#which has imbued me with the desire to fix him by any means necessary. me. shapiro. locked room. no weapons. lubrication. fact checker.

[vamptastic]

cant watch anything with ben shapiro in it partially because his gay ass pisses me off and partially because i am psychosexually obsessed with him and see him as a sort of evil shadow self

[crystalelemental]

heavenlyfury replied to your post “Another merge project complete, and this time, we have the illustrious...”

An impressive unit, and what a character! My issue with Edelgard is, as much as her goals are noble and understable, her actions are just... Very unreasonable? Like she could have done things very differently in order to get what she wanted, and I simply cannot fathom why she thought Those who slithered in the dark were better allies than the church. Like, you don't trust Rhea, I get it.

But did she expect to wage war on the entire continent, basically alone (without diplomatically support), before taking on an enemy that has NUKES? Like those priorities are all kinds of wrong! But I still kinda love her intensity and the ambition, the idea of making her a different kind of protagonist. Anyways, congrats again!

Thank you.  Edelgard is indeed pretty huge as a unit.  Anyway, the short version of this is “no one’s wrong for having issues with Edelgard and her approach,” but I do have a lot to add in here.

I’m going to try going through this in order, but I’m building this as I go so bear with me.

What was her alternative?  On the one hand, we know from experience that Rhea doesn’t want to lead, and passes the torch off to Byleth immediately.  That could’ve happened in the near future for the CF route as well, even without Edelgard instigating war.  But how would she know that?  Edelgard has no way of knowing, or believing, that Rhea would cede power.  She’s also got her own experience seeing her family’s power usurped by the nobility, who then immediately abused that power, and resulted in her and countless others being tortured for crest research.  From her own experiences, it makes sense that she’s not willing to wait, and believes no one would accept her proposal if she were peaceful.  And in that last part, she’s...kinda right.  Rhea would cede her power to Byleth, sure, but she wouldn’t be willing to undermine the system she established to maintain peace and safety for herself.

Diplomacy sounds good, and is always the preference, but from Edelgard’s experience and point of view, she’s seen how awful the nobility is, how awful the system Rhea created is, and has seen how hard she cracks down on anyone who goes against that.  Lonato’s little rebellion is immediately and violently suppressed, getting the innocents under him caught up in it as well.  Hell, his son.  Allegedly, he was executed for participating in a conspiracy to assassinate Rhea.  Which directly mirrors something that happens after we beat Lonato: we find that document about a plan to assassinate her.  But that turned out to be nothing, everyone saw right through it and identified that there was an alternate goal.  Everyone...except Rhea and those working in the church.  So how likely was it that Lonato’s son was actually going to do anything of the sort?  Was his execution just?  Was the execution of those in the Western Church just, considering they didn’t do anything particularly violent, they just used an opportunity to break into the vault and attempt stealing a hidden relic.  Rhea may not be directly violent and out burning villages and slaughtering innocents for funsies.  But she’s not exactly merciful, and will go hard against anyone who opposes what she upholds as necessity.  Why would Edelgard assume diplomacy would work?  Wouldn’t trying to be diplomatic by undermining the teachings of Seiros to suggest an alternative get her branded a heretic, and have the entire might of the church against her?  At best, she’d lose her chance at returning power to the throne, and the corrupt nobles who allowed her family to be tortured and decimated maintain their status.  At worst, she could be executed for the crime of going against the church on top of that.  We don’t know for sure, we don’t see any of that play out, but from Edelgard’s perspective, they’re not likely to respond, and giving them that advance warning lets them prepare, and the Church is still the seat of power in Fodlan.

Which brings us to the Agarthans.  Yes, Edelgard siding with them seems incredibly stupid.  And it is infuriating, knowing that what happened to her was directly their fault.  Which is something she’s aware of, mind.  The Crimson Flower route makes clear that they don’t trust the Agarthans at all, it’s a temporary alliance to face off against a more threatening foe.  Which...honestly, is fair.  Aside from the fact that the Church has the strongest standing army, there’s Rhea to deal with.  In Verdant Wind and Silver Snow, we see Rhea, in dragon form, caught in the blast range of TWO of those nukes, and she doesn’t die.  That should express the level of discrepancy between the power of a dragon, and the power the Agarthans have.  It took two nukes to injure her.  What are general human tactics supposed to do against that?  Against not just the human forces among her ranks, but also the golems she has under her command?  Their power is, in fact, a necessity to face off against this combined power.  Though I will fully admit that they could’ve done a better job of having the Agarthans directly involved in the fights.

As for why is she still willing to accept that help, despite them being the most directly responsible...ultimately it comes down to seeing beyond herself.  Yes, the Agarthans are a problem.  They are the most directly responsible for her suffering, Lysithea’s suffering, and are the most direct cause of bloodshed in the narrative.  But consider.  The Agarthans’ crest research is something that’s accepted by the nobles in the empire.  It’s not like they didn’t know what was up.  And society at large values crests so significantly, that the idea of being able to imbue others with that power, and creating people with two crests as weapons, is enticing.  The Agarthans are directly responsible, but the nobility is indirectly complicit in atrocities for their own gain, while the church created the system that places value on the kind of work and ambitions they have.  Crests are important, controlling crests and their power is the basis of society.  You have to beat that system, which Rhea is the head of.  And consider that when Arianrhod was nuked in CF, Edelgard is legitimately surprised.  She likely didn’t know the Agarthans had that kind of firepower, which contextualizes a lot.  Rhea’s a huge dragon, who even the Agarthans are scared of despite their advanced technology.  But their advanced technology is mostly duplications of the divine weapons, which means their power is roughly equivalent to yours.  One is a massive threat well above your level of power, and the other is roughly equivalent.  You want both dead, but the equivalent foe is willing to back you to take on the much stronger one.  You gonna say no?

Anyway, let’s say Edelgard did address the Agarthans first.  Just broke in and cracked Thales’ skull open with Aymr and took a shit right on his floor.  What then?  You took out those responsible for the direct application of atrocities, but the system that permitted it is still in play, run by a super powerful being you can’t defeat.  Consider what happened with Miklan; effectively disowned solely for not having a crest, and driven to what he wound up doing.  He was a bastard because of the environment he grew up in.  The system as a whole breeds the kind of resentment and power-seeking ambition that Miklan displays.  So if she does kill off the Agarthans right away, but then can’t take out Rhea...what did that accomplish?  Temporary reprieve?  Because the system still permits for people to perform blood treatments, and implants the desire to do so, because it values crests and their power above human life.  You’re not getting to the source of the issue any other way.

Not to get too political on main, but it’s kinda like what we’ve got going on in the US right now.  People are recognizing that it’s the entire system that’s the problem.   The system is corrupt to the point it produces these problems by design.  Simply firing a few officers won’t fix police brutality, racial sensitivity trainings won’t fix inherent discrimination in the system, etc.  The system has to go.  And trying to address it around the direct issue with these calls of “just go out and vote in people who will fix it!” isn’t sufficient.  A changing of the guard in the same system will yield the same results.  The system of nobility and how it’s determined is the problem in this scenario.  Changing out who the nobles are isn’t going to fix it, you have to dismantle the concept of nobility and create a new system in its place to avoid this just happening again.  That’s the crux of Edelgard’s motivation.

I think people get annoyed with the Agarthans because they consider her motivation a personal one.  And to a degree, it is.  She was directly harmed by their actions, and by the system that permitted their actions, and of course must have personal feelings regarding that matter.  But Edelgard is someone who looks beyond herself and her immediate pain to look at what is necessary to accomplish a broader goal.  It goes so far that she’s willing to work with the people who caused her harm, if it means preventing harm to others by dismantling the system.

The real question is whether the outcome she hopes for is realistic.  She’s essentially creating a single locus of power, just like Rhea did, and hinging all of the future on that locus of power doing the right thing and continuing her work.  Because she doesn’t stay in power either, she steps down.  All it would take is one person gaining that same level of power, but having completely different views, to undermine everything she’s done.  Not to mention her goal seems to be creation of a meritocracy, which sounds great, but plenty of places in the world right now say they have that and how well is that going?  Merit is often determined by experiences, which in turn is directly influenced by wealth.  While the concept of “nobility” may be erased, unless that includes redistribution of wealth and resources for the common good, people who were once nobility still have an advantage and will remain on top.  I mean, god, look at Ferdinand’s suggestion of free public schooling as a means of determining merit for those who should lead society in political life.  How’s that working out now?  The US education system’s sure doing great with making sure things are equitable because it’s free.  There are a lot of factors to consider, and Edelgard’s current assessment of where to go once she wins isn’t fully formed, which means whatever system she creates is likely to be imperfect as well.  Not to mention a system built on a mountain of corpses might have some moral quandaries to wrestle with.  But if the alternative is keeping the current system because “She doesn’t have a better idea,” then I’d say she was right to act.  You can’t let something awful continue just because you can’t fix every problem at once.  Something needed to be done, and someone needed to take that first step toward true change.  Edelgard was willing to be the one to take that step.  So while there may be problems to her approach, problems which she openly acknowledges and identifies, I think it’s better that she’s willing to go forward with a plan to enact change and try something, instead of just sitting still, letting things continue, and doing nothing but “sending thoughts and prayers.”  Sometimes there is no good solution, and you can’t just sit around theory crafting until you’re certain it’s going to work.  Sometimes you just have to act and do your best to get the best outcome.  And that’s what Edelgard does.  And I love it.

[arinaco]

The story of Pidge or Dark Youth as the main character

Translated and edited by @Nadezhda932 

First warning: Plance

Second warning: before reading this meta, I strongly advise you to read the previous metas about Lance and Pidge. Because I won’t repeat the thoughts expressed there, but I will refer to them.

Not so long ago (at the time of writing), a 200th Let’s Voltron podcast took place, where the voicers gathered together and remembered the glorious past when they voiced the series together. And Bex – the voice of Pidge – remembered Plance and compared it to a wonderful little garden. Naturally, this led to the beginning of the discussion, where we analyzed the characters and their interaction with each other. And the idea came up to try to pull the Pidge storyline on Heroine’s Journey. Well, I mean to try to check whether there are those necessary components in her story that allow us to say that yes, this is the real Heroine’s Journey. And, to my pleasure, I suddenly realized that the story arc of Pidge really suits these requirements, and it’s even more interesting in its nuances than the Journey of Allura. Why? Because Allura has a classic story – a girl must become more confident in herself, go against society, save her prince, defeat the evil queen, etc.. Pidge… her situation is the opposite. And I’ll try to explain why.

I’ll begin by describing how the attempt to “pull” the story into the stages of the journey actually takes place. To do this, you need to determine that the storyline of the character doesn’t consist of separate episodes, but has a single common outline that runs through the series, and find several important components in this outline:

A) The drawback of the main character, preventing her from gaining inner balance and harmony;

B) The lowest point of the Journey. The moment when the heroine realizes this shortcoming and begins her work to fix it.

These two things also make it possible to determine what becomes an imaginary reward for a heroine and what becomes a real reward, and thus we begin to perceive individual scenes with the heroine as a single construct – a story about self-digging, which is the Heroine’s Journey.

And the main drawback of Pidge is not only her egoism, because there are a lot of happy egoists in life. The main disadvantage of Pidge is the zero ability for social interaction that developed as a result of this egoism.

As well as an absolute lack of understanding of what is “criminal liability”.

The Holts adored their daughter with blind love, were proud of her mind and indulged in everything, and thereby served her very evil service, because the parents should not only love their child, they should prepare the child for adulthood and set the right moral compass. And, alas, Pidge has serious problems with this. In the series, she appears as a brilliant teenager, but at the same time lagging behind in social development. Not because she’s mentally ill, but because she grew up in an environment where that metaphorical muscle responsible for social skills simply wasn’t trained.

 Honestly, there are not so many ideal parents in the series. These are the parents of Hunk and Dayak, who performed a miracle, having managed to raise a mentally healthy person in an environment that clearly didn’t contribute to such a development of events. The classical educational school of ancient Daibazaal showed a real master class, and it’s a pity that the main characters cost only an orientation course.

The Pidge’s storyline isn’t the main one in the series, but it’s important enough to make an integral picture of her behavior if desired. You need to understand that social interactions are not just “hello – bye” or “let’s be friends against a common enemy” – I would even say that in such situations, skill isn’t required. The skill of social interaction is necessary in order to join the society where you’re only a drop in the ocean of people, and to learn how to live in it, avoiding conflicts. This is the ability to please, and the ability to circumvent sharp corners in communication… and this all needs to be learned. A person isn’t born with these skills, they learns them in the family and in society, and … by the age of 14, Pidge didn’t possess these skills. She often behaved rudely with others, if not boorishly, completely ignoring the status of these people, and this can no longer be attributed to a simple straightforwardness of character.

You may ask: where did all this come from? It’s easy to imagine.

Pidge had greenhouse conditions at home. Parents loved and understood each other and pampered their beloved daughter. The brother was much older, and Pidge didn’t have to be jealous or fight with him for a favorite toy. In addition, the Holt family was united by a love of science and lived, as they say, on the same wavelength. The absence of conflicts and acute angles in the family is wonderful, but alas, it doesn’t at all contribute to the ability to solve the conflicts and circumvent acute angles.

Another teacher is the surrounding society. The child looks at this society, observes and begins to repeat. The child tries to communicate, with alternating success, and draws certain conclusions from the result. And the problem of Pidge is that all her conclusions boiled down to the fact that “they love me because I’m special and smarter than all of them.” She considered herself the smartest and didn’t strive at all, not only to observe how others communicate, but also to try to adapt herself to other people. She didn’t hesitate to interrupt the teacher and make her incompetent, although at the age of 14 you can already understand that this is simply ill-mannered. Moreover, judging by the behavior in the classroom, it wasn’t the first time she acted in this way, but which is characteristic – none of those present was imbued with respect for her knowledge. Because social interaction doesn’t work unilaterally. You can demand only for submission, respect or acceptance is always a two-way work.

Pidge didn’t even realize that she was doing something wrong. She sincerely shared knowledge…

…but you must also be able to share knowledge, so as not to make yourself an arrogant pride.

And the problem is that the Holts didn’t attach any importance to this. After all, they also believed that “Katie is just a special and brilliant girl, and this civilians aren’t able to understand her because of their earthliness, but when she enters the Garrison …”. She entered the Garrison, so what? Her environment consisted only of extremely condescending and patient people – Hunk and Lance, and she rejected their friendship at the first meeting.

You see these people for the first time and don’t even want to spend a couple of minutes getting to know each other.

School is that litmus test that shows how the child will get along in society, and you can’t turn a blind eye for the fact that your child isn’t accepted in this micro-society. You need to work, you need to try to understand what’s wrong, and keep in mind that the problem can be not only in evil peers, but also in your own child, who is an innocent angel only for you.

Because a person is a social animal, and we have a psychological need for respect and recognition. While Pidge was a child, she was fine with her parents, brother and dog, but now a new adult life is knocking on the door, where she wants something more. She’s already 14 years old, even though psychologically she’s 11-13 years old, but she’s already a teenager. And she has a completely positive example of a motherly figure – successful professionally and in her personal life, and she probably wants the same for herself.

Nothing prevented Colleen from being both a brilliant scientist and a charming woman at the same time.

Moreover: Mrs. Holt has a short haircut, which means that having long hair is a personal desire of Pidge. Yes, she doesn’t get along with other children, but she tries to wear beautiful dresses and looks after her magnificent hair. She doesn’t say it out loud, but she clearly feels the need to be accepted not just as a child, but also as a young woman.

And she feels upset when she can’t get in contact with peers.

And here your parents won’t help you.

Yes, mother can say a hundred times that you’re beautiful, but this is not the same as the approval of your friends and the attention of the boys. And Pidge had problems with this, because she pushed peers away and couldn’t even get respect from them for her intellect and knowledge, which, with different behavior, could earn the approval of the teacher and admiration from other children. Because social skills in society are like traffic rules in a stream of cars. You can be a brilliant driver, but you will still be cursed by others if you turn without turning on the turn signal, or if you don’t miss a pedestrian.

But to solve a problem, you need to know about its existence. You need to understand that it’s here, and you need to solve it. And since her beloved relatives assured that everything was fine, Pidge didn’t realize what was wrong until she faced the real consequences of her actions. And this is exactly what the Heroine’s Journey tells. Moreover, the Journey of the Dark Heroine, because Pidge is the real Dark Youth, traveling in a group of the main characters of the series. 

It’s actually not so difficult to distinguish Dark Youth from Light Youth. You just need to look at what’s the main motive for a person to start a journey. Allura traveled for the desire to become the winner of evil, Lance – for the recognition of loved ones, Pidge… for her selfishness. Yes, because her love for relatives is very selfish, and we can clearly see how she treats the love of her relatives in a consumer way when she easily abandons her mother to regain her “property” – her father and brother.

Look at this poor woman. How she got older, how her hair grew – having lost her children and husband, she even stopped monitoring her appearance. But what does Pidge think about in S7 when they prepare to return to Earth? About how she’ll be punished. She doesn’t think about WHAT her mother experienced during all this time. Sorry, but for some reason I’m not too lazy to call my family at the age of 30 and say that everything is fine. And Pidge isn’t a toddler or even 10 years old to behave in this way.

But if Pidge is Dark Youth, then who is our Light Youth and where is our Animus? And here we get a very interesting point: the fact is that the series forms a whole bunch of heroes, where one character has two Dark Youths at once, and the other has two Light ones.

And these ligaments look like this: Lotor-Allura-Pidge and Allura-Pidge-Lance. Funny huh? A sort of love quadrangle.

In the case of Allura and her Dark Youths, the question arises of contrasting the common good and personal desires. Lotor and Pidge are two opposing sides of personality development that pull Allura like a rope in a competition.

Lotor is not just the Dark Youth of Allura. He’s an allusion to her ideal, to which she aspired. Lotor is not a teenager with personality problems, no, he’s a mature – even old – man. He’s a great diplomat and speaker, he’s polite and ready to compromise with everyone, but he never trusts anyone, because he’s constantly stabbed in the back. He’s ready to sacrifice all desires and affections for the fulfillment of the plan for the salvation of the universe, which he once set for himself. He’s confident in himself, he knows what he’s doing, he calculates everything in advance, but at the same time he improvises very well. An ideal politician and strategist with the most noble intentions. And he’s not a friend of the Alteans, not a commander or a king, but the Holy Savior Lotor. An example to follow, who took the cross upon himself – to atone for the sins of his father – and carried it, pushing aside everything personal for the sake of the greater good. He doesn’t allow himself to be angry at people or become attached to them, because all this can ruin his important mission.

So perfect and lifeless…

This is what Allura’s dream of becoming a ray of light for the universe could turn into. Nothing for yourself – everything for others. A lifeless holy idol who has long forgotten about love and personal wishes. The Alteans with their cult of sacrifice will fully approve it.

And Pidge really turns out to be his complete antipode.

Lotor is old, she’s almost a child. Lotor is polite and eloquent, she’s straightforward and often rude. Lotor doesn’t trust anyone, she completely believes her loved ones. Lotor acts for the common good, Pidge – exclusively for personal purposes. Lotor turned his back on his family, because he considered their actions immoral, Pidge fully and completely supports her family, no matter what happens. They can only be united by confidence in what they’re doing is right, but this is not much in which they agree.

An ancient man who wants to save the universe and a little girl demanding to return her dad.

And this pulls Allura in different directions – the dream of serving others and her own desires. None of it can be put on a pedestal, as the path of Allura is the path to a balance between these two aspirations. In the end, it was for a reason that Lotor reached out to her – the lifeless Saint figure really wanted to feel alive again, to love and trust someone. The savior wanted someone to save him.

Pidge’s parallels appear a little different. They say that all families are equally happy, but each suffers in its own way. And how much Lotor and Pidge differ in the role of Dark Youth, so much in the role of Bright Youth are Lance and Allura alike.

The Red Paladin, which should be Blue, and the Blue Paladin, which should become Red. As brother and sister, they go hand in hand in their insecurity, albeit regarding various aspects of life.

And you know, it's funny when you think that the Blue Lion is the right leg and the Green Lion is the left arm. Indeed, opposites.

I've already written about Lance and Pidge. Here I will say that the question of Lance and Pidge's relationship is a question of selfishness. Lance and Pidge both wanted public acceptance. But if Pidge, in pursuit of her family, abandons the idea of ​​establishing contact with others and achieves her goals through conflict and breaking the rules, then Lance, on the contrary, goes out of his way to achieve what he wants, almost pursuing people in attempts to get attention from them.

Funny contrast: Pidge completely neglects her appearance at the start of her journey, while Lance is the only one on the show who takes the time to look after his appearance even in the middle of a war. Beauty is one of the most affordable ways to gain recognition. And if Pidge refuses even it, then Lance clings to attractiveness with his legs and arms, considering it a measure of a person's level of happiness.

Lance is a very compassionate selfless person, but in pursuit of status, he went against his own nature - he began to consider loved ones from a consumer point of view. And crossing with Pidge on this subject should have made him stop, take a look at himself and what he was doing. Take a look and think about it at last.

On the other hand, Lance is also a subject of interest. This is a childlike innocent affection that Katie developed towards the end of the story. Lance may not be the most attractive man, but he's an open and cheerful person who gave Pidge exactly what she lacked in school - sincere friendship and acceptance with all her flaws. Katie is still quite small in this regard, this is not some kind of serious romantic love, but this is a strong feeling, which over time, over the years, can turn into something more mature.

Having fun with friends is what Katie has dreamed of since school.

He is Pidge's Animus. A person with similar problems, but with the opposite approach to solving them.

It’s interesting that at the beginning of the journey it was Lance who didn’t notice until the last moment that Katie was a girl.

Everything is a little more complicated with Allura: Allura doesn’t appeal primarily to Pidge’s egoism, but to social skills. Yes, the idea of sacrifice is close to Allura as an Altean, and it is opposed to the egoism of the Green Paladin. But the main thing is different: Allura is polite, educated, diplomatic and, in the end, accepted and loved by society as an amazingly beautiful woman. And this is what Pidge would like for herself, without even realizing this need. On the other hand, Allura’s professional skills are forgotten by S8, those around her begin to perceive her only as a pretty alien girl, against the backdrop of the triumph of Pidge, whose ingenious mind is recognized in the professional circle of scientists.

And if Allura in the changed S8 turns into a damsel in distress for a noble knight who will worship her like the Virgin Mary, then Pidge becomes that very caricatured strong and independent woman, only instead of 40 cats she has robots. It’s caricatured, because it’s the image of a woman who declares that she doesn’t need anyone, and then, in longing for human warmth, she turns herself on to a pet in order to sublimate her psychological needs. In the case of Pidge, she builds herself a metal brother. And in ten years she’ll also build a metal lover, why not.

The truth is that a person is happy only when they realize themselves both professionally and personally. There’s a huge number of people who put their lives on the altar of some important mission, but later not so much of them could call themselves happy. On the other hand, there are a lot of women who abandoned their ambitions for the sake of marriage, and then regret it until their death.

So what is it – Pidge’s Heroine Journey? Let’s look at it in stages.

Stage 1 – Separation from the feminine.

Pidge is a teenager of 14 years old. She has problems with her peers, she can’t find a common ground with them, and therefore clings to her family – her cozy mini-world, comfort zone. But here a tragedy occurs: father and brother disappear on an expedition. Pidge finds out that something is unclear in this case, but the father’s authorities refuse to explain the situation, and she decides to find the answers in a not too legal way – secretly, despite all the prohibitions.

Feminine figure and beautifully decorated room…

…all this was left in the past.

This is very symbolic: Pidge leaves her mother alone to experience the tragedy and cuts off her hair – a symbol of her femininity.

Katie is not at all happy to lose her beautiful curls

Stage 2 – Identification with the masculine and gathering of allies

Pidge studies at the Garrison in the company of Hunk and Lance, hiding under the guise of a homely boy. At first she repels them, but since they’re a team, she has to communicate with them. But instead of making friends and learning to communicate, Pidge spends all her efforts looking for information about the family. Meanwhile, she begins to have confidence in Hunk and Lance, finds common interests with them, and gradually these two in her eyes pass from the category of strangers into the category of the ones whom she can even tell her secret.

And when Pidge once again can’t keep her mouth shut…

…it’s Lance who protects her.

Stage 3 – Road of trials, meeting ogres and dragons

Shiro's return and the beginning of their journey. Pidge grabs any lead to find her father and brother, and is even ready to give up everything and everyone for the ghostly opportunity to save the family. On the other hand, one way or another, she begins to become attached to the people around her. True, this attachment is selfish. Pidge worries about the safety of her friends, but she isn't interested in what they grieve and worry about. Her fixation on the family is in stark contrast to the fact that the main leadership backbone of the team - Allura, Shiro, Keith and Koran - are orphans who have no loved ones except for each other and a common cause.

Keith with his desire to save Shiro is certainly disingenuous, but he described Pidge's problem correctly...

Stage 4 – Finding the boon of success

Pidge finds her brother and saves his father. But at what cost? The height of selfishness is to send a person to certain death, without even trying to give him a chance for being rescued. And personally for Pidge, this person is only to blame for the fact that he's not included in the circle of her loved ones - the circle of those whom she considers her "property". But she still gets her way, she saves her family, without any remorse. And then she has fun with friends who have already become family members for her - part of that very micro-world.

And it was during this period that Pidge appeared in the game as the most closed character, fenced off by armor from other people.

And the mess in her room as an indicator that Pidge wasn’t going to invite guests at her place…

Stage 5 – Awakening to feelings of spiritual aridity; death

Homecoming. As people say, be careful of what you wish for. Pidge constantly tried to leave friends and other people behind, in the pursuit of saving the family; as a result, when she returns home, she’s grounded. Now, her circle of loved ones is forcibly composed only of her parents and brother. Moreover, the most annoying thing happens: Lance invites Allura on a date. Lance complained to Hunk for several weeks about being unworthy of Allura, while Hunk listened sympathetically. And there was no one who could interrupt the flow of this whining, because this someone was sitting at home. As a result, Hunk persuades Lance to go out and invite Allura on a date, and she unexpectedly agrees.

And after so many days of isolation, Pidge is free only to find out that Lance is going on a date with Allura. Pidge liked Lance, she even tried to compliment him, although unsuccessfully – and now he sailed away to a beautiful princess, and Pidge could only watch this process.

A scene called “She tried”.

She even helps to arrange this date: to get Allura the dress for which she gives the game – the subject of their common interest with Lance. But that’s where her altruism ends: she doesn’t stand it and decides to follow them, because until the last she hopes that Allura will refuse Lance, but this doesn’t happen.

Yes, Pidge is respected as a scientist, but how much does it mean if the person dear to her, whose attention she values, is now fully devoted to his new girlfriend? You can say as much as you like that they’re a team of paladins, but we know very well that couples are always a little apart, as they feel like spending time together.

And Katie knew perfectly well that now Lance is unlikely to find time to play with her.

Stage 6 – Initiation and Descent to the Goddess

Here’s a difficult moment. The fact is that this moment takes place in S8, in an episode that was originally intended for S7. And I can’t help but wonder if it should have taken place in the earlier version of the script, because according to the logic of the travel, Pidge should have it. This conversation takes place in a dead forest, where Pidge and Allura are left alone at some point, and Pidge, who saw how Allura saved the tree, asks if she can help Olkarion. After this, Katie has to admit that yes – she followed them, and naturally the question of Lance’s feelings will be raised.

Allura is Pidge’s Light Youth. She agreed to a date with Lance out of feeling guilty and out of gratitude for his concern. Her consent is pure sacrifice, altruism. And she admits it while talking to Pidge. That yes, she doesn’t have feelings for him, but he loves her. Remember the first episodes, where Pidge confidently says that a princess in her place would do the same. But now she sees that Allura, on the contrary, is ready to sacrifice the personal for the sake of someone else’s good. And this makes her think, because Lance chose Allura.

Throughout the series, Pidge was not very friendly with the princess. When Allura found out that Pidge was by no means a boy, she was the first to welcome Pidge as a girl, because having only men in her social circle wasn’t very comfortable for a girl. But then Pidge kept in mind only the search for a family and simply didn’t understand that she was offered girlish friendship. But now, in this situation, Katie was the only one to whom Allura entrusted her “female” secret, and the Green Paladin saw her tragedy and in some ways even managed to share it. Pidge saw in her not a rival, but a person who had lost absolutely everything and was ready to sacrifice the little that was left of her.

You know, at the first meeting with the Olkari, Pidge says that she’s very far from nature, she’s closer to technology and robots, to which she doesn’t need to adapt. This can be considered a metaphor for how she pushes living people away from her, how she turns away from a simple human desire to realize herself socially. 

And it is very symbolic that the bottom point of the journey occurs precisely in the middle of the dead Olkarion.

Stage 7 – Urgent yearning to reconnect with the feminine

After talking with Allura, Pidge begins to look at the situation in a new light. She’s still upset that Lance is now devoting all his time to his new girlfriend, but now sees him not as an “escaped property”. Now for her he’s a really unhappy guy deserving of support, not ridicule. She generally begins to reconsider her position towards people, although this is a very slow process.

When they leave to celebrate Clear Day, she leaves her family — which she saved with such zeal — for the sake of helping Lance get a present for Allura. For the sake of the opportunity to stay with a loved one and find a gift for his girlfriend. And she sincerely seeks to please Allura, because she really imbued with sympathy for her. And when Lance tells her how useless he feels, Katie tries to support him, inspire, and somehow help him solve the problem of relations with another girl. And for a spoiled egoist, this is a very serious step towards change.

By the way, did you notice that in Clear Day episode there’s not a single scene of the interaction between Pidge and Lance, although Katie knows from somewhere that Allura asked for a present? It was cut out while editing S8.

What kind of torment would you go for friends?

Unfortunately, I can only assume what the next steps should look like, too much has been cut.

We know that Allura will decide to announce to the paladins that she’s going to save Lotor, and perhaps Pidge will be the second after Lance to support her in this. Maybe she will even play a role in ensuring that the conversation between Allura and Lance takes place.

She will be next to Lance after the return of the prodigal prince and will morally support him. Perhaps they will even play the game as they dreamed in their podcasts. They’re still children who are just entering adulthood, and after everything they have experienced, they must find a place for joy.

In addition, Pidge has guilt before Lotor, and after her selfish behavior it’ll be important that she realize this and apologize. In general, this will be a lesson for her: a lesson in acknowledging her wrong, and a lesson in humility. The beginning of a long journey of working on oneself, which will allow Pidge to finally realize herself not only professionally, but also personally. It’ll allow her to stop repelling the world, accept it, and learn to swim with everyone in a single stream of the river called “life”.

After all, green is the color of life. As well as blue.

[anonthenullifier]

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 7

A Victorian Scarlet Vision AU

Chapter Title: In which there is bliss and then it all goes poorly

Chapter summary: After learning more about Stark's plans for the Exhibition of Industry, Wanda discovers her past merging with her present as she hurries to warn Vision of impending peril.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/38013749

Hope you enjoy!

Wanda wakes rested, energized, and thrumming with the afterglow of euphoria. A scan with her powers reveals it was not just a pleasant dream, the presence of Vision’s slightly groggy mind flaring brightly from the main room. She dresses quickly, hands occupied with roping her hair into a tight knot while a puff of scarlet opens the door, her lips traveling upwards at the sight of Vision standing in the middle of the room, one sleeve rolled up to the elbow, shirt unbuttoned down to the glint of vibranium on his sternum, and his hands and mind concentrated on unrolling and fastening his other sleeve around his wrist. It’s not clear if he’s seen her, his fingers working out the creases in the fabric with meticulous movements, two tugs of his shirt cuff and then a smoothing out with his palm. Wanda considers removing herself to her room due to an odd, somewhat thrilling feel of intimacy watching his morning routine, but she remains, eyes following the confident, hypnotic repetition of his actions on the other side of his body, the metal rods of his arm disappearing into the well-honed disguise of a butler. Yet Wanda can’t be fooled by the impeccably tailored armor, knows the personality, the intelligence, and the caring that hides beneath the facade no matter how high he buttons the shirt or how serious the pattern of his waistcoat. “Good morning.” His salutation catches her off guard, mind furiously attempting to refocus from his shirt sleeves to his face, relieved when she finds delight not vexation in his smile. “Morning.” The question of how he slept is forgotten as she watches him run the long, flat tie through his fingers. Her father never wore ties, maybe only three times in her life and she remembers the way her mother would grow fed up with how long it took him to preen himself. Vision does not falter the way her father would, no aggravation at the floppiness of the fabric or the complicated loops needed to complete the process. Instead he works through it methodically, popping his collar, draping the tie around the nape of his neck, lining up the fabric on his chest with gentle, fine-tuned guidance, folding it over his fingers―first the left side and then the right―pinching the two sides together and then sliding the last of the fabric through the back.  “That’s impressive.” A pleased confidence flashes in his eyes, one that, if used too often, might permanently destabilize her knees, especially when paired with the assured movement of his fingers straightening out the tie, “Thank you, it is a point of pride.”

“Oh? “Yes,” he turns towards her now, buttoning the last of his shirt and gingerly folding the collar down, ensemble almost complete minus his coat, gloves, and hat.  “During my recovery, the physician gave me numerous physical tasks to regain mobility, ranging from walking five steps without aid to tying a bow tie.” Wanda is drawn in by the steady gaze of his eyes. “It took me three hundred and twenty six tries to develop the necessary dexterity.” Once she’s close enough, she reaches out, experimentally placing her hands on his chest.  When he doesn’t move away, his mouth inching up a minuscule amount as he talks, she begins tracing up along the lines of his waistcoat. “Most days I am now successful on the first attempt.” Her fingers continue their journey, stopping at his neck to pinch the tie in both hands, pretending to fix it despite the fact it already lays perfectly in place. “Very impressive.” If there was any worry that the sun would chase away his affection it is defeated soundly when he bends, a coy “Thank you” tickling her lips. He pauses, silently seeking permission, and Wanda grants it, pulling him down the last half inch by his bow tie. This kiss is longer than the night before, more confident and affectionate, her fingers curling tighter into the silk and erupting with scarlet when he places a hand firmly on her lower back.  Vision shifts, and if he dares to think he can end this kiss now, especially if he insists on leaving for weeks, then he truly is an imbecile. To make her intentions irrevocably clear, Wanda’s hands vacate the tie so she can wrap her arms around his neck, guiding him closer to her. He obliges, more so than any book of butlering would recommend or etiquette likely allows, the gentle poise of his body fading the deeper she kisses him and the tighter her arms get to eliminate any last iota of space between them. This action is rewarded with an electric feeling tingling along her spine as his hands come to grip her waist, holding her firmly against him. “Miss Maximoff,” the way her name sounds in his euphonious accent and the smile glancing her mouth only increases the desire spreading from her chest to the tips of her toes, her lips begging for one more kiss, which Vision seems to heavily consider, voice quieting at her amative stare. “Regrettably I, I do nee-,” Wanda gently leads him back to her, his conviction to finish the sentence crumbling as his lips descend comfortably back to hers, fingers scrunching around her waist. If he never finishes the thought it means time will remain locked in this moment, a wholly desirable outcome.  Yet he won’t concede, pulling back just enough to pepper the rest of his sentence with apologetic tenderness, fingers still clutching her waist as if he doesn’t want to believe the words either, “I need to leave.” Vision tilts his head forward, lips moving strategically out of reach while his forehead comes to rest against hers, his voice uneven and breathy, “May I call on you, when I return?” “Of course.” A contented smile meets her words, a gentleness signaling he is about to step away, but she is unwilling to lose this just yet. “You know Vizh,” she intends to draw out his name, entice him closer, but the last syllable is smothered by the curious squint of his eyes and the alluring, pursed smile on his lips. So she commits to the shortened moniker, arms descending slightly, her palms skimming along his shoulders as she angles into her next attempt to elongate their time together. “The weather looks quite dreadful today, it might not be in your best interest to leave.” Vision twists his body, the movement turning her as well, to examine the undeniably cheerful sunshine streaming through the windows. His eyes travel along her face, his expression torn between apology and amusement, “Wanda, believe me, I desperately wish to stay.” “Will Stark send someone if you don’t come back?” The line of his mouth develops a grimness despite his eyes remaining jovial, “After an entire night away, he might come himself.” Wanda gives an exaggerated grimace at the information, finally admitting defeat with a sighed “Fine,” and releasing him to step away. She crosses her arms, attempting to still the rapid beating in her chest, while her eyes follow as he gathers the rest of his belongings.  Pinpointing exactly what she feels is difficult, the thrill of this new development in their relationship battling the crestfallen pang of the absence of his touch and the reality of not seeing him for weeks. What she does know for certain is that these last moments need to be utilized strategically to allow her to enjoy his company before it’s gone. “You said Stark is bringing three demonstrations?” It’s not the ideal topic, the mixture of Stark with any sort of desire unwelcome, yet it is the one that guarantees she can hear him talk freely, relish the soothing intonations of his explanations.

“Yes,” gingerly he tears the pages from his notebook containing the tarot translations. “Mr. Stark is showcasing his luxury steamboat, the Virginia,” the notebook slides into the inside pocket of his coat along with the pen, “which we are actually taking down to the Exhibition.” 

Wanda watches him pick up his coat and smooth out the stubborn creases created from hanging all night. “Not the railway?”

“Mr. Stark has sworn off such travel after his bid to fund the New York Central Railroad mergera was denied.”

There was some talk about the merger, she thinks, but none of it really mattered to her, until now, when suddenly she feels the need to become a more faithful patron of the railroad. “So he built a boat instead?” 

A conspiratorial grin flirts with Vision’s mouth, an expression she’s never seen on his face, yet it may already be one of her favorites, particularly given it is in response to Stark’s utter ridiculousness. “Mr. Stark is very gifted at channeling his rejections into innovations.”

“Just sounds like a sore loser to me.” If they were around Stark now, or anyone for that matter, she knows Vision’s face would be inexpressive, neutral to a fault, luckily she is able to see his lips give in to temptation and quirk up at the jab. “What else is he bringing?”

Vision slides his arms into the coat as he answers, “The opening demonstration of the Exhibition will be of a full-bodied mechanization deemed the Iron Man,” distaste scrunches Vision’s nose, a lighthearted annoyance imbuing his words as he explains further,  “I have attempted to point out that Steel Man is more accurate to the actual composition of the suit, but Mr. Stark says it is not as flashy.”

The politics of naming, though amusing, it not something she feels like she should enter at the moment. “And the last one?”

Vision buttons the jacket, eyes downturned to focus on his slightly shaky fingers. “Mr. Stark is holding a private demonstration of the Arc Infusion Pump.”

An easy shrug of his shoulders shifts his coat to its proper place though Wanda barely notices, her mind latching on to the last point, the pulse of her powers growing in her palms at his words. “You’re taking the arc reactor into the public?”

“Well not the public, a private demonstration for only the most prominent names in medicine.” Technicalities do not change the fundamental issue nor the vertiginous descent of her heart. “Wanda, are you feeling okay?” 

Concern is etched on his face and she attempts to keep her voice level and curious, throwing in a touch of revulsion when she reaches Stark’s name, “Is Stark making you do the demonstration?”

Vision’s wariness remains, brow wrinkling at the change in the atmosphere, “No, Mr. Stark asked for one of the physicians to bring a patient.” This does little to quell the pebble of worry growing in her mind. “It is quite exciting,” a tentative hand runs along her arm, guiding her to look up at him and the inquisitive enthusiasm brimming in his eyes, “the possibility of engaging these great thinkers to develop the technology further to help others. It is the vision of medicine Mr. Stark always talks about.”

He’s clearly excited for this and so she feels the need to echo that with a half-empty, “That sounds wonderful, Vizh.” The lack of conviction in her response pulls his features down, his mouth taut and seemingly torn on how to proceed.

“I need to leave.” The proclamation is hesitant, the syllables hovering in the air as he waits for some sign from her on what to do. Wanda smiles, a small nod releasing him to finish getting ready. For a brief moment, when his back is turned and he can’t possibly see the suggestion on her face, she considers trapping him in scarlet, absconding away with him to the furthest reaches of the country, starting a simple life with no trace of their pasts, yet such daydreams are impossible, the squeak of his leather gloves sliding over his scarred hands a reminder of how brief such a fantasy would be before reality caught them. He turns back towards her, ignorant of the wondrous albeit fleeting plan, and nods, his feet taking him reluctantly out the door.

Wanda follows him to the carriage, the unease she has at his leaving causing her thoughts to sprint and collide in her brain, rendering any intelligible sentences unutterable. The last thing she wants is for him to leave in silence, so she finally suffices with a, “Be safe, Vision.”

It seems an appropriate comment, a tender turn of his mouth accompanying his, “I will.”  Vision glances around them, confirming they are still completely alone, yet it seems even the threat of a random traveler coming over the hill restricts his movements, his mouth still trapped in the half-moon smile, but instead of stepping closer he reaches down, sliding his fingers under hers, his blue eyes studying her intently. “I-um,” the gloves seem to have sealed away his confidence, returning him to adept politeness, yet he manages to bypass etiquette long enough to eek out a quiet, breathtakingly genuine, “will miss your company,” as he eases her hand to his mouth, a light, heartfelt press of his lips to her knuckle sending a flutter through her stomach and cementing her adoration of his man. “Farewell, Wanda.”

“Goodbye, Vision.” Wanda waves as he leaves, heart sinking in time with his descent down the hill and out of her sight.

Wanda assumed the sunken feeling would dissipate as the day went on, and yet her heart seems to only keep dropping. The memories of his visit war against an ever expanding anxiety, one she has tried to chase away by throwing herself into chores, even walking to the market to assess the damage done to her stall from the storm. Nothing she does, however, can stop the cacophony of emotions from ricocheting inside of her, her body practically vibrating as her scarlet tinged fingers toil at reattaching the curtains to the slanted poles of her stall.

Ideally there is no reason for her to be this anxious, Vision is fine (hopefully more than just fine), Stark is, unfortunately, fine, they are leaving to present inventions, an activity Stark is well known for, his panache legendary. She should be allowing her mind to lose itself in the memories of the soft ridges of Vision’s lips and the thrill of the pressure of his fingers curled around her, this time out of desire and not pain. Yet her mind continually cycles back to the arc reactor, an item prized by many, one even her own existence has revolved around.  The image of the wires and the stone is committed to her memory, having been beaten into her body each day while she and Pietro learned to use their powers and fulfill their duty.

Another angry knot secures the fabric to the pole before her hands move on and her mind transitions to her next futile attempt to stave off the decision she knows is on the horizon.

According to Vision’s interpretation, Stark’s plan is charitable, sharing the invention with others in order to help more people (people such as Vision), but it is also, no doubt, simultaneously a carefully constructed demonstration where he can tout his superiority over the minds that should have made the breakthrough. It is entirely possible there is nothing more than this -- a simple demonstration of bravado after which the reactor will return to the manor and famed obscurity once more. Vision, who should care very much about the safety of the machine, seems unconcerned, eager even, but he also believes she is extraordinary, that there is nothing to fear about her, and so has shown his own questionable, naive placement of trust. Wanda is well aware, however, of the roiling clouds of her past sins, ones too dark for even her to have clarity about her identity, which is why she knows, deep down, there is no possibility this is a simple, intimate meeting of minds. Just because it is private doesn’t mean Stark has kept silent on it -- his loose lips even more legendary than his showmanship.

Wanda releases a furious, exhausted huff at the path that lays before her. If she had remained unattached and indifferent, she could shrug her shoulders, continue living with the peace that she had nothing actively to do with Stark’s demise, and all the while remain free of the shackles of her prior decisions. But it’s not that simple, not anymore.  

Gingerly she ties the last of the rope before standing and inspecting the small satchel at her waist, jingling it for a sense how much is left from Mrs. Mesnier’s palm readings. The journey from her tent to the office is short, maybe a two minute walk, and yet her feet slog through the dirt, her instincts screaming to turn around, pack up her things, and keep moving until everything is forgotten. In contrast, her heart constricts at the thought of Vision being hurt by her inaction, the guilt of harming him not once but twice, and this time potentially irrevocably, too much to bear.

Wanda tamps down the stifling sense of foreboding cocooning around her as she walks through the doorway of the office. Though the town is small, the presence of the lumber mill means there is a telegraph machine, a contraption she doesn’t fully understand or trust, having only used it twice under dire circumstances. “Excuse me?” The man sitting behind the desk is lost in the newspaper, turning the black-and-white page at an achingly slow pace. A louder, firmer “Excuse me” startles him.

“What can I do for you?”

“How much to send a telegraph?”

There is likely a sign to answer this information or so the exaggerated eye roll suggests.  The newspaper snaps shut, a muttered curse going along with his choppy movements as he stands and pulls out a sheet of paper. “Quarter a word, fifty cent if it’s going past the city, umble-cum-stumbleb ma’am?”

Wanda nods, sorting through the menagerie of metal pieces in her hand, trying to figure out how to send her message in the fewest words possible so she doesn’t spend the last of her earnings. “Okay, may I?”

“I can do it,” the quill is poised over the sheet, the impatience at her interrupting his newspaper reading still very much present in his tone, “ma’am.”

Wanda clamps her hands shut, forcing an amicable smile on her face, “Very well.” Whether he realizes now or as he sends the message that it is in a different language likely won’t impact the expected anger from him, but Wanda always tries to keep her status as unnoticeable as possible. “A-R-K, space,” she checks his writing as she talks, unwilling to let her money be wasted by inattentiveness, “N-A-D-E-N, space, P-L-A-N. End.”c

The only sign he cares for the unusual words is the frown that drops in time with the rising of  his eyebrow, yet thankfully that is all. “Where to?”

She hesitates, not at the information but at what she is willingly stepping back into with this message. The tempest of indecision whips through her mind, threatening her resolve until the memory of Vision’s sincere, trusting eyes and the warm touch of his lips to her knuckles guides her into the calm eye of the storm. “Castle Garden, New York City, box 5.”

“Seventy five cents.”

The money is counted four times before he accepts it, “Do I come back for the response?”

Tired, annoyed eyes inspect her from across the counter, his face conveying how he just wants to read his paper. “Either I deliver it for a dollar fifty or you come back and ask for it.”

Wanda recoils at the charge, attempting a nonplussed smile as she steps back, “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

The message, however, doesn’t come the next day, or the day after, or the day after that, even though each morning Wanda is waiting at the building to greet the half-awake grouch of a man. It’s not until the fourth day that the telegraph operator's mostly incomprehensible grumble is different, hopefully informing her that he has her message. This supposition is confirmed when he silently, and with stilted annoyance, waves his hand for her to follow him before he rifles through a stack of papers. “Castle Garden?”

“Yes.” Sleep has been fleeting, unlike the night Vision visited, her giddiness replaced with recollections of tortured minds and carefully explained diagrams of how to determine she had found the arc layered with a very new, vibrant image of what might happen to Vision if she’s correct.

“Here.” The folded up paper is shoved into her hands and followed by a pointed shooing movement that sends her into the orange tinged morning. Wanda pries open the paper, fingers almost as unsteady as her heart. She takes in the words, immediately crumpling it in her fist. It’s clear now there is a best solution and it’s not running away, it’s not pretending the confirmation of her worst fears aren’t true. No, it’s to shift her focus solely to protection, a new motivation for her, one long ago buried with Pietro.

A resounding thud vibrates from the brass door knocker as Wanda releases it for the sixth time. She knows, logically, this is five times more knocks than Vision would ever allow, yet she can’t accept the silent answer from the door. Another desperate rise and fall of the knocker is met with an exasperated and unnecessarily loud sigh from the rickety wagon behind her. Wanda glares at the steadfastly imposing door before spinning around, a stern finger raised asking for just a mite more patience from the man clutching the reins. If it hadn’t taken an infuriating hour after packing up a small bundle of her belongings to procure a ride (a careful dance of bartering several palm readings, almost the last of her money, and a foolhardy promise of meeting the famous Tony Stark) and then another hour before the farmer deemed it acceptable to leave, she’d be more understanding of his waning cooperation.  Instead she keeps her eyes forward, refusing to make eye contact with him, and stomps along the cobblestone drive, following the curve of the railed porch until it transitions into brick and then end.  She cranes around the edge of the house to take in the serenity of the lawn, the planks of the stable glowing under the morning sun, the chicken coop in the distance a paragon of domesticity, all against the backdrop of the pond, complete with the stunning, snowy plumage of a swan floating happily in the water.

The picturesque scene is discomfiting, but the swan is the ultimate omen.  Vision is gone, already on the trajectory to a reckoning neither he nor Stark are privy to.

She returns to the wagon, hoisting herself up onto the seat, features striving to remain calm in the face of his annoyed, “You done?”

“Can you take me to Green Island?”

“Green,” the impregnated pause accentuates the slow drop of the leather reins onto his lap, “Island?”

The easiest argument is that technically it is on the way back to Normanskill, but given that would emphasize the needlessness of coming all the way to the manor, Wanda grasps at some other incentive.  “I need to speak with a friend there, he’s a blacksmith, can shoe your horse.”

His unimpressed, “Just shoed her the other day,” pairs well with the oozing disappointment of not only failing to meet the notorious Stark but also having his day wasted. 

Wanda switches her tactic to emotional manipulation, trying her hardest to allow the thrumming of her anxiety into her voice, “I really need to get there soon, please it’s an emergency.”

“And I’d like my wheat to grow faster.”

With nothing left to barter, there is only one more method.  Wanda hides her hand in the folds of her skirt, masking the scarlet glow as she dips into the shallowest depths of his mind, seeking anything that might convince him. There isn’t much to harvest, his thoughts rotating around fears of blight, the concerning limp in his horse’s trot, and the hopeless ire at the fact his son hates agriculture, but then a brief, flickering memory streams past and she latches onto it. “You hunt, correct?” She tries to make it sound inquisitive, as if she had been paying attention to all the things he told her on the way up, instead of admitting she gleaned it from his memories.

The man is slow to respond, fingers squeezing tight around the reins. “I do.”

It is tactically unwise to offer a prize dependent upon another person, but there is nothing left in her arsenal. “You take me to Green Island, I can get you Barton arrows.”

The man’s grip on the reins loosen as his body hinges at the waist, head turning slowly to scrutinize her face. “How am I,” the leather dangling from his hand slaps his chest as he gestures through the question, “going to afford masterpieces like that with what you paid me?”

Clint’s likely disbelief at her next comment is only okay because it is outweighed by the ticking clock of hopelessness. “I’m like,” she hesitates at the exaggeration, “a little sister to him, I can talk the price down.”

The man’s grin stretches across the entirety of his face as he urges the aging horse into a trot. Unlike the journey to the manor, this one is filled with jubilant words informing her of all the things he and his son will hunt  in the coming season.  She doesn’t pay attention, however, skirting her usual rule of at least attempting shallow conversation, mind torn between Vision and Clint. On one side is a brewing portent of doom and on the other a nervousness of how he’ll take the news because the issue with offering exquisite prizes in a bargain is that you do actually have to follow through sometimes.

It’s not long before she has an answer to one side of her quandary. “Yeah, sorry, what did you just say?”

“I offered him your arrows,” Wanda plasters an apologetic smirk on her face, “at a discounted price.”

The smithy is hellish, the thick, wooden walls trapping the fire raging in the furnace, merely walking in on a summer day elicits droplets of sweat. Yet she has never minded, the days she’s spent with Clint in this building count amongst the better ones of her life, the ordered chaos of the fire, the smelting, and the lancing calming to her mind. Except right now, his gloved hands gripping the handle of a straight-peen sledgehammer and his face unimpressed and unbothered by the sweat dripping into his eyes. Clint blinks slowly as he stares at her, “And why would you do something like that?”

“I’m trying to find Stark.”

The incredulous, silent stare coupled with raised eyebrows means Clint listened intently the few times she bemoaned Stark and Stark Industries, how she disliked the man and what he stood for, how she may have wished harm to him. “Why?”

Wanda considers how to proceed, a need to balance the truth with oversharing, “I received a message that someone was going to hurt Stark.”

“Like...a spirit message?”

“No, I-” she reaches into her satchel, pulling out the wrinkled ball of paper, “a telegraph.”

Clint beckons her to hand it over, brow matching the creases of the paper as he attempts to read the message. “It’s just gibberish.”

“It tells me to go to New York to learn more about the plan.”

This has clarified nothing according to the flail of his hands, “What plan, Wanda?”

She doesn’t have to lie this time, her own ignorance and powerlessness an ever-increasing weight on her lungs, “I don’t know, but it’s not good.” Scarlet almost bursts from her hands to get the message back, but she squelches it by balling up her fists and shoving them down towards her hips. “Someone is planning to hurt Stark and I need to warn him.”

“Nat’s with him, he’ll be fine.” Clint’s shrug seems final, his stance shifting into victory at winning the argument, possibly even saving his arrows from the deal.  “Surprised you even care what happens to Stark.”

Wanda can’t accept this blasé dismissal but also knows she can’t be convincing when talking about Stark nor can she convey the difference of this threat to the other malignant intentions people have towards Stark, so she amends her concern, “It’s Vision I’m worried about, not Stark.”

A casual hmm harmonizes the cling of the sledgehammer as Clint lays it down, turning back towards her with a paternalistic smirk, “Well, Stark passed by earlier with his band of merry socialites, might still have time before they leave.”

Boarding a steamboat doesn’t take long, but the hope she clings to is the likelihood that Stark insists on having an elaborate christening ceremony. “Thank you.”  

“Hold on there,” she stops partway through the door, peering over her shoulder at his crossed arms, “you don’t get to just give my arrows away and run.” Clint’s eyes remain on her as he removes the leather apron, laying it reverently on a table, “Plus I doubt Mr. Arrow pacing out there wants to take you to the docks.” Wanda considers heading out the door, but stays, powers oscillating uneasily while she watches Clint wrap some arrows in a cloth and then grab his own quiver from the wall, slinging it over his shoulder like an old friend’s arm. “Just let me say bye to Laura and the kids.”

Patience, though a virtue, is in limited supply as Wanda stands in the grass outside the shop, overhearing Clint lecture the farmer on the proper storage and use of the arrows, on how, if he misuses them and chips any of the metal tips, he has to stop using them instantly. She can’t hear Clint’s goodbyes to his family over the thud of the wagon heading back to Normanskill, and won’t attempt to rush him even though each minute that she waits here stretches into the eternal possibility of missing Vision.

Eventually Clint returns, leading a horse behind him, the movement of helping Wanda up into the saddle and then loping up himself natural, something they’ve done numerous times. She is thankful he doesn’t try to talk to her, question her further as to why they need to make it to the dock, he simply urges the horse on along the newly placed plank roadsd, the rush of their journey accented by the rhythmic click of horseshoes on wood. The thudding gives way to the whisper of waves, ones stirred by the windy day and the movement of ships in and out of the dock. The white flutter of seagulls and their incessant, imploring caws is a shrill experience compared to the mourning doves and robins along the road, but none of it matters once her eyes alight on the coal colored chimneys coming from out of the top of a massive, incredibly impressive white-railed steamboat. The arched railings are decorated with swooping red and gold fabric, twisting with the curves of the boat, outlining each beautifully designed angle. Even the paddle at the back is a brilliant red flecked with lines of gold, something Wanda has never seen on any of the steamboats she’s been on. None of this can hold her attention, however, once she spies, amongst the flurry of activity on the docks, the lanky, well-dressed form of Vision, his arms waving stiffly at the dockhands hauling crates into the lower chambers of the boat. The pressure in her chest loosens with each second he remains in her line of sight, hope very briefly replacing the terror that’s been smothering her since he left her house.

“Wanda,”  a hand on her arm snaps her back to the horse. Clint already standing on the ground offering to help her down, “You keep staring, we’re going to miss the boat.” She swats away his hand, sliding as gracefully as she can from the horse and ignoring the knowing wink Clint sends her way.  

The bustle of the dock envelopes them, the people milling about create a mismatched scene, women in voluminous dresses, parasols in their hands and finely dressed men on their arms, walking in amongst the sweat stained yelling of the dock hands. Steamboats are lined up next to barges which themselves are next to naval vessels and peppered throughout are smaller fishing boats, a juxtaposition that only makes Stark’s luxury boat stand out even more. There are so many accents and voices, joyful conversations of adventure, tears of saying goodbye, some fighting words as well, that Wanda is immersed in the flow of the thoughts around her, not actively reaching with her powers, but large groups of people are hard to block out. She allows Clint to lead them through the people, winding in and out to avoid stagnant groups.

“‘Ello good sir,” the atrociousness of Clint’s mock English accent dispels away the inundation of the rest of the minds, her attention now fully focused on Vision standing in from of them, shoulders tightening just a touch at the unexpected voice, “You have more room on this fancy boat?”

Vision turns around with a deliberate slowness, mouth already forming a rejection, until he sees them, stops, mouth falling into a frighteningly neutral line while his eyes bounce between Clint’s foolish grin and Wanda’s attempt at a friendly, non-anxious smile. “Mr. Barton,” he politely nods his head at Clint, leaning slightly to the right to examine the arrow shafts sticking up over the blacksmith’s shoulder, the only indiciation this might be alarming is the tiny rise of his eyebrows and the fog she feels forming at the surface of his mind. “Miss-” Vision’s confusion blossoms into a full storm when he faces her, features dreadfully empty of emotion despite the roiling in his mind, “Maximoff. I did not,” he glances down, breaking his usual unperturbed air, yet when he finally looks at them again, he has reaffixed his public mask, eyes set into a serious, business-like gaze. “I was not made aware you would be joining us for the trip.”

An arm snakes around Wanda’s shoulders, pulling her amiably against Clint as he leaves no room for her to warn Vision about the message, “Yeah, you know, Wanda here was telling me all about it and this boat,” the awe at the impressive vessel fills his voice, his free hand pointing excitedly at it, “how could I turn down a trip in a thing of beauty like that?”

The logic is wanting and yet Vision seems to accept it, not without reserve, a crack in his mind allows Wanda to peek into the dissidence he holds back. “Well, fortuitously, Mr. Stark did not invite enough people to fill the vessel to capacity. I can show you onto the boat, if you wish.”

“That’d be great.”

A thud and colorful cursing erupts behind them followed by deep, slightly slurred voice, “Whaddaya want us to do with this, lime-juicere?”  

A frown descends on Vision’s face and almost as rapidly is gone, replaced by a politely apologetic, “Please excuse me for just a moment.” Vision swivels around, body poised and at full height. “Sir, I have respectively informed you numerous times not only where in the cargo hold each crate must go but also that you should be conscientious in handling them given the extreme fragility of the contents.”

The dockhand nods to the burly man next to him, hands braced on the edge of the wooden crate, “You understand a word the flapadoodlef said?”

Wanda is tempted to counter the insult, do what Vision is admirably not willing to do, and let loose her fury at the way the men are acting. The sprout of temptation isn’t allowed to bear fruit when another well-dressed, though not nearly as impeccably as Vision, man steps in. “Hey V,” the man, who Wanda recalls seeing once at Stark’s manor, is shorter and rounder than Vision, his suit jacket a bit too large and pants a bit too long, and he’s far too expressive for a butler, a friendly pat to Vision’s back accompanying a cheerfully helpful, “let me handle it.”

“Happy…” the serious tone of Vision’s voice is unsuccessful at eschewing the offer.

“No, I insist, been trying real hard to show Tony why he should promote me into asset management.” Happy moves to shove VIsion away, but Visions is a step ahead, avoiding any more physical contact with a casual move to the right. “Plus looks like you need to get them,” both men turn to look at Wanda and Clint, garnering a friendly wave from Clint that is reciprocated by Happy, “on the boat. I got this.”

Vision hesitates before reaching his decision, hands journeying to unite behind his back which allows him to give a slight bow. “Very well, please be diligent in your supervision, nothing can be left behind.” Happy attempts another friendly pat, but Vision veers out of reach, rejoining her and Clint in five easy steps. “Please, come with me.”  

The closer they get to the steamboat, the more impressive it becomes, dwarfing everything around it in grandeur, not just in size but the sheer opulence of the shiny paint, the metal detailing, the golden rims of the windows, the spindles of the railings carved into mythological figures that appear to struggle holding the weight of such majesty on their shoulders. Even the smoke sputtering from the smokestacks is like a pair of waltzing lovers careening through the sky instead of the angry dragons of the factories. “Miss Maximoff.” Vision’s voice is timid, as is the hand he has lightly placed on her wrist to stop her momentum.

Wanda cranes her eyes down from the boat to his face, smiling once she meets his cerulean gaze. “Yes, Vision?”

“May I escort you onto the boat?”

“You only asking me as a butler?” 

The intended reaction is one of his shy smiles, perhaps even a blush, some indication his mind has remained on their blissful morning together not long ago. Vision instead glances to the left, dragging her own eyes first to watch Clint amble up the wooden gangway, then to take in the other people congregating within earshot. He shuffles his feet, eyes not quite meeting her own until he begins talking again. “Miss Maximoff, may I please escort you onto the boat?”

She knew he would never cave and fully bypass his manners or position, but the coldness of his actions is well past anything she would have surmised for his behavior now that they aren’t merely acquaintances. “No, I can walk up it myself.”

“I insist.”

“Do you?”

His hand wraps gently around her wrist, the movement hidden by the folds her skirt, but it is small and intimate, an impropriety for a butler towards a guest, which stirs her heart into a frantic rhythm. She stares up into his regret-filled, anxious face, “Wanda,” his voice is almost a whisper as he makes the world shrink in around them, enticing her to step closer to hear him, “you are about to enter a ship that is governed by a fine-tuned, delicate web of formalities. A lack of acumen in etiquette can swiftly lead to ostracism.”

Everyone is aware the upper echelons of society function differently, Wanda herself has seen it in the fancy manors where she performed her séances. There she was immune to it, an assumption she would act counter to their etiquette, often serving as a cheap parlor trick for their enjoyment. An ill word was to be met with a smile or by simply ignoring it, lewd jokes and offensive slurs ingrained in her line of work. Wanda always found ways to respond, usually by choosing to expose the dark secrets of only certain people to the group. Not everyone can read minds though, she even remembers a time watching a young woman, no older than herself, dressed in a ruffled, obnoxiously bright pink dress, use the wrong spoon to stir her tea. The response was measured, a polite correction, and then a silent abandonment of her, leaving the woman on the outside of every conversation for the entirety of the evening. Wanda hadn’t thought far enough to consider the environment she’d be entering, mind honed in only on finding Vision. Yet now that they are a walkway from an alien world, she understands and reciprocates his nervousness. No séances or parlor tricks can hide her on this boat. “Can I just stay with you?”

Vision squeezes her wrist, a forlorn shake of his head dashing her hopes. “I am part of the staff, it would be indecorous for an young woman to adhere herself to someone of a lower rank in front of the other guests.” His eyes betray the utter audacity of the rules, admitting he is aware they have become something more and yet it would be a burden to her perception to acknowledge it on the steamboat. “May I?” He steps away, offering his arm once more and Wanda takes it.

“Thank you.” Her fingers grip the fabric of his sleeve, tethering herself to the safety of his presence for the time being. “Any other conduct rules I should be aware of?”

“I do have some recommendations.”

“Please.”

As they walk up the wooden stairs Vision quietly informs her of survival tactics based on his observations at similar gatherings: don’t speak to the staff unless it is for food or drink, do not stand away from the crowd for extended periods of time, do not speak to eligible young men without a chaperone, do not sit with any groups of women unless expressly invited, do not ever sit with a group of men, do not drink more than three glasses lest one wants to be the rumored lush on board, do not sit at the table first, do not turn down invitations to go for a walk on the deck with other women, and do not venture into the back of the ship as that is for the servants only.

“Vizh,” he’s walked her to a settee near a gathering of women, their dresses full of billowy, expensive lace with gossamer trims to match their delicate gloves, a far cry from the dirt encrusted rough cotton of her own clothing, “is there anything I can do without offending anyone?”

A contemplative silence answers her more clearly than any words. If the walking dictionary of etiquette cannot readily provide her a foolproof answer, there is no hope. “Officer Rhodes always says he finds it useful to locate at least one person who will readily speak with you without assuming airs of superiority,” he gently helps lower her onto the couch, fingers gripping her hand a half second longer than he should in this environment. “Perhaps locating Mr. Barton or Miss Romanov would be ideal.” A glance around confirms no one has taken notice to their closeness or extended conversation yet. “If by supper you are in need of reprieve, I will be on break. You may,” he points knowingly at his temple, “find me, if you wish.”

The confluence of revelations, emotions, and bribery that brought her to this ship centered around one thing - to warn Vision. Oddly, and annoyingly, her tongue shrivels into parchment when she takes in the earnest remorse settling on his face at the notion of abandoning her. Wanda should shirk off the constraints of civility and ask him to meet with her now, perhaps even leave the ship, but it is also tempting to use the hours long voyage to more finely configure her explanation of her presence (the question of her being here still at the pulsing center of Vision’s mind) so that she is prepared to answer all the questions he likely has. “I’ll find you at supper.”

“Very well.” His bow is reticent, face stuck halfway between the butler and her lover, and his body uncertain on if he turns away or continues to face her. A decision is reached when he angles the polished tips of his shoes towards her. “You know what I find humorous, Miss Maximoff?”

Wanda is enamored at the way his lips seamlessly curve into a boyish smirk, one that instills in her mind a sense of a shrug though his shoulders do not allow such outward casualness. “What?”

“I successfully relocated you away from this very river, and yet,” his smile rises a millimeter, just enough to pucker the skin around his eyes, “here you are again.”

“Here I am.”

“Extraordinary.” Another bow fully removes the smile, replaced by a Robert Roberts approved scowl of indifference. “I must go, I will check on you throughout the evening.”

Vision’s departure punctures the tenuous security wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes finally alighting on the surroundings. Stark’s manor is extravagant, if not a bit understated. Whatever restraint was used on the manor, however, has been lost here, the boat luxurious and palatial, the inside room contrary to that of other boats where the idea is to cram as many people as possible. Wanda has been on two floored steamboats lined with rickety wooden benches, yet she has never seen one where all the upper floor was removed to carve out a single vaulted room.  If not for the gold threaded tapestries and painstakingly carved columns, the glistening candelabras on the walls, or the embossed ceilings, she would think she was outside due to the spaciousness. Wanda feels small, insignificant, a vast change from minutes before where the entirety of existence lived in a single face. She stands up, noting the lack of noise from her boots, the floor carpeted in a glorious floral pattern, one that matches the plush couches and chairs (not a single bench in sight) arranged in clusters around the room.

“Can you believe this?” Clint’s voice assaults her, his unbridled joy only calling more attention to how very much she does not belong here. “Just butter upon bacon! There’s even an archery range up top. I gotta find Nat first though.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, too swallowed up by the opulence to notice the harshness of her question. “She’s always my go to with life or death things, figured she can probably help.” Which logically makes sense, having a trained spy would greatly aid their cause, but Wanda can’t muster the enthusiasm for it, not after their encounter at the séance . “Want to come?”

Natasha is not the most pressing issue and so Wanda declines, “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Okay. I’ll find you later.” Clint marches off, quiver bobbing happily along with this exuberant steps, and Wanda is jealous of how at ease he seems. He isn’t in a suit, might not even own a proper waistcoat or loafers, yet no one stares at him as if he is an outsider, his confidence too high and his qualms with fitting in non-existent. In contrast, Wanda knows she is being watched, judged, and sentenced without any words directed at her. She can feel the flow of thoughts as eyes roam over her, take in the poorly mended practical clothing, the tight knot of her hair because she still has not figured out how to tame the curls in the humidity of this area. Wanda watches a woman enter the room, can’t tear herself away from the way the voluminous white skirt bounces with each step while the diamond shaped burgundy corset at the woman’s waist ensures the bloused top remains still, the ease of her graceful entrance conjuring a tangible and aggravating self-consciousness Wanda feels whenever she is faced with high-class women.  The distinction between classes exists everywhere, but it was only upon entering a culture in which Wanda had no prior knowledge and no ability to communicate, that she truly felt the brunt of social norms. Women with the same pedigree as, say,  Miss Potts, had been particularly cruel and impatient with Wanda, her first palm reading a disastrous affair when she could not remember the word desire and the woman, while angrily yanking her lace gloves back on, demanded her money back, muttering how Wanda was “Worse than the insufferable Paddiesg” Now she finds herself surrounded, with no palms to hide behind or minds to manipulate into spirits, uncertain how to proceed even with Vision’s rules running through her head.

Wanda determines movement might help, at the very least remove her from the prying eyes of the gaggle of women her own age who keep tittering in her direction, so she begins walking, hovering close enough to the wall to study the intricate and beautifully woven tapestries, but far enough away that she is not secluding herself. A frenzy grows towards the far end of the room, voices muddled but she can recognize Stark’s onerous ego anywhere. Wanda keeps moving, creating more distance from herself and Stark’s gathering, fairly sure he will not be pleased to see her on the ship.  

Once she reaches the far end of the room, Wanda stops to study the threads intertwining to form the image of an angel, wings spread out in a righteous fury. “If it’s at all encouraging, I hate these things too.”

The voice is familiar, not enough for her to place it until she faces him, recognizing his dark skin and the navy uniform instantly, “Officer Rhodes.”  Wanda thinks she’s supposed to curtsy, based on watching all of the other people in the room, so she briefly drops her hips and face. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Rhodes is fine,” his smile is easy despite his hands apprehensively wrapped around a cup. “I, it’s nice to see I’m not the only outsider here.”

“But you are one of Stark’s closest friends.”

Even as she says it, she regrets it, knowing full well the meaning of his comment, but it’s too late. Thankfully he laughs, “That only counts for so much. These people,” he waves his hand towards the room, the amber liquid sloshing  in the crystal cup as he moves, “half are born into their wealth, the other half are society maddists.h Doesn’t matter which it is, being free is never enough to make you equal to them.” The comment is dampened by him taking a drink, the admission one that seems to make him uncomfortable, perhaps because he has no way of knowing how she will respond, what type of person she is in this crowd.

Wanda treads carefully with her inquiry, not wanting to imply anything she does not mean, “Was the ship too tempting to turn down?”

The answer is obvious, based on his tone, “I mean, look at it.” Rhodes sips his drink as they stare at the long, bustling expanse of the room. “No, well, yes, the ship was part of it, but I’ve been contracting with Tony on one of his inventions. Figured I could be here for moral support and to save him when he inevitably gets stuck in it or sets himself on fire again.”

“Does he do that a lot?”

“More than is natural, unfortunately.” Wanda can feel her muscles loosening, even a smile forming on her face. “I didn’t see your name on the list.” Then everything tenses once more.

Truth is unacceptable right now, but a good lie incorporates in moments of veracity, preening away the undesirable bits and refitting it with softer facts. “Vision told me all about the last Exhibition, made me want to experience it.”  

“Knew it.”

His voice is gleeful, proud, and victorious, nothing she expected. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“I’ve been telling Stark since the séance  that his butler,” on the next word Rhodes points his hand toward the graceful movements of Vision through the crowds, a tray perched atop his gloved hand. He expertly utilizes his height to weave in and out of the people, the traying rising and falling depending on who he is encountering. “Is thoroughly and completely crushedi and about to go all filly and foalj on us.” Of all the people who have seen them interact, she realizes Rhodes is the one who has caught them in the most presumably incriminating though wholly innocent position. Yet she still is surprised at the response, joy alone present in his voice, no judgment, no questioning, just unbridled giddiness. “You ever need a gooseberry-pickerk, let me know.”

The offer is too kind, especially from a man who is practically a stranger, “I will, thank-”

“Excuse me,” an older woman draped head to toe in emerald silk interrupts their conversation, an empty wine glass clasped aggressively between her fingers, “You know you aren’t here to stand around, I’d like another drink.” Wanda stares silently at the woman, attempting to determine how to respond or what to think, willing to accept her own clothing might suggest she is a servant, but Rhodes is dressed in a naval uniform. “Despicable, the help you get these days.”

Rhodes shakes his head at Wanda, urging her to forget her anger and simply wait until the woman leaves, and then a new voice joins them, the smooth, rounded way he speaks filling her with the same awe of church bells on a quiet morning. “Officer Rhodes,” Vision bows deeply to Rhodes, exaggerating the bend of his waist and standing at an unhurried pace to elongate the act of reverence, “Given you are one of Mr. Stark’s most distinguished guests, he wished for me to inform you that his best scotch is available to you at a moment’s notice.”

“Thank you, Vision.”

The butler bows his head before turning to Wanda, “Miss Maximoff, Miss Potts has offered her personal dressing quarters to you should you need them any time today.”  Vision begins to leave, a careful pantomime as if he hadn’t noticed the other woman, and then he snaps to her attention, a slight inclination of his head (not willing to fully forego manners), “Mrs. Adams, would you like any coffee?”

A huff lingers in the air after the emerald monster has left, and Wanda finds it delightful the complete lack of remorse on Vision’s face and the way she sees the mannered facade break down in this moment, his smirk matching the grin breaking across Rhodes’ mouth, “You know she’s about to complain about your horrible manners, Vision.”

“Yes, well,” he gives an unconcerned sniff, tray rising up as his elbow bends, “it would not be a Stark event without Mrs. Adams filing a complaint.”

“Why does he even invite her?”

Vision answers Rhodes immediately, a straightforward, serious reason,  “She is the matriarch of one of the richest families in Albany.” Momentarily his attention shifts to the room, scanning all of the people, an attempt, she thinks, to determine his next destination. Before he leaves, however, he glances at her, face still serious but his voice concerned, “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Maximoff?”

Wanda smiles, almost reaching out to pat his arm, yet she maintains a socially acceptable distance, filling her voice with comfort and briefly touching his mind, “I’m fine, thank you.”

"Good."

“I’m fine too, you know.”  Rhodes’ response doesn’t reach Vision before he is enveloped in the crowds once more.

The next couple of hours go by slowly, Wanda moving from tapestry to tapestry, hovering on the outskirts of conversations, overhearing chatter about venture girlsL, business dealings, betrayals, deaths, and courtships, all while waiting to see if she can be invited in. For several minutes she even contemplates mental manipulation, sending a nudge into the mind of one of the women to ask her to join. This, however, is not an avenue she decides she is willing to take, so she continues to hover. Several times she spies Clint, returns his wave but never approaches, the calculating gaze of Natasha at his side enough of a deterrent. Wanda has never felt so entirely out of place in her life. The experience only momentarily brightened by the brush of a gloved hand along her back when the crowd is thick and the numerous offers of beverages from the same, blue-eyed butler.

“Miss Maximoff?”  

Wanda blinks several times, eyes trailing along a painting (one of candlesticks that look decidedly similar to the ones she helped Vision clean) before tilting her face up to take in the marginally concerned squint of Miss Potts. “Yes?”

“I realized only recently that we have not formally met.” The woman’s expression shifts back to a polished neutrality, an easy, albeit empty, smile forming on her face as she reaches out a gloved hand, knuckles pointed towards the vaulted ceiling so that her fingers dangle in a delicate invitation. Wanda steps forward, eyes never leaving the woman’s hand, and has to effortfully instruct her arm to rise until she wraps her fingers around the satin fabric of the glove. “I am Virginia Potts, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Wanda musters a polite smile at the conflicting information. Etiquette, she believes, dictates that she withhold any inquiries, the higher status individual the one in charge of the interaction, and yet she cannot seem to stop her mouth. “Virginia? Like the boat?”

The sharp exhale makes it quite clear this is an unwelcome topic even if the woman still answers, dropping Wanda’s hand as she gives the most subdued and yet emotive shrug Wanda has ever seen. “Yes, though I strongly detested the idea.” It is a simple comment, one that provides information but also keeps their social distance at merely acquaintances. Even with the airs of politeness, Wanda can feel herself calming, shoulders settling into a more comfortable position and her breath coming easier at the friendliness of the woman. “Would you care to sit with me?”

“I-” the expectant arch of Pepper’s eyebrow provides the anticipated answer, one that Wanda finds herself acquiescing with despite vehement misgivings. Even if she has been striving for such an invitation, the idea of it being with Pepper is beyond what she can fathom. “I will gladly join you.”

“Delightful.” Pepper turns to inspect the room, if she is displeased by the state of the surroundings -- almost all of the couches and chairs taken, people beginning to show signs of intoxication through both increasingly louder voices and more relaxed bodies -- she doesn’t draw attention to it, instead stepping casually to a leather couch under a bay window and sitting down, powder blue skirt rustling as she crosses her ankles. Wanda mimics the actions as best she can, remaining silent, both for the sake of propriety but also because her mind is empty of conversation starters. “Have you always been a spiritualist?”

The question is unexpectedly personal for their level of familiarity, but Wanda recognizes in this woman a certain mutual unconventionality. “No,” her fingers twist together as she considers what to reveal, unconventional or not, Pepper is closely tied to Stark. “When I first arrived in the country I was employed at factory that manufactured rudders for steamboats.” A decision she regretted instantly, but the pay was slightly higher than the meat packing factory, and a better alternative than being a house servant or joining a brothel. She only remained at the factory until she attended the Fox Sisters’ seminar with heightened confidence and grand plans of revolutionizing the methodology of soothsaying. “I have been a full-time medium for a year and a half.”

Pepper folds her hands in her lap, attention remaining steadfastly on Wanda. “How were the conditions of the factory?”

The inquiry is innocuous and yet women such as Miss Potts rarely share words that are not intended to gather certain information, so Wanda proceeds, maintaining an equally inconsequential tone as her companion. “Surprisingly generous.”  Unlike the factory in Sokovia, there were posted guidelines, a set number of timed breaks, instructions on how to handle disputes and injuries, and a rigid rule on the number of hours worked per week.

“Good.” There is unmitigated pleasure in her voice as she shifts her torso and grins at Wanda. “The Potts Steam Company prides itself on protecting and respecting our workers.”

“I-” truthfully she was never able to read the name on the side of the brick building, perhaps she heard it at some point, but what truly mattered at the time was keeping afloat amidst the turmoil that was her life. “Your family are steam,” there is a word she recalls hearing lobbied about by the big names of the city, “tycoons?”

Pepper’s laugh starts at a polite and pleasant high note before floating down to a whisper. “Yes, though the company has been solely under my tutelage for five years now.” It’s said so casually that Wanda has to replay the statement in her mind to fully grasp the meaning. Even in spiritualism there is an understanding that it is a flippant living, the only sect of the movement receiving any clout is the male-dominated mesmerists. A gentle touch of gloved fingers to her hand brings Wanda back to the conversation, Pepper smirking at her shock. “You should see their faces when I sit at the head of the table.” The knowing wink that goes along with the statement procures a small smile on Wanda’s face.

“I’m certain it is a shock.”

“Truly.” Her voice grows biting and unapologetic, “An affront to the sensibilities of good business, and yet somehow the company thrives.” All sarcasm leaves her voice as she leans towards Wanda, gloved fingers gripping her wrist in earnestness. “I was in Seneca Fallsm, surrounded by other enterprising women such as ourselves. The world,” another squeeze and Wanda feels a genuine burst of excitement at the thrilling fierceness in the woman’s eyes, “is about to change for us.”

“Pepper, I need you.”

An unmerciful eye roll dances with Pepper’s fine tuned sigh as she stands, fingers delicately arranging the bell shaped skirt so she can turn to greet Tony. “Tony we have been over this, there is nothing in this world that you need me for, want is a far preferred term.”

“This time,” his hands flail, trying to muster a believable defense, “this time it is a need.”

“I’m sure,” the patronizing way she pats Tony’s shoulder only confirms the wrongness of their pairing, Wanda even more confounded at the coupling of such an independent and fantastic woman with, well, Tony Stark. “What if I said I wanted to continue speaking with all the guests? I was enjoying my conversation with Miss Maximoff before you so rudely interrupted.”

Stark inhales while craning his neck to face the couch where Wanda remains. There is a war on his face, his temper flaring in the defined frown pulling his mouth down but a defeated matteness of his eyes conveys that he is cornered by the situation. If he raises a fuss now, it will cause alarm and impact the joviality of the ship. If he doesn’t acknowledge her, then he is granting her permission to be aboard through omission.  Wanda half expects him to call her out, reveal her own motives and explain how her scheming led to the dire situation of his butler and his manor. But instead he heaves his breath back in and returns his attention to Pepper, “Come on, Pep.”

“You may attempt to goad me with pathetic and sad eyes, but you’re going to fail.”

Tony frowns at her, hands reaching out to rest on Pepper’s arms, “But I need you to help me announce supper.”

The answer to his request is both surprising and said with such conviction Wanda can’t find it in herself to stop from grinning, “I’m certain you can manage that yourself.”

Tony bows his head, resting his forehead on Pepper’s shoulder in a display that violates at least four rules of courtship that Wanda is aware of, and yet there is no movement from the woman to abate the action even amongst a crowd of so many eager onlookers. “Pep, please.” In another affront to civility, his hands come to rest on her face, thumb rubbing her cheek as he speaks, “you know no one will listen to me and then we won’t eat for at least another hour and all that will be said about the Virginia is that we don’t properly dine our guests.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That a yes?”

Pepper inches her lover away from her with two hands, resetting to a proper distance before she turns towards Wanda, “My apologies, Miss Maximoff,” she offers her hand, fingers delicately hanging in the air, and Wanda takes it, “we can speak more at a later time.”

Unlike before, Wanda’s presence is not ignored, the seats around her populating once Pepper walks away, discerning eyes framed by cascading curls and expertly woven ribbon silently taking her in. It is a sign she has at least been accepted as possibly being worthy of conversation, even more telling is how, even though their bodies angle away from her, their voices are raised just enough that she can hear them gossip about which of the eligible gentlemen on the ship is behaving poorly. Frankly, it’s all too frivolous for her right now.

The people in the room begin to dissipate, the waitstaff directing the guests towards the dining room. This is the sign she has been anticipating since arriving on the ship, an overdue break from rules and manners and side-eyed judgmental gazes. While joining the crowd, Wanda sends out a tendril of scarlet, seeking Vision’s mind, lips curving up once she locates him slipping away towards the stern. She follows Vision’s path, changing direction to move against the crowd, her body parting the excited sea of supper-time guests.

Once outside the main room she is met with the sloshing of the river, waves crashing and receding with the movement of the boat and the churning of the paddle. It’s blissfully devoid of crowds, an escape she wished she had known about earlier. “You’re going the wrong way.”

All evening she has felt the fire of a stern and unrelenting gaze, and now that she finds herself faced with Natasha Romanov, draped in folds of ebony taffeta held in place by a crimson belt, Wanda realizes she did not put forward enough effort to strategize how to handle this threat.  “I’m not hungry.”

Natasha folds her hands demurely at her waist, a location Wanda recalls houses at least one knife, and flashes a knowing smile producing an overall effect of a predator biding her time. “I know who you are, Scarlet Witch.” Wanda wants to counter back, insist the moniker is no more, deny the lives she ruined, but she recognizes the unshakeable conviction in the woman’s eyes. “Clint told me why you’re here.”

The woman’s voice is eerily calm, devoid of any sign of what she is thinking other than that she views Wanda’s intentions incorrectly. “I’m not here to hurt Stark.”

“Yes, apparently you are trying to help him.” Delving into Natasha’s mind could eliminate her as an obstacle, allow Wanda to escape, for now, but doing so would come at the cost of losing any lingering respect or trust. If she is going to help Vision (and Stark), there is no way of being successful without Natasha. Yet the woman does not make it easy, expertly prodding the still healing sores of her past. “Just like you were no doubt doing in the ammunition factory in Zagreb.”

There are numerous regrets Wanda has working for the Baron, not least of them is her own hand in inciting political hysteria by implanting rebellion into the people’s minds. She truly felt it was right, at the time, considering all that had been stolen from the lower classes, all they would never be allowed, until she saw their bodies piling higher and higher. “I’ve tried so hard to leave it behind but it keeps finding me.”

If Natasha is moved at all by the tremble in her voice or the tears gathering in her eyes, there is no sign on her stoic face. “Do you know anything about the plan?”

Wanda almost gives an outright no, except it would be a lie, not by much but enough to likely tempt the knife resting beneath Natasha’s hands. “Only that it involves the arc reactor. Nothing more yet.”

A relieved breath flows from Wanda’s lungs as Natasha pulls her hands away from her waist, an uppish sniff denoting the displeasure at the lack of information. “Don’t tell Vision anything.”

“Why not?”

Natasha cocks her head to the side, seeming to view Wanda’s question as too idiotic for comprehension, “Because if you tell Vision he will mention it to Tony, and once Tony knows, well, no one is as gifted at ruining my strategies than a man who thinks himself smarter and more cunning than everyone else.” She shrugs, her statuesque mask cracking slightly to show Wanda the annoyance of remembrance on her face. “He isn’t as skilled as he thinks and tends to cause more issues by being involved.”

“Fine.” Wanda waits to see if there is more, is suspicious when there is nothing else, but takes it as a release from the confrontation. Effortlessly she latches back onto Vision’s mental signature and turns away.

“Wanda,” she stops, glancing over her shoulder at the woman, her red hair catching the sunlight so perfectly an artist could easily use her as a model for the angel of death, “you leave this boat, I will follow you. You leave Stark Tower, I will follow you. You try anything and we can finally answer the question of what would have happened had I we met while you were still my mark.”

Wanda leaves without remark, hands gripping her skirt and lifting it so she can hustle away. The longer she is on this boat, the less certain she becomes of her choices, fearing that the only path left is a complete descent into her prior life. Perhaps it is her fate, no matter how far or how hard she runs, her past pursues her. It become clear that the only way forward is by embracing what came before. This train of thought is blown away by the breeze rushing over the stairs leading her to one of the upper decks. All hesitation and doubt in her choices are fully eradicated at the sight of Vision standing at the rail, staring out over the river. Wanda approaches him, her hand trailing along his back, pleased at the twitch of surprise in his muscles followed by the smile he turns towards her. “Wanda.”

“Hi, Vision.”

There are people visible below them, no guests, based on the clothing, but an array of workers, some in suits like Vision’s, others in aprons and rolled up sleeves, the women are all in ankle length dresses with their hair tied back.  Each position wears a set uniform that makes it impossible to misidentify their status. Vision, understandably, does not lean into her or move to show affection, rightfully wary of how quickly rumors of their closeness would spread. Wanda finds it exhilarating, however, that he is even standing at the rail with her to be seen. “I secured you one of the main courses since you are missing it.” He directs her to a small table set up out of sight of the people downstairs, two plates with metal cloches resting atop a cream colored linen. “My apologies that it is lacking,” the sincerity of his voice is more confusing than the comment, a private dinner on top of a luxury steamboat is far more than she expected or has ever experienced.

“It’s fine, Vizh.” He helps her sit, removing the cloches before sliding into the seat next to hers, much like she did the last time they were together, his legs bumping lightly against her own. “Wait,” Wanda stares at the two plates, hers a piece of art and Vision’s indistinguishable from what she’s seen pigs eat in the market.

“Staff eat different meals than guests, I could only reasonably procure one guest plate.” His words are weighed with finality, further confirmed when he picks up his spoon, “I truly am not bothered by it.”

There is an apprehension building in the air between them, one she assumes is due to Vision being far too polite to vocalize his concerns, both as a butler and as a man newly entered into a courtship. Perhaps it isn’t even fair to expect him to broach the topic given it is her own unannounced visit upending everything. “Do you,” Wanda places her fork down, hands resting in her lap so her fingers can scrunch the fabric of her skirt, “have any questions for me?”

“Yes,” the word is held for several seconds, his hands in disagreement over whether they remain on the table or fall in his lap to mimic her own stance. One ends up on the table, and the other he waves nervously through the air as he speaks. “I wish to preface this with the, um, caveat that I hope you do not misconstrue my befuddlement at your presence as a sign I am unhappy at your being here.” A heavy pause and no eye contact puts his inexpertness on full display. Wanda contemplates how long she lets him flounder before reassuring him she has done no such thing, but he saves himself, finishing the statement in a way that seems sincere and a bit rehearsed. “Please know that I am positively thrilled at the opportunity to spend time with you.”

“Me too.” Now he meets her eyes, the trenches of anxiety smoothing out on his brow, “You know that wasn’t a question.”

“I suppose it was not,” the youthful smirk she so desperately hoped to see earlier finally surfaces, accompanied by a gleam of challenge in his eyes, “though I would argue the question of your unexpected presence was implicit in the statement.”

It is tempting to jostle him further, point out the careful dance of his words as he attempts to not rudely question why she’s on this boat, to not mistakenly add a subtextual layer of displeasure to the conversation.  Now, regrettably, is not the time to distract him with banter. “I received a telegram, a few days after you left.” Whatever he was expecting, this is not it, his eyelids narrowing in bewilderment as he waits for something more illustrative. “It implied there is some plan to interfere with Stark’s demonstrations.”

“May I see it?” Wanda recalls hearing a street performer once recite a tale of curiosity and regret, something about opening a box and realizing how desire and good intentions can breed complications and unintended consequences. It feels as if she is opening that box as she reaches into her satchel, removing the embarrassingly wrinkled message and handing it to Vision. His gloved fingers smooth out the paper, lifting it close to his eyes in a foolhardy attempt to decipher the words. “What does it say?”

The lid of her metaphorical box clatters to the ground as she recites the translation from memory. “Come to the city to find out.”

Wanda can tell the second he connects the dangling threads of logic, holds her breath as he diligently ties the ends together, checks them for errors, and then cautiously reveals his work to her. “What did you send to receive this response?”

There are numerous options available to her: Natasha’s plan of telling Vision nothing (although she’s already broken her promise), the truth (either narrow or broad depending on how long Vision’s can spend with her), there is evasion of the topic via omissions and vagueness, or she could throw herself into his lap and distract him from the topic. The last one sounds the most pleasant albeit the least likely to end well for their relationship. The third can protect him from learning too much before she knows what is happening. But the second is the most ideal for building communication and fostering the foundational trust of their relationship. Wanda decides to combine strategies, “I told them I had found what they’ve been looking for.”

“Which is, what, precisely?”

Alone with him, Wanda allows her hands to glow, scarlet undulating with the moroseness of her mind as she pulls him deeper into the perilous web of her life. “The one thing he has that no one else does. The thing everyone thought wasn’t real, but now he’s bringing it to the Exhibition,” If she reveals more, and it is discovered she did so, there is no telling what Natasha will do to her, or even Vision, but, Wanda reasons, if Vision reaches the conclusion on his own then she can claim innocence to Nat and survive another day.

Vision seems to understand the subtext, his hand reflexively wrapping around his wrist, eyes a touch wild and acutely perturbed. “What is their plan?”

Finally she can be honest without hesitation.  “I have no idea.”

“Will you inform me when-“

Wanda takes his hands in her own, thumbs running beneath his sleeves to feel the metal cuffs at his wrist, her eyes ensnaring his, ensuring he will not miss the sincerity and promise in her answer, “Yes, Vision. I will tell you everything as soon as I know. You,” thankfully he doesn’t flinch when she moves her right hand to cup his cheek, “are the reason I’m here, the only person I want to protect.”

“Thank you.” The lack of hesitation in the turn of his face and the press of his lips to her palm enlivens her heart and strengthens her resolve in the rightness of following him. “I-“ he envelopes her hand with his own, face bare of any social graces or constraints, just a raw, pulsating anxiety that overwhelms her, “I am far more worried for you than myself.”

“I can handle it, Vizh.”

He refuses to let her brush it off, a shake of his head dispelling her bravado, “I am aware, and in awe, of your ingenuity and survival, but it was only a matter of time before someone would come for the arc reactor and,“ his eyes drop down as his shoulders rise into a half-hearted shrug, “I do not believe it worth your safety if the threat is too formidable.”

It’s a statement that needs to be refuted, one that dangerously teeters on the edge of self-sacrifice, but it is also one she can’t fully counter at the moment, unable to strongly disagree when she is not aware what, precisely, might be happening. "We can discuss that possibility if we need to." Wanda tucks the comment away, determining that for now she'd like to enjoy the limited time she has with him. “Behind you is the most breathtaking sunset I’ve ever seen.” The statement isn’t an exaggeration, the flocculent clouds dyed lilac with splashes of persimmon that give way to an almost blood red finish, all reflected in the waves of the Hudson lapping happily against the ship. Vision frowns at the jackknife in the conversation and turns in his chair, shoulders sagging as he stares out at the variegated sky, the rough waters of his mind easing to match the rhythm of the river. Wanda stands from her chair, steps up behind him, and wraps her arms around his shoulders, resting her head on his shoulder, rewarded with a gloved hand rising to grasp her own and the pressure of his head leaning against her. Wanda places a kiss to his temple, giddy at the feel of him melting into her embrace. Whatever is coming for them, in this moment she is certain, so long as she has his presence, nothing is insurmountable.

The ship docks around eleven in the evening, the only people leaving the vessel, however, are the house servants, including Vision (who left with a whispered apology and advice to follow Nat to the tower), all scurrying to prepare the homes of their employers. The rest of the staff remain on the ship, scrubbing every surface while keeping a distance from the still riotous party in the main room, the guests allowed to sober up before traversing the city streets. Wanda can hear Stark call for another round of smothering the parrotn, confirming it could be hours before anyone actually leaves. She sends a cloud of scarlet out, assessing the minds of most interest, and feels Nat and Clint in deep conversation. Now might be the only chance she gets.

Her fingers twitch as she sneaks off the ship, constantly adjusting her read on the people around her to sense any peril or pursuit. Before he left, Vision confirmed the dock they were at, one she knows well, having departed and arrived there numerous times, and so she allows her feet to carry her along the cobbled streets towards Castle Garden. If fortune is on her side there will be a concert, large crowds of enthusiastic and well dressed socialites an ideal cover, especially now that she can feel a mind following her, one that is, much like Castle Garden itself, an impenetrable stronghold.

The crescendo of cultured voices lifts her spirits, her hands waving to encourage a couple to close off the hole she left while encouraging a group of rowdy gentlemen to shove each other out of her way. Nat can pursue her, but Wanda refuses to make it easy, channeling the confidence she had at the height of her time with Pietro in Sokovia, when the world bowed at the majesty and terror of what they’d become. The last bundle of people step out of her way and Wanda pauses, studying the simple canvas tent, one she used to sit in everyday, reading palms and granting fortunes until he’d show up to tell her who to infiltrate next. She’d never intended to come back.

Wanda steadies the tremble of her hands, tempering the scarlet to settle just beneath her skin, and snaps her chin up, taking on an air of indignation that hopefully seems natural. Confidently she marches into the tent, “I received your message.”

“‘Bout time, little witch,” confusion rams into her, unfamiliar, beady , untoward eyes disorienting as they inspect her from head to toe, causing her muscles to tense, the flow of her powers pooling in her fingertips. “Been waitin’ ‘re three days for ya, gettin’ mighty lonely.” The noxious swagger of this man is instilled with the brazen assumption all men of power (real or not) have, one that whispers to them that their position in life allots them total freedom and control of others.

“I’m supposed to be meeting with Ultron.”

The man laughs, leaning back in the chair she used use while reading palms, placing his well shined boots on the rickety table. “You really think he’d just take ya back after disappearin’?”

It hadn’t crossed her mind to consider how her actions of the past half year would be viewed, how she fled, leaving only a note saying she had a lead and then she cut all contact, hid herself from the public, never registered her residence or dared go back to the city.  For weeks after getting off the first train, she didn’t sleep, convinced a man in a bowler hat with a slight limp would appear at her door if she shut her eyes. Clearly the intent of her absence was not as well obscured as she thought. “I can get him to Stark.”

“Yeah,” the aloofness makes her flinch, “So can we.” A sneer forms on his face and a salacious wink sends needles into her spine. “But damfino why, he told me to ‘ell ya that if ya can show us a better, more,” the man leans forward and she steps back, “intimate way to Stark, he’d consider lettin’ ya back in.” All she’s accomplished is confirmation of a plan, nothing more, and her disappointment and anger seep out of her fingers. “Woah, woah there my bricky lil’ chuckaboo.” Now the man’s ostentatiousness begins to fracture, his eyes frenzied as he takes in the scarlet engulfing her hands. “We planned for this, ya know, I don’t know the plan, just the message for you. So you can try it, won’t get ya anything.”

There’s no bristle of falsehood in his mind, so she abates the scarlet. “How am I supposed to prove my closeness to Stark?”

The threat gone, he sidles right back into an expert simper even Stark would be hard pressed to muster, “Oh, we got eyes on ya at all times - even know ya rode in on that afternoonifiedo boat.” The simper broadens into an annoyingly prideful beam, “We’ll let ya know when ya’ve proved it.”

Red crackles round her fingers as a final warning before she exits the tent, eyes immediately alighting on Natasha’s smug grin as she loops her arm through Wanda’s. “Hope you learned something useful.”

“I didn’t.” Wanda resigns herself to being escorted, Natasha leading her back through the crowds, her mind tired, defeated, and swelling with enmity.

 Victorian Language and Culture Decoder (with a new footnoting system!)

a: The New York Central Railroad merger was a big deal in the early 1850s as it connected all the railways going from New York City all the way to Buffalo.

b:Umble-cum-stumble: Understood?

cArk naden, plan?”: Arc found. Plan?

d: Plank roads were wooden roads laid in the mid-1800s that greatly helped the travel of wagons and carriages.

e: Lime Juicer: An early 1850s slang term for British, typically used when talking about men in the Navy. Apparently in the British navy they were known for putting lemon juice in their beer to fight diseases and promote health. By the late 1850s it became “limey”

f: Flapadoodle: a sexually incompetent man who is either too young to have sex or too old to attempt it anymore.

gPaddies: derogatory term for people from Ireland – one of the most mistreated immigrant groups during this time period.

h: Society maddest: people not born into society, who devote their whole lives, and often fortunes, to get into society.

i:Crushed: Spoony with love

J:Filly and foal: Young lovers that saunter away from the world.

k:Gooseberry-picker: A confidant who helps lovers meet in secret and/or get privacy.

L: Venture girls: Women, often of the middle class, sent to India to find a husband.

mSeneca Falls: The birthplace and meeting site of the Women's Rights Convention that turned into the suffragette movement. I think Pepper would be a loud voice in the suffragettes.

n: Smothering the parrot: drinking absinthe

oAfternoonified: Smart, in a fancy way

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Repentance by Thomas H. Gallaudet

"Repent ye, therefore, and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out." - Acts 3:19

We are to consider the nature of repentance. To do this it is necessary to observe that there are two words in the original Greek of the New Testament both of which our translators have rendered by the term "repentance," although they have meanings, in some important respects, very different from each other. One signifies a mere wish that some part of our past conduct had been otherwise, without any regard to its moral nature or consequences. The other denotes such a cordial, sincere, and permanent sorrow for all that we discover to be wrong in our past life, as will lead to a radical reformation of our whole moral character. It is the last which is used in our text and, indeed, in all other passages which speak of genuine evangelical repentance. So [it is clear] that no notion can be more unscriptural or absurd than that held by some Papists--that repentance is a grace to be exercised at stated intervals as a sort of penance, a duty which is to cancel at one stroke all past transgressions, and which, indeed, may be deferred till the last moment of dissolution [death].

Very different from this is that repentance which is enjoined by the Gospel. So far from being a desultory [random] duty to be performed at intervals, it is a fixed habit of the soul, implying a constant detestation of sin, a lively regret for all we have committed, and a steady purpose of thorough and universal amendment. It requires in its possessor an enlightened and discriminating conscience; for how can we sorrow for sin unless we understand what it is?

The true penitent, therefore, has correct views of the infinite excellence and purity of God's character; of the indispensable obligation of all intelligent creatures to obey his law, which is holy and just and good; of the injury done to his authority by the violation of this law; of the necessity of guarding it by a severe penalty; and of the justice of that sentence which inflicts everlasting punishment on every offender. Nor are these views of sin merely speculative. They touch the heart of the true penitent with deep humility and contrition, for he reckons himself among the chief of sinners. His iniquities overwhelm him with shame and confusion of face. He considers them as committed against that Being to whom he is indebted for all that renders existence desirable, against that Saviour who freely gave himself a propitiatory sacrifice for the sins of the world; against that Spirit whose monitory suggestions and attractive influences have so often pointed the way and urged him to walk in the path to heaven.

Memory spreads before him the scenes of his past life; and day after day, passing in review, testifies to the enormity of his ingratitude and his guilt. How many moments have been wasted in slothful and criminal supineness [indifference]! How many have been devoted to the gratification of the "lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life!" And how have all--even he who has witnessed in his breast some fervent aspirations after holiness, and earnest though imperfect attempts at obedience--been sullied by some lurking corruption? For all this he grieves, not merely nor principally because such conduct has exposed him to the dreadful penalty of the law, but because he has been evil and unthankful to him whose very nature is "love." With the Psalmist he is ready to exclaim, "Against thee, thee only have I sinned and done this evil in thy sight."

The true penitent laments also the remaining depravity of his heart. Even in his most pure and holy moments--in those which witness the flight of his affections from earth to heaven, and the ineffable communion of his spirit with the Father of spirits--even then, while he discovers how some selfish and sinful desire insinuates itself into his soul, he feels the deepest and most hearty repentance for his present guilt; for he then is best able to detect its true and odious character by contrasting it with his clear apprehension of real purity and holiness of heart. And if such seasons imbued [saturated] with so sweet a savor of things heavenly and divine, and affording a prelibation [foretaste] of that blissful state where sin can never enter--if even such seasons demand repentance and reliance upon the merits of Christ, what deep sorrow will the true penitent feel as he observes his affections becoming more gross and more tainted with the corrupt influence of the world! How often will he exclaim with the Apostle, "O wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" And sensible from past experience of his ignorance and weakness and guilt, he will tremble at the dreary prospect of a life which is always to be spotted with sin, resolving however by the aid of Divine grace to struggle with the world, the flesh, and the devil; and when he fails, ever to feel the deepest contrition and sorrow.

Such, my brethren, is the nature of genuine repentance. It is a fixed habit of the soul, under the direction of an enlightened conscience, discerning well between right and wrong, and sensible of the immense evil of sin. It implies a constant and cordial [heartfelt] detestation of sin, a lively regret for all which we have committed, and a steady purpose of thorough and universal amendment.

[pamphletstoinspire]

Saint Hyacinth - Feast Day: August 17th - Latin Calendar

St. Dominic vesting St. Hyacinth with the Dominican garb.

St. Hyacinth, a great ornament of the celebrated Order of Preachers, was born in Poland. He was the son of illustrious parents, who educated him according to the dictates of Christianity. During the years devoted to his studies, he was an example of innocence, piety and industry. His uncle, the bishop of Cracow, appointed him canon in his cathedral, so that he might employ him in the administration of his See. When he left for Rome, on account of troubles at home, he took Hyacinth with him. St. Dominic, so celebrated for his apostolic zeal, and for the miracles he wrought, was there at the time. Hyacinth, observing the wonderful zeal and piety of this holy man and of his companions, felt a growing desire to join them. He and three of his fellow-travelers, who had the same inclination, went to St. Dominic and begged him to receive them into his newly founded Order. The Saint received them willingly, and instructed them how to lead a religious life, to preach in a Christian spirit, and to labor successfully for the spiritual welfare of men. After a few months, the holy founder had so thoroughly imbued them with his spirit, that he did not hesitate, after they had taken their vows, to send them into their native country, to preach the word of God and promote the salvation of souls.

At Cracow, where St. Hyacinth had formerly preached by his edifying life, he now began to preach with words, and God gave them such power, that he reformed the most hardened sinners, induced others to become more zealous in the service of the Almighty, and animated all to be more solicitous for the salvation of their souls. That all this might have a more solid foundation, he gathered a number of spiritual co-operators about him, and having instructed them according to the maxims of St. Dominic, he established a Dominican monastery at Cracow. Hyacinth, who had been chosen superior by the new members, was an example to all. Besides the prescribed fast-days of his Order, he fasted all Fridays and vigils on bread and water. The greater part of the night he passed in fervent prayer, before the Blessed Sacrament. He allowed himself only a very short rest on the bare floor, and scourged himself severely every night. The whole day was occupied with hearing confessions, preaching, visiting the sick, and similar pious exercises.

He had particular devotion to the Blessed Sacrament and to the Blessed Virgin, and never undertook anything before offering his work to God and begging the assistance of His Blessed Mother. She appeared to him once, on the eve of the feast of her Assumption, saying to him: "Be assured, my son, that thou shalt receive everything thou askest from my Son." The comfort these words afforded the holy man may be easily imagined. He, however, asked only for what was necessary for the salvation of souls. His own and his companion’s pious labors were all directed to the same end. When he thought that he had firmly established religious principles and practices among the inhabitants of Cracow and the whole diocese, he sent his preachers to different places to labor in the same manner. He himself also left Cracow, and it is astonishing how many countries he journeyed through, how many convents he established everywhere: for apostolic laborers, how many souls he converted to the true faith or to a more virtuous life.

To aid his pious endeavors, God gave him power to work miracles, and so great was their number, that he might well be called the Thaumaturgus, or wonder-worker of his age. A miraculous event occurred in Russia, when the Tartars stormed Kiow, where the Saint had founded a church and convent. He was standing at the altar when they entered the city, spreading destruction and desolation around them. After finishing the Holy Sacrifice, the Saint, still in his priestly robes, took the Ciborium containing the Blessed Sacrament, and telling his priests to follow him without fear, he went towards the church door. When passing a large alabaster statue of the Blessed Virgin, before which he had often said his prayers, he distinctly heard a voice saying: "My son Hyacinth, wilt thou leave me here to be at the mercy of my enemies?" The Saint’s eyes filled with tears. "How can I carry thee?" said he; "the burden is too heavy." "Only try," was the response; "my son will assist you to carry me without difficulty." The holy man with streaming eyes, took the statue and found it so light, that he could carry it with one hand. Thus, carrying the Ciborium in one hand and the statue in the other, he and his companions passed through the enemy unassailed, to the gates of the city. Not finding any soldiers there, they passed on and reached Cracow in safety.

Whether Almighty God made His servants invisible to the Tartars on this occasion, or in some other manner prevented them from harming them, is not known; but it is a fact that they left the city unmolested. When they reached the river over which there was no bridge, nor a boat to convey them across, the Saint, trusting in the power of Him Whom he carried in his right hand, and in the intercession of her whom he held in his left, fearlessly stepped upon the water, and crossed it with dry feet. A similar, and perhaps still greater miracle happened at another time. He was going to Vicegrad to preach, but, on reaching the river, found no vessel which he could use to reach the opposite bank. Spreading his cloak on the water, he sat upon it, and was floated safely across and brought his companions over in the same manner. By this and many other miracles, God glorified His servant even on earth.

For forty years this holy man had labored for the salvation of souls, when, in 1257, it was revealed to him that he should assist, in Heaven, at the triumph of the Blessed Virgin, on the feast of her glorious Assumption. On the feast of St. Mary ad Nives, he was taken sick. On the eve of the Assumption he gave his last instruction to the priests of his Order; after which he prepared for the festival, and, having recited the office of the day, he fixed his eyes on heaven, and said the psalm, "In thee, O Lord, have I hoped," to the words, "Into thy hands I commend my spirit," when he calmly expired, at the age of 74. The innocence and chastity which he possessed at the time of his baptism, remained unspotted until the end. After his death, the miracles which the Almighty continued to work through this Saint, were the means of proclaiming to all the world, the sanctity and merits of His blessed servant.

Practical Considerations

1. St. Hyacinth, carrying the Savior of the world in one hand, and in the other, the statue of the Blessed Virgin, walked past his enemies through the city. Happy are they who carry Jesus and Mary, not only on their lips, but also in their hands! They will ever walk safely amid dangers, unharmed by the enemies of their salvation. Some carry Mary alone on their lips, not Jesus; they make some show of being devout to the Blessed Virgin, by saying certain prayers; but they offend Jesus, the Divine Son of Mary, most grievously, flattering themselves that, by their devotion to the Blessed Virgin, they are secure against the fire of hell. This is a terrible deceit of Satan. Such devotion is no devotion to the Divine Mother; as, to be devout to her, it is required, above all things, to do nothing which is displeasing to her, how can anyone hope for salvation when his whole devotion consists in a few prayers or pious acts? One who does this, divides Jesus from Mary. You must carry Jesus and Mary at the same time, and not only in your mouth, but also in your hands. You must show, by your works, that you love both with your whole heart. If you love Jesus, see that you do not offend Him; if you love Mary, arouse not the wrath of Him Whom she loves above all things. Such devotion will shield you against all dangers to your salvation, and lead you to everlasting peace and rest.

2. For forty years St. Hyacinth was devoted solely to the glory of God and the salvation of souls. He has now enjoyed, for more than five hundred years, the heavenly joys in recompense for his labors, and he will enjoy them for all eternity, O! how richly God rewards the services of His elect! "If, for one hundred years of service, He bestowed one hour of Heavenly bliss, the reward would be great," says St. Chrysostom. How grateful should we be, when, as the true faith teaches us, he promises us an eternal reward in Heaven for such short service! Who would not serve, with pleasure, so bountiful a Master? How blind and foolish are those who prefer to serve Satan! Does Satan reward his servants more liberally than God? Ask the reprobate; they will tell you. Listen to what the Almighty said, in times long past, of the difference that will, one day, be between His servants and those of Satan, and then resolve which you will serve; "Behold!" says He, "my servants shall eat, and you shall be hungry; behold, my servants shall drink, and you shall be thirsty. Behold, my servants shall rejoice, and you shall be confounded; behold, my servants shall praise for joyfulness of heart, and you shall cry for sorrow of heart, and shall howl for grief of spirit (Isaias, 1xv)." What else does this mean but: "My servants shall be eternally happy in Heaven, but you shall be eternally unhappy in hell."

[novalian]

Ideally, how would you have wanted the Bellamy-thinks-Octavia-is-dead storyline to play out? This short hiatus is giving me time to think and I'm still pissed off because it should have lasted more than like 5 minutes.

Let’ssay that Echo doesn’t kill Stephens but imprisons himwith Bellamy and Kane; he manages to escape on the way to theravine, but they shoot him in the leg and it’s impossible for him to reachArkadia before they do, so they’re not too worried and still walk into Clarke’strap with confidence. Stephens comes across Niylah’s trading post, finds her radio,and warns Clarke that Azgeda are coming with plenty of time to spare. WhenClarke confronts Roan, she has a throwaway line about being warned by Stephensthat eliminates Bellamy’s ability to deduce Octavia is alive. Meanwhile, Octaviastill crosses paths with Ilian, but he fixes her up himself out of the goodnessof his heart – and then takes some identifying piece of armour to Arkadia to informSkaikru of her death, and that is his opportunity to get inside and set theplace on fire. Most of Tinderbox’s story is preserved, with one key exception(this isn’t airtight, but it’s clearly possible to run the same basic track and still do justice to theDead!Octavia storyline).

Tinderboxalone should have been markedly different. When you create a character with a clearlydiscernible worst-nightmare scenario, the prevention of which is a keymotivation that spans seasons, introducing that scenario should have character ramifications. That is a rudimentary storytelling principle, and also,like, common sense. It not only allows for the character themselves to bedeveloped, but for their relationships to develop as well.

I wouldhave included scenes between Kane and Bellamy on their way to the ravine, toshow more of Bellamy’s reaction post-scream. The breakdown in the cell waspowerful, but it was one solitary note in what should have been a wholemulti-faceted exploration of grief. I wanted a verbal process, and Kane is theperfect person for that to play off of. He was auxiliary in this episode, cargoin the great plot migration from Polis to Arkadia without any real charactersignificance, and he didn’t need to be. Kane loves Octavia too; he understandsBellamy’s relationship with her, and he also knows Bellamy’s pattern of dealingwith loss. He’s the person who challenged Bellamy on his reasons for turning inPike; ‘Did you do this for your sister, or because it was the right thing todo?’ Bellamy could have been struggling with a furious, heartbroken desire tokill Echo, so that when Kane watches him leave the kill box with her later, heis genuinely worried about what Bellamy might do. 

This would have been theperfect opportunity to show Bellamy choosing the right thing over theOctavia-oriented/vengeance-driven thing. It would have given his interactionswith Echo more tension as he wrestled with the urge to wrap his chains aroundher neck, and it would have imbued his speech to Riley with the sense that hewas simultaneously talking to himself, making our Bryan stand-inrelevant as a kind of mirror in which Bellamy could see his own worst impulsesreflected back. Bellamy has already expressed his guilt and self-loathing overthe choices he made last season, and chosen a different path on several differentoccasions. Having him choose diplomacy even in the face of Octavia’s death andin the company of her murderer would have been an escalation of that themeinstead of a repetition. And while in Season 3 Kane wondered if Bellamy couldtell the difference between what was right for his sister and what was right,this episode could serve as a definitive answer; he can.

Bellamy’sreunion with Clarke could have gotten more attention as she recognized thatsomething was seriously wrong and he had to tell her that Octavia was dead. Ithink that with Kane, after the meltdown in the cell, Bellamy would have beenangry. Clarke cracks him open. I want to know what that scene would have lookedlike. The worst thing that could ever happen to Bellamy has just happened andClarke is his best friend and his touchstone, so their relationship would havebeen integral to Bellamy moving forward. Having Clarke present not just for thatreunion but throughout his grieving process would have been an importantcontrast to Season 3, when we saw how dealing with the fallout of Mt Weatheralone messed so deeply with Bellamy’s head and with his judgment, partlybecause he didn’t have Clarke for emotional support and to centre him (the thing that canon acknowledged she does forhim, mere episodes ago). HavingBellamy work through post-Octavia life with Clarke to centre him would havecreated so many opportunities for her to help him realize his worth outside ofwhat he can sacrifice for Octavia. Bellamy has been expanding his circle ofbeloved ever since he hit the ground, but the next step is for him torealize/verbalize that they (the Delinquents) are his family; that the loss ofOctavia doesn’t mean he is alone.

Withoutthe desire to protect her driving him, and without the need to ignore herfaults and mistakes because it’s necessary to preserve their relationship,Bellamy would also be able to look back on their time together and on Octaviaas a person and get some real perspective. It would be incredibly messy, but itis something I really want for the character, and I think it would give the Blakesibling relationship a renewed energy once they do eventually reunite andresume interactions – with Bellamy’s new perspective shaping them.

[libramoon2]

[evening dionysian]

working title: [evening dionysian]

Dancers dance musicians play Enchanting sylph narrates stories while seductively moving to sinuous back beat, tick of chimes. Occasionally emphasizes subtle percussions with intense expressions, leaps, cunning stumbles, falling to crawl into spellbound speech. Scheherazade myths, archetypal passion escapades, poignant weeps, salient shouts to power. Exquisite meditations on mystic climes, spirit and form. Merry masks, sparkly costumes, paint and glitter as embellishment to the tellings. Theater as intimate ritual. Anything could manifest.

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Pisces murky androgeny Libra emits graceful beauty Scorpio at home in passion Deeply attractive Complicated self-hatred urging service and demeaning. At core strong self-belief expressed intuitively. Stories from the collective well, mystic ether, imbued in earth, exhaled by flames. Centering, sense memory trances exhibits as sinuous performance.

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This world is ending …

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Even happy families share dissonance, complex histories, emotional triggers. Happy families learn to thrive, profound mutual respect as guide, resort to good humor for smoother passage. Why fight, divide strength from where it is better spent? Folk who pull together by choice rejoice in shared communion.

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Outside self-circumscribed worlds Diverse perception of views Sight with wide spectra of hues

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She heard him crying, a lost child in the night. In her prophetic heart she knew only she could comfort him. But she was only a child who was never allowed to be lost. How could she comfort this lost boy when she had no freedom to reach out? Late in quiet dark, after her people, asleep, would not be checking on her, she opened her window and made daring escape. Wandering in the outside dark, she listened for his cries. At first she discerned wind among leaves and branches, small creature forays, clash of metal against pavement, perfumed strains from afar. Then, yes, whimpers, ragged rhythm past exhausted weeping. He was huddled, hidden, on the alley side of a cold brick building. Seeing him, frightened, lost, she did not know what to say. He smelled of rancid sweat and fear. She did not know how to speak. She cried. She emptied herself of every caustic tear, every regret held for guilty ransom, every sadness kept inside so no one would fuss. He looked up at her watery face and asked with amazed concern: “Are you lost, too? Because if we are lost together, really we have found each other. We don’t have to stay scared and alone.” She looked around, realized that in al her blind wandering she had lost her way. She had no idea where they were. She knelt beside him. They smiled and hugged. For that precious while they became beloved kin. Perhaps some special night they’ll meet again.

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Mythy visions to transcribe; thought fragments to form. Myths we live, and how to rewrite them.

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She knows she has awakened. Every effort of her body pinches, aches, demands refuge in self-talk, reason, mental override of pain. Carefully, she measures out tools of destruction, what she must carry in her pack into the city, to her place of destiny. Doing what one can to make sense, have meaning. Life is short, ugly, pointless, unless you get that call. Trying to act cool with familiar friends, laying low, hiding from everything that doesn’t allow relevant existence for dregs like us. Recognition? Commendation? A scrap of real notice? To sacrifice this humorless joke to Godly cause, that’s got to be imbued with meaning, to be holy. How not find zealous courage, so dishonor numbing a drug, one point of focus. All my sins, my impoverishments, inadequacies, forgiven in ultimate atonement. God can love me. I am made pure in His sight. A tool, a weapon, no matter how lowly, bestowed sacred purpose in this great fight. My parents, my kin, vindicated, their suffering denied nobility avenged. Cleansed in adventure’s icy plunge, only ever young in throes of romance, a chance for breathless rush of brief immortality.

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. question everything accept or reject with clear awareness and flexibility

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. purity of essence is to will one thing

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. She didn’t like her skin. So hard to blend in. She didn’t like her body, jutting awkwardly, too bulky, not compliant to conscious control. She ached to let her spirit free from matter’s burden, to ooze out onto open air. Her envisioned wish took her to aerial glee, and no more. “What would I see, outside of eyes, no biological boundaries?” Her attention, turned to this yearn for omniscient sight, was caught, held strong and seduced. Ever present, ever expanding through every crevice of her consciousness, she became inured to matter’s inadequacies. She desired entirely. No one could reach her, though no one tried. She trance-walked through her duties and habits with none to notice any lack of aliveness, lack of any impish spark within her eyes. Self-consumed, obsessed, absorbed in apotheosis, physical possibilities no longer matter. Her spirit no longer held to this room, this body. Blind to her unseeing world, enraptured in unfiltered light, colors far beyond our rainbow.

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. A brave and learned man hired out to guide a motley assortment through a narrow, rocky passage to a settlement in need of laborers. At this time, he was a stranger to settlers and these prospective immigrants. He had an idea of joining their project, but felt nag of doubt enough to only commit as far as hiring out for specified work and pay. This Job – this man who gave his name as Job – was curious, clever, aloof because caught up in thoughts complex, calculating, critical, cynical, contemplative, entertaining. He spoke as necessary for terse communication. He listened as if a subtle etching of rain on sand. He sucked in sounds and all their meaning to nourish his chattering brain. Though his behavior, demeanor, presentment appeared distancing, others tended to respect his leadership, his abilities. Even those who mocked or boisterously complained in private camaraderie in which he did not join agreed that he bested them at coming through. After their passaging, safely gathered at the settlement, words and gestures of gratitude lauded upon him were spontaneous and sincere. As settlers and new arrivals met together to discuss their common project, ask questions, give opinions, figure out teams and chores, Job continued his passage. Busy in their plans and adaptations, no one noticed him disappear.

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. Capture my imagination Take me for a ride self-discipline, acknowledge without judging

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Philip, he so tired, exhausted, can’t bear the nattering. Silly people, spew of soft-heart advice. Stupidly happy people, smug in their hugs and white smiles. Philip recedes into deep, dark hate – so mired and convoluted spirals down his mind. Lethargic impulses, held back, kicked down, pounded to weakness as he grew in twists and turns. “Don’t look at me.” He hears his silence scream. Horrid beast snarls, whimpers. Philip aches to hide from his own mind, beastly child whining, cringing around cutting steel for comfort. Snappy, happy babblers burst like saliva balloons, insult, annoy. “Don’t speak to me. Don’t daintily pretend you understand; oh so precious extended hands, limpid eyes question, judge, sentence to demented status. “I am fine, or will be when you all leave me alone. Ignore my retreat into secure solitary recrimination, whip lash of vengeful sin. You know you don’t really want to be let in, to feel the wrath I am. Scatter, you flesh-covered delusions who choose to disturb my sleep, my darling nightmares’ stomping victory. You clearly don’t need my input to be complete. Complete fools – go do your better things. Enjoy your day. I’ve no more to say, to share.” Aloud? Allowed? He allows himself to voice complaint aloud. And the folk crowd ebbs out beyond his self-fixed point. “Express your truth,” he silently affirms. People may listen.

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Imbibe trance Fall into story Record intimately

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Become one story Imbibe trance intimately Record while falling

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face shifter. story spinner. dervish zeitgeist possessed. defined by shades, by shadows, by negation.

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Sammy scary loco crazy. They say he got the paranoid schizophrenia. What he got is commandos tracking his thoughts, grinning. Party of demons who been with him, telling him what to do, clever talk when he needs to answer some fool. He’s got my nightmares, but can’t shake them awake. No one wants to listen to me or him when we say what’s real. They want us to be kids, whatever that is. They want us to make them feel alive in their self-comforting fantasies about responsibilities. What is Sammy responsible for or to? Because he suffers disability, because he can’t break through Hell’s circles, flames of purity. I walked from Hell. My mind still burns. I am strong, a born survivor. He survives as he can. Is that weakness, or alternative dimensions habitated? I am amazing, mobile, continuing, sensibly explaining, harmoniously relating, conversing like a pro. I struggle. I hurt, it feels unbearably. I work until I want to scream, become explosive screaming. I stifle, call up mania to work on. Efforts only I applaud – amazing me! Nothing spectacular to entice the jaded they. Sammy is spectacular. I am seriously amazing. I won’t let them blind me.

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. They walk in and out of patterns, broad swath of night. No designated home; no one has to accept them. They walk. Dust, dirt, soot, effluvia collect, protect in the sense of repel. In safe dark none encounter to harass. Those alive by day buried in bed. They walk without notice or plan. This is their closest approach to sleep, hypnotic glide through distance. Landscape undifferentiated by visible presentation. Footsteps feel clearly what comes under, it seems by instinct — or possibly familiarity. They walk on perhaps forever with no where to stop. Pit stops. Beg for food or find leavings. Play merry fool, eyes gleaming, lips voice hands form expressive grand soliloquies, hoped fee implied (implored). Sustenance they afford varies by mood of kindness, unswayed by desperation. Exhaustion only dulls, removes any attractive shine. As air blows colder, nights freeze over, they seem to dissolve into neverwere. Empty shadow, haunted tingle bereft of cause. “They were never us, nothing like us.” Unspoken song bears rhythms of walking unseen.

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She awoke in a body, young, womanly, driving consciousness on hold somewhere like dreamless sleep. It was her occasional brief invasion to feel in touch with mortal concerns. She is to be a bride, again. Foolish, innocent yet of so many regrets and betrayals to come. She is ready to exult in the veil and it symbolic lift. Happy to perform, darling of her audience of familiars. Happy day, swept clean of trepidations, of all yesterdays and their burdensome effluvia. Today is always hers. These ceremonies, traditional duties and pleasures, bind her to cults, cultures, accumulated lore and intuition. Not creature, but weaver – still she is inseparable from the story. Today she again assumes bridehood. Tonight, awash in festivities, again she removes her spell of possession. This new bride returns to a familiar world, changed. No longer civil child nor spiritual supplicant, she has ascended. People see her differently, treat her with more deference, more distance even as they proclaim her their precious chosen intimate, ply her with cherished secrets as if her allegiance would add value. Her bearing carries an air, an enhanced spirit, a subtle awareness, unspoken by any inner voicing. Language is a human art.

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Gathered on picnic table benches behind the home, hot in sunshine. Karen explains, fact by fact, how Gus became her inseparable soul. They beam together. He gives consoling hand to shoulder as she grieves children left with their father, her ex’s condemnation, stern paternal assertion of power. Saving his kin from this unrepentant whore. Karen cries, again – unrehearsed habit. She carries sadness; leaks occur. Gus hardly speaks. His troubled eyes, weary stance, gentle pull and pass of their pint bottle as he glances with deep countenance to each face around is eloquent conversation. Sweat smells, condensed alcohol, burnt tobacco, drying shit from local dogs, passing fumes from the road out front, all permeate, help set the mood. They treat the stranger in their midst as a friend of long acquaintance, just another straggly member of a morphing crew. “Ain’t we all strangers of long acquaintance – everybody a wrapping of layers, appearing in colored bits along our drowsy companionship. Strange friends, welcome distractions, smoky mirrors that let us see as we discern.” Bonnie and Denise giggle at Big Dan’s pedantic speech. They solicit contributions for their liquor store expedition. Enough gets thrown in to make it a go. Go, girls. We’ll be waiting, celebrating what we can because here we are.