marrying Sebastian, she was marrying the man she was in love with and the man who was unknowingly the father of her baby.

Everything just seemed to happen in slow motion and she felt herself leave more and more from the scene as she stood there in her bridesmaid dress and berry coloured lipstick with no one talking or even noticing she was there. For the first time in her life she realised how invisible she was to everyone in that room. Every single person in that room had once asked for her help being with homework or lying and she was still as invisible as ever. As the bridal party exchanged various gifts to be used on her “first night” along with unholy amounts of champagne and expensive gourmet canapés, Y/N took away from the bedroom, slowly and quietly closing the door. The halls of the Ritz were filled with several guests from mob families’ heads to their friends, celebrities, public personalities and rich people waiting for the time to get a peek the blushing bride. Y/N would have easily swayed through the crowd and returned to her bedroom had it not been for a few flower girls running around in their puffy taffeta baby pink dresses with their hair up in silky ribbons with some flowers peppered around.

She didn’t know if it was her hormones playing tricks on her or if the lack of sleep had finally caught up to her but she couldn’t help but stare at them with an inherent sadness as her hand rested against her stomach. Was she gonna even have enough to provide for her child? The pay checks coming from being in Sebastian’s employment wouldn’t be enough for more than the first year and with the economy, Y/N didn’t think someone would be looking for an English Literature major. She had never even had experience in the field, being forbidden to do a internship year at the British Museum with the excuse that it would be much too dangerous. How was she gonna provide for the baby? Maybe she could get a job as a waitress in Paris, the city was filled with cafés and restaurants.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but feel worry as her thumb caressed her stomach. Turning her head away from the playing children she continued her way down the hall until the lift that would take her to her bedroom. Y/N watched the numbers of the doors go down until she noticed Sebastian’s door. Unlike Gwen’s door, there was no one awaiting outside, it was void of any seemingly curious people about the groom. She should really keep walking and not get in, yet she felt pity for him not having his mother or his father on his wedding day and so she knocked softly on his door, opening it to see Sebastian walking from side to side, a condensed glass of orange coloured whiskey on his left hand and a untied tie hanging from his neck.

- Liquid courage? - she walked into his room. He looked at her for a few seconds before gulping the rest of his beverage, cleaning his lips with the back of his hand afterwards. - Where are your groomsmen?

- In the same place where non-existent things belong. - he replied, turning to his floor length mirror to try and tie his tie to no avail. Y/N sighed, placing her hands in his shoulders and turning him to face her before her hands moved to his tie to tie it into a Windsor not.

- You surely must have someone close enough to be your groomsman or best man. - she straightened his crisp cotton dress shirt before sliding her hands back to his shoulders. She let out a sigh, looking to the other side and contemplating what she was about to ask him. - Let’s run away.

- What?

- Let’s go to France. There’s a place I know which would definitely take us in until we found a place since I’m sure Mr. Forrest wouldn’t allow me to keep the house. Let’s just go, please.

- What? Angel, we can’t just run away, my whole money is dependent on this marriage. How am I supposed to take care of you? Do you know how many enemies I have? I couldn’t possibly hire enough security for you. - he cupped her face, trying to make her understand her point. - I will never have enough to give you if we leave.

- As long as you’re with me, that would be enough. Am I not enough?

- Angel, there is a legally binding contract between me and Genevieve. I can’t just ... I promised my father. - Y/N took a step back, hitting the door while her hand held the knob. - We can’t rush in, we need to have a pla ...

- Why do you care so much about what your father made you promise when you were a child. The same child whose mother he forbad you from seeing ... you know Sebastian, just because your father was a great man, doesn’t mean he was a good one.

Before he could reply to her, she opened the door and exited, rushing through the hall and punching the button of the lift so she could return to her bedroom before she completely broke down. She could feel her chest clenched and the warmness of her tears which almost burned the brim of her eyes. All she could hear was her heart pounding in her ear mixed with the soft music of the lift and nothing made her want to break down more in tears than she should.

As she rushed into her bedroom she collapsed on her bed, the tears finally rolling down. Mr. Williams was right, she was a mistress and a innocent mistress at that. Why would she believe he would run away? Why would he gave up on what he knew for her? But will all of that, what would she do with the baby? She clearly couldn’t stay, Gwen and Dan would be quick to notice her growing bump along with other pregnancy symptoms? No, she had to leave. Start again, start again Y/N. She can’t spend her whole life dreaming despite it being all she seemed inclined to do. She was about to be a mother and needed a brand new start. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she opened the bedside drawer to pull out the key to her apartment in France but instead of it she found a blanket. Her eyes couldn’t believe the picture they saw as she realised it was the same blanket she had left back in Sebastian’s penthouse.

- My, my, there must be quite a story to go with that blanket. - her blood froze as she turned her face towards one corner of the bedroom to see Mr. Williams sat on her arm chair. - Won’t you tell me?

- Get out. - she held tightly onto her pillow, fear installing itself in her whole being?

- No? Alright then. - he grinned darkly. - I will tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a man who was deeply in love with a beautiful young woman. He used to sit in the box of her operas every single night just to hear her sing and all was well ... But, one day, the beautiful woman shows up engaged to a mob boss. He quickly understood that in this world love is meaningless and all that matters is power so, he decided that he was gonna get as much as he could and maybe win the woman as a treat too. He planned everything, he had her unborn daughter’s safety put in risk knowing the young woman would rush to his employer for help. He thought that surely offering his employer the only family that stood in his way would make him overcome with joy and he would finally promote the man to the type of power he wanted. However, the employer instead decided to make sure that family would never stand in his way by ensuring his son would marry the young woman’s precious daughter. The man knew his only way to power was if that daughter disappeared so he decided he would kill her yet when he tried the beautiful young woman stood in the way and he couldn’t finish the job.

- Why are you telling me this?

- The father of the young woman’s daughter grew worried that his precious little daughter would be harmed again so he made an orphan baby pass out as his daughter to ensure she would never be harmed. However, the father was much too weak to completely give the baby up and instead kept her around as a handmaid. The man thought power was just on the horizon but then at a masquerade he saw the eyes of the same woman he loved controlling the man who held the power he deserved. And so, I lived unhappily ever after.

- You’re lying. - she could feel her heart pound harder as she felt into an abyss of existentialism. What do you do when you see that who you think you are isn’t what you think you are.

- I knew I would have to get some concrete proof so I asked a few favours. I knew Michael Forrest wouldn’t leave his only child, his only daughter completely penniless and so when I saw your name as the sole benefactor of his will I had my proof.

- But Dan ...

- Daniel Forrest is nothing but an affair gone wrong whom he took pity on but you ... you were born more powerful than I have ever been. Not only are you the sole benefactor of a whole entire family’s work and prestige, you also were born rich enough to never work a single day on your life. Everything was given to you and you didn’t even know it while I paid and I suffered only to see that petulant man child grab the spot that I rightfully deserved. - Y/N looked at her door hoping Elias would be there to help her out, she really hoped someone would pass be. He had to be lying, he had to be lying. - Here is how you’re gonna pay me if you were to have what you so want. No one will believe you, a pregnant mistress who isn’t even smart enough to dispose of her own pregnancy test and your daddy would never allow you to be married to someone from the Stan family, but with me on your side, with my evidence, they will listen. When you are married, you will make me a personal adviser and you will put forward my good name and I shall manage that clueless little man child who should’ve never been born in the first place.

- He’s not clueless. - her voice was low but full of intention.

- And who are you? How are you gonna rule two mob families if you can’t even piece together who your parents were even with me giving you clues. Best give it to me, that way both of us will have exactly what we want.

- No. - she stood up from her bed, looking him down from where he was standing much to his surprise. - I couldn’t defend my mother from you but I will protect Sebastian.

- Well, birdie ... - his hand grabbed something from his side and as it hit the light, Y/N realised her was holding a gun in her direction. - Who will protect you?

- Please, don’t do this. - she pleaded. - I ... I told Sebastian not to be harsh with you, I helped you, I was kind to you.

- Kindness doesn’t get you anywhere in this business. - he noticed her eyes on the door and chuckled. - Your bodyguard thinks you’re in the bridal suit, no one is gonna come looking for you. Now, you’re gonna be a good girl to me and go with me to the car or I’ll make sure they find your bodyguard in a pool of his own blood.

He got up from his seat and rushed to her, putting her in front of him, one hand gripping her arm while the other one held the gun against her spine. She could feel her heart beat and flashes of everything she had done since she remembered living. Was she gonna die? Was this how she ended? Nevertheless, there was nowhere she could go as he led her drown the stairs and onto the lobby, stopping as he noticed the telephone on the entrance table. He turned her harshly towards the desk until her ribs hit the edge and before the assistant could say anything, he pointed his gun at her.

- Sebastian always thinks he has everything under control, I’m about to show him just how wrong he is. - he ordered the woman to type in a number on the hotel’s phone before grabbing it himself. - If you want this lovely lady not to have a bullet in the middle of her eyes you are gonna tell him you’re pregnant and how scared you are.

He shoved the phone against her ear, hurting her in the process and she could feel her tears burn the brim of her eyes yet again as the loud beeping played around and around before he picked it up, a rather upsetting hello coming through. She, however, couldn’t say anything which quickly changed as he pressed the gun against her back rather forcefully.

- Go on. - he whispered against her ear as Sebastian said another hello on the phone.

- S...Sebastian, it’s Y/N ... - the gun pressed harder on her back. - I’m scared, Sebastian. I’m scared.

- Are you alright?

- Now, don’t play games with me Y/N. Go on ... tell him

- I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry.

- Angel, whatever it is, you can tell me.

- I’m pregnant.

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realm-sweet-realm · 3 years ago

Text

A Worthwhile Investment, chapter 2

Please enjoy this Shawn x Grant story. It is a part of my canon.

Thankfully, Shawn and Grant were able to sneak out undetected. Shawn knew the warehouse Norman had told them to meet at- the one Lacie worked in, roughly two blocks from the studio and not visible from it. From there, they called a cab to take them to a bar (as Norman had promised and Shawn had reminded him) and declared themselves safe.

“Uh, sorry the raid was a bust,” Shawn said.

“It wasn’t.” Norman held up a set of keys. “I can go anywhere I want in the studio now, whenever. And I saw Sammy Lawrence wearing a Bendy mask. I knew it. I knew he was a part of this. I’m gonna crack this if it kills me.”

“Sure you will,” Lacie drawled. “Mind telling us why this is your choice of hobby? Like, why are you like this?” Shawn could tell that she was using her friendly cold, judgmental tone, which was different from her genuinely cold, judgmental tone. He hoped Norman could, too.

“Like I’d tell you. What, you think I’d ask for your life story just like that?”

“I’ll tell it. I ain’t got nothing to hide. I was born to two crack-addicted pieces of shit, so I learned to rely on the parents of neighbourhood kids on days they decided not to care for me. It was like that basically my entire life before my sister sorted herself out and I moved in with her. But it taught me I could take care of myself, so I didn’t mind moving with Bertrum wherever he went, and I didn’t cry when he retired.”

“And it’s a good thing he retired, or I might not’ve met Lacie when ah did. Bein’ an immigrant, away from home for the first time an’ barely speaking teh language- it woulda been real lonely otherwise. Of course, Ah make friends easy, but I’m still glad she was one'a them.”

Lacie’s sharp eyes landed on Grant. They’d only met once before and neither had been too comfortable with the other. “And what about you, Grant? Anything interesting in your past?”

“Oh, no. Normal upbringing. Parents who loved me. Nothing special.” It was lame, but it was the truth.

The four of them kept chatting for about an hour.

How did I end up surrounded by the three strongest people I know? Grant wondered. Most of his friends growing up had been cousins or kids of family friends, and his social circle hadn’t diversified much since, until he met Shawn and Norman. Comparatively, these three were freaks. But they were all so respectable, and honestly, Shawn and Norman were some of the best friends he’d ever had.

Life in general had given Grant a lot to be thankful for as of late. The early thirties had been hard on him- after the stock market crashed, he’d gone through a job loss, the collapse of his marriage, some domestic abuse, his divorce, and losing custody of his children. But now? Things were alright. He had a new job, and the studio was, generally speaking at least, holding steady financially. Against all odds, his daughters seemed to be fine living with their mother- maybe she had been serious about working on herself for them. Grant cherished the time he did have with them, and though he hated to admit it, he was much happier divorced. And of course, now he had these two. It was while he was there, listening to the three of them talk, that he realized that he was currently the most content he’d been in years.

Shawn had had a few drinks by that point, and leaned on Grant as though he intended to fall asleep on him.

“I think I should take Shawn home. Norman, can we talk about something tomorrow? In the projector booth.”

“Of course,” Norman said. Something in the way he said it told Grant that he already knew what it would be about.

---

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Norman asked, as if he didn’t already know.

“It’s about Shawn,” Grant started. How much to say? He figured that Norman knew he was gay- very little escaped Norman’s notice, after all- but maybe Norman was only okay with that because he didn’t act on it.

“You know Sammy Lawrence?” Norman mused, looking through the window into the music room. “For a long time, he was dating his- very much male, I should mention- lyricist. I saw them making out once- this gorgeous pretty boy and this middle-aged marshmallow- I guess love is blind and all that. I’ve got no damning evidence of it, but I’d bet anything that Joey Drew is gay as well. And I could go on! This studio has more queer people than you would believe, and my powers tell me about more than just existential dreads.” There was a pause. Norman turned back to look at Grant. “So. As a living lie-detector, one of the best gaydars you’ll ever see on a straight man, and your best friend of over half a decade who would never betray you... you can tell me anything about what’s going on with him.”

Grant gave a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you’re okay with this. And yes, I’m considering dating Shawn.”

“Great. He likes you- I could tell.”

“Thanks. But I already knew- he kissed me suddenly about ten days ago. I didn’t know how to react, and I kind of froze up, and I told him that I liked him, but I needed to think about whether we could be together. Up until last night, I thought I’d tell him ‘no-’ I just hadn’t had the willpower to yet. And then I had an epiphany.”

“What was the epiphany?”

“I realized that I respect a bunch of very unconventional people- yourself included- so it’s okay that I’m not perfectly conventional. But... even if it’s not inherently wrong, the idea of acting on it still scares me. If my mother ever found out, it would break her heart. My father would be humiliated if anyone else knew about it, and he might not want to speak to me again. And if it got to my ex-wife, she’d do anything she could to keep me away from my kids- she might even report me. I don’t have to worry about any of that if I don’t act on it. I don’t know... is it even responsible to risk it? These are people I have obligations to. Is it worth it?”

“Well, only you can choose that. But don’t you want a chance at actual love? I mean, I sure like having a loving partner. Why give that up over the risk that someone else might find out?”

“I guess you’re right. Shawn could be my only opportunity for a while. I really don’t know if I want to get involved in whatever culture gay men have going on. If the stereotypes are true, I’d be walking into a group of dangerous people looking to take advantage of a naïve outsider. Of course, they might not be true, but I don’t want to just walk in without knowing. And anyhow, I wouldn’t know how to find anything like that if I tried.”

Norman nodded, taking some time to process everything he’d said. “Alright. Look- you’re overcomplicating a bunch of simple problems by rolling them together into one big problem. Just take it one issue at a time. You want your family to be happy? Make them happy, and don’t worry about something that won’t hurt them. Any partner you might have will know that this kind of thing has to be kept secret, and New York is a big city- you can hide it. You want to date Shawn? Date Shawn. I can tell he makes you happy. You don’t want to get into gay culture without knowing what it’s like? Then don’t. I don’t know anything about their culture, but you have no idea how many gay men are here at Joey Drew Studios. Plenty of people you can ask about it to decide if it’s your thing.”

“Wow. Thank you. You really made that all sound so simple.” Norman had a way of cutting straight to the point.

“Yeah. You’re gonna be okay. Heck, even if you decide not to have a love life after Shawn, I’m glad you’ll be doing it because you’re risk-adverse and not because you’re still ashamed.”

“Thanks again. Now I need to go find Shawn.”

In the end, Grant couldn’t find Shawn before it was time to get back to work, so the next day he left a note in his locker with some flowers. Like a schoolboy. Ridiculous. But that was how Shawn made him feel.

Over the next few years, their relationship went on, and off, and on again. They fought, probably more than the average couple. But overall, they were glad to have each other. It was worth it.

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #grant cohen #norman polk #shawn flynn #shawn x grant #my fanfiction

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fuckyeahisawthat · 4 years ago

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the old guard: loneliness, connection and immortality

APPARENTLY I am writing a thing about The Old Guard today.

(Bear in mind that I haven’t read the graphic novel, although I’m eager to now, so this is solely based on the movie and some things I’ve read about the comic in articles about the movie.)

Under the cut for spoilers, although the discussion is fairly general.

The Old Guard is an interesting take on immortality for a whole bunch of reasons. The immortals aren’t invulnerable. They feel pain; they can be injured and experience dying. They just know they’ll come back. (Until they don’t, which is another interesting twist.) They have super-fast healing and regenerative powers, but they don’t really have any other superpowers, so they still experience all the needs and vulnerabilities of regular humans. Which is a very interesting twist, and made me realize just how often I’d seen fast healing paired with super strength or other superpowers. But these characters, other than not being able to die, are basically just humans with a lot of combat experience--hundreds or thousands of years’ worth. This might make them more skilled than most mortal humans, but in a fight they don’t have any advantages of superhuman strength or speed, which makes the fights feel a lot more interesting and grounded than your standard superhero fare. (I love that the older immortals all fight with bladed weapons as well as guns, and in some cases prefer them, because they’ve been using those weapons way longer than guns, but writing about the action style in The Old Guard is a whole other post.)

A lot of the things The Old Guard is meditating on are about the price of immortality--about watching the whole sweep of human history and not knowing if anything you’re doing has had meaning, in terms of making the world a better place. It manages to be a lot more existentially melancholy than your standard mainstream superhero fare, but without slipping into completely dour grimdark territory, and I think a lot of that has to do with how much it has to say about human connection and loneliness.

There’s the inherent isolation of immortality: any mortal you have a relationship with will eventually realize that you’re not aging, and every time, you know they will eventually grow old and die, while you will not. There’s the isolation of keeping your secret, since the film makes clear the many ways immortality can get you in trouble. And there’s the psychological isolation of just knowing you will live your life on a profoundly different time scale than everyone else around you.

In this context, the few connections that are possible, with other immortals, become desperately important. (They literally dream of each other, even before they know each other’s identities, and even when physically separated for a long time.)

When death is off the table as an option, it’s clear that isolation is the worst punishment an immortal can face. “She was alone for a long time,” another character says of Andy, and it’s clear that that was terrible. Quynh’s fate (alone, trapped, and suffering indefinitely) is a horrific extreme version of this, and it’s clear Andy still feels guilty, hundreds of years later, that she stopped looking for her. Dying together, even painfully, is something they can have a dark laugh about, but being separated is a trauma that haunts the whole group.

It’s notable to me that of all the immortals, Nicky and Joe are the ones who seem most well-adjusted and at peace with their relationship to life, death and humanity. Still in love after something like 900 years, they can banter about relaxing in Malta even while held prisoner in a medical lab, with a confidence in their shared future that doesn’t feel fake. (And boy am I glad the narrative reinforces that confidence.) And it’s notable that in the heat of the moment, none of them is willing to leave Booker behind in the lab, even though he betrayed them and led them into the one thing they’ve said they try to avoid at all costs, captivity. Even Booker’s betrayal comes from a desire to make them less alone, although he certainly picked the absolute worst way to go about it.

Nile’s arc is all about her integration into her new found family of immortals--even more, I think, than it’s about realizing and gaining mastery over her superpower, in the way that most superhero origin stories are. She is given the choice to leave, and chooses to go back because she thinks Andy, specifically, might be in danger. (The whole arc of her relationship with Andy is great and deserves its own post.) But it’s clear that severing her ties with her biological family is painful to her; the other immortals understand this, and the narrative doesn’t treat it lightly. Booker’s loss of his children; Copley’s loss of his wife (which is planted in literally the first scene we see him in)--family and human connection are all over the motives of protagonists and antagonists alike. (Even Merrick--it’s his obsession with profit over human life that distinguishes him as the narrative’s true villain and makes other characters turn against him.)

Given all this, Booker’s punishment at the end of the film seems particularly cruel and like the kind of narrative device set up to backfire. It seems obvious that the final scene is setting up Booker and Quynh as the antagonists of a sequel, which I hope we get to see. Booker is wounded and not handling it well; Quynh, I’d imagine, has an extremely understandable desire for some revenge. Given how much we know of their backstories, they could make an extremely sympathetic pair of antagonists.

I don’t know what a potential sequel would bring and if/how it might diverge from the plot of the comic. But what I would love to see is some ending that re-integrates Quynh and Booker into the family (and probably unites them against some new threat in part 3; it’s purportedly a trilogy). It’s the only ending I can think of that wouldn’t be unimaginably cruel to both Quynh and Andy. Even if they’re never explicitly portrayed as being romantically involved (although...I would certainly not complain if they were), I really want to see a resolution to their relationship arc that doesn’t leave them as the unspoken tragic parallel to Nicky and Joe, and doesn’t involve one of them killing the other. It seems like this would be the most thematically resonant option too. I suppose one can hope. (And if not, that’s what fic is for.)

#the old guard #spoilers #Charlize Theron #found family #human connection #look it should be WILDLY clear by now that stories about people finding connection after a long period of loneliness #are basically my kryptonite #so of course this one was going to get me #i have a LOT of questions about the details of the worldbuilding in this show #but it got things right in the feels department

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elytrafemme · 3 years ago

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never apologize for a long answer!! in fact your answer was SO great and so wonderfully in depth too :D!! if you don't mind me adding on - YEAH, you have really good taste and all the ideas you presented, like the mystery podcast, your idea to do a fic incorporating body horror into hybrid characters (👀) are all SO cool and interesting too :D!!

im honestly not a big movie watcher either; mostly just in terms of All movies, but i also think a lot of movies out there don't do the horror genre justice in how unique and interesting and artistic it can truly be. that's a topic for another day, though 😭 i LOVE paranormal horror too, as well as supernatural elements in general, and im also a huge fan of cosmic horror and body horror :D (though that you were already aware of BWHDJSIHD) both of those are explored very commonly by my favorite horror creator junji ito!!

i think one of my favorite things about being into dsmp is that, if you look at it correctly, there's near ENDLESS possibilities when it comes to horror. the story can just be so delightfully creepy sometimes and you can mold that aspect to interpret it near however you want, horror-wise, and it is SO amazing!! i straight up have a whole tag dedicated to that stuff 😭 the implied inhumanity and inherent creepiness of c!dream, the mystery of c!ranboo's biology (he literally has two fucking hearts, apparently), hell you literally have Ghosts walking around, most of which have BRUTALLY Died and then been painfully brought back to life. and that's just a few examples of endless possibilities :D!! i love thinking about and exploring death and revival particularly.. it's one of my favorite prospects in fiction :3

i have no idea if this made any sense tbh. so. take it as you will 😭😭😭 BWHDKXHAHDV

thank you! i would definitely like to do that fic with body horror at some point, though it's likely going to be a more exploratory <2k oneshot over something more expansive just to play with the idea around it. i simply think about it sometimes and how the horrific can become natural.

me too! i honestly barely watch any movies ever, but i do like video essays about horror movies (and actual abstracts written by people, i've found one of those for jennifer's body that discusses one of my favorite tropes in horror and it was lovely). you have very good taste and i've also been meaning to look into that creator, so i will check them out at some point!!!

ABSOLUTELY u speak STRAIGHT facts, DSMP has so so many possibilities for horror it's absolutely wonderful. there's a lot of existential exploration and psychological horror to be found there, along with just the physicality of it all. everything has its haunt even if you died satisfied with your life, and the whole setting absolutely aches with death. it's so interesting to explore character dynamics with that too-- there's an excellent post on this site about the hauntedness of snowchester and the _beloved family also just has that element to it, this extremely prevalant love especially compared to the rest of the smp but also the constant question of how can you love the self fulfilling prophecies and the untold killers? because you are that? tntduo, too, is interesting like. quackity is one of the most haunted people on the server, and then there's wilbur who was literally previously dead. quackity makes wilbur feel alive and wilbur makes quackity feel like death in a way and i'm getting sidetracked okay anyway

made more sense than my reply so rest assured! horror pog

#nightmare.ask #calli tag :o !!!#sorry for typos half awake meant to sleep an hr ago still have work

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jacqcrisis · 5 years ago

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Why do People Ship ZaDR?

The allure of the ZaDR ship has, and always will be ‘how do we go from mortal hated enemies to friends to lovers and how does time and maturity effect that?’. It is in essence a meta ship, having less to do with the characters in the canonical timeline of the show, and more about what they represent, what they can represent, and who they can become. The ship on most levels relies on its fans to speculate on what could be as a opposed to what is, unlike most pairings out there.

Stay with me.

Zim and Dib are fucking great FOILs, both sharing more similarities that one would first think.

both want to prove something to their superiors (Dib to his father, and by extent the world at large, and Zim to the Tallest and all of the Irken race)

both are crazy smart but also idiots (Dib repairs an alien ship for Christ’s sake and Zim used to be a scientist before earning the rank of Invader)

both are looked down upon HEAVILY (though this effects each differently as Zim is mostly unaware while Dib is very aware of how people perceive him)

both are lonely with their main non-familial social interactions coming from each other (THERE’S LITERALLY A WHOLE INCOMPLETE EPISODE ABOUT THIS)

both are trying to conquer something (for Zim it’s Earth and to a lesser extent Dib and for Dib it’s Zim)

All of that is in the canon of the show (and I’m assuming the comics, which I’ve only read bits and pieces of, so I’m going mostly off the show and the cut episodes). We have two characters are so opposed to one another’s very existence and yet they are mirrors of each other. But the kicker comes in when you think about what could happen later down the line in their lives.

What happens when Dib gets into his late teens, and has to deal with Hi-Skool, or when he goes out into the existential nightmare that is the real world? How long will he want to keep protecting a world that actively hates him? When will he realize his enemy is honestly the most relatable person in his life? What will that change for him? Will he become disillusioned with how awful humanity is and join Zim? Will he convince Zim to join him?

Likewise with Zim comes the questions of how does Earth change him? What happens if he integrates more into humanity? Does time make his quest for world domination less appealing? What happens when the Tallest’s ire finally get through his thick skull? Or if the Tallest just try to destroy Earth while he’s on it? Does he ever figure out what a good companion Dib makes, or how useful he is? Does he ever try to convince Dib to give up Earth as a whole? If he gives up the domination thing, what then does Dib represent to him?

And for both of them, when does that hate morph into something else? What happens if it did?

Its these ideas that make ZaDR so interesting, because we’ve been given a conduit for some very thought provoking explorations into the nature of hatred and two people who detest each other but at the same time NEED each other, as evidence by the planned episode, Mopiness of Doom. (< link to the unfinished animation done by Soapy Waffles, which is the full episode with all the voice acting, just not fully animated).

This episode was the pinnacle of everything a ZaDR fan wanted confirmation of. Here’s a break down if you didn’t click the link (BUT DO ITS A FUNNY EPISODE):

Dib gets tired of chasing down Zim and the pointlessness of it all, and decides to become a scientist like his dad. Zim does some more ‘evil’ and Dib tells him he’s done with the enemy shtick to which Zim finds great at first but becomes confused when Dib walks away from his monologue. Zim then spies on Dib in Membrane’s lab, saddened by how happy Dib claims to be and by how no one else even looks his way when he claims to have a new plan to take over the Earth. Zim’s reaction is to lose all his drive to the point that he just stops his schemes all together, become a shut in, and eats a bunch of junk food, all because Dib stops paying attention to him (its implied in the animatic he’s been paying attention to Dib’s new exploits as well with newspapers and magazines picture of Dib scattered across the floor, but i dont know if that’s canon).

It culminates in Prof. Membrane realizing his son isn’t happy, and when he questions Dib, Dib confesses that science isn’t for him it doesn’t make him happy because what he was meant to do was ‘catch me that alien!’. And, much to Membrane’s chagrin, he runs off to go tell Zim he’s back to being his mortal enemy, to which Zim responds by perking right back up and, according to Gaz ‘all is right with the world again’.

Not only is it canonical that these two are intrinsic to each other’s mental well-being, but those closest to them (Gaz and Gir) know it as well. Gir literally breaks into Dib’s house to beg him to go back to Zim.

And its easy, from that point, to begin to imagine what happens to that dynamic as Dib gets into adulthood and becomes more world-wise. There is so much potential there for fan speculation that its easy to see why it became such a niche and long lasting pairing. Ask anyone who ascribes to the ship, and they’ll gush paragraphs and paragraphs about personal headcanons regarding who Dib becomes as an adult and how his relationship with Zim evolved over time and how they eventually got together and what became of their lives.

Its never about how the two start a relationship in Skool while Dib is 12, but always about how their enemy dynamic slowly evolves into something more over many many years and how that opinion changes literally from person to person.

ZaDR is an inherently strange and meta ship, often delving into angst and violence and whump as its core genres given its source material. Its understandable not to see the appeal, but for those of us who do, its never been about what is happening in the canon of now, about the characters as they are presented. Its more about what could become of them later, about the natural evolution of the dynamics at play. About a mad paranormal investigator and an equally mad alien hellbent on conquering Earth.

About what happens when you grow up into an adult in a world that has always refused to accept you, and what happens when the mortal enemy you have is also the only one who genuinely understands you.

#zadr #invader zim #its an interesting topic so sue me

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sortinghatchats · 5 years ago

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On Gryffindor Primaries

Gryffindors are marked by their steadfast intuitive morality. While Gryffindors are just as capable of looking at things logically and weighing the consequences of different courses of action, they will feel the most at peace with themselves when acting in accordance with their gut morality. Like all individual belief systems, Gryffindors’ vary widely in content and intensity, giving us a wide variety of systems (strong political stances, devotion to a particular religion, extreme commitment to a particular branch of rights) so different Gryffindors can look very different.

One of the Gryffindor Primary’s greatest strengths is their ability to make a decision, and then go out and do their damndest to make a difference. They are willing to sacrifice their safety, social harmony, and a certain amount of logic to do what they feel is right. They can create great change in the world because they are willing to make difficult decisions and then commit fully to that decision, even at the expense of things most other people would not be willing to sacrifice.

Gryffindor Primaries are the type to leave everything and travel halfway across the world if that’s what they feel is necessary. They are the type to work long days and into the night, even while conscious of the hit their relationships with family members and friends might take, because their work is important. It matters in a way that smaller things, even when those things seem important in the moment, don’t. They are one of the Houses most comfortable, as a whole, with being lone wolves, with finding meaning in martyrdom, and with defying even the people they love most, if something is important enough.

However, though a Gryffindor can and will work alone, there is a special strength brought out when they’re part of a team. They can be charismatic and passionate, dedicated and on task, excellent at reminding people what it is they are working towards and how important it is. Their drive can help breathe life into a group on the verge of burnout. Their enthusiasm and genuine belief in the goodness of their goals can unify a group of diverse people. There’s a reason that so many movies about rebellions feature Gryffindor protagonists. They are willing, passionately, to sacrifice and their certainty pulls others along behind them.

Gryffindors do not know the definitions of good and evil any more accurately than any other House– more importantly, most Gryffindors know they don’t know any more than anyone else. But inherent fallibility doesn’t mean you should sit on your heels and not try the best you can (if the idea of inherent fallibility does drive you to existential despair and hopelessness, please take a look at Stripped Gryffindor, below). Gryffindor is not about knowing– it’s about knowing that the best way to know is to trust yourself and your gut. It’s the bravery to try and it’s knowing that trying matters. It’s about trusting yourself even if the whole world is against you. At the end of the day, the most important thing is staying true to this thing inside you and standing tall.

Even within a single belief system the intuitive nature of the Gryffindor morality means that it can often contradict itself–two important, felt beliefs can go to war even in the most certain Gryffindor, and each has to find their own way out of that conflict. Eventually, one of the core beliefs (ex. “sentient life has inherent value” v. “self defense is a right”; or “lying is wrong” v. “hurting people is bad, and the truth will hurt this person”) will win out. Alternatively, the conflict, sustained, might force a Gryffindor to “strip” (see below).

Relationship with the Secondary

Another facet of Gryffindor is that while they often have a gut response to what is right, what to do about it is a little harder. This of course ties into the Secondary– a Gryffindor/Gryffindor might feel obligated to act on their morality, if not immediately than at least fiercely. Sometimes hesitation is wise, but to the Gryffindor Secondary it still feels like it could be hiding cowardice, and they watch themselves carefully to make sure they aren’t shirking.

A Ravenclaw Secondary might feel they have a moral imperative to gather information and figure out risks before launching into something that might get someone hurt– the Gryffindor Secondary’s charge would feel irresponsible to the Ravenclaw Secondary.

A Puff Secondary might do their good through patience, service, or support; a Slytherin Secondary could reach out clever fingers and change the very world into something better, or throw themselves at problems to see what sticks.

In all of these, however, there is going to be doubt. Doing right and doing well is imperative to the Gryffindor Primary–but that certainty and that need to act doesn’t necessarily come with a how-to guide attached.

Many Gryffindors compulsively self-analyze and re-check what they are doing and believing, to make sure it still rings true– when this self-questioning turns to despairing self-doubt instead, this is called “stripping” (see below section). But even an unstripped Gryffindor has to check new circumstances, questions, and paths against what they feel. They can be as logical and meditative about it as some Ravenclaw Primary tackling a new facet of their morality; but at the end of the day a Gryffindor will trust their gut, once they manage to understand what it is saying. A Ravenclaw, on principle, won’t, and won’t feel comfortable until they strip open that base intuition.

It’s one of the places where Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, often good Idealist allies, come into conflict. When a Ravenclaw feels a need to point every belief with a pointed stick, a Gryffindor can see this as challenge, meanness, betrayal, amorality, or dangerous doubt.

What’s Inside is What Counts

Gryffindor Primaries are willing to stand up for what they believe in even if it means that they stand alone; but this is not to imply that Gryffindor Primaries don’t care about their friends and family– they are first and foremost loyal to their morals, but that can absolutely include people. If part of their system involves serving or protecting, or involves maintaining closeness and caring for their friends (or involves personal loyalty as a general concept), they will do it with great conviction. And this isn’t uncommon, as Gryffindors can often value people and fairness very highly, and can for this reason sometimes look like Hufflepuffs.

Just like the Gryffindor Primary’s intuitive morality can include people, looking like a Hufflepuff’s, it can also include things like Slytherin’s sense of self-preservation and value. On a negative extreme, this can give you Gryffindor Primaries like Jayne Cobb, the self-serving, guiltless mercenary of Firefly. But this same situation (a Gryffindor who intuits some of Slytherin’s “me first” morality) can also give you examples of heroes who remember to value their own mental and physical health, even when the world needs saving. Selflessness is not a requirement in the Gryffindor Primary; the core of Gryffindor is more accurately trusting yourself and your beliefs and doing your best to live by them. It about holding onto that faith in yourself and striving for the bravery to pursue those beliefs to hell and back, however mundane or ambitious those beliefs might be.

What defines a Gryffindor is not the contents of their system, but they way they form and interact with their system. Because of that, it’s possible to get systems that look nearly identical to the other Primary houses– just like a Ravenclaw Primary might build each of the other Primaries to live in, a Gryffindor might intuit, feel, or believe in those other moralities. Carlos, the scientist from Welcome to Night Vale, is a Gryffindor Primary believes unflinchingly in the power and righteousness of Science (capitalization intentional). Even presented with a world of absurdist horror-comedy where empirical logic and experimentation seem to be failing him, Carlos doesn’t tailspin into a fall or at least express frustration or edit his system the way a Ravenclaw Primary would be likely to. He believes in the power of Science despite being thrust into a reality where science, quite honestly, does not function as it should. And beautiful Carlos does it because Science is just right.

You could get similar effects with both Hufflepuff and Slytherin systems, like we discussed above. Modeling the Slytherin system could also give Gryffindors the intense sense of personal loyalty that drives the loyalist Slytherin Primary, as well as its particular brand of selfishness. People are a likely part of the content of moral systems because we live in a social world, but they are not intrinsic to the system of a Gryffindor like they are for Hufflepuff and Slytherin Primaries, our Loyalist houses. One way to tell a Hufflepuff or Slytherin apart from a Gryffindor who believes in Puff or Slytherin is to look at whether or not people could theoretically be removed from the system without “burning” or “petrifying.”

If you could convince a loyalist-seeming Gryffindor that doing the right thing for the people in their lives or in the world is not actually the greatest good, then would they be able to change that part of their system and still be happy with it? If something else is more right, would they feel justified in overriding the part of their system that values their people? The answer is probably ‘yes’ for a Gryffindor, but it would be ‘no’ for a Hufflepuff or a Slytherin. While even the Loyalists have their extreme situations where the world would take priority over their people, they would still feel, on some level, like they were doing the wrong thing for not putting their people first. Gryffindors would feel, on some level, wrong if they put their people over what was right.

No Room for Compromise?

For Gryffindors, especially the less jaded ones, in the things that they hold true there is very little (if any) gray area. There is right and there is wrong. Things are black and white. Shades of gray are places where people go to play games, twist the truth, and to be cowards. It’s difficult to change the mind of a Gryffindor when it comes to something they care about, because they often cannot see the in-between. To the Gryffindor, changing their mind would feel like a 180 degree shift, an about-face. It would mean deciding that their previously held views were absolutely and completely wrong, and now they have to go in the opposite direction.

And when a Gryffindor does change their mind on an issue they care about, while it may seem very sudden to an outside observer, it’s very likely that there was a steady build up of doubts or contradictions that eventually tipped the scales. In many cases, a change in belief can be somewhat traumatic for the Gryffindor (see: Stripped Gryffindor, below).

Gryffindors have great conviction, and the prominence of what they are passionate about in the world means they spend more time confronting it and learning to deal with it. Slytherins, for all their reputation as cold and ruthless, can find their judgement just as clouded as the most enraged Gryffindor when their people are threatened. It’s just a fairly rare thing in most people’s lives for their important people to be placed directly in harm’s way– so it doesn’t have as large an impact on how they present. But for a Gryffindor, threats of that severity, threats to the things most important to them, are commonplace.

This gives Gryffindor a reputation for volatility, much like the Slytherin reputation for ambition. All the Houses believe things strongly (just like all Houses have their ambitions), but with its broad, internal morality Gryffindor is most likely to have things they are passionate about thrown in their faces (just as Slytherin’s ambitions look least selfless and are therefore more generally maligned). Ravenclaw Primaries are more likely to chew over things first and to take outside input into their system, Hufflepuffs more likely to worry about hurting other people’s feelings, and Slytherins more likely not to care. You can have rampaging Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, or Slytherins easily, but Gryffindors are often most obvious when they stand fast and are indiscriminate about whose toes they step on if something is important enough.

Of course, the Gryffindor Primary system is just that– a system. The way we’re talking about it, Gryffindor is a way you care and a way your system works, and is not based on the contents of your system. Justice and bravery and courage are things that make up the moral backbone of a system that can contain just about anything. Gryffindors will disagree about what is just. Gryffindors will be on different sides of big moral issues and philosophical quandaries and political debates. What unites them is how they decide what’s right: they feel it in their gut, they value living in that rightness above all other things, and they trust themselves to lead them true (or at least lead them to do their very best).

So what happens when a Gryffindor loses faith in their ability to figure out what’s right?

Burned Gryffindors

Gryffindors do not do moderation when it comes to the truth. This, sometimes, can be what leads a Gryffindor Primary to become “burned.” Jostled from their steady footing, a Gryffindor can lose faith not in right and wrong, but in their ability to know what is right and wrong. Their internal compass, the basis for their understanding, sense of purpose, and even sense of worth, will feel broken and untrustworthy. But that uncertainty doesn’t make knowing and acting on what’s right and what’s wrong any less important.

From the outside, Burned Gryffindors often look more grounded, stable, and calm than your classic Gryffindor Primary. They’re more likely to let things they cannot fix just pass them by. If they charge, it is not often. (In fact, when you see a Burned Gryffindor encountering something so important that they are willing to charge for it–um, run. Run fast.)

But for the Gryffindor, Burning is not a steadying act, no matter how it seems to outward observers. Gryffindor is a house of certainty. Gryffindor is a house of right and wrong, and of those truths requiring action. When a Gryffindor is Burned, their sense of right and wrong is yanked out of their gut. They lose the certainty of their moral compass.

What makes Burning so horrifying to the Gryffindor is not that they lose their sense of the importance of right and wrong– it’s that they don’t lose that sense. A Burned Gryffindor is still certain that following their internal compass is important. They just can’t see it anymore; they don’t know if they’re heading north, but even now few things are more important than where north might be.

One response to stripping is for a Gryffindor to pick up another, external system. If they are bereft of their own internal morality, they can re-apply their fervency to an outward one. In this, Burned Gryffindors often look like Ravenclaw Primaries– but where it would take new evidence and careful debate to move a Ravenclaw Primary from a system they’ve chosen, a Gryffindor is more likely to move due to a sudden insight or gut intuition– an uncontrived emotional response; a return to trusting their own heart.

Whedon’s Firefly contains two Burned Gryffindor Primaries who latch onto outward systems–and (as is common with Burned Gryffs) both characters indeed seem to be some of the most settled, content characters on the show: Zoe Washburn and Sheppard Book. Zoe Burned sometime during the war; and Book sometime during his checkered past. Both have latched onto outward moralities: Book onto his religion, and Zoe onto her captain. She lets Mal make the calls because at this point she trusts his weary Hufflepuff more than her own self.

A Burned Gryffindor might try to construct themselves a functioning system (rather than picking up a pre-made one wholesale) from the actions and instincts that drove them before their traumas. They might also latch onto a community, or family, and then work under a loyalist-style morality of people-first. They might also curl up and close in on themselves. They might go out and keep fighting the good fight, keep going through the braveries and charges they used to intuit heart and soul, but now with a weary doubt that any of it will actually be right or worthwhile.

Kieren, the protagonist of In the Flesh, is a Burned Gryffindor– his compass cracked before being a zombie and then shattered completely during zombieism. Now, with his mind returned to him, he looks at his ruins and repeats what the rehab people tell him. He is adrift. Friends help to push him back together, but an unmoored uncertainty remains at the core of Kieren’s character.

Jaime, the supporting protagonist of Outlander, is a Gryffindor who Burned after various traumas. He does his best to act with kindness, and goes after bravery in a way that hinges on the smilingly self-destructive. However, interaction with fierce Ravenclaw Primary/Gryffindor Secondary protagonist Claire manages to inspire him enough that he begins pulling himself hand-by-hand out of being Burned in order to charge alongside her.

All of these ways of Burned can be functional. Being Burned is something you can survive, live with, and even thrive within. Burning can feel practical or necessary or it can feel forced; but at the core of being Burned is a sense of loss. Even if the Gryffindor is sure that the world is an inherently unjust place, unsaveable and destined to never be understood, they are still a Gryffindor. Some part of them is going to always prefer and miss a world where they knew what they were supposed to be doing.

tl;dr Gryffindor Primaries

Gryffindor is an Intuitive House, an Idealist House, and an Internal House.

As an Intuitive House, Gryffindors decide what is right based on their intuition, their gut, and their own moral compass. While they can be as intelligent and logical as any Ravenclaw (think Hermione Granger, a fierce Gryffindor Primary), they don’t play with words and concepts, trying to find loopholes, build things, or refute their instincts. Some things are just wrong, and you can’t talk your way out of it.

As an Idealist House, Gryffindors value what is right over personal loyalty. While they can love hard, Gryffindors would feel guilty if they stuck by their friends and family at the expense of doing what they believe in. Driven and dedicated, Gryffindors are some of the best at getting things done and pushing causes forward, even at great personal sacrifice.

As an Internal House, Gryffindors get their morality from inside of themselves-- from their moral compass and intuition. Caving to an outside pressure will always feel like an immoral choice, if it goes against what they feel is true.

#sorting hat chats #sortinghatchats #gryffindor

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hoe-imaginess · 4 years ago

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replies!

tried to put older ones at the top.

ALSO: I got a lot of requests in the last few weeks and just wanted to post a general reply in reminder that my ASK BOX IS CLOSED! Not accepting any requests right now, sorry! I delete any that come in

i BEEN A YEEHAW BINCH SINCE DAY ONE GORLLL. we stan 4am whataburger in this house

I do!! I used to have gold but it got kinda expensive in comparison to what I was charging for ko-fi’s. If you don’t have that extra $6 a month it’s not worth it boo ):

Ahhh congrats! Sorry I’m so late!! I think it’s always worth it to stick with the original blog since you’ve accumulated followers there, and you never know if they’re going to miss out on the transition to your new one. It takes some time to restructure a blog but it’s definitely worth it to keep the original

the amount of HIM’s in One Piece is unbelievable I whore for everyone

I’m doing ok!!!! I go a little crazy indoors but I’m keeping myself busy <3 my immune system is shit so I’m on utter lock down, but better safe than sorry

@thychi

I keep up sporadically with the manga!! I stopped watching it when I caught up a few months ago, think I ended on Whole Cake? I know what’s happening currently but I haven’t read too into depth in the Wano arc. I usually just... pop into the spoilers tags... to see Law... bc I love him...

@ithecrystaldragonheart

Mito and Hashi are a powerful duo. Mito has a lot of brains cells she has to share with Hashi but that’s ok!!!! I do think Tobirama and Mito would get along too!

Basically tbh he sees one thing out of place and he must destroy

i’D HEARD IT WAS A REALLY BAD CHAPTER. this is a late response but MANGA READERS THAT ONE WEEK... we were all a mess (and no I haven’t watched but I’ve been recommended to do so quite a lot so I’ll hop on it soon!)

Hmm!!!! I actually find a *shorter* first chapter is a good way to hook the reader without making them claw through too much writing to get a sense of what’s going on. Like, if I see a first chapter is reallllly long I sometimes have to do it to em, and scroll a bit to the middle to see what’s going on, and to double check that it’s a fic I want to take the time to read

1300 words isn’t too much though!!! Omg I’ve written much longer first chapters lmao. If you feel weird about it you can maybe find a good place to split that 1300 into two chapters?? But definitely make sure it’s split in a good place. It’s always good to leave the reader wanting more. If you can end on a short cliff hanger or a tense moment, that’s 10/10

That being said it would probably be wise to make the rest of the chapters of a similair average length. I’ve read fics that have shorter or longer chapters and it’s not bad (unless I’m grieving because it’s too short AND I REQUIRE MOREEE) but it might help you with actually planning your plot

I DON’T!!! But I want his ninja dick so bad. Maybe i’ll whip something up for him soon. For the culture

When you sent this a while ago it actually inspired me to pick it up again!! I’m fixing it so it comes up with more accurate (?) results since I think the first one was so messed up. Everyone kept getting Madara sksksks. It’s still in the works but I wanna post it again! They’re super fun to make

AHHHH THANKSSSSS!!!

It’s so hard trying to keep a character that you love IC because... i want him to not be as much of an asshole as he is in canon... so unfortunately I gotta let him be an asshole sometimes. On the other hand, fortunately he’s such a minor guy I get some room to explore w him and I really hope it pays off, so thank you!!!

Girl, eye—someties

did Itachi Uchiha send me this

(i love u too)

RIGHT!!! i would have never guessed. Like, if Kishi could see us... he’d be fucking floored....

Queen!!! I do!!! I don’t have much up rn but I got 234232 Word docs with WIP fics that I hope to post at some point, ty ilysm

https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoSkelly

@any59 ty ty!

Ahhhh!!! thank you!!! It was my biggest project to date <3

(HxH spoilers below vvvvv)

I don’t really think Feitan is... so far removed from his emotions (Like Meruem) that he would really need to change that drastically for someone if he really liked them—that being said, he’s not going to change, either. If by change we mean he’s suddenly as enamored and endearing with them as Meruem is with Komugi... then I don’t think that’s going to happen regardless. We kinda see Feitan being a good and decently considerate comrade to the Troupe, so that would obviously extend to this girl/boy, maybe with a sliver of extra fondness if we’re talking romantically. But otherwise, Feitan seems like a “you get what you get” type of guy, that would inherently be *tender* with someone he liked, but not so tender that he’d have to have a whole philosophical/personality change

Ok now I’m confusing myself aksjdhfkjs. Basically:

Meruem had to like, undergo some existential shit to get where he was Komugi. I think Feitan already has the capacity to care for someone, even if his way of caring isn’t exactly rainbows and butterflies. So it’s not like he has to change. He just has to find the right person that doesn’t 1) get on his nerves and 2) get on his nerves enough that he’s gonna kill them

Feitan is a simple man. You piss him off. You die. You don’t? Ok. He’ll be nice

I did!!!

Thank you for accepting me I’m glad to be here

akjdhfakjshfsj i know this was a serious comment but when i first read it I wanted to laugh asdhfkasjhf the “ap lit” inclusion sent me. What was so horrible about ap lit that this girl thought she was dying? Ap lit will really get you

(But I know!! I’d forgotten I’d taken it that morning! I have one of those cute pill organizers and I thought I’d taken it out but did not...)

Forgive me!!! I felt dumba fterwards hence why I deleted the post. Do not worry! This is the dose I was prescribed. I figured I would get some really manic reactions when trying a new dosage so now I know that’s not gonna work lol

ajkshdfkjshfjksa izuna wants tobirama’s death to be as quick and natural as possible

thank you!!!! I didn’t think you guys would like them so much <3

@blackstrawberrynightmare

It’s been so long since I watched Psycho Pass or even looked into anything about it so pls take my thoughts with a grain of salt but:

I’m gonna say probably not? He’s one of those typical antags that have such strong ideals that... I don’t think even if the corrupt system was taken down he’d be entirely absolved of his ideals, or at the least, of the journey he’s taken in pursuit of those ideals. I don’t think a guy like him could ultimately settle down once the dust clears, and especially not with a lover or a family or anything like that. If he did want to lead a normal life it would probably be in seclusion

Thank you!!!!!!

skjhasjkdfhajkhsd they would never. Only room for one tongue on that body and they’ll fight for their tongue rights

Ahhh yeah my master post is so bad I swear I’m gonna fix it one day—I don’t think I have one of Madara!

I do not ):

@cacauatecacauate thanks for the kind words!! I’m not accepting requests right now though! I am planning on posting more to that story though, just not right now!

(I think this was in response to when I missed your ko-fi about the bakers) thank you! and thanks for supporting!

#replies #hxh spoilers #kinda?

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mindthefool · 4 years ago

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Evisceration Promenade

In quarantine, my creative process is an evisceration promenade: a public stroll without my organs and a quest for intimacy in isolation. Now, reader mine, I confess, there is a bit of a contradictory process going on here. I want to create intimacy in isolation, through the screen or in writing, but I also am insistent on becoming a stranger to myself in isolation. I am developing oscillation rituals between familiar and alien.

Some days quarantine melts my center, some days it hardens. Some days I am puppet, some days puppeteer. When the world is reduced to one place, I find I do not stay in place. I hardly stay in space anymore, or at least I try my very best not to. I’ve long since reached the end of my drug phase, so I have to be much more intentional about finding methods of escape or adrenaline rites to enact when necessary or desperate. Drinking is a flawed strategy, I always end up drunk too early in the night because the winter took my 8pm and made it 4pm. Time is screwing with me so I screw with it back. We are not on the best of terms, you might say.

My housing companions are keeping me alive and I lean on them like extra legs. Sometimes I feel wet, sticky fire on my skin and all my internal organs ache, longing to vomit, because my loved ones make me so anxious and angry, and everything is too tight and too loud, including the crowd of people I share a bedroom and a brain with. Sometimes I drown out the nervous voices of my brain family with the words of vindictive Artaud, or the sorceress Anzaldua, or the mid-bender brunch mood of Deleuze and Guattari. They all scratch a particular itch and it helps sometimes, but other times they can make me feel much worse, confronted with the peaks and valleys of creativity.

I have had to expand my subjectivity and proliferate it, to endure isolation. And no, this did not become an antidote to boredom or loneliness, I just met new selves who dwell in such states. We tolerate one another. We cohabitate in modes of peculiar familiarity. Sometimes I am eager to neglect and abandon certain selves. Their vengeance, though often frightful, is something to look forward to. Most events are. Any motion is interesting at the very least, if not entertaining, revelatory, or disastrous.

The existential planes of thought and feeling are as bold as the walls of my room. Nothing is ever as simple as these walls and their promise to contain. It is a deceptive offering; they can hardly keep me within and I can hardly even see them anymore, even though I keep covering them with bright art to counteract winter. And what occurs amid the shifting, false walls is performance; a special quarantine theater which I’ve named the Evisceration Promenade.

The Evisceration Promenade is a stubborn habit, documented delicately in writing and video. Evisceration Promenade is a mode of embodiment that functions at the degree of intensity where it becomes an objectification, a mechanism for receiving cosmic impulse. I find that it is a matter of befriending my organs, not transcending my body, for this can be dangerous and distracting. Activities that are almost transcendent but too inadequate and incomplete to achieve such an eventful climax, are those that simultaneously chisel and broaden consciousness.

Reader, please know, I do not gain consciousness by departing from my body, nor do you by departing from yours. Instead, I connect to all that I am not, by honoring my capacity to confront such forces; honoring the impossibility of being eternal; and surrendering to becoming. Becoming is necessarily a process that occurs in in-between space, in oscillation, and in proximity to limits. When I befriend my organs, they become receptors of divine messages and the impulses they receive channel into my voice, a chorus of the cries of organs.

Performance— a deceptively public art— is a mechanism for survival in isolation. The promenade claims movement as its imperative and evisceration refers to the drawing out of sputtering organs to brave the light and the air for the first time ever. When enacted together, these two gestures or rituals (a public stroll without organs) achieve a special embodied objectification (a result of outside gaze + relation to the organs as external friends). This particular embodied objectification allows one to name and redirect shadows, as Artaud suggests, a critical survival strategy when you’re stuck in a house with your own madness as your only companion. Organs inside the body never experience light. Once removed, they make shadows, like growths that collaborate with sun. My partner put it rather eloquently in a text message on the matter, “Evisceration is to make painfully public the private… the sudden act of isolating a piece from itself… isolation is then, the reverberation of the first torn intensity.”

The circumstance under which I create performance requires simultaneous and contradictory impossibilities. I eviscerate: I have no organs because I am an object in relation to other objects, including the relation between self and the Body Without Organs. I promenade: I move through an externalized public because I observe and document assemblages and their components. My organs are my audience; my nerve-juice, joints, bones, tissue and blood are my friends and do not belong to me. If I held myself superior to them, I’d be trapped in subjective interiority that cannot be sustained while also trapped in a house.

Antonin Artaud states that theater exists only in the moment where impossibility begins to occur. In the pandemic, theater as it was known to me, became impossible: assembling crowds is impossible, standing closer than six feet to people is impossible, conversing with uncovered faces is impossible. Therefore, the theater that I am interested in, quarantine theater, began at the moment when the art form was banished to the untouched margins of possibility, where I await to meet it for the first time.

Truthfully, I feel as though I am making theater for the first time, which may come as a surprise to you. In quarantine, I must conjure an audience myself and weave it into my compositions, which requires great, reckless fortitude of the imagination. I must also conjure stakes high enough to put me in “danger,” for the actor experiences true affects in imagined situations. To believe that I am in enough danger to require enormous risk, while trusting I am safe enough to take them, I must ritualize entering into and parting from states of fight or flight. Deleuze and Guattari might refer to this as injecting doses of caution, the key strategy to interacting with the Body Without Organs. The BWO is a force that produces desire as it resists organization and the functional conformity of an organism. “The BWO howls: They’ve made me an organism! They’ve wrongfully folded me! They’ve stolen my body!” It is a body with no belonging or form, one that acts upon its violent desire for formlessness and “expresses the pure determination of intensity, intensive difference.” The disorganized body is encountered in pursuit of a dismantled self. It is dangerous. Deleuze and Guattari prescribe “injections of caution,” for the “human body is scandalously insufficient” so if handled thoughtlessly, the BWO can override the organism and destroy it.

Reader, my dearest, I have known it all along. Artaud knew it too. Impossibility and insufficiency are tools of the theater. Artaud opens his book The Theater and its Double with an essay called “The Theater and the Plague.” Timely, I think. The text pursues similarities between the bubonic plague and performance. Both pose disasters that must either be settled in death, or satiated by some remedy. He describes the agonized social psyche of the plagued era: the invasive imagery of dead people in heaps, loved ones blistered and passing one by one, the dreaded familiarity of various moans and groans that spurn or welcome death, the false privilege of escape into seclusion, the fear of dropping dead unexpectedly like the neighbor did yesterday.

Today, our plague kills millions, with a particularly brutal fondness for the most vulnerable people, abused by power structures and neglected by those privileged with resources. Many people rightfully fear this plague, and many others act as though it does not exist. Outside the house there is life-or-death risk bursting from the orifices of strangers and all they touch. Inside the house too, there is the risk of ever-approaching psychosis or of suicide.

Artaud writes, “The state of the victim who dies without material destruction, with all the stigmata of an absolute and almost abstract disease upon him, is identical with the state of an actor entirely penetrated by feelings that do not benefit or even relate to his real condition.” My favorite challenge of quarantine theater is that of enacting impossibility, rather than representing it.

In a paper about Tadeusz Kantor, Heidi Gilpin writes that such a challenge is precisely the function of theater. Theater manifests contradictions and utilizes them as affective materials that serve a sort of collective surrender to the ambivalent insistence of “life’s appetite,” which Artaud defends as a characteristic of the inherent evil of the universe.

Kantor’s work is centered around the bold, sneaky ties between performance and death. The importance of representing death in theater is reinforced by the fact that it cannot be represented. But when an audience does experience a spectacle of disappearance and enactments of death, they are confronted with the inadequacy of representation, and furthermore must reimagine their personal relationships with possibility. Since theater happens when impossibility begins, Kantor raises the necessity to witness death. It is the same necessity which I encounter more and more frequently: that which Artaud names as cruelty, and that which I outline as the shifting distinction between speaking the unspoken and raising the unsayable.

Theater has a very important task in the face of impossibility and the unsayable. It can be accessed through the enactment of incompleteness, or insufficiency, in addition to repetition. Gilpin offers examples of repetition from psychoanalysis that function similarly to the repeated experience of witnessing disappearance in theater, which makes possible the impossible through self-referential, partial enunciation of that which is absent.

Repetition is a consequence of failure. It is an action performed from the desire to control past events, to overcome failure, but true repetition is impossible. In performance, the tight activity of repetition and its oscillating manipulation of memory, which eventually licks open scar tissue, fulfills the desire of the audience to view becoming. This particular form of becoming faces Artaud’s cruelly, or necessity of life. Gilpin names it as “a desire to witness survival mechanisms at work.”

The desire to witness trauma reenacted and inadequately confronted, is connected to the spiritual inclination of theater to raise the unsayable. It is a measured injection of release toward the vast hazard-loaded landscape of the BWO. Artaud, in his section about the plague, elaborates upon my reflection, “... the action of the plague that kills without destroying the organs and the theater which, without killing, provokes the most mysterious alterations in the mind of not only an individual but an entire populace.”

Quarantine theater is Artaud’s theater that dispels evil. It is not made to rouse chaos, but to redirect it; “naming and directing shadows,” to reduce the frequency of mind spirals, sinking nihilism, claustrophobic grief, and other apocalypse-imposed madnesses. I have spent recent months inquiring about theater as a mechanism for survival. My writing honors performance as a source of life in isolation. It works as medicine, it is a worthy spine to wear through ambient collapse. During Evisceration Promenade, many things that had never known light before have now grown shadows; their gestures are unrecognizable and complex.

The other day, one quarantine roommate took it upon themselves to reflect back to me some observations they made about my behavior when I am creating during quarantine. I am glad they shared their study with me, for it delighted me greatly. They described the way I move erratically through the house, often bursting into rooms where people are consumed in quiet activities and I announce: THAT I AM HAVING AN EXPERIENCE, AN ARTISTIC BREAKTHROUGH, MAKING UNPRECEDENTED THEORETICAL COMPOSITIONS, FALLING INTO UNCANNY FRIENDSHIPS WITH THIS AND THAT WRITER. Or, on unfortunate occasions: A DREADFUL, INSURMOUNTABLE CREATIVE BLOCK AND IMMENSELY SPECTACULAR DESPAIR IN REGARDS TO MY WORTHLESSNESS AS AN ARTIST, STUDENT, AND PERSON. My roommate giggled as they told me all of this, and I cackled relief, in awe of the accuracy. They carried on, describing the daily inconsistencies and the conspicuous cloud of mood I invariably don. And I carry on too, careful not to lean too far into the trope of tormented genius, but parading my guts around my ever-shifting house as the fantastical, untethered prodigy that quarantine has taught me to be.

References

Artaud, Antonin. The Theater and its Double, Trans. Victor Corti. London: Alma Classics, 2010.

Deleuze, Gilles and Félix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, vol. 2. Translated by Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987.

Gilpin, Heidi. “Lifelessness in Movement, or How Do the Dead Move? Tracing Displacement and Disappearance for Movement Performance,” in Corporealities, ed. Susan Foster (New York/London: Routledge Press, 1996), 106-128.

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playing-stories · 4 years ago

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My Stardew Valley Existential Crisis

Let me preface this by talking about how much I love Stardew Valley (Concerned Ape, 2016). I was a late adopter of the game, but since picking it up this September it has skyrocketed up my favourite games list and enjoys the the top spot in terms of number of hours played on my Steam account.

This post is about the inherent loneliness of Stardew. Below the cut I will be including late game dialogue from Elliott, be warned if this is what you would consider a spoiler.

It started off fine. I would play for hours on end, giving out gifts like candy in attempt to make the townspeople like me (and to woo a beautiful man who lived in the beach cabin), and building up my farm as fast I could earn money. This lasted a few months. Sure, dialogue tended to repeat itself but it was enough for me. Then one day I thought I’d take a look at my social stats. For the uninitiated, players earn hearts for each NPC by remembering their birthday, giving them gifts they like, and regularly talking to them. The number of hearts a player can get for each character is capped. If a player chooses to date or marry one of the bachelor or bachelorette characters this cap goes up. With their spouse, a player can have 12 hearts maximum. Players can track how many hearts they have with NPCs, who will in turn behave in accordance with how close they are with the player.

When I checked on how I was doing in my pursuits of friendship I was dismayed to find that I was best friends with everyone. It was like a punch in the gut. Rather than feeling pleased that I had succeeded in winning everyone over I felt like something had been pulled out from under me.

The smoke had cleared. These characters who I had cared so much about were running like machines, like clockwork. All of them from here on out would circle each day in a loop the same as always, totally divorced from whatever I was doing. There was the option of intentionally losing hearts but even then there’d be nowhere new to go with these relationships. I was... dare I say it? Lonely.

So I got married.

From the moment I saw Elliott I knew that I wanted to marry him. Thanks to my lateness in picking up the game I had heard much about Stardew spouses and from day one was on the look out for mine. Even so, marrying him was a band-aid solution. I needed something to move, I needed to feel like I wasn’t so alone in the game with these clockwork people.

I proposed to Elliott on the bridge where I first saw him. Not that it made a difference to him. The heart-breaking thing about Stardew is that the characters cannot acknowledge efforts made by players to be thoughtful or romantic, drawing further attention to the gap between organic player feelings and the apathy of videogames. Three days later we were wed on Fall 3. Two days before his birthday.

For a while, it worked.

Things felt good again. The game didn’t feel new, that’s not what I was after. Rather, it didn’t feel lonely. Elliot would surprise me with presents, coffee in the mornings, and with poetry. I was enjoying the game as much as I did in the beginning. Maybe even more because I felt safe, wanted, and cared for now.

It’s been about an in game year since I married Elliott, and the creeping sense of loneliness has come back. It started after our twelve heart event (I won’t spoil the game by detailing what that was) and it occurred to me that it was the last one. I would try each night to get back before Elliott went to bed but whether I made it in time to kiss him goodnight or not, he didn’t care. I’m not being a good spouse. I go out at 6am each morning and often leave him rattling home alone all day, joining him in bed only once he’s long asleep. I could be a lot worse. Some players have found out that neglecting their spouse entirely leads to negative consequences in their relationship. Generally, though, Elliott does not care if I don’t see him most of the day. He cannot receive the love and care I have for him. It is impossible for him to do so.

I still love Stardew. It is because I love it that it causes me to hurt. These moments that I have detailed above are are moments in the game in which it becomes painfully clear that it is not equipped to fill the hole in my heart that I am trying to make it fill. Instead, the loneliness of Stardew only serves to draw attention to the empty parts of my real life and unaddressed yearning that I cannot remedy with a game that cannot meaningfully acknowledge me.

There is one more thing I can do. One last band-aid in the box. I can have two children with Elliott. They’ll never leave the house and they won’t grow beyond infants, but they’ll change things up again. Truthfully, I doubt I’ll ever have them. I’m too scared of feeling like I have completed the game. There are lots of games that I didn’t want to end. RPGs that I still saw through until credits rolled. I feel sad but no existential dread when I take a character to the end of their narrative, but in Stardew I’m not playing as a drug addicted samurai, an Italian assassin, or a young woman uncovering family secrets; I’m playing as me.

I have decided that I will play Stardew for two more in game years. Then I will put it down for good. Okay, maybe not forever, but I won’t come back until I feel more settled in real life. That way the loneliness of my Stardew life won’t be as threatening to my wellbeing. I want to stop playing when there’s still a future for me and Elliott. Unless I cut myself away like this I’ll end up peetering out in a never-aging clockwork world where my loneliness becomes more and more apparent amongst characters who never could care about me in the first place.

Leaving will hurt, and thank god for that.

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