#title is inscribed bottom right

[jacquesbonhomie]

Kurt Jackson (British b.1961)

‘Across the infant Fowey to willows draped in Spanish moss’ 2021

[niteshade925]

April 13, Xi'an, China, Shaanxi Archaeology Museum/陕西考古博物馆 (Part 3 - Qin dynasty to Sui dynasty):

First up is one of many bronze edict tablets of the 2nd emperor of Qin dynasty, made in 209 BC. Inscribed upon it in Seal script is one of two edicts, specifically the one from the 2nd emperor of Qin dynasty (秦二世), which basically is a continuation of Qin Shi Huang's edict on standardizing all weights and measurements. Here Qin Shi Huang/秦始皇 is referred to as Shi Huangdi/始皇帝, where shi/始 means "origin", and huangdi/皇帝 means "emperor".

^The edict inscribed is as follows (this is my VERY rough translation, please take this with a grain of salt, I'm not great at reading Old Chinese; original text is on bottom right of picture):

“First year (209 BC; first year of 2nd Emperor of Qin's reign), [We] issued an edict to chancellors Li Si and Feng Quji: Shi Huangdi pioneered this effort to standardize all weights and measurements, since then all such edicts have been inscribed on bronze. Now that [We have] inherited this Huangdi title, [We] shall not refer to Ourselves as Shi Huangdi here. Likewise, should Our descendants continue to produce tablets of Shi Huangdi's edict, they shall not take credit for Shi Huangdi's achievements. [We] hereby inscribe this edict on the left, so that all may be clear."

Ever since Qin Shi Huang tried to standardize systems of measurements for the entire country, every dynasty since Qin dynasty has also done the same. These are the standardized weights and volume measurements (all made with bronze) from Western Han dynasty (202 - 8 BC). Those volume measurement tools are very much like oversized measurement spoons, since they are mostly used to measure liquids and grains (in ancient China grains can be measured by volume).

Looks like I forgot about this one in part 2, this is a bronze sword from Warring States period (475 - 221 BC), I believe. It's decorated with carved pieces of jade (some are on the scabbard, but the scabbard has presumably decomposed over time):

The painted and carved stone doorway to a Eastern Han dynasty (25 - 220 AD) tomb. The actual (double) doors are in the middle, and the pieces around them are the side jambs and the lintel. Note the animals, mythical creatures, and humans depicted. On the double doors, in order from top to bottom, there's a pair of Zhuque/朱雀/Vermilion Bird, a pair of symbolic door knockers shaped like a beast carrying a ring in its mouth, and a pair of oxen. On the top right and top left of the lintel piece, you can also clearly see the sun crow and the moon toad, respectively.

The layout of some Western Han dynasty (202 - 8 BC) mausoleums. Note that the "pyramids" on the model aren't stone pyramids like the Great Pyramid of Giza, they are actually fengtu/封土, or artificial mounds of earth on top of the actual tomb to symbolically seal the tomb (feng/封 means "seal" or "to seal"), and can serve as tomb markers. Fengtu can differ vastly in size according to the social status of the deceased, so the fengtu of imperial tombs are usually huge, some so big that they are like small hills. However, while Western Han dynasty imperial tombs have these square-ish fengtu mounds, in Eastern Han dynasty (25 - 220 AD) the fengtu mounds became circular, and imperial tomb fengtu have been circular pretty much ever since. But fengtu wasn't just reserved for the elites, common folk also built small circular fengtu mounds on top of graves (these graves are called fen/坟; graves without fengtu are called mu/墓), and this is still practiced today, albeit much more common in rural areas since there are less people and more land. When people tend to the graves of their family members and ancestors on Qingming Festival, if the grave is a fen grave, people would pile more earth on the fengtu to make it rounder as part of the upkeep process.

A set of pottery figurines of entertainers from a Western Han era tomb. I love how they set the display up here, you can practically imagine the music and the dancing

More pottery figurines from Western Han era tombs

Western Han era hollow clay bricks depicting the Four Symbols/四象 of the cardinal directions: Qinglong/青龙/Azure Dragon of the East, Zhuque/朱雀/Vermilion Bird of the South, Xuanwu/玄武/Black Tortoise of the North, and Baihu/白虎/White Tiger of the West.

Left: a piece of intricately painted lacquered wood, I forgot where it's from but it was probably a piece of decoration on a larger artifact. Right: a piece of gold decoration inlaid with turquoise from Western Han era

The biggest decorated yubi/玉璧 (jade disc with hole in the middle) found so far, from an early Western Han dynasty tomb. Its diameter is 43.2 cm (~17 inches). If you zoom in, the inner band is decorated with these almost tadpole-like little swirls, and these are called gu pattern/谷纹, since they might represent sprouting rice kernels. The outer band is decorated with 4 sets of kuilong patterns/夔龙纹 and 4 sets of dragon-phoenix patterns/龙凤纹. It's speculated that the patterns here together depict the universe, and the hole in the middle is where the spirit of the deceased will travel through. This particular yubi also has 六百六十一 ("six hundred and sixty-one") carved discreetly on the side, presumably a "serial number" left by the artisan who crafted this piece.

Decorated backs of bronze mirrors. I didn't take a picture of the plaque so I'm unclear on what time period these are from (may or may not be from the time period indicated at the beginning of the post):

Left: a hand-held incense burner. Right: a particular type of incense burner called a boshanlu/博山炉, so named because the lid was made to look like a mini mountain

Various Northern Zhou dynasty (557 - 581 AD) painted pottery figurines. Below middle arranged in a circle is the metal pieces on a belt.

Sixteen Kingoms era pottery entertainer figurines:

[scotianostra]

On May 27th 1661, Presbyterian lord Archibald Campbell, the first Marquess of Argyll, lost his head at Edinburgh.

If you follow my posts you have no doubt read much of James Graham, Marquess of Montrose on here, well Argyll was his arch enemy, once a privy councillor to King Charles I, "Red Argyll" had been in the 1640s a great champion of Scottish national liberty and a leader of the Presbyterians in the many sided war that tore apart the both Scotland and England.

Scotland’s Presbyterians favoured a bottom up structure in church affairs as opposed to the crown-controlled selection of bishops that’s known as Episcopacy. They made an initial alliance with English Parliamentarians In Scotland’s civil war in the mid-1640s, Argyll’s Presbyterians defeated Monstrose's royalists, whicheventually led to Graham's execution, whch I posted about his last week.

Argyll was another who played both sides of the divide, always with an eye to backing the winning horse, after supporting the Covenanter-Parliamentary cause throughout much of the 1640s, after the execution of Charles l he swung his support behind his heir Charles II inviting the young man to Scotland. Argyll hoped that he would sign the Covenant to gain the Scottish throne. At the coronation at Scone, ( I touched upon this yesterday in my post on Dunnottar,) Argyll was the man who placed the crown on Charles’ head. No doubt he anticipated rewards for himself and the Campbell family, and there were even rumours that the king would marry Argyll’s own daughter.

Charles II planned to invade England and Argyll retreated to Inveraray, again changing sides to join Cromwell. Charles would never forgive him, and, to make things worse, Argyll’s son Lorne became a committed Royalist. At Inveraray, Argyll tried to remove himself from the conflict and live quietly but he was in deep financial trouble because of the expenses of his military efforts and was imprisoned for debt for some time.

When Charles II was finally restored to the English throne in 1660 despite being advised against it, Argyll travelled to London to seek reconciliation with the king. Charles was quick to have him arrested and sent to the Tower before he was transported to Edinburgh for trial as a traitor.

There were various charges of treason against Argyll, He was acquitted of complicity in the death of Charles I, again being in the right place at the right time when Leslie handed him over to the Roundheads, however most of the charges were satisfactorily answered and new evidence that he had collaborated with Cromwell led to the sentence of forfeiture of his titles and lands, and execution.

His enemies wanted him dead as soon as possible, and he was executed by the “Maiden” at Edinburgh Tollbooth. Campbell's head was fixed to the same spike which had borne the head of his old enemy the Marquess of Montrose 11 years before.

It is recorder that Archibald Campbell faced death calmly and with courage, impressing everyone. The Covenanters declared him a martyr and his final speech, despite efforts to suppress it, was printed and widely circulated. Part of it inscribed on his memorial in St Gile's " I had the honour to set the crown on the King's head, and now he hastens me to a better crown than his own. " which was erected in 1895.

His body was eventually taken to Kilmun for burial, and some time later his son, the 9th Earl of Argyll, claimed his head to take it there as well. When restoration work to the mausoleum took place in the 1890s, in a velvet covered coffin, a skull was found which showed evidence that it may have belonged to him.

You need to read 'Montrose' by John Buchan to realise the conniving, horrible man the Archibald was. Argyll didn't slaughter the prisoners at Philiphaugh, Leslie did. Just as he Slaughtered the Lamonts and Montrose' Irish followers at Newark castle. Argyll was a manipulator and dissembler. Always able to leave the scene and never able to overcome his envy of a bright young man, chivalrous and clever Montrose, he eventually paid the price for his double dealing. To me his face is that of a man wo can't be trusted, don't you think?

[pennyblossom-meta]

The Ides of April, chapter 05, pt 02

I'm finally writing the last section for this chapter. Hurray.

Here's a sneak peek for pt.02 (draft).

Warning: spoilers!

Chapter 05, pt 02

--

The clock struck at a quarter past eleven in the morning.

A delicate porcelain cup clinked as Anna loomed over the massive mahogany table dominating the living room, her eyes sweeping over the half a dozen or so books and scrolls worth a — depressing — self-indulgent fortune of exactly 302 Galleons, 75 Sickles and 13 Knuts. She sighed, taking a sip of toasted rice tea. It was piping hot as expected, though it burned her tongue just the same. 

As she plodded towards the bathroom for a quick shower, three thoughts ran through her mind.

One, rather low in her list of priorities, that the days were longer and hotter. It didn’t suit her in the least. She’d need to order some Jewelweed to brew Pepperup — just in case the humidity gave her a headache. Navigating the social intricacies of Muggle conventions was hard enough without being properly compos mentis.

Two, it occurred to her after getting dressed, as she tapped her fingers at the bottom of the dusty page that marked chapter III of her newly acquired book, titled ‘Charms and Amulets’, that she should make haste and gather some ofuda, as suggested by the shopkeeper the previous evening. She squinted at a particularly complex set of instructions, lightly underlining the words 'inscribed with the name of a deity’ with a Muggle pencil and then picked up the omamori, observing the embroidery above the kanji with curiosity. Gentle fingers turned the page, her eyes sweeping the contents for a round symbol. A fruit, perhaps? How festive.

“Momo — a peach to ward off evil,” she read out loud, closing the book with a thud before grabbing her backpack and heading out the door. “I wonder how much of this is accurate. These things don’t usually work as far as I'm aware, but then again, belief takes a long time to die.”

Her only answer was a non-committal snore and a wheeze coming from a bundle on the velvet armchair. She shoved the charm inside her coat pocket, tutting away as she closed the door and then hopped down the stairs.

Outside, the sun shone bright. Anna strolled through the busy streets of Tokyo, the click of her heels drowned by the oncoming Saturday traffic. She glanced at the menu boards from the izakayas and nodded to herself, silently acknowledging thought number three, the one predicament capable of turning what remained of sweet, rapidly warming May into catastrophe: that Rufus’ pantry was getting dangerously low on fresh fish. 

She stopped on her tracks and looked up at the faint airplane lines in the sky, making a mental map. Going forward into Bunkyo, she could pop by one of the several Shinto shrines to purchase ofuda. Then, she could take a detour to the Tsukiji fish markets in Chuo City through the closest Apparition alley, maybe grab a bite at a nice restaurant while she watched the Muggles go about their day and take some notes. Or maybe…

Deep in thought, Anna took out her pocket watch. It was noonish, the markets would close soon —

CRASH

A warm body all but rammed into her side. Anna let out a cry as she stumbled onto the ground, landing painfully on her right arm. Head reeling, from the corner of her eye she saw small red sparks coming out of her sleeve and then her pocket watch breaking against an ornamental stone vase —

"Gomenasai, gomenasai!" A figure above her apologised profusely. In the split second before Anna resolved to throw caution to the wind and curse this blumbling stranger, she felt several hands gently rest on her shoulders. Moments later, she found herself being guided into a sitting position, where she could fix a blurry glare on the nervous young man kneeling and bowing before her. 

“No harm done,” Anna hissed through gritted teeth. She touched her elbow and winced. “Nothing fatal, at least.”

Nothing some Dittany can’t fix. Blasted Muggles.

Subtle as a mouse, Anna pushed her wand further into her sleeve. She glanced around warily; it didn’t seem as if anyone else noticed her little mishap during the commotion.

“Moushiwake gozaimasen — gomenasai!” The young man placed both his hands on the ground and bowed deeply. Then, in broken English: “I buy a new watch — two!” He put two fingers up. “And pay for hospital —”

Someone behind her growled ‘baka’.

“Nonsense. Go to a —” Muggle, “hospital? I’d rather crash into the sun,” she managed something caught between a smile and a grimace, feebly getting to her feet with the help of a kind old man. Her entire right side hurt. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort myself out. Accidents happen.”

“Ehhhhhh?”

Red as a tomato, the young man paused his incessant bowing to stare up at her, as if she was insane. Then, as if possessed by a sense of honour and martyrdom lost to humankind, he got up, and presented Anna with a business card before muttering many more apologies.

Gingerly, she held out her left arm and took the card. The name Matsui Tarō was written in Romaji at the bottom, next to the original kana.

A warm feeling spread across her face. “There’s really no need for this. Just be more careful next time; it’s a Saturday, no one can be in that much of a hurry. Arigato.”

Without waiting for a reply, Anna picked up her broken watch from the ground, gave the befuddled young man a nod and left. 

Later in the day, she realised the omamori was missing from her pocket.

[mybeautifulchair]

Blind Obedience

At the time of writing, 17,700 Palestinians have been killed by Israel.

Mike Parr’s relationship with Anna Schwartz (the person and the eponymous gallery) ended in a two-sentence email on Friday, after the artist inscribed, among other things, the words ‘Israel’, ‘Palestine’ and ‘Apartheid’ on the walls of the gallery during a performance piece.

The inscription would not have come as a surprise: Parr has long worked with language in a way that is pointed and political. A piece from the 1990s, titled ‘Blind Obedience’, was made by opening the thesaurus and looking up the word Synonymous, which yielded the word Equivalent, which in turn yielded the word Identical, and then Alike, and so on, until at the bottom of the page, he arrived at the word Dead. As one word leads to another word, meaning is dragged and transmitted by contact. And what is language if not contact and transmission? But with each synonym, we are moved towards that last word. This is a kind of contact print. I’ve never been sure what the Blind Obedience of the work’s title refers to: meaning, and its traces? The flow and pull of language? The tyranny and indispensability of finding another word to say what you mean? The way meaning is never wholly under your control?

Anyway, the work seems to come back into view in a different way now. It foregrounds the way that language drags and charges itself up in contact, starting fires everywhere. If each word is an ember of meaning, the proper noun ‘Israel’ is a gale-force wind that blows meaning into a devouring fire. By the time he finished painting over the words with red paint, the room had caught alight.

A friend has a reaction that I do not expect. She feels the violence of Hamas ‘in her bones’ and worries about the rising tide of antisemitism. She takes her opposition to Israel’s immense violence for granted, but something else is happening beneath the surface of her skin. In this exchange, the word-ember is Context and it catches fire pretty fast. This is because in the mental thesaurus that is alert, always, to what is not being said, the word Context abuts Excuse, Prevaricate, Downplay, Permit, Condone [violence], Endorse [genocide]. To have context, in all its messiness, is an ethical way to live, I think. But ethical does not equal painless, or even kindness.

To her finely calculated credit, Anna Schwartz has not censored this work. As she points out, she has left the exhibition on display, though the word-embers were obscured, during the performance, by that layer of paint (though remain visible in the video of the performance). It also must be said that the artist wrote other things on the wall, including a painful description of Hamas’s actions on October 7. Things that we thought went without saying can no longer go unsaid. And yet, despite Parr’s deference to naming the brutal particularities of October 7, the word ‘Apartheid’ appears to be what caught fire. Perhaps this is because Apartheid has a specific meaning with legal consequences under the UN Apartheid Convention, and Amnesty International published a damning report on Israel’s policies in this respect last year. Perhaps, too, because it connects the Israeli State to the brutal white South African regime from which the term originated: a contact print of another kind. Deriving from Afrikaans, Apartheid combines the self-evident apart (apart) with a suffix heid (hood). The suffix ‘hood’ functions here like it does in ‘brotherhood’. The ‘brotherhood’ of the nation state is formed in its apartness from the other, from those stripped of any semblance of civic and political rights, and in the rhetoric that flared up so immediately after Hamas’ attack, which painted all Palestinians as culpable, thus authorizing collective punishment of over two million people.

There is always danger in drawing analogies between one cataclysmic violence and another, in collapsing the specificity and contingency of each time and place into a singular evil. But there is equal danger in failing to recognize the patterns that recur across different colonial systems. And, even holding the specificities of each conflict in mind, how else could Israel’s policies and practices possibly be described? They built a wall – not just an epic concrete structure but an exploded, polysemous infrastructure that is everywhere all the time (see Israeli scholar Eyal Weissman’s lecture The Politics of Verticality at the AA School of Architecture for a breakdown of this). It wends its way into every aspect of people’s lives, from checkpoints to policies defining nutritional humanitarian minimums, to imprisoning and killing teenagers who throw stones at one of the most powerful and sophisticated militaries in the world.

It’s worth noting that in being “sickened by the hate graffiti inscribed on the wall” Anna Schwartz declared Mike Parr in breach of her “principles of anti-racism”. It’s important to keep track of the ideas in circulation here, the meaning that the language drags: definitions of graffiti typically include words like ‘unauthorized’ and ‘illicit’ implying that the artist came in uninvited and wrote these words without asking. But the gallery promoted this act of writing as a public performance, part of a large-scale exhibition of the artist’s work. Permission was retracted only after the words caught fire. It's worth also thinking about the gravitas of words like 'sickened' and 'hate'. Sickened by what? Hate for whom?

The gallerist has been described as a kingmaker. She is powerful in her context. Being powerful in one context does not render one invulnerable, but the balance of power must always be measured carefully. The artist, too, is a powerful figure within his context. He is successful, controversial, widely collected by institutions and safely ensconced in his Sydney home. I have, at various times, struggled with his eagerness to put himself in the frame, to absorb and reconstitute the suffering of others as a political gesture, because sometimes this ends up displacing, rather than centering, those others whose suffering we really must apprehend and wrestle with.

Anna Schwartz’s gallery took a cut of the sales of Mike Parr’s works ‘Close the Concentration Camps’ and ‘UnAustralian,’ both of which indicted Australia’s carceral archipelago of refugee detention centers, likening them to strategies deployed by the Nazis. But that was then, describing Australia, and this is now, describing Israel. More powerful than any one person, Israel's military infrastructure nevertheless relies upon millions of reactions just like this one. Shaped by the trauma that preceded its founding, it bodies forth a wound that is handed down generations, nurses a hypervigilance that makes words into weapons. Schwartz herself described Parr’s words as a kind of violence wielded against her, saying “I can’t work with an artist who’s prepared to hurt me to that degree”. And it’s true that words can hurt. This isn’t the trauma olympics, I’m not interested in diminishing people’s pain. But we should never forget what’s at stake, and who is most vulnerable. Words have real power, they move money and reshape careers. They also move bulldozers, tanks and missiles. We begin with a word – maybe it’s as seemingly innocuous as ‘context’ or as loaded with historical associations as ‘Nazi’ or ‘Apartheid’. Maybe it’s the chilling phrase ‘human animals’, a harbinger of mass slaughter. With blind obedience, it doesn’t take us long to end up with ‘Dead’.

By the time I finish writing, 18,200 Palestinians had been killed by Israel.

[gothicfishnetyuri]

As the moon reached the highest point in the sky, Beatrix closed her eyes, opening them again only for them to be as white as the full moon. With ingredients in hand she chanted in tongues before once again speaking in the common tongue "with the moon at its peak on the longest night of the year I call upon Selune to empower this brew. May her blessing of light protect the lands with which this elixir soaks" with a toss of fine powder into the flames they roared a bright silver, blasting through the hole in the ceiling and quickly dying down to mere embers, the bubbling cauldron now holding an iridescent silver fluid.

"once I've returned with the head of the beast I'll be speaking this around the edges of the town. It will protect it the same as the enchanted fences, atleast from most threats."

"wait- you're going alone that isn't what I agreed to. I'm coming with you and that's -"

"can you block a strike? Take a defensive position? Parry a blade?"

"no but-"

"then you will die. Whatever this creature is, it is far stronger than any human. And you lack any training. The moment it sees you, you'll be dinner."

Amara crossed her arms, she didn't want to admit it but Beatrix had a point. "Fine. I won't fight it but I'm not staying behind either. You'll need my help finding it"

Beatrix sighed, it was likely the best compromise she was getting out of this girl. She walked over to her makeshift library - a pile of assorted books and tomes - and pulled a single book from the bottom of the stack and handed it to Amara "read as much of this as you can while I prepare us. You catch that things eye you'll need to defend yourself long enough for me to react."

Amara brushed a small layer of dust off the cover. "Long sword..." She opened the cover and glanced at a name written on the inside "property of Lance... Your name is Lance?"

Beatrix paused while she prepared a potion, having forgotten it's previous owner left their name right inside the cover. "No.... That was the previous owner before it fell into my hands... It has been some time since I opened that book"

Amara flipped through a few pages, pictures of different foundational forms inscribed the pages with explanations of how to move both in and out of armor. "That being said... What is your name? Shouting 'Witch' feels... Insensitive"

Beatrix attached various pouches to her person before grabbing her staff and tapping it twice. "That'll suffice for now. You're better off not knowing it and risk someone's Ire."

Amara redied her feet before being passed a belt and frog to hold her blade, Beatrix handing Amara a bottle of some crimson liquid and warned "don't drink that by the way"

"I'm Amara of lightfeather, is my full title, but Amara will suffice."

"alright Amara of lightfeather" Beatrix checked her equipment to make sure was all snug and secure. "One last thing, do you have anything of the beasts?"

Witch's Brew

The cauldron boiled as flames roasted it's iron skin, arcane fuel ensuring the brew inside did but burn too much or too little. It was the night of the full moon, and on a winter solstice no less, the perfect time for a concoction with great power.

Coming by ingredients was difficult. The town by which she settled was not kind to her, their experiences with witches of old being bloody and full of loss. Though, she did not blame them for their prejudice, her own past was filled with demons and devils she thought she could once control.

The towns folk did however, tolerate her presence in the forest, their problems with monsters and feral beasts all but gone. The folk chalked it up to Beatrix frightening them as much as they were themselves, but in reality it was the warding brews -the same as the kind she was crafting tonight- that drove the conflict deep into the forest.

With her preparations all but complete, all she needed to do now was protect the brew, and when the moon was at it's highest in the night, speak the chant that would finalize the enchantment. The night however was quite young and her home was quite safe from beasts. Thus she decided to grab some additional ingredients in the forest, hoping to prepare a few more brews after the main work for the night was complete.

[vivelareine]

This painting had been previously uploaded by me under the description "Marie Antoinette embracing Madame Elisabeth." However, some more research has revealed an unclear identification.

In 1960, the painting was part of a Paris Musee Galliera exhibition under the title "The Interrupted Music Lesson," attributed to Jean-Frédéric Schall. You can see a set-aside instrument with music books in the background. It is unclear whether or not this title was attributed to the painting when it was made or if it is the title given to the painting by the owner, museum or exhibition organizers.

In 2015, Osenat auctioned the painting, giving it the title “The embrace,” and attributing it only “in the style” of Schall. There is no indication where the title “The embrace” came from or why they didn’t use the 1960 title.

To make things more confusing, there is a black chalk drawing by Alexandre Moitte in the musée des Beaux-Arts de Lille which is labeled by the museum “Marie Antoinette and Madame Elisabeth kissing”:

However, the two women in the chalk drawing look quite different compared to the women in the painting.

While I can see some of Marie Antoinette in the woman on the right in the painting version (though it reminds me more of 19th century Marie Antoinette rococo revival genre paintings than contemporary Marie Antoinette depictions) the women in the chalk drawing look different than the women in the painting, and neither women in the drawing look particularly like Elisabeth or Marie Antoinette. There is unfortunately no provenance or explanation as to why the museum has given the drawing the “Elisabeth and Marie Antoinette” designation, either.

Which came first? The drawing, or the painting? Did Moitte view the (attributed) Schall painting and take his own inspiration? Or perhaps the painting is by Moitte or was done after Moitte’s work.

To make things even more confusing, there is an engraving attributed to Moitte of two women in the collection of the Minneapolis Museum of Art:

The MIA description claims that these are the same women as the chalk drawing, but I'm not sure how this was determined.

This engraving is inscribed: "Paired from their earliest childhood, they were always friends and remained so for life." Above them is the inscription Mors et via (life and death).

There is a MA monogram on the bottom center of the oval. However, neither women in the engraving has a strong resemblance to Marie Antoinette or Elisabeth, and ‘MA’ naturally does not always mean Marie Antoinette, queen of france.

Additionally, Marie Antoinette and Elisabeth didn't know each other from earliest childhood. The MIA website suggests that perhaps it was Marie Antoinette and one of her favorites, but the only friends she knew from childhood were from outside France, and it would be strange to depict them as adult women embracing--if, indeed, the women in the side-portrait drawing are the same as the 'embrace' drawing.

Moitte did do at least one portrait drawing of Louis-Charles, so he (like many artists) was no stranger to depicting the royal family. But I don’t know that there is an actual reason why the black chalk drawing, which does not resemble either woman’s facial features, was given the “Elisabeth and Marie Antoinette” designation in the first place. I can’t seem to find one.

It’s also unclear whether or not the women in the second double portrait with flower garlands are actually the same women in the drawing or painting.

More research is obviously needed, but since I saw the painting inaccurately called “Marie Antoinette and Polignac” today, I decided to do a deeper dive into it.

[neversetyoufree]

Sorry to ask, but do you have some meta or opinion about what could be going on regarding Vanitas hourglass earring? It is empty in some panels and then goes back to being full of sand at the bottom.

I don't know if you've read Pandora Hearts, but it reminds me a little of some marks some characters have that indicated how many times could they used certain abilities before dying, or turning into something more twisted and inhuman.

Oh anon, never apologize for asking!

Although, before I really answer, I might have to ask you (or others that know) to point out what panels show his earring as specifically empty? Because I know you don't see the sand clearly every time, but I've always just interpreted that as an artistic shorthand, rather than something particularly meaningful. If there are close/detailed shots that vary with whether the sand is shown, though, that opinion might change.

However, though I'm not too inclined (right now) to read into when we can/can't see the sand in a given panel, I do think the placement of the sand at the bottom has meaning. Aside from it just being where the sand would practically end up in an earring like that, it also works really well as a Vanitas symbol. I think I've talked about this before, but Vnc, especially where Vanitas and Luna are concerned, is filled with references to the Vanitas painting movement. Those paintings are all about reminders of the inevitability of death and the vanity/pointlessness of earthly pleasures in the face of it, and death is kind of Vanitas (the human man)'s whole Thing.

In other words, Vanitas is going to die. The first chapter (and later ominous foreshadowing) assures us that his death is a foregone conclusion. As such, an hourglass with the sand at the bottom works really well as a symbol for him. If the sand has all already run out (which, whenever we see it, it has), then his time has run out as well. The ever-present earring serves as a reminder that Vanitas's death is inescapable. It's a memento-mori!

Also, I do want to point out that, before it was Vanitas's earring, that hourglass was on Luna's bracelet. Vanitas seems to have taken/inherited it along with their book and title, which ties the hourglass (the run-out hourglass, a symbol of death) to the role of "Vanitas" itself. It marks whoever holds the book/name as a symbol of death for vampires, but also marks the oncoming and inevitable death of "Vanitas" themselves. Luna has been dead since before the story even began, and symbolically, so is Vanitas. Their time has all run out.

Then, cementing this even further, the one other time I can remember seeing an hourglass in Vnc that isn't that bracelet/earring is on the inner cover of Volume 1. The whole frame on the front cover of v1 is covered in images (bones, fruit, flowers, gold) straight out of a classic Vanitas painting. And though we can't see the bottom of the frame on the front cover (Vani's leg is in the way), the exact same frame is replicated on the inner cover:

And guess what's at the bottom of the frame. An hourglass! So even though hourglasses were slightly less common in Vanitas paintings than some other symbols (though they were very much still present), I do think this confirms we're meant to take the hourglass as part of the Vanitas (painting) symbolism in Vnc.

So though I have read Pandora Hearts, and I'm familiar with Mochijun's fondness for inscribing countdowns on characters' bodies, I don't think that's what the hourglass is doing. It's not that the sand running out marks how much time he has while he's still human. The fact that the sand has already run out reminds us always that he has been pre-determined to die.

In fact, I think that rather than the hourglass, the cracking scar pattern on Vanitas and Misha's arms actually fulfills the exact symbolic purpose that you're talking about. We know that it spread when Vanitas used a lot of power in Gévaudan, and we know that using the book's power is what's going to cause Vanitas's eventual transformation, so the representation is pretty obviously linked. Plus, it looks like whatever's happening with the cracks on Vanitas's arm is further along on Misha, and Misha seems to be further along in losing his humanity (judging by what happens when the book goes wrong in 54 and 54.5), so once again, we have that correlation.

[egyptologylessons]

Votive stela with figures of Goddesses Taweret and Mut of Isheru (ca. 1390–1352 B.C.) | New Kingdom The two goddesses 𓊹𓏏𓏭 “nTry” shown here were associated with women 𓊃𓏏𓁐𓏪 “s.tw”. Although they face one another, in the conventions of Egyptian 𓂋𓐝𓎀𓀂𓀭𓏪 “rmṯ” art they are meant to be seen as standing side by side, facing the viewer. Taweret 𓏏𓄿𓅨𓂋𓏏𓃯 “t3wrt” appears on the left, identified by the inscription in front 𓄂𓏏 “ḥ3.ṯ” of her as 𓏏𓄿𓅨𓂋𓏏𓃯𓎟𓏏𓇯 “t3wrt nb.t pt” ‘Taweret, mistress of the sky.’ On her head 𓁷 “ḥr” she wears a sundisk 𓇋𓏏𓈖𓇳 “ı͗tn” and cow's horns. Although Taweret herself is not usually associated with the sky, this feature, and her epithet, are probably borrowed from Hathor 𓉡 “ḥw.t-ḥr” ‘The Temple of Horus’, the goddess of femininity and love 𓌸𓇌 “mri”, indicating that here Taweret represents the female sex itself. The image on the right is identified by its inscription as 𓏏𓅑𓅨𓏏𓎟𓏏𓇋𓈙𓂋𓃭 “mt wr ı͗šrw” ‘Mut the great, mistress of Isheru.’ This goddess was the wife 𓈞𓏏 “ẖm.t” of Amun 𓇋𓏠𓈖𓁩 “ı͗mn” ‘the hidden one’ and embodied the principle of motherhood; her name 𓂋𓈖 “rn” itself means "mother." She is represented here by a human head atop a chest, which may be a symbolic representation of the womb. The stela was commissioned by a man whose name and partially preserved title are inscribed at bottom: "[ … ] of [the house of] Amun, Khonsu 𓐍𓈖𓇓𓅱." The stela's 𓎘𓅱𓆓𓉸 “wḏ” imagery suggests that it was in-tended as a votive offering by its donor seeking the intercession of Taweret and Mut for a woman's successful pregnancy and childbirth 𓄟𓋴𓁒 “ms”. Geography: From Egypt; Probably from Upper Egypt, Thebes, Deir el-Medina Medium: Limestone, paint Dimensions: H. 17.7 cm (6 15/16 in.); W. 14.3 cm (5 5/8 in.); D. 4 cm (1 9/16 in.) 𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬𓋹𓎬 📸 @egyptologylessons 𓋹𓊽𓋴𓆖𓎛𓇳𓎛 © (@metmuseum and description) 𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁𓊁 #Ancientegypt #ägypten #egyptianhistory #egyptology #hieroglyphs #egypte #egitto #埃及 #مصر #egipto #이집트 #taweret #mut #egyptiangoddesses #goddesses #pregnancy #childbirth https://www.instagram.com/p/CerGUmGO9gL/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[paganimagevault]

Statues of Mount Nemrut 62 BCE. The bottom picture is an artistic representation of what the monuments would look like restored. Left to right: Apollo, Tyche (fertility Goddess of the Commagene's), Zeus, Antiochus I Theos, and Herakles. The other images are the statues in their current state. The monuments were ordered constructed by Antiochus I Theos of Commagene, who was half Greek half Iranian. There are more images and descriptions on my blog, link at bottom.

"A large inscription is carved into the back of the colossal statues at the East- and West-Terrace. At the back of the Zeus statue, you can read the letters N O M O [ (Nomos). Here, the Holy Law of Antiochos begins. The Nomos of the Nemrud can be regarded as the testament of Antiochos.

...

The Great King Antiochos, the God, the Righteous One, the Manifest (Deity), the Friend of the Romans and the Greeks, the Son of King Mithridates Kallinikos and of Laodike the Brother-loving Goddess, the Daughter of King Antiochos Epiphanes, the Mother-loving, the Victorious, has recorded for all time, on consecrated pedestals with inviolable letters the deeds of his clemency.

I have come to believe that, for mankind, of all good things piety is both the most secure possession and also the sweetest enjoyment. This judgment became, for me, the cause of fortunate power and its blessed use; and during my whole life I have appeared to all men as one who thought holiness the most secure guardian and the unrivaled delight of my reign (or kingdom). By this means I have, contrary to all expectations, escaped great perils, have easily become master of hopeless situations, and in a blessed way have attained to the fullness of a long life. After taking over my father’s dominion, I announced, in the piety of my thought, that the kingdom subject to my throne should be the common dwelling place of all the Gods, in that by means of every kind of art I decorated the representations of their form, as the ancient lore of Persians and of Greeks–the fortunate roots of my ancestry–had handed them down (to us), and honoured them with sacrifices and festivals, as was the primitive rule and the common custom of all mankind; in addition my own just consideration has further devised still other and especially brilliant honors. And as I have taken forethought to lay the foundation of this sacred tomb, which is to be indestructible by the ravages of time, in closest proximity to the heavenly throne, wherein the fortunately preserved outer form of my person, preserved to ripe old age, shall, after the soul beloved by God has been sent to the heavenly thrones of Zeus Oromasdes, rest through immeasurable time,

…. so I chose to make this holy place a common consecrated seat of all the Gods; so that not only the heroic company of my ancestors, whom you behold before you, might be set up here by my pious devotion, but also that the divine representation of the manifest deities might be consecrated on the holy hill and that his place might likewise not be lacking in witness to my piety.

Therefore, as you see, I have set up these divine images of Zeus-Oromasdes and of Apollo-Mithras-Helios-Hermes and of Artagnes-Herakles-Ares, and also of my all-nourishing homeland Kommagene; and from one and the same quarry, throned likewise among the deities who hear our prayers, I have consecrated the features of my own form, and have caused the ancient honor of great deities to become the coeval of a new Tyche. Since I thereby, in an upright way, imitated the example of the divine Providence, which as a benevolent helper has so often been seen standing by my side in the struggles of my reign. Adequate property in land and an inalienable income therefrom have I set aside for the ample provision of sacrifices; an unceasing cult and chosen priests arrayed in such vestments as are proper to the race of the Persians have I inaugurated, and I have dedicated the whole array and cult in a manner worthy of my fortune and the majesty of the Gods. I have decreed the appropriate laws to govern the sacred observances thus established for everlasting, so that all the inhabitants of my realm may offer both the ancient sacrifices, required by age-old common custom, and also new festivals in honor of the Gods and in my honor. The birthday of my natural body, the sixteenth of Audnaios, and the tenth of Loos, the day of my accession to the throne, I have consecrated to the manifestation of the great deities, who were my guides in a prosperous beginning and have been the source of universal blessing for my whole kingdom.

Because of the multitude of offering and the magnificence of the celebration I have consecrated two additional days, each of them as an annual festival. The population of my empire I have divided up for the purpose of these assemblies, festival gatherings, and sacrifices, and directed them to repair by villages and cities to the nearest sanctuaries, whichever is most conveniently located for the festival observance. Moreover, I have appointed under the same title that, in addition to the observance just named, my birth on the sixteenth and my accession on the tenth shall be observed every month by the priests. Now that these regulations have been established, to be observed continually as the pious duty of men of understanding, not only in my honor but also in the blessed hope of their own good fortune, I have, in obedience to the inspiration of the Gods, ordered to be inscribed upon sacred, inviolable stelae a holy law, which shall be binding upon all generations of mankind who in the immeasurable course of time, through their special lot in life, shall successively be destined to dwell in this land; they must observe it without violation, knowing that the stern penalty of the deified royal ancestors will pursue equally the impiety occasioned by neglect as that occasioned by folly and that disregard of the law decreed for the honor of the heroes brings with it inexorable penalties. For the pious it is all a simple matter, but godlessness is followed by backbreaking burdens. This law my voice has proclaimed, but it is the mind of the Gods that has given it authority. NOMOΣ – LAW The priest who is appointed by me for these Gods and heroes, whom I have dedicated at the sacred tomb of my body, on the topmost ridges of the Taurus range, and who shall at a later time hold this office, he, set free from very other duty, shall without let or hindrance and with no excuse for evasion keep watch at his memorial and devote himself to the care and the proper adornment of these sacred images. On the birthdays which I have established forever as monthly and annual festivals of the Gods and of my own person, throughout the whole year he shall, himself decently garbed in Persian raiment, as my benefaction and the ancestral custom of our race have provided, crown them all with the gold crowns which I have dedicated as the sacred honors due the deified ancestors; and out of income from the villages, which I have designated for the sacred honors of the heroic race, he shall offer on these altars rich additional offerings of incense and aromatic herbs, and also splendid sacrifices in honor of the Gods and in my honor,

….. in worthy wise setting up sacred tables with appropriate foods and filling jars from the winepress with precious drink (that is, wine mixed with water). He shall hospitably welcome the whole of the assembled people, both the native and the foreigners who stream hither, and he shall provide for the common enjoyment of the feast by the assembled multitudes, in that, as is the custom, he shall take for himself a portion, as a gift in honor of the priestly office, and then distribute the rest of my benefaction to the others for their free enjoyment, so that during the holy days everyone may receive a never failing sustenance and may thus be able to celebrate the festival without running the risk of malicious calumny. The drinking cups, which I have dedicated, are to be used by them as long as they remain in the holy place and participate in the general assembly for the feast.

The group of musicians whom I have chosen for the purpose and those who may later be consecrated, their sons and daughters, and also their descendants shall all learn the same art and be set free from the burden of every other responsibility; and they are to devote themselves to the observances which I have established to the end, and without any evasion are to continue their services as long as the assembly requests it. No one, no king or ruler, no priest or official shall ever make slaves of these hierodules, whom I have, in accordance with the divine will, consecrated to the Gods and to my own honors, or their children or the descendants of their children, who shall continue their family to all later time; he shall neither enslave them to himself nor alienate them to anyone else in any way, nor injure one of them, nor deprive him of this ministry; but the priests shall take care of them, and the kings, officials, and all private persons shall stand by them, and the favor of the Gods and heroes will be laid up for them as a reward for their piety.

It is equally not permitted for anyone to appropriate or to alienate the villages which I have dedicated to these Gods, to sell them or to devote them to some other purpose, or in any way to injure those villages; or to reduce the income from them, which I have dedicated to the Gods as an inviolable possession. Nor shall anyone go unpunished who shall devise in his mind against our honor some other scheme of violence or of disparaging or suspending the sacrifices and festal assemblies which I have established. Whoever shall presume to rescind or to injure or guilefully to misinterpret the just tenor of this regulation or the heroic honors which an immortal judgment has sanctioned, him the wrath of the daemons and of all the Gods shall pursue, both himself and his descendants, irreconcilably, with every kind of punishment.

A noble example of piety, which it is a matter of sacred duty to offer to Gods and ancestors, I have set before the eyes of my children and grandchildren, as through many other, so too through this work; and I believe that they will emulate this fair example by continually increasing the honors appropriate to their line and, like me, in their riper years adding greatly to their personal fame. For those who do so I pray that all the ancestral Gods, from Persia and Macedonia and from the native hearth of Kommagene, may continue to be gracious to them in all clemency. And whoever, in the long time to come, takes over this reign as king or dynast, may he, if he observes this law and guards my honor, enjoy, through my intercession, the favor of the deified ancestors and all the Gods. But if he, in his folly of mind, undertakes measures contrary to the honor of the Gods, may he, even without my curse, suffer the full wrath of the Gods."

-The Nomos: The Holy Law of King Antiochus I Theos of Commagene

More images (tumblr only lets me upload 10 per post):

https://paganimagevault.blogspot.com/2020/04/statues-of-mount-nemrut-62-bce.html

[aro-comics]

Music (Part 2)

NOTE: This was originally uploaded in 2 parts (too long for instagram) but it was intended to be read as one, so I’ll be pasting the descriptions one after the other as well as putting a complete image description for the whole post after.

Part 2 - in which amatonormativity makes it near impossible to have things to fully relate to and enjoy like everyone else does. Personally, it didn’t really hit me that listening and singing along to songs about romance was something you COULD actually relate to. I thought it was a kind of melodrama that everyone just did because it was a social norm/code, not because people actually felt that way 😭 The song in the second last slide is Before I Cave In by Too Close To Touch :) Do y’all also love very messy breakup songs for the drama and the drama only??

Part 3  PART 2 CONTINUED - this one's a little more personal, haha. The songs are Wolves, Survive, and Architects, respectively, all by Rise Against. Sorry if rock/punk/post-hardcore isn't your cup of tea 😭 Listening to this kind of music was one of the first times I understood what it meant to relate 100% to a song. To sing every word and mean it, from the bottom of my heart. A lot of the music I liked growing up were about break-ups and romantic relationships gone wrong, but even if I enjoyed the melody, I knew deep down that I didn't fully understand what the song was about or was interpreting them in a different way than was intended. With songs like these though, messages about finding the strength to keep going, deciding to actually do something when you know things are wrong and taking charge of your own fate ... it’s way more relatable. I had a rough childhood, and lyrics like these remind me of what it took to keep going even when I wanted to give up on everything (not to be negative lol, I’m doing a lot better now 💚). Was there a song/artist that made you realize what it meant to relate to music fully (or is this just me)?

[Image Description:

Slide 1:  Title slide. “Music. II: Non-Romantic” In the background are drawings of headphones, stationary, a portable music player and a sheet titled ‘lyrics’. 

Slide 2: Text Slide. “Amatonormativity makes romance entrenched in our music.”

Slide 3: Slide shows an alternating series of small drawings and text. 

“Whether it’s a breakup,” (to the left, a drawing of two people having a fight) 

“A crush,” (a headshot of a brunette with a broken heart drawn on their shirt)

“Unrequited feelings,” (a drawing of a girl staring at another girl who doesn’t notice her)

Slide 4: Previous slide’s format continues onto this slide. 

“Falling in love,” (a drawing of hands holding a note. Inside is a stereotypical heart with arrow, inscribed with initials ‘H+J’. Bottom says ‘-luv u’)

“Jealousy,” (the person who was holding the note looking up, annoyed. In the foreground of the sketch the object of affections is leaning woefully into the arms of a girl, melodramaticallly saying ‘woe is me’)

“-it’s always about romance.” At the bottom left Celia stands talking to viewer, looking a bit dejected. 

Slide 5: Panel of Celia talking to the viewer but looking down. “As an aro, to be honest, it’s really alienating.”

Slide 6: Celia singing with her eyes scrunched shut, her fist raised in front of her as she pretends to be upset like the lyrics of the song. The background is a sharp goldenrod yellow to indicate the musical nature. 

In the background the lyrics are drawn in rough white brushstrokes: “Two hearts that beat in sync but they could never be”

Slide 7: Panel switches back to usual colour, and Celia seems to have snapped out of the moment. She says “- well that was … not relatable. At all.”

Bottom right corner: “But it’s also nice to sing along with things that you really believe in, relate to.”

Slide 8: Celia sitting on the ledge of an outdoor table. In the background are mountains and a forest. She is listening to music on a set of large red headphones. Caption at top reads “I guess that’s why I like rock music.” 

Slide 9: Text slide: “It’s not that I think pop, or other music genres aren’t socially aware. But I find that there are some great rock, punk, and post hardcore bands that sing about social issues, past traumas, healing, growth, and thriving.” 

Slide 10: Text slide: “I love singing along with them, acknowledging all of the unjust things which exist in this world, but still finding the beauty in life and the strength to not only survive but try and make things better.”

Slide 11: A musical slide with illustrated lyrics and a bright yellow background. Celia sings with a microphone in one hand, and her other hand raised in a stereotypical rock hand sign. 

Lyrics: “The smoke you ignored is a flame you can’t contain.”

Slide 12: A musical slide with illustrated lyrics and a bright yellow background. Split panel of Celia singing back to back. For the left side, she is signing more aggressively and seems to snarl. On the right, she stands up straighter and seems more hopeful. 

Lyrics: “Life for you has been less than kind/ -but how we survive is what makes us who we are.”

Slide 13: A musical slide with illustrated lyrics and a bright yellow background. Celia continues singing, smiling with her fist raised again. 

Lyrics: “Let’s decide to be the architects the masters of our fate”

Slide 14: Celia lying on her bed, listening to music on a set of headphones connected to her phone. Caption: “... it’s just so much more relatable than romance, I think.”]

[jtrbluv]

we’re not really strangers | pjm

summary: We’re Not Really Strangers is a purpose-driven card game and movement all about empowering meaningful connections. Three carefully crafted levels of questions and wildcards that allow you to deepen your existing relationships and create new ones. Ready?

or alternatively,

your furtive infatuation with your lifelong best friend proves to be hard to suppress when there’s (1) alcohol involved and (2) a card game that forces you to reveal more about yourself than you could ever wish for. in short, no, you are not ready.

[friends to lovers!au]

pairing: jimin x reader

genre: fluff, crack, slight angst

word count: 8.7k

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, two emotionally constipated best friend, PG-15

A/N: hi, i’ve been really excited about this fic for a while, and i’m genuinely so happy that i finally finished it! the card game is in fact real and i got inspired for this fic after i had played the game with a couple of friends myself. AHEM! @koushiningg​ ! we both cried and i do highly recommend to play it! but anyways, i hope you enjoy this fic because i had a lot of fun writing it! sending love always... jumi out!

EDIT: @bangtans-peaceful-piegon​ i’d also like to thank the lovely pidge for beta reading this 4 me as well! PIDGE I FUCKIN LOB U!!! 

PLAYLIST ; SEQUEL

♤ ♤ ♤

Not once in your life did you ever imagine a simple card game to become the bane of your existence. 

Yet Park Jimin was able to prove you wrong. 

Let’s play ‘We’re Not Really Strangers’ he said. It’ll be fun, he said.

You stare down at the card in front of you—everything else in your periphery was blurry in vision and you can audibly pinpoint the erratic beating of your heart. 

The card was practically taunting you, laughing in your face. It was as if there was a sentient being in the room who was aware of your own subconscious and the not so latent feelings you had for the boy sitting in front of you. 

Same said being loved to constantly place you in a state of trepidation concerning your current situation—your blood pressure skyrocketing—nearly feeling the muscular pink thing inside of you thrusting itself against your ribcage. 

The white card with crimson red writing made sure to leave an impact, making you feel the most ridiculed you’ve felt all night which says a lot—leaving your mind in a complete frenzy although you refused to let it be known. 

And so you sat there. Fiddling the card in between your fingers, feigning nonchalance. You were very much on the brink of cracking your facade—your sanity practically crumbling as the minutes ticked by. You didn’t think you’d last this long to be honest. Yet an hour and a half proved to be way too straining on your body, especially your heart. 

He simply sat there with his hands folded on the table—void of emotion, whistling a familiar top 50s tune you couldn’t quite put your finger on. You considered shifting your focuses on trying to comprehend the tune—hoping it would ease the concerning state of apprehension you were in. 

But then you remember that you aren’t that pathetic. Even though you both had probably been sitting in complete silence for about two minutes now. Up to the point where you could probably hear the crickets chirping outside his apartment, except the only sound that was filling your ears was your own conscience telling you how idiotic you were being. 

Your face may be gradually morphing the same shade of crimson as the writing inscribed onto the card itself, and you may have a whole line of sweat encompassing your hairline. But it’s just a stupid little card game. You could say any stupid little answer and the stupid not-so-little boy wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t care. So you shouldn’t care. 

When did you become so pathetic after all?

-one hour and a half ago-

“Why can’t we just play Mario Kart or Uno? This sounds like there’s too much thinking involved,” you whine, leaning against the side of his couch. 

“One, we always play that. And two, I always lose,” he grumbles, plopping down onto the floor.

Jimin rests his back on the frame of the couch as he sits in the small gap made by the large piece of furniture and the coffee table that resided in front of it. You decide to sit on the floor as well, around an arm’s length away from your friend. He places the red box down onto the table—opening the cap and revealing the contents with a mischievous glint in his irises. 

Within the box was a deck of cards, separated into three piles with two pencils on either side. Knowing Jimin, you assumed this game had an ulterior motive you were unaware of, and by the title of the game, you could already tell that you weren’t going to like it very much. 

“How do you even play this?” You ask, causing him to look up in return.

He bites his lip, taking a couple seconds to ponder on your question, “I don’t know it’s my first-time playing too,” he shrugs. “I was watching Jin and Namjoon playing it a couple of weeks ago and for some reason, Jungkook started crying.”

“He is a sap,” you hum in agreement, thinking in retrospect of Jungkook crying from various situations such as Iron Man dying or that one time Jin farted on his pillow and he got pink eye for a whole week. 

“The biggest,” he concurs, “Hm, there’s no instructions in here.” He mutters while shuffling through the cards. 

“Why don’t you just search it up?” You suggest, sliding the box to yourself as he nods and fishes his phone out of his pocket. 

While holding the box in the palm of your hand, you scan the contents—turning it around in your palm until your eyes narrow in on the words printed at the bottom. 

“Oh, it says something here.”

His head perks up. “Hm? What is it?”

You clear your throat at the sight of the long explanation. “We’re Not Really Strangers is a purpose-driven card game and movement all about empowering meaningful connections. Three carefully crafted levels of questions and wildcards that allow you to deepen your existing relationships and create new ones.” You internally grimace at the words. The game hasn’t even started and you already had a bad feeling about it all. “Ready?” You say through clenched teeth, purposely keeping your head hung low. 

Jimin’s lips quirk up into a cheerful grin, unaware of the piercing stare you were giving him. “Okay, I think I got it,” he declares, eyes zeroed in on his phone once more, ”There’s three levels—perception, connection, and reflection. Each level we pass, the deeper and more thought-provoking the questions get. Helping us make a deeper connection and get to know each other better yadda yadda yadda.”

You nod in understanding, sliding the box of cards back towards him—forcing the grimace that kept threatening to plaster itself onto your face into a small, smug smile. 

“The first thing we have to do,” he begins, taking out two pencils and two small pieces of paper, “is write messages to each other. We won’t be able to open these until after we leave.” He explains, sliding a pencil and paper towards you.

“Wow, very cryptic,” you tut, biting down on your bottom lip before more distasteful remarks decided to leave your lips. He doesn’t catch your reaction or your comment though because he’s already got his pencil in his hand, scribbling vigorously onto the tiny piece of paper. Knowing him it could very well be nonsensical insults and doodles, or a whole essay about your friendship and what you mean to him. Most likely ludicrous and full of thought, either way, just like him. 

Without much thought, you lazily jot onto the paper.

know that i love u, u fucker <3 

-y/n

The sound of your pencil falling against the table causes him to look up at you, eyes knit together in confusion. 

“You’re done already?”

You chuckle, “I mean, I wasn’t going to write an essay. You already know how I feel about you. But it seems like you’re writing one though.”

His eyes narrow in on you—giving you an indiscernible look before letting out a small ‘hmph’ and lowering his focus back down to his pencil and paper. You dismiss his enigmatic behavior—deciding to mindlessly scroll on your phone while waiting for him to finish his MLA formatted essay.

Two minutes pass and you hear the sound of his pencil being placed onto the table. “Done.”

“You added citations too right?”

He scoffs, “No, but i’ll gladly add some if you’d like.” 

You roll your eyes for what seems like the umpteenth time in the last five minutes, “Just start the goddamn game.”

He takes the first stack of cards and shuffles them between his hands. “In all three levels, there are wild cards or basically dares we have to complete. And for each level, we get two ‘dig deeper’ cards. Pretty self-explanatory. So this is the perception level. It’s basically designed for first encounters and strangers, and we’re gonna be asking each other questions about ourselves.”

Your eyes widen at the whole confidentiality of it all. “Are we going through all of those cards?” You blurt out, staring at what seemed to be like 50 cards in his hands. 

“Oh no,” he quickly refutes, “It would take hours. We’ll just do like 12 cards each.”

“Alright,” you huff, letting out a small breath of relief. 

“Yay! Okay I’ll go first,” he beams, his toothy smile evident as he places the deck in between the two of you while grabbing a card from the top, “What do you think my name is?”

You snort at the conspicuousness of the question, “Jamal.”

He immediately guffaws at your response, throwing his head back in addition. “Hey, I don’t mind that.”

“Are all of the questions like this?” You say in between hushed laughter. 

“Nah,” he shakes his head as you pick up another card from the deck, “now you ask me.”

“Alright, what’s the first thing you noticed about me?” You ask, slightly taken aback by the sudden earnestness of the question, causing you to become genuinely curious about what his answer was going to be.

He hums, taking a second to think it through. “I think your smile and your laugh. It’s always been really contagious since the day I met you.” He admits, almost matter-of-factly as if it was something you should’ve known by now, yet you did not. 

Your heart nearly disintegrates into a puddle of goop right then and there, but you manage to conceal your reaction, “Aw, you actually like me.” You tease. 

He scoffs with a playful grin on his lips. “Don’t flatter yourself. You still cackle like a damn hyena.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, “At least I don’t laugh at every single of Jin’s lame ass jokes.”

He gasps, jaw slack open due to your all too accurate truthbomb, “I did not ask to be attacked in my own residence.”

“Well, what are you gonna do about it then.”

He snorts. “Holy shit, do you remember when I banged my head on the corner of his coffee table.” 

“How could I forget? I had the picture of the bump on your head as my lockscreen for like a month.” You reminisce, resisting the urge to pull up the picture from your phone.

“Yeah, and that same month I bought and rotated between the same 10 hats.”

“Hey! It genuinely didn’t look as bad as you thought.”

He whips his head towards you, giving you a piercing glare that made you want to redact your statement immediately. 

He grins from ear to ear, the little shit, amused at the reaction he was able to garner from you. 

“Aha!” He suddenly guffaws, shooting out of the floor and prancing towards his fridge. He then takes out three bottles of lychee-flavored soju and makes his way back towards the table. 

Jimin being the borderline alcoholic he is, it doesn’t come as a surprise to you. Not even after he takes another trip back to the fridge to grab yet another three bottles of soju, mango-flavored to be exact. He has probably one of the stupidest grins etched onto his face as he held onto the bottles—meanwhile you were more concerned about the possibility of having to clean up a bunch of broken glass and wasted soju. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time. 

“And do you plan on drinking all of this by yourself?” you say, gesturing towards the bottles.

“I know my liver is strong, but I don’t buy this shit just to enjoy alone,” he retorts. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you shake your head as you click your tongue, “Playing this while tipsy just sounds ten times better don’t you think?.”

You shrug—although you had a strong hunch for what he was insinuating, “I mean I guess.”

He starts to pour soju into his shot glass, stopping just before it hits the brim. He slides the glass to you and you take it into your hand, eyeing the sparkling fluid and thinking about the way the contents would do its little all-too-familiar dance on your tongue. 

“Well, you know what they say,” he says, pouring a glass for himself, “drunk words are sober thoughts,” he finishes while dragging out the last word—downing the first shot in one quick swig. You follow his lead soon thereafter, refusing to let your mind linger on what he had just said and the viable likelihood of you spewing out the words that could just make or break your longstanding friendship and lead to a lifetime of regret. 

Obviously, everything’s going fine and dandy for you.

-

The next 20 minutes consisted of a plethora of superficial questions that would vary from:

“What's your favorite song lyric you can think of off the top of your head?”

Your head shoots up as if the lightbulb in your head just flashed on. “Easy. Shawty’s like a melody in my head that i cant keep out got me singing like-“

He lunges over to clap a hand over your mouth before you could sing the next line. “Na na na na no Y/N. Please stop.”

Or something along the lines of:

“What character do you think I'd play in a movie?” He asks with a smug smile. 

“You’d be the second male lead that everyone secretly wants to end up with the main character because you act all sweet and kind and and genuinely cares about her but instead she chooses the other guy because something about him draws her in and it was her ‘gut instinct’ or some shit like that.”

“So I would get second male lead syndrome?” He reiterates. 

“Yes.” 

He sets his shot glass back down with a glower, clearly taken aback. “That is the biggest insult I’ve ever gotten in my entire life.”

You also couldn’t forget about:

“Oh, this one says to create a secret handshake.”

“No.” You deadpan.

“And why not?”

“Your pinky‘s the size of a vienna sausa—“ 

He smacks you square in the cheek with a pillow before you could finish your sentence. You don’t even fight back because your mind was so slow to process what he had just done. The fact that you only slept for 5 hours last night didn’t help whatsoever. Your evident lack of energy causes him to jab his finger into your side, causing a loud shriek—your fight or flight response starts kicking in as you grab the back of his neck and slam his face against the fabric of the couch cushion. 

-

Soju was never able to make the two of you full on drunk—buzzed of course, but not enough for complete incoherency. And so you both down a bottle each before finishing the first round. 

“I’m surprised we didn’t get any wild cards that round,” he says while resting his head on the couch.

You purse your lips, “You spoke too soon.” 

His eyes flash open as he cranes his neck in an attempt to see the card. “Wait actually?”

You can feel your insides churn as you read the words in front of you, and you were sure that it wasn’t the alcohol talking. “Write down the three most important things to you in a relationship for 30 seconds and then compare.”

Jimin reaches over to grab two pieces of paper and pencils while unlocking his phone to find the timer app, “Okay, I’ll put a timer on for 30 seconds starting… now.”

And so the internal monologue in your head begins. 

Three most important things… only three? That’s not anywhere near enough to suffice. Wait, what would the first one even be… oh yeah, trust. Trust is very much important yes, yes, yes. What else? Um, communication? Yes of course, that’s essential. Okay, what would the last one be? 

You sneak a glance over at Jimin. His cheek is squished against the palm of his hand, making his cheek fat (an area in which he lacked in) more prominent and the pink, plush flesh of his lips appear even bigger than they already were. 

The ceiling light emitted a faint, ambient glow—the lights and shadows hitting all the slopes and curves of his face. You never understood how someone could be so effortlessly stunning. Even the mess atop his head that’s supposed to be his hair looks purposely tousled—the ebony strands sticking up in multiple directions was framing his temples and contrasted with the honey-like hues of his skin. 

Unlike the glow that radiated from the lights of the worn-down apartment and the radiance of whatever was beyond the glass of the window behind him, everything about him seemed to glow much brighter.

“Hello, earth to Y/N, your 30 seconds is up.” He interrupts pointedly, waving a hand in front of your face.

Blinking rapidly, you shake your head as well as all preceding thoughts that definitely weren’t consuming your mind a few seconds ago, “Sorry w-what?”

He laughs at your disoriented state, “Did you finish writing your three things?”

No, I wrote your name as number 3. “Yeah, I did. You can go first though.”

He nods with a small smile. “Oh, okay then let’s see. First, I put trust. I don’t know, I think everyone puts that to be honest. After that, I put communication. I feel like that’s just a given y’know. Another thing I feel like most people would say.”

You utter a timid “mhm” under your breath albeit zoning out and being unaware of what he was saying. Opportunely, you managed to scribble out his name with the mere seconds that had passed and now you were tapping the lead point of the pencil against the paper, littering the page with a bunch of grey, little dots—incognizant to the fact that he had his eyes focused on you the whole time. 

“I didn’t really know what to put last. Three things isn’t anywhere near enough in my opinion. But at the last second, I wrote down vulnerability,” he continues.

You look up upon hearing the last word. “Oh wow, that’s good. I didn’t even think about that.”

He chuckles unabashedly, clearly pleased with your reaction. “Right? I just figured. At first, I thought it would go in the same category as trust but then I thought about it more. Yeah, you can trust someone and someone can trust you, but to what extent does that all go to. Where does it start? And where does it even end? You need to be able to open up to the person I feel like. So I guess trust and vulnerability go hand in hand.”

Impressed with his words, you decide to chime in.  “Wouldn’t communication go along with it too?”

“Hm?”

You place your pencil down. “You would open up to each other by means of communication, becoming more vulnerable, and then overall gaining more trust in the end.”

His brows raise at your sudden revelation, “Wait, you’re so right, did you just wax poetic and full cycle all that?.”

You smile, “I mean I guess,” you respond humbly, “ it does make sense though, does it not?”

He hums in agreement while downing another shot, “It applies to us, right?”

You force out a chuckle, but it comes out a lot more faux-sounding than you would’ve liked. “Haha, yeah I guess it does, doesn’t it.” Once again, starting to dive deeper into the abyss of pitiful hope and unrequitedness. 

“Describe your perfect day.” He suddenly interjects.

You quirk a brow. “Didn’t I just go?”

“It’s okay, I’ll go for this one too.”

“Alright,” you say, foot tapping on the wooden floor as you look past him and out into the glass window of his living room, “well, I wouldn’t have school of course. And I think it would all depend on how I feel that day. If I was feeling particularly lazy, the day would probably consist of me binge-watching shows in bed while eating a shitton of carbs. And the other case would probably be galavanting around the city or going to an amusement park with friends.”

Jimin listens intently and smiles as you speak, causing you to avoid his stare before pigment threatened to rush to your cheeks, “Both of those scenarios sound really nice. I better be included too.”

You roll your eyes, turning away to hide the grin creeping up your cheeks, “We’ll see.”

He groans, standing up from his spot on the floor and falling onto his couch instead, “My asscheeks hurt.”

Your face contorts into a look of disgust, “And you want me to do what with that information?”

Scoffing lightly, he leans back into the cushions and tilts his head back, “It was a declaration, not a cry for help.”

“Yeah, and it’s the bony ass for me.”

His head perks up. “It’s having a flatter ass than their guy best friend for me.”

Gulping down the sad but unequivocal truth, “It’s kissing up to every teacher’s ass for me.”

His eyes narrow in pure chagrin, “It’s the crying on your teacher’s doorstep for them to round your grade for me.”

“It’s splitting your pants on orientation day for me.”

“Fuck you, people would pay to see this ass! It��s getting a concussion from falling down the main hall stairs for me.”

“For fuck’s sake, I told you that they waxed the floors that day!” You snap back.

“Okay, and who said it was a good idea to walk down three flights of stairs while trying to cram for a midterm? Yeah, exactly no one.” He says incisively, giving you an even bigger urge to push him off of the couch, yet you digress. 

“This could go on for hours.” You heave out.

“Is that the sound of someone giving up I’m hearing?”

“Is that the sound of a midget I’m hearing?”

“But I’m taller than you?!” He screeches petulantly, smacking your shoulder. You burst out into a fit of laughter—toppling onto the wooden floor with pure malice. 

Gasping for air, you attempt to stifle your laughter and regain your breath. “Wow, I’m on a roll today! I deserve another shot.”

He shakes his head, his anger quelling at the sight of your giddiness. “Remind me to not let you drink and play this game.”

You turn over from your side to lay on your back. “This will be the first and the last time I play this game with you.” You say almost immediately—the words involuntarily slipping from your mouth before you could stop it. 

He sinks in his spot on the couch, brows knitting at your comment. “Why?”

Sobriety crashes into you like a colossal wave —your irritation dissipates almost immediately. The exaggerated tone your voice begins to register through your head—as well as the fact that you sounded a lot more disapproving than you intended. 

Groaning at your hindered ability to think and process properly, you attempt to clear the air, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. We just... practically know everything about each other I guess. What else is there to know?”

He hums. “You sure about that?”

What? “Wait what?”

“Nothing,” he chuckles awkwardly, “next question.”

The straightforwardness of the next question causes you to quirk a brow, “How are you, really?”

His eyes widen. “Well, that’s a deep one, isn’t it?”

You smile. “A little.” 

He sighs, a small grin lacing his features, “Hm, how am I,” he affirms, adjusting himself in his spot on the couch, “I feel content with where I am right now, I guess. Things can always be better, but at the same time they could be worse too.”

Your number one defense mechanism as of late has been to constantly tease and make jokes at the poor guy—essentially using him as your own mental punching bag. He went along with it out of the assumption that it was all caused by your stress from school while you knew the true origins of your behavior. 

You smile at his optimism, "Hey, that's always good to hear."

He chuckles, shifting his position on the couch so he could face you directly, "I don't know, maybe it's the new sense of freedom. Or all the amazing people I've gotten to meet and the opportunities that are offered here. Or the fact that I'm still going to the same school as my best friend after all this damn time."

"Chim, don't get sappy on me man." You warn him while pouting exaggeratedly— slumping onto the frame of the couch while he takes a strand of your hair in between his fingers. You bask in the moment, your eyes shutting close. 

"Hey, I'm just being honest! For some reason, it all makes up for the impending student debt and draining lectures and professors that have a superiority complex as fat as their paycheck."

"Too bad their paycheck still isn't as fat as your ass."

An audible gasp coming from the only other person in the room causes your eyes to flutter open.

"Aw," he coos, ruffling the hair atop of your head, "that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all night. Admit it, you love me."

Out of instinct, you opt to stick your tongue at him instead of replying with a witty comeback. You turn away from him before mumbling to yourself, "More than you'll ever know buddy."

"What was that?"

Shit. "Nothing. Next question!"

-

After twenty questions and a whopping 10 empty soju bottles later, you are quite literally about to implode.

Your eyes stare down at the card in front of you—everything that surrounds it is blurry in vision and you can audibly pinpoint the erratic beating of your heart.

The card was practically taunting you, laughing in your face. It was as if there was a sentient being in the universe who was aware of your own subconscious and the not so latent feelings you had for the boy sitting in front of you. Same said being loved to constantly place you in a state of trepidation concerning your current situation—your blood pressure skyrocketing—nearly feeling the muscular pink thing inside of you thrusting itself against your ribcage.

The imminent headache was starting to spread towards your temples and you practically felt like you could feel your brain shifting inside your head at this point. Although you felt groggy, you were certain that your heart was at a rate that is way faster than it should be. And sitting on your legs has caused them to lose all feeling from the tips of your toes all the way up to your kneecaps. One attempt at standing and you would come crashing to the floor in a heartbeat.

The white card with crimson red writing made sure to leave an impact, making you feel the most ridiculed you’ve felt all night which says a lot—leaving your mind in a complete frenzy although you refused to let it be known.

To say you were mad was an understatement. Out of all the times throughout the entirety of this hour and a half that you were playing this game, he decided that now would be the best time to use his 'dig deeper' card.

There it was.

Admit something.

"Okay fine, I was the one who stuck pink hair dye in your shampoo last semester."

"Y/N, did you really think I didn't know? C’mon I know there’s something else in there.”

You scowl, brows furrowing, “Why would I keep something from you?”

“Why are you getting so defensive over this?”

"What the hell is there for me to admit to you?" You snap back in exasperation, the harsh tone of your voice rendering the two of you speechless. 

He averts his gaze, closing his eyes while inhaling a deep sigh. "Ever since we started college, why have you been treating me so differently?"

Your eyes widen in disbelief, stumped. Yet you refuse to wither out of this. 

 "I– are you mad?"

"No. Of course not," he quickly digresses, softening his gaze, "I just noticed after all this time that you've only been acting differently towards me. Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong Jimin. You never have."

His eyes narrow, giving you yet another indecipherable look, "I'm using my 'dig deeper' card." He deadpans.

And so you sat there. Fiddling the card in between your fingers, feigning nonchalance. You were very much on the brink of cracking your facade—your sanity practically crumbling as the minutes ticked by. You didn’t think you’d last this long, to be honest. Yet an hour and a half proved to be way too straining on you in a variety of different ways.

He simply sat there with his hands folded on the table—void of emotion, whistling a familiar top 50s tune you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

You considered shifting your focuses on trying to comprehend the tune—hoping it would ease the concerning state of apprehension you were in. But then you assured yourself that you haven't reached that level of patheticism yet.

Even though you both had probably been sitting in complete silence for about two minutes now —practically anyone else could detect was the crickets chirping outside his apartment, yet the only sound that was filling your eardrums was your own conscience telling you how idiotic you were being.

This was it. There was no point in trying to weasel yourself out of this situation. If you tried, your more than futile attempt could very well end up causing more problems than if you were to go with the latter.

So instead of constantly wracking your brain with witty banter and deceitful ways to gaslight your feelings for the man sitting in front of you, you come to terms with the fact that your time had run out. You internally commend yourself for putting up a good fight, as well as internally become accosted at how immature you were at handling the whole situation.

You sharply inhale through your nose, peering at the man sitting in front of you as his eyes meet your own, "Alright."

He offers you a small yet empathetic smile in return, giving you the tiniest sliver of reassurance. His hand pats the couch cushion next to him, motioning for you to sit down next to him.

You push yourself up from the floor, immediately propping a leg onto the couch to avoid your numb limbs to be the cause of your embarrassment.

You inhale slowly through your nose and out through your mouth. "This is going to sound really absurd. Like more than absurd. Possibly borderline hysterical." No Y/N, why would you say that?

He interjects, placing a hand on your forearm. "I'm beginning to think you're becoming borderline hysterical," he lets out a small chuckle, "slow down Y/N. One thought at a time."

Your jaw is still slack open due to your previous rambling. "I'm sorry, I just—I don't think I've ever felt this anxious… around you at least."

He bites his lip, eyes trailing away from yours as he tries to think of a way to aid you, "Will it help if I turn around?

"Maybe." You reply timidly, smiling to yourself as his back came into view.

“It’ll be pretty funny if we don’t remember this in the morning,” you start off with, “I shouldn’t be saying that either I’m sorry. Stupid alcohol.”

He snickers at your drunken state, it was adorable. “Pretend I’m not here Y/N. Like you’re talking to a wall.” He advises, back still turned. 

You nod although he can’t see you. “Okay. Well, hi Mr. Wall. I’ve been keeping a secret from my best friend for as long as I’ve known him and I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve suppressed it all this time in hopes that it would eventually fade away, and it almost did. No really, it actually almost did. But now it’s back again and all the same feelings came, but like freaking twofold. No, tenfold. No, like a hundred fucking fold.”

Jimin tries excruciatingly hard to stifle his laughter, cupping a hand to his mouth so he wouldn’t move and distract you.

“I’m literally in love with my freaking best friend when I know he doesn’t see me in that light nor will he ever. If he did, we wouldn’t be where we are right now because I am so shitty at hiding my feelings that I am more than certain that I’ve let the truth slip a couple of times.” You say all in one breath.

He slowly detaches his hand from his mouth, eyebrows raising in disbelief in the words you had just said. His body urges him to turn around. Yet you continue to think out loud. So he digresses. 

“Towards the end of high school, I think my feelings started to become more dormant because I had become more concerned over finishing high school and transitioning into college. I was content and I convinced myself that my feelings were fleeting for once.” You begin with, allowing whatever thoughts that you consumed your mind to spill all out for Mr. Wall to hear. 

You sigh, taking a pillow from his couch and squeezing onto it for dear life. “That was until we ended up getting into our top picks and going to the same school. I couldn’t believe it. My stupid head tried to convince me that life had always just paired the two of us up together for some reason. And that maybe, just maybe I had a chance. But whatever I guess. I don’t know.”

A notification causes your eyes to trail to your phone. Really, Professor La, this is not a good time to tell me to finish my research paper. You swipe at the notification, revealing your lock screen—a photo of you and Jimin at an amusement park back at your hometown, sporting matching university hoodies with bright smiles on your faces that were captured mid-laughter.

Setting your phone down, you lean into the couch—letting your head fall into the cushions as your eyelids slowly start to droop shut. “What also didn’t help is how college life just seems to suit him perfectly. He just always looks so happy now. Like yeah, he’s always been a social butterfly. Yet in addition to that he has top notch grades. He charms professors. For fuck’s sake the Dean treats him like a son. His passion, his laughter, his love, his happiness. It’s always been so infectious. But college just made the effect he has on people grow even stronger. I-,” you stammer, pausing breathlessly, “it just looks like he truly belongs here. Like college was just made for him.”

He sits there in a complete stupor—still trying to process all the words that he had just heard. His body is itching to turn around, take you into his arms, whisper soft nothings into your ear. Anythings. Everything. He never wanted you to feel anxious about his feelings for you ever again.  

“Mr. Wall, that was a lot, I’m sorry. But I’m really… really tired.” You utter quietly, a long yawn escaping your lips. You fall asleep. 

Ten seconds pass until Jimin sneaks a glance over his shoulder, scanning your body as he notices your shut eyes and timid grip on his pillow. 

“Y/N?”

You’re unresponsive. 

He grins at the sight. Getting up from his seat, he makes his way toward you—slowly prying the pillow from your grasp as you carefully slides his hands under your body and picks you up from the couch. 

Instinctively, you wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face into his shoulder as he carries you to his bedroom. You are very much still asleep, yet you always had the habit of needing something to hold onto while you were unconscious. 

Kicking the sheets aside, he makes room for you to lie down as he gently places you onto his bed. He quickly scurries to the other side, slipping into the covers himself as he lays down beside you. 

The sudden contact causes you to shift in your sleep—suddenly wrapping an arm around his torso. He lays there, completely stunned at your actions and begins to heavily debate whether he should give into his desires or not. 

The internal conflict lasts about two seconds before he turns to his side—placing his free hand on the small of your back and pulling you into his chest, leaving a small pocket of space in between your two bodies. 

Unknowingly, you close the gap almost immediately—nestling your head into the crook of his neck as your arm that was lazily slung over his torso starts to tighten its hold around his body. 

His arm slings over your unconscious form, his hands making his way to your back as he basks in the foreign feeling, being this close in proximity to you. It was different. Yet it almost felt like it was where he belonged. And he was scared because he didn’t want it to end. 

While gently placing his chin on the top of your head, he begins to stroke your hair as fatigue starts to wash over him as well. “Things will make sense soon Y/N, I swear.”

He retracts, craning his neck in an attempt to see your sleeping form. His attempt proves to be futile when an indecipherable groan leaves your lips—brows knitting slightly and lips curling downward from the sudden lack of warmth. 

His soft laughter fills the room as he obliges—carefully pressing a small kiss to your forehead before reverting back to his original position. 

“For now, just know that I love you too.”

-

The intolerable throbbing sensation in your temples caused you to stir in your sleep.

The only events you could recall from last night was being at Jimin’s apartment, playing that stupid card game, and downing the most soju you’ve ever had in one sitting.

It only occurs to you that you’re wrapped in someone’s arms when you open your eyes and the only thing in your periphery is a firm chest, steadily heaving each time they take a breath.

Your legs were messily entangled with theirs—arms slung around each other’s torsos as you felt a strange yet dense weight on the top of your head.

Carefully, you try to pry yourself from their grasp albeit your haphazard state of mind. You pull back ever so slightly, making sure not to wake them up in the process, discovering that the excess weight was actually their chin that had been resting on top of your head. Their fingers were still twined in your hair as you pulled back, making you freeze in your spot. Curious, you tilt your head, peering upwards and catching a glimpse of their face.

The boy is undoubtedly still asleep. Eyes shut and ample lips slightly parted. Your timid movement, to your luck, which hadn’t phased him in the slightest, as he was unperceptive and nearly immobile at this point. 

If it weren't for your abhorrent headache and the even more abhorrent symptoms that had rooted from your hangover, it would be an understatement to say that you would be freaking out right about now.  In reality,

You'd be in a complete state of manic.

Because of the fact that your body was paying for the despicable amount of alcohol you had decided to consume the night before, an influx of any intense emotion would cause your body to exacerbate itself even more. And the last thing you needed was to puke all over the poor guy after sleeping together for the first time.

While you were physically experiencing withdrawals, your mind felt slightly inebriated nonetheless. You weren't quite sure if it was from last night's affluence of liquor or the way everything's starting to come back to you. And the longer your eyes linger on the boy's face, the clearer everything starts to become. From the foolish banter to your childish outbursts leading up to your intoxicated yet conscientious confession.

You left your heart all out for him to witness last night, and now the only thing you could do is wait for a response.

Taking a deep sigh, you retreat back to his body—deciding not to ponder any longer on the matter and wait until you had felt physically capable of doing so. 

-

Steaming hot streams of water splash against his back. He stands under the shower head while massaging soap into his hair, replaying the events that had happened last night on loop. 

The words that left your mouth were engraved into his mind as they involuntarily kept replaying over and over again—particularly your inebriated confession, which kept garnering the same reaction of both hope and frustration within him. 

The solution should be simple. In reality it is, yet he still felt so internally scattered. 

“—he doesn’t see me in that light nor will he ever...”

That was the singular line that he just couldn’t wrap his head around. There was never a moment where he would hesitate to drop everything he was doing to be there for you and make sure you were okay. 

Yes, he knew that you two were best friends and that it was natural. But what best friend drives across town at 2am because you had the stomach flu and your parents were out of town. Keep in mind it was his mom’s birthday that day. 

What best friend ditches their prom date when yours had stood you up. Or coax the drama teacher into giving you the lead in the school play because he saw the ways your eyes glimmered when you saw the words ‘High School Musical’. And damn, weren’t you justthe greatest Gabriella he’s ever seen.

Little did you know that in reality, he always wanted you to be the Gabriella to his Troy, and not Chad. Yet you seemed to have believed the latter all along. 

But in the end, what the hell kind of best friend remains oblivious to the fact that for years, past exes have consistently broken up with him for the same reason.

“Your heart belongs to someone else.”

Or alternatively,

“I’m not the right person for you.”

Straight A’s don’t mean shit when no teacher has ever taught him how to realize that he was irrevocably in love with his best friend, and that she had always, almost candidly, felt the same way.

He shuts his eyes tightly, hands aggressively running through his soaked hair as he comes to a conclusion. 

Being strangers could never be an option. Being friends, or moreso, best friends was fine. But that’s it. It was just fine. It was normalcy. It has been for years.

And that just wasn’t going to cut it for him anymore.

-

Your arm traces along the fabric of the bedsheets, alerting you that there was a void of space and lack of warmth from the other side of the bed. Your eyes spring open to see that there was no one laying beside you. 

A long yawn escapes your lips as you stretch your limbs, body sprawling all over the bed before selfishly tugging the sheets all to yourself. 

Soft hissing from which you assume was coming from his shower was confirmed to be true when your eyes spot the closed bathroom door and the small beam of light that was emitting from it. 

A small, folded piece of paper that was taking up the space of where his head was resting was where your eyes shift to next. 

y/n <3

You knit your brows together, knowing that it was most likely put there strategically rather than a piece of trash that had slipped out of his pocket.

It was addressed to you after all and so you grab it while making a futile attempt to rub the sleep out of your eyes. Your throbbing headache and churning insides had significantly died down. Regardless of your recovery time you internally make a promise to yourself to never get this wasted ever again. The chances of you sticking to it?  Highly debatable considering the current situation you’re in. 

Blinking rapidly, you finally are able to decipher whatever is written onto the paper. And it says:

hi y/n, i can already tell by the looks that you’re giving me that you already despise this game and im sorry. all i wanna say is that by the time you read this, i hope that we remain close as ever even though what i plan on saying tonight could obliterate all of that. i wanted to play this game bc i know we’re both hiding stuff from each other and it’s about time we get it out. at least for me. whatever happens, i love you. always will. 

- chim :)

EDIT: for fuck’s sake y/n i’m FUCKING IN LOVE WITH YOU TOO I WAS SUPPOSED TO CONFESS TO U FIRST LOSER NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND T-T

-

“Finally awake?” You hear a familiar voice call out. He walks out of the bathroom, fully clothed (to your dismay) while drying his hair with a towel, eyes immediately softening as they connect with yours. 

You swallow down your nerves, “Yeah, I’ve been.”

He walks over to the edge of the bed, eyes shifting to the piece of paper in your hand before reverting his focus back to your face, “What are you reading there?” 

“I don’t know,” you huff, feigning ignorance, “why don’t you tell me.”

A soft chortle leaves his lips as he throws the towel to the side, smiling as wide as ever as he jumps onto the vacant spot on his bed right next to you.

Propping himself up, he sits against the headboard, letting out a content sigh before looking down at you once more. “Come here.” He says, reaching his arms out in hopes that you’d fill the idle gap.

And you do, shaking the sheets off of your body as you place yourself in his arms, freshly revelling in the comfort. You wrap your arms snugly around his waist, letting your head rest on his chest while he clutches onto you tightly. 

“I’m sorry for pushing the subject so hard onto you last night.” He starts off with, “I guess I just never fathomed the fact that you could return the feeling, and I was too stubborn to even admit it to you in the first place.” He expresses while stroking your back,  “I didn’t mean to confront you so harshly, it’s unlike me, and I’m really sorry about it Y/N.”

“Do you think I’m mad about that Jimin?” You inquire, just barely above a whisper.

He pulls back slightly, peering down at you, “Are you?”

“Of course not. I should be the one apologizing anyways for being even more stubborn and resorting to such childish ways.” You disclose whilst mentally beating yourself up.

“Hey, there’s no use in beating ourselves up over it. Look where we are now.” 

“Where exactly are we Jimin?” You inquire timidly, head still resting on his chest. 

His fingers brush over the base of your chin, gently tilting your head up until your eyes found his. 

“Y/N, it’s honestly hard for me to formulate the words but all I know is that I think I’m in love with you. And I think I have been for a long time, no scratch that, I have been for a long time,” he says all in one breath, making you smile at how high-strung he was acting. 

The grin remains plastered onto your face, “I’m not drunk still right because did I just hear you say that you’ve been in love with me?”

“Y/N…” he whines, jutting out his bottom lip as he drags out the last syllable of your name.

You can’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Go on please.” 

He bites his lip, “I honestly had a whole speech prepared in the shower but I forgot all of it.”

“It’s alright, I barely remember half the stuff I spewed out last night,” you chortle.

He chuckles, “Well, if you were wondering, you’re cute as fuck when you’re piss drunk.”

The compliment makes your breath hitch in your throat—your heart starting to pick up speed dangerously quick.

A few seconds pass, allowing you to slightly gain back some of your composure, “Why did you um– I mean– when do you think you fell in love with me?” You stutter. 

“I was actually trying to figure that out too,” he starts, “in the shower. Well, this is going to sound dumb,” he admits, sharply exhaling out of his nose, “But do you remember when we went on a field trip to that amusement park in 8th grade? Around halloween time.”

“I think so… but what about it?”

He nods. “I still remember that night so vividly for some reason,” he pauses, collecting his thoughts, “There were haunted houses all over the park. And they were all different themes. And I think the first one we went into together was—”

“The clown one.” You deadpan. 

“Yeah!” He beams, laughing at the way you shudder after your words, “Anyways, you were walking behind me with your hands on my shoulders, but you had a razor grip and I thought my arms were going to fall off, so I made you walk next to me instead. We had our arms interlocked and you were gripping onto me so closely and you had your head buried in my shoulder the whole time.” He explains, the smile never ceasing to leave his lips.

You don’t take his eyes off of him���smiling sweetly as he explains the retrospective moment that you never knew had held so much significance to him.

“All of a sudden, you grabbed my hand, and honestly, I think that was the scariest part of the whole experience,” he admits, chuckling softly. 

“But then I intertwined fingers with you. And I liked it. Thinking about it now, I probably loved it. It felt almost borderline euphoric. Like as if I was riding a high, and when we detached hands, it felt like there was just something missing. And I guess I never really put the pieces together because it just became a normal thing after that. And when our skinship kept evolving from there, I just kept dismissing it over and over again. Like as if that feeling was a normal thing to happen between friends, because I genuinely thought it was. Yeah, I think that’s the moment I pretty much fell in love with you.” He finishes, giving you a close-mouthed smile while he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

Astounded was an understatement. You couldn’t believe that you both had been suppressing these feelings for so long. Yet somehow, this whole confession didn’t seem out of place or time, it was as if everything that had happened beforehand had led up to this very moment. 

“Wow, Jimin I– I don’t know what to say.” You reply.

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to say anything Y/N. I’m sorry for making you wait for so long, after all.”

You interject, “Please don’t say sorry, I think we were definitely both in the wrong here.”

He smiles, except this time his eyes crinkle up all the way, “Alright, but can you at least let me make it up to you?”

“I’m listening.” You jokingly reply.

“Let’s go on a date,” he declares brazenly, “but tonight, after we’ve recovered from our hangovers and what not.”

The corners of your lips upturn so high that your cheekbones sting, “Jimin, I’d love to–”

“Ah, wait! I’m not done.” He cuts you off, head inching forward, leaning in so close that you could feel his breath tickle your ear and the heat rushing up to your cheeks. 

“And at the very end of the night, I’ll make certain that you won’t be able to walk normally by tomorrow.” He whispers into your ear— voice low and full of lust.

Shivers run through your body as it feels like all the wind had just gotten knocked out of you. Yeah, this was definitely worth the wait.

-

-

-

MASTERLIST ; SEQUEL

[scotianostra]

On May 27th 1661, Presbyterian lord Archibald Campbell, the first Marquess of Argyll, lost his head at Edinburgh.

You have no doubt read much of James Graham, Marquess of Montrose on here, well Argyll was his arch enemy, once a privy councillor to King Charles I, "Red Argyll" had been in the 1640s a great champion of Scottish national liberty and a leader of the Presbyterians in the many sided war that tore apart the both Scotland and England.

Scotland’s Presbyterians who opposed favoured a bottom up structure in church affairs as opposed to the crown-controlled selection of bishops that’s known as Episcopacy— made an initial alliance with English Parliamentarians Charles I. And in Scotland’s civil war in the mid-1640s, Argyll’s Presbyterians defeated Monstrose's royalists, which led to Graham's execution,I posted about his last week.

Argyll was another who played both sides of the divide,always with an eye to backing the winning horse, after supporting the Covenanter-Parliamentary cause throughout much of the 1640s, after the execution of Charles lst, Archibald Campbell swung his support behind his heir and he invited the young man to Scotland. Argyll hoped that he would sign the Covenant to gain the Scottish throne. At the coronation at Scone, ( I touched upon this yesterday in my post on Dunnottar,) Argyll was the man who placed the crown on Charles’ head. No doubt he anticipated rewards for himself and the Campbell family, and there were even rumours that the king would marry Argyll’s own daughter.

Charles II planned to invade England and Argyll retreated to Inveraray, but again changing sides to join Cromwell. Charles would never forgive him, and, to make things worse, Argyll’s son Lorne became a committed Royalist. At Inveraray, Argyll tried to remove himself from the conflict and lived quietly but he was in deep financial trouble because of the expenses of his military efforts and was imprisoned for debt for some time.

When Charles II was restored to the English throne in 1660 despite being advised against it, Argyll travelled to London to seek reconciliation with the king. Charles was quick to have him arrested and sent to the Tower before he was transported to Edinburgh for trial as a traitor. There were various charges of treason against Argyll, He was acquitted of complicity in the death of Charles I, again being in the right place at the right time when Leslie handed him over to the Roundheads, however most of the charges were satisfactorily answered and new evidence that he had collaborated with Cromwell led to the sentence of forfeiture of his titles and lands, and execution. His enemies wanted him dead as soon as possible, and he was executed by the “Maiden” at Edinburgh Tollbooth. Campbell's head was fixed to the same spike which had borne the head of his old enemy the Marquess of Montrose 11 years before.

Archibald Campbell faced death calmly and with courage, impressing everyone. The Covenanters declared him a martyr and his final speech, despite efforts to suppress it, was printed and widely circulated. Part of it inscribed on his memorial in St Gile's " I had the honour to set the crown on the King's head, and now he hastens me to a better crown than his own. " which was erected in 1895.

His body was eventually taken to Kilmun for burial, and some time later his son, the 9th Earl of Argyll, claimed his head to take it there as well. When restoration work to the mausoleum took place in the 1890s, in a velvet covered coffin, a skull was found which showed evidence that it may have belonged to the first and only Marquess of Argyll

You need to read 'Montrose' by John Buchan to realise the conniving, horrible man the Archibald was. Argyll didn't slaughter the prisoners at Philiphaugh, Leslie did. Just as he Slaughtered the Lamonts and Montrose' Irish followers at Newark castle. Argyll was a manipulator and dissembler. Always able to leave the scene and never able to overcome his envy of a bright young man, chivalrous and clever Montrose, he eventually paid the price for his double dealing.

[gingerbreadbooks2020]

Bookblr post #48

“I’m glad I don’t have to wait to read the second book of the series” he said, before not reading the second book of the series.

[Image descs: Left image: Text reading “My Favourite Murder” (logo of the podcast) above author names “Karen Kilgariff & Georgia Hardstark” in pink, typewriter font. Below is the subtitle, ‘A dual memoir by the creators of the #1 hit podcast’. In the bottom third is the title, “Stay Sexy & Don’t Get Murdered’ in white font, ‘The definite how-to guide’ circled in pink sitting beside.

Middle image: Art by Megan Lara of the podcasters and authors, both sitting atop stools facing each other. Left is Karen, right is Georgia. Behind is an altar-looking piece, with the title inscribed. By their feet is a siamese cat - Elvis - and a small pile of books. At the base of the art is the chapter title, ‘Let’s Sit Crooked & Talk Straight’.

Right image: Art by Danyell Adams; Image of a denim back pocket, with the chapter title - and popular catchphrase of the podcast - “Fuck Politeness” sewn in calligraphy-style text. These images are my own.]

It’s been a little while, but I’m here with an update! Eldest, the sequel to Eragon, has been sitting by my bed, ready to read, and I simply put it off, something I’m unfortunately great at.

Feeling in the mood to read but not in the mood for a fantasy book, I picked up Stay Sexy & Don’t Get Murdered, the joint auto-biography of Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark who, among many other things in their lives, host the podcast My Favourite Murder.

I fell in love with the podcast back at the beginning of Corona. College was over, work was shut, I was at home with nothing to do while my father and brother all continued to work. My mother was stuck at home, considered high-risk. It was during the weekly shopping trips that I delved into the podcast, half-thinking it would be garbage and not live up to my expectations.

Cut to a year and a half later, I’m well and truly hooked. And this book is only making me fall deeper into the rabbit hole.

The introductory chapter, Let’s Sit Crooked & Talk Straight, written by Karen, was a lighthearted beginning to the book, detailing the beginning of their journey into the podcast. As I’m reading, I can hear Karen talking. It’s comfortable, it’s familiar. It’s like talking to a friend. Even from the introduction, I can tell this isn’t going to be like some fact-filled biography about someone’s life.

In the first chapter, Fuck Politeness, Georgia speaks about being raised the way most women are: to be polite, to smile through even the worst situations. She opens up about her struggle with an eating disorder, the time she missed red flags and didn’t fuck politeness, and how she used that to learn and how to holster ‘fuck politeness’ as a weapon (a metaphor I’m taking from the book). She talks about how being polite is ingrained in so many people who are, or who were raised as, young women. About how it’s not something you can just ignore straight away, it’s something you have to unlearn slowly, but that it’s something we need to do, and that its okay and right to do. Reading it hit close to home, as did several other things she discussed in the chapter.

Karen’s input for the chapter talks about her mum, Pat, who was the essence of ‘fuck politeness’. Karen uses the chapter to tell us about her amazing mother, delving into her battle with Alzeihmer’s and how it affected the family. It’s one of those things that affects more families than you think, and having insight into such a hard-hitting time for those involved is indescribable. It might be that I understand, kind of. When Karen talks about her mum in the later stages, I think of my nan being the same way, doing the same thing. I’m not even necessarily close with her, but it’s a harsh and relatable reality. I was near tears at the end of the chapter.

Thanks for reading,

- Gingerbread ♤

[microcosme11]

Beethoven’s Symphony #3 was written for Napoleon but Beethoven got a little angry

Beethoven originally dedicated the third symphony to Napoleon Bonaparte, who he believed embodied the democratic and anti-monarchical ideals of the French Revolution [......] the politically idealistic Beethoven titled the work "Buonaparte". Later, about the composer's response to Napoleon having proclaimed himself Emperor of the French (14 May 1804), Beethoven's secretary, Ferdinand Ries said that:

In writing this symphony, Beethoven had been thinking of Buonaparte, but Buonaparte while he was First Consul. At that time Beethoven had the highest esteem for him, and compared him to the greatest consuls of Ancient Rome. Not only I, but many of Beethoven's closer friends, saw this symphony on his table, beautifully copied in manuscript, with the word "Buonaparte" inscribed at the very top of the title-page and "Ludwig van Beethoven" at the very bottom ... I was the first to tell him the news that Buonaparte had declared himself Emperor, whereupon he broke into a rage and exclaimed, "So he is no more than a common mortal! Now, too, he will tread under foot all the rights of Man, indulge only his ambition; now he will think himself superior to all men, become a tyrant!" Beethoven went to the table, seized the top of the title-page, tore it in half and threw it on the floor. The page had to be recopied, and it was only now that the symphony received the title Sinfonia eroica.

An extant copy of the score bears two scratched-out, hand-written subtitles; [...]  Three months after retracting his initial Napoleonic dedication of the symphony, Beethoven informed his music publisher that "The title of the symphony is really Bonaparte". In 1806, the score was published under the Italian title Sinfonia Eroica ... composta per festeggiare il sovvenire di un grande Uomo ("Heroic Symphony, Composed to celebrate the memory of a great man"). 

— wikipedia

[pagesofangels]

A Peek Into My Novel's Re-Write

This is the first time in years I've posted original writing to be sampled online. Wow, that makes me feel old. This is one of several possible openings to my fantasy novel I have, and this snippet is about 1,200 words. @mrdraws , because they wanted to read a bit of my idea (THANK YOU!!). Some info for context:

Working Title: The Seraph's Mask

Progress: 1st re-write on hiatus, wrote first iteration in 2014/15.

My Thoughts: I feel this story has potential, but I don't know where it is or what exactly is holding me back from fleshing out the plot.

Working Summary: A community of Renaissance thinkers live in hiding from a society that forbids their "witchcraft" activities.

Viletta had been to the seaside twice in her life, but in her memory the water wasn’t as vast as the flowing waves of leaves she could see. Endless treetops greeted her as she stood atop the infirmary’s roof. The lightness in her head sank to the bottoms of her feet, and she felt like she was already suspended in mid-air. Perhaps throwing herself from the rooftop wasn’t the brightest idea, but where else could she throw herself from? Larkburne only had so many high places.

The copper hoops were as tight as they could be around her arms, and the cloth that hung from their connecting wires billowed behind her in the wind. Her prototype had to be tested some way, why not this way?

There were, in fact, many reasons why not...but Viletta was choosing to ignore them.

She was also choosing not to stand on the edge of the shingles and stare down. She knew what she’d see: the unforgiving cobblestone road below, lined with steep roofs that wouldn’t be too comfortable to collide with. There would also be the barrels in front of the meat merchant’s home, and the wooden cart that had been left overnight in the road.

If the prototype didn’t fail her, Viletta could expect her creation to hold her aloft for a few seconds. Or, at the very, least slow her fall. If every part of it decided to die as soon as she left the roof, she could very well be following it.

What was experimentation without some form of risk? Safe, but no strong results ever came from that.

Tightening the quake from her muscles, Viletta steadied her breath as much as possible. Before her mind could paralyze her, she sprinted forward with all her might and leapt from the edge of the rooftop. The cloth membrane attached to her arms clapped as it filled with air. It went taught for one thrilling instant, then snapped free of the wires.

#

Viletta sat on the edge of a cot in the infirmary, wincing and hissing through her teeth as Yla inspected her inflamed forearm.

“You were right,” Yla said. “You’ve shattered it.”

“Damn.”

“Hey, language,” Yla teased as she rose from her stool. “It could have been your neck.”

“Then next time I’ll try and fall legs-first,” Viletta said with a grin. Her rough voice was jarring in the stagnant air, like metal scraping over stone. It was jarring to hear in any environment, save for the workshop.

Yla retrieved a long strip of linen from the cabinet mounted to the wall. “Does Torsten know you were doing something so foolish?”

“Of course, who do you think suggested I test the prototype?” Viletta glanced out the wavy glass of the window and saw the broken remains of her first working prototype: a device lovingly referred to as the Avis. The kinked copper supports and torn canvas of the artificial set of wings sat in the square, where Viletta had managed to land -- or crash, rather.

Yla followed her gaze out the window and sighed as she began bandaging Viletta’s arm with a wooden splint. “I don’t know who put you up to this, but I’d love a chance to smack the stupid out of them.”

“I volunteered, remember?” Viletta saw that Yla’s brow was wrinkled, her lips pressed tightly together. “What’s the matter? I’m only going to be doing this until the device is finished. I get the broken bones so the one who goes doesn’t have to.”

“It’s...it’s just a big undertaking is all.” Yla secured Viletta’s arm in a sling after several layers of bandages were applied. “Alright, keep that wrapped for a few weeks. I’ll keep an eye on it to make sure it heals right.”

Viletta hoisted herself from the edge of the cot, her taller stature obvious when compared to Yla’s smaller, willowy frame. With Viletta’s dominant hand immobile, Yla took it upon herself to walk her home. It was a slow day in the infirmary, she claimed, no one would miss her for an hour or two.

“So, is Torsten home,” Yla asked while the two of them entered the square, “or will you need me to stay a while?”

“He should still be in the workshop,” Viletta said, “but I wouldn’t mind you staying for a bit.” She gave her little friend a grin.“ I hardly see you anymore, you know?”

Yla stopped to tug on the Avis. It was, by the looks of it, a heavier device than she had anticipated. Just because it was modeled after a bird didn’t mean it was hollow-boned. “I know,” she huffed, managing to drag the broken device a few feet.

Viletta’s strides were longer, so she ended up taking a few steps before stopping to watch Yla lumber along with the tangle of metal. “Are you sure you don’t want help?”

“I’m sure,” Yla said. “Just because you miss me doesn’t mean you need to start getting hurt to see me, alright?”

A small cloud of dust followed them as Yla continued dragging the Avis down a narrow game trail. It wasn’t a very far walk outside the typical cluster of houses and public buildings of the square to the glen where Torsten’s metalworking shop was. Somewhere along the path a green clearing opened to an expanse of wild flowers, only with small spaces here and there where the ground appeared to have been disturbed in the past. Conspicuous stones of varying sizes were scattered among the white daisies and yellow dandelions. Viletta stopped briefly and looked over the small field. Yla did the same. After a moment of silence, Yla continued down the path and patted Viletta’s back to encourage her to do the same.

“No, wait,” Viletta insisted. “I want to see them.”

“What for?”

“Just because. It’s been a while.”

Viletta saw Yla look away as she turned her head, and she knew exactly what she’d been staring at. The pair had known each other for the last nine years, but Viletta’s scar was still hard not to notice. It wasn’t anything she took offense to. The band of thick, white scar tissue ran like a shackle around her throat. Clumps of vocal chords had either been severed or scarred. Her voice would forever be affected, but she knew just how fortunate she was to have a voice still...or even be alive to this day.

Yla watched the ground. “Want me to wait?”

“Yeah,” Viletta said, heading into the clearing. “I won’t be long.”

Stepping around the other stones, she managed to spot the two angled rocks of granite close to the edge of the tree line. She hadn’t visited them in almost five years, but she still tried to find them while going to and from the house she now called her home every day.

A trail of crushed flowers followed her footsteps as she approached the gravesites. There were no names inscribed, not on any of the stones. With a population so small, Larkburne remembered where its dead were buried. It wasn’t up to Larkburne to remember these two graves, though. That was Viletta’s responsibility. At least, she saw it as her responsibility. They were her big brothers, after all.

“Hey,” was the quiet word Viletta uttered as she stood in front of the stones. She didn’t say anything else.