#whose story could delve into the workings of that walk of life and how it intertwines with the darker side of high society-

[rhineposting]

hi just dropping in to say that literally everything about her design is gooner bait, down to her hairstyle which was very specific to edo period high rank prostitutes. cheers.

[korekiyo-defence-squad]

I guess it makes sense.

Part of my "lore" for Kiyo has Sister being the only one to calm him down during fits of mania/splitting, causing him to idealize her and become obsessed with her (arguably a better reading of the "calm yourself" lines than hand-waving it away as a manipulation tactic). Perhaps he even developed feelings for her at some point, due to being the only major female figure in his life, which may have been reciprocated and/or exploited by his sister. But, ultimately, Kiyo's lore is so vague that any interperetation of the events leading up to his enrollment in the Killing Game could work.

I'm a bit less of a "Kiyo-as-Rape-Survivor" truther than I was when I discovered Kiyo's sister on the Hate Sink wiki (which I ultimately undid by making a Base-Breaking Character page for him by pointing out that this fan theory was, in fact, a fan theory), but I do still think it's a valid reading, especially considering V3 rarely properly delves into its characters. The issue is, it's rarely used well, completely undermines Kiyo's in-game characterization and just makes him a boring, overly-sympathetic woobie instead of pure, Gothic horror lost in a world of wacky comedy.

Yeah, I agree! Given Tsumugi's penchant for drama I would not put it past her to write some real fucked up shit into his backstory. His Love Hotel event pretty much confirms that he's not just aware of BDSM sex, he's practiced at it, and I really don't think the fact that his execution featured shibari with the classic red rope was a coincidence. But the circumstances behind which he learned that stuff are left ambiguous - did he pick it up from experiences with cultural groups? When he talks about having a 'spiritual experience' which awakened Sister's tulpa, was that his first experience with intense sensation or did it trigger her appearance because she was involved with previous experiences? I think there are many signs that point to him having had a fair amount of pretty intense sexual experiences in the past, and given that he's only supposed to be 18 or so in-game that in of itself is pretty damning, but whether or not he was a willing participant is left ambiguous.

I like to HC him and Sister as codependent mostly because I like stories about characters who need each other to an unhealthy degree, but other readings I think can be just as interesting if done right.

But yeah, you're right in that a lot of the time those kinds of headcanons are used as an excuse to absolve him of guilt and make him a character he isn't, which... is not to my taste, as I've made clear. Besides, I think it's more interesting to have a character whose trauma makes them angry or hypersexual or just plain weird and still acknowledges their victimhood than it is to have a character acknowledge their trauma and then immediately become a calm and placid survivor who meekly and appropriately works through their issues. It's a difficult line to walk, what with a lot of media stereotyping mentally ill or abused individuals as straight up crazy villains, but I don't think it's a sign of great writing or great understanding to 180-pivot to the opposite extreme, either.

Kiyo-as-written would likely react extremely poorly if told his Sister wasn't good for him or abused him, whether or not it was true. I think he has an unhealthy relationship with sex insofar as his own boundaries have been crossed and therefore he doesn't understand why crossing those boundaries is wrong; he's very pushy with Shuichi in the Love Hotel, to the point of maybe being accused of assault, and he seems unashamed to admit that his relationship with his sister was more Cersei and Jaime than Jon and Arya. He hasn’t reacted to his past experiences with revilement and fear, he's embraced them to a degree most people would conclude is not good for anyone. And that... kind of breaks a lot of people's perceptions of how SA survivors "should be", which I guess is why he's so frequently changed in fanworks to be more palatable to the kind of fans who are uncomfortable with SA depictions of any sort other than 'terrible offscreen thing that happens to a poor innocent victim who is subsequently a crying wreck that needs consoling back to health'.

So when I say 'I like fucked up kiyo more than woobie victim kiyo' there's a lot more to it than that, but that's just my shorthand way of saying I think stripping fucked up shit out of a fucked up story to please your own moral compass is... kind of stupid tbh

[paigelts05]

The Warden's Recovery [FNAF, Renegade AU]

https://www.deviantart.com/paigelts05/art/The-Warden-s-Recovery-FNAF-Renegade-AU-1004820238

Renegade File Server Location: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52491037/chapters/132789442

Published: Dec 24, 2023

Recovering isn't easy, and being a walking prison for the ghost of the world's most deadly serial killer isn't easy either, but Vanessa Diego, now known as Vanessa Cabrera since her marriage, pulls through better than anyone could have hoped for. So with William permanently contained within her, the specifics of how he became trapped is a report for another desk and another day, she can stop looking at the past and start looking towards the future again.

=°•.🌹 Story 🌹.•°=

°°•°°•°°•°°•°°•°°•🌹•°°•°°•°°•°°•°°•°°

Recovering isn't easy.

Whilst Ness had hoped that things would go back to normal, the headaches didn't go away, odd fears had already bubbled to the surface, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched every moment of the day. She used to be used to that feeling, but she shouldn't be. The idea that she was now free didn't sit right somehow; it felt as if there was still something there that shouldn't be. Every movement she made that she didn't consciously give the green light to scared her, as what if that was him.

It had been a while, but her apprehension over even so much as falling asleep didn't fade entirely.

Even though she had Luis and Gregory, she still felt alone sometimes, as if she didn't deserve to return to a normal life, as even though she wasn't responsible for what William had done when he had full control over her body, the fact that is was her body that was used should have at least counted for something, right?

Apparently, this wasn't the CPD's first rodeo with mind melds and murders, the first being the woman behind the chronophobia killings, who was now a 24/7 on-call paranormal responder who wears half a dozen trackers at all times by her own choice, and it was actually this woman whom Ness had received her own controlled shock wristband from as a just-in-case measure if William did happen to come back (and lucky she did, as the leech was dormant and incapable, but not gone). At least she wasn't alone. Mike had compared the mind meld situation to a hostage situation where one hostage is forced to kill another, and somehow that made sense to her. And if Chofi didn't deserve to rot in a cell, then she definitely didn't either. But her heart still ached on behalf of the families William had torn apart, whose only closure was watching William's robotic vessel burn for what, the third or fourth time now?

At least she had been labelled as a paranormal entity. But then again, Gregory also had that label. As well as half the CPD paranormal department, Mike included. So it didn't mean much. Just a fancy "handle medical issues with caution and an open mind; defibrillators may kill this person" label.

No real consequences.

But, even though it was her body, she was merely the unwitting inanimate arrow; not the guilty bowman, which clouded her mind with the same old question: would she deserve the consequences.

Taking a deep breath, she sat in front of a computer screen, and pulled up a word document that had become familiar to her in the recent months. A manuscript for a book that she had decided to write. Fiction, fantasy, horror. She had started with writing of her experience of Glitchtrap taking over her mind, but the words had soon become metaphors, writing the virtual environment as a castle and herself as a princess (she had to rewrite the other bits to fit, but it was worth it). Just like how Cassey had conveyed her own grave error that wound up with Ness becoming posessed by translating the events into metaphors within the game 'Princess Quest'. She had called Cass, and she was fine with Ness writing a book using the exact same metaphors, and even encouraged her. After all, Ness had helped on that game too.

Ness's manuscript delved further into the fantasy elements and world building. The two princesses, the monsters, and the old man were all there, but she had added a knight, a court mage, and many other characters too, each a reflection of someone she knew. She had wound up writing the three arcade machines that Sylvia had glitched as people - a trio of conspirators with a dark secret. In her draft, the knight would meet each of the conspirators, but she had bearly fleshed out the story up to the first one. Most of the story was in a 'zero draft' state, as she called it; a series of notes in brackets to get a vauge outline of what was going to happen where. She had been calling the story "Conspiracy of Archedor" for quite some time, and the title kind of stuck, even if it was one of the first things she had thought of.

She resumed writing, and she felt a headache in the back of her mind. She recalled a frame of a memory from the Pizzaplex: Sylvia was playing the monty golf arcade machine, and she was watching, stalking.

She would write of the swamp conspirator next.

She found the page where the note of {knight finds swamp conspirator} was written, and under it, begun to write a story of the elegant knight chasing a noble through a swamp and getting the man to explain his connection to the dark force within the castle before giving her a green gem in exchange for keeping his life, and that the gem, when used with the others, would grant her access to the castle's innermost chambers.

She then jumped forward to her notes on the final few chapters, where the knight would hand the gems to the squire, who would then use them to open a door within the castle, which let the knight, squire, and second princess advance to the heart of the castle to save the first princess. She fleshed out her notes a little bit more before returning to the earlier segments.

There was one segment, the second third of the story, that she had managed to flesh out quite a lot but had never managed to finish, and she returned there once again to tackle the remaining notes.

The segment was about a young noble who had attempted to save the first princess before the squire showed up. She didn't know how to end that segment, and she needed to know what to do with the character of the young noble in order to work on the later segments too.

"Ness, I cooked dinner. It's beef stew."

Ness practically jumped out of her seat before turning to Luis, who was standing just behind her.

"Sorry if I scared you. You seemed really invested in writing that story," Luis said, looking a bit red in the cheeks, "but dinners ready."

Ness nodded and saved her document, twice to be safe, before heading downstairs to the dining room.

As the smell of food entered her nostrils, she felt all her worries melt away. Luis's cooking always did that to her, and she was glad that he cooked this often, especially now that they had a son. Ness could bearly ever decide what to eat herself and usually had food that was not that good for her, never mind thinking of what food would be healthy for a child.

Feeling like the luckiest woman in the world once again, she sat down at the table. As the three ate, Luis was the first to say anything.

"So, how's that book coming along?" He asked with a smile. Luis knew that Ness felt burdened by what William had used her to do, and that this book was one of the few things that Ness did to take her mind off of the tragedy. She always seemed happy to talk about the book, and if her face at work was anything to go by, she needed a quick pick-me-up conversation right about now.

"It's going ok. The draft is all here there and everywhere, but I've drafted out the swamp conspirators bit. But I don't know what I want to do with the young noble from the second third of the book, before the knight learns of the conspiracy." Ness stared at her stew for a bit, "he's kinda based on you, so I don't want to hurt him, but he fails to get through into the centre of the castle, like how the arcade didn't work for you, so I'm kind of stuck."

"You could end his bit on a cliffhanger and have him be found half dead by the knight and everyone later." Gregory said between spoonfuls of stew, "I read a lot of books at the library back when I was homeless. It was some of the only shelter I had. I've read my fair share of dark fantasy, and they like to do that kind of thing."

Luis nodded and added, "yeah, that sounds about adjacent to what happened to me when I tried to save you."

Ness nodded and continued eating. She didn't want to hurt the character who was effectively a representation of Luis, but he did almost die back when he tried to save her, and perhaps this would help her come to terms with that.

"You're right. That sounds like it'll work." Ness replied before eating another mouthful of stew.

After dinner, Ness helped clean the kitchen and dining room before retreating back to her computer and the story she was writing.

She jumped back to the end of the second third, where she had written up to the young noble finding the door that led deeper into the castle. The words had ended abruptly before the page break into part three, but she now knew what to do and noted out what to write next, and what started out as notes quickly snowballed into her writing a painful description of the young noble trying to get through the door, but it never opening, and she ended the scene on a shadowy figure that appeared to take the form of the first princess slowly approaching the young noble.

She wrapped up the scene there, and jumped forward to the first time the knight comes across the door. She had a note that was just {???} And {somehow figures out they need stuff to get in}, but she knew what to write now.

It hurt to type the words, but she wrote of the young noble, collapsed and wounded at the sealed door, bearly clinging to life, but managing to tell the knight about the conspirators and how they held the keys to this door.

And she was stuck again. What would she write to end the scene? By all means, if she was writing just some dark fantasy, she would have had the young noble close his eyes and die, but this was more than a fairytale to Ness, and she didn't want what was effectively a representation of her beloved to die.

Instead, she opted to have the Knight order the court mage to see to the young nobles wounds, as perhaps he knew more than just of the existence of the conspirators.

She smiled. That actually filled quite a few plot holes, from how the knight knew where to look, to what she was going to do with the court mage in the second two thirds of the book, as since writing the first princess's adventure and the castle of ruin arc, she had only showed the court mage a few times in the post first-princess-captured storyline, despite the mage having been the first princess's companion and being there constantly in part 1. It also roughly mirrored reality pretty well. Cass was there for her during the VR incidents, Sylvia was there for her during the Pizzaplex incidents.

As her notes became less and less vauge, she felt more confident. Perhaps this little project of hers spiraling into the tens of thousands of words was less of a chore than she thought it'd be.

She saved and backed up her work before closing her computer for the night. That was enough coping for now. She actually had to keep living as a normal person and not a depressed wannabe author if she wanted to get better.

Besides, the ghosts would be pissed if they thought she was locking herself away from everyone again, and she didn't want another spectral clip round the ear.

When she went to grab herself a cup of tea (coffee still made her head hurt, but as of late, she had been able to consume slightly larger amounts of caffeine than just a cup of tea) she saw Luis helping Gregory set up a games console in the living room. She couldn't help but smile seeing the two get along, and as she finished brewing her drink, she sat down in the living room.

"So, what are you two doing?" She smiled, wanting to make smalltalk.

"Setting up one of dad's old consoles." Gregory said as he untangled a white cable from an identical white cable with military efficiency.

"He saw some of the games that I have for this old thing and wanted to play them. So, I'm getting it set up. The remotes will probably need new batteries though." Luis added as he pulled out a box of gaming remotes and extracted the cableless white stick shaped remotes from the other types of remotes before rummaging back through the box for the teardrop shaped attachment whose cable seemed to never end.

"That seems like fun." Ness replied, smiling as she sipped her tea, "which game are you playing?"

"This one." Gregory picked up a game disk box that had a pair of malformed white rabbits in a shopping trolley on the front.

Ness half expected herself to panic when she saw it, but somehow, she didn't. Her heartbeat was normal. Her breathing was normal. She didn't feel dizzy.

"It looks like it'll be fun." Ness replied. She noted that the word 'fun' no longer left a sour taste in her mouth. She'd said it twice already, but didn't notice a thing, "do you play as the rabbits?"

The word, 'fun' didn't seem to make Gregory flinch either, as if it was just another normal word again.

"Yeah. I've read the box and instruction booklet, and it seems like it'll be fun. Also, it's kind of two player. One person can control a second cursor to pick more 'xs' stuff up and shoot things with a third rabbit, but only the first player can control the ones with the trolley." Gregory looked at the box, then at his parents, "Do either of you two want to play?"

Ness looked at Luis, and Luis looked at Ness.

"You helped set up the console, I think you deserve to play. I'm fine with watching." Ness couldn't really stop herself from smiling. She also probably wouldn't be able to stop herself from back seat gaming weather she was player two or not.

"Oh! Ok." Luis seemed a bit surprised, usually she'd never decline an offer to play a videogame, but then again, Ness looked rather tired, the game only supported a maximum of two players, and she probably wanted to rest rather than do anything remotely mentally intensive. "But if you feel like playing, I'd be happy to hand over the controller."

Ness nodded and took another sip of her tea, "yeah, but I just feel like watching today."

Whilst his parents had been talking, Gregory had switched the console on and inserted the disk. He then begun to faff about with the cables connecting the console and TV and begun messing about with the television remote, trying to figure out if everything was working.

After adequate faffing to try and set up the remotes, he turned to Luis.

"Which one of these do I select?" He asked, looking between Luis and the TV, the consoles main menu showing what looked like multiple smaller screens.

"Top left." Luis replied without even looking.

"Alright…" Gregory said as he waved around the remote to try and find the cursor, "you said it's motion controlled. How do I motion control."

"Have you set up the controllers?" Luis asked?

"Yeah." Gregory replied as he passed Luis one of the controllers, "here's the player 2 remote."

"You need to point the remote at the screen like this," Luis replied, holding the remote horizontal to the screen, akin to how you'd hold a television remote, "and you should see a cursor."

Sure enough, there was a red cursor on screen, clearly belonging to Luis's player 2 remote.

Gregory nodded and mimicked the motions, pointing his remote at the screen. He couldn't help but smile when the blue cursor popped up. It had been years since he had played a game on a home console (his biological father had some consoles, but all the remotes were the generic looking plug-in ones). Shaking off the past, not wanting to dwell on it any longer, he pointed his remote at the screen and aimed the cursor at the top left mini-screen.

"This one, right?"

"Yep!" Luis replied in an encouraging tone, "now you need to click the 'A' Button."

"Which one's that?" Gregory asked, trying to read the faded lettering on the old remote. He had seen many remotes, and each had a different idea on where the 'A' button should be, so he assumed this was no different.

"It's the one in the centre below the D pad." Luis replied, only just noticing how faded the lettering on the remote that Gregory had picked up was, "We should probably switch remotes. This one is less faded. It'll only take a bit to switch which one's player 1 and 2."

"Nah, I can learn." Gregory replied as he actually selected the top left mini-screen, subjecting everyone in the house to ear shatteringly loud brass band Romanian folk music.

Ness quickly turned the volume down to a reasonable level, but not before noting that it had previously been at 40. This television was loud at 20, so she wasn't surprised that her ears were ringing a little.

Now that the volume wasn't agonising, she could actually listen to the soundtrack of the game, and it actually sounded very nice, as she presumed the sound designers intended. After all, you're not supposed to listen to anything at such a high volume: anything will sound like pain when at a high enough volume. Something she had learned in the worst way possible back at the megaplex.

"The console menu screen music is pretty quiet and I thought that the audio channel on the plug wasn't working." Gregory replied, "forgot to turn it back down."

"When did you even turn it up?" Luis half laughed as he tried to quell his ears brand new problems.

"When you two were talking." He said as he managed to navigate the games menus. Two of the profiles were in-use, and one was not.

"Would you look at that! A spare save slot. Let's use that one." Luis smiled as he helped Gregory start a new game.

As Ness watched, she was surprised that the bunny-centric gameplay didn't scare her. Probably because the rabbits looks so cartoonish and wild compared to the killer bunnies she had to put up with.

When the actual gameplay started, Gregory had a hard time figuring out the controls, and he did soon concede and accept Luis's offer to switch remotes. Switching which controller was which didn't take long at all, and being able to see which button was which certainly helped Gregory learn the controls.

The gameplay seemed to be slightly infuriating but fun, the movement feeling like you're actually trying to navigate a shopping cart around, and some of the timed segments were brutal, but the utter chaos was fun to watch, and the evening slipped by in a blaze of laughter and fun rage.

The next morning, Ness woke up to the usual sound of an alarm, and the usual 'good morning' from a still half asleep Luis. But something felt different. As she got washed and dressed, it hit her: she hadn't had a nightmare. This marked the first time since they left the megaplex behind for good that she didn't have a nightmare but still had a dream, so she smiled. No dream was better than a bad dream, but actually dreaming was something that was once again new to her, and she was glad to have her dreams back.

As she sat down to eat breakfast with everyone else, Luis gave her a little nudge. "You know you have the day off, right? You don't need to rush."

Ness realised just how fast she was eating and shrugged it off. She was feeling better, but knew that she wouldn't be going back to normal working hours any time soon: she was still ill. Her body was a cacophony of medical issues caused from her time as Vanny: shattered kneecaps from inhuman jumps, broken bones from fights she shouldn't have won and falls she shouldn't have survived, poorly healed abdominal scars from her own attempts at saving Vanny's victims and her patch-jobs in the aftermath. She had many wounds that needed tending to and many wounds that needed some level of inactivity and time in order to heal properly, just to list some of the physical wounds.

"Yeah, I just don't want to feel like a slob. Besides, I'm meeting up with a friend today." She smiled; just because she was resting didn't mean she had to slob about inside all day.

Luis lit up, "really? Who!" He was ecstatic that Ness was no longer shutting herself in, physically or emotionally.

"Vincent Taylor," Ness replied. She saw the man as being like an uncle to her, and they both had William destroying any chance they had if being normal since day one in common, "You know, the florist. The guy who got shipped to us in a crate and we thought Faz Ent' mailed us a corpse?"

"Of course I remember him, like I'd forget the guy who did the flower arrangements for our wedding." Luis replied, "I know you're always worrying about my memory since you know when, but I've not suffered any lasting effects from it, promise."

Luis knew how much Ness was terrified of being alone. Unsurprising given that soon after the raid on the megaplex that was supposed to end all the terror, Ness had been kidnapped by Fazbear Entertainment and had been subject to the horrors again. He didn't have much information on what had happened back then, seeing as he was in hospital the entire time for a wound he had received in trying to save her the day she was kidnapped, but if the 'we don't talk about it' policy everyone involved subconsciously followed regarding that and the linked 'Ruins' incident was anything to go by, he probably didn't want to know.

At least she won't be alone today.

As Gregory set off for school, Luis set off for work, and Ness set off for the local park.

Ness found a bench shaded by a tree, far from both the play park and car park, so it was just her, and whoever was passing by. She was surprised at how she didn't feel scared, but chalked it up to the fact that she wasn't surrounded by walls and circuitry, and she was in public to boot. The cold morning air made her feel awake and alive, and when she recognised someone in a white wide brimmed sun hat adorned with a green ribbon and purple flowers, she waved him over.

"A bench in the shade on the far side of the park isn't a very good descriptor, you know." Whilst Vincent couldn't be physically out of breath, he mentally was, "especially at this time of day, when nothing is in the shade."

"Well you found it eventually." Ness smiled in return.

"I suppose I did," Vincent smiled with a slight chuckle. Even after all this time, hearing a genuine laugh or seeing a genuine smile from the man was a rare occasion, but both had just occured, "well, this isn't the most conventional way to spend a Wednesday. For you at least."

"I've had days off on Wednesdays since I got back home." Ness gave a shrug and a smile, "At first I also had half days on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I was back to full-time Thursdays within a week, and Tuesdays I just spend the latter half of the day in the break room."

"Because of your fear of being alone or your inability to drive?" Vincent inquired. Since the entire megaplex incidents, Ness had been unable to drive. Vincent could empathise.

"Both I guess." Ness paused for a breath before continuing in a mellow tone. "I don't think I'll be back behind the steering wheel for a while yet. And, why do you think I can wait out here alone but can't stand to be home by myself?"

Vincent smiled and shook his head. "You link being alone to being controlled by William. I recall you mentioning in the early days of your possession that he would refrain from taking control when others were around. I take it your body recognised this as a pattern and instilled this fear in order to prevent you from leaving yourself vulnerable."

"And I don't feel this fear outside because it's a public place with government owned surveillance and where there's no surveillance, there are plenty of witnesses," Ness replied as she gazed at a butterfly that had landed on her knee, "everything I do is being observed by at least one person Fazbear Entertainment can't control, with another witness probably not far from them, and because William only ever took control when I was alone bar his intended victim, I guess being in public just feels safe."

Vincent nodded "then maybe you should try it more often. How about when both you and Luis both have the day off, you can both come here. It might help him too. Being in the fresh air, not the in public bit."

Ness recalled what Luis had gone through during the last stretch of the Raid: being used as Adelaide's test subject. She didn't want to think about the horrors he'd experienced; getting turned into a feral assassin and getting set loose on a crowd of Endos and Friends.

Perhaps that was why he was so uneasy at the shopping centre a two weekends ago.

"That might help, as long as it's not busy." Ness nodded.

"The park is never busy unless it's a warm August day nowadays," Vincent smiled, "but I prefer it that way. Less people to convince that I'm just a weird furry each time my hat falls off."

Vincent adjusted his hat as he spoke, and only then was Ness reminded that under the man's sun hat were a pair of animatronic's ears that were effectively welded into his skull. Which reminded Ness of a somewhat adjacent thing of her own.

Rolling up her sleeves, she showed Vincent a pair of metal bracers around her wrists. "That reminds me. The prototype was finished shortly after I got home from that ordeal."

Vincent observed the bracers and the panels of buttons under a layer of perspex that adorned them. "What is it anyway?"

"Containment bracers! Cassey T and that ghost girl in her head made them way back when but they haven't worked on me until now. William is weak. With everything that happened at the megaplex, he was left with few options. Unfortunately for me, he eventually gave up on Burntrap and tried to latch back on to me. But I was ready and I tricked him, so it's closer to normal possession this time. So that's why the bracers now work. He just, leeches instead of actually trying shit. And whilst dad does most of the fighting now to keep him as just a leech, these bracers issue periodic controlled shocks that I can't even feel to keep William contained." Ness explained all of this with a smile, "people at the station have taken to calling me 'The Warden' thanks to my new duty."

"'Warden Vanessa'." Vincent repeated, "Quite the title."

"Just 'The Warden'," Ness replied, "I'd rather keep my anonymity."

Vincent nodded. "I understand," he said, "you didn't exactly have much of a choice in your duty. But you performed it well, even before your title. Remind me, how many years did your spend shirking William's orders?"

"Umm…" Ness couldn't entirely remember how long she had been posessed for. When was the VR project…. Two, three, four years ago? More or less? "I don't remember. Between two and four?" She replied. It might have even been five years. She couldn't be bothered to check.

"Well, regardless. However long it was, it took William Afton torturing you for years before you began doing anything - sorry for bringing up that time he made you attack Luis during that first time that rabbit man tried to make you go to the megaplex. And it took even more for him to actually drag you to that damned place. It took him just assuming direct control over you and using you like a meat puppet for your body to be used to actually kill someone. You went years containing him within you before HE had to actually assume full control over your body in order to do damage himself. And this was before anyone was able to make professional apparatus to specifically contain him" Vincent recounted a shortened version of the last few years of Ness's life, hoping that maybe this was the time she understood that Ness, the freaking WARDEN of Glitchtrap, the one woman keeping Glitchtrap out of the hands of the cult within Fazbear Entertainment whom worshiped the dead CEO, and that  she, Vanessa Diego - no, it was Vanessa Cabrera now - was innocent, and that her innocence was legally declared at the very casual meeting where she was given the title of warden in the first place, "And even when he assumed control, you did everything you could to keep him from harming anyone. You may have failed a few times, but you, a normal girl who is SUSCEPTIBLE to possession, managed to STAVE OFF and THWART the possession of one of the most dangerous ghosts ever recorded. And now you continue to do that. You're doing great Ness. Better than I ever could have."

Vincent had admitted a million times that he was a mere tool who obeyed orders as he saw no other way to minimise casualties, and he had died to his own victim's hands in the end. But when he looked at Ness - he considered the girl his niece at this point - he saw someone who refused to be a tool, someone who was given two options of 'kill or they'll be killed by someone else more horrid than you', and said 'fuck no' to it all and carved her own path out of it where she didn't have to kill anyone, where it took William trapping her within the megaplex with little to no food and water for her to fall off of the path she had made for herself, and even then, with every action Ness could control, she tried to drag herself back to her no-kill, now minimum casualties, path. Never giving up.

Ness nodded. After the upteenth time of being told, it truly was beginning to sink in. Ness, the warden, was actually not only innocent, but also was holding the line keeping Fazbear Entertainment from getting thier hands back on thier CEO. She didn't have a reply, she just smiled. Whilst recalling her time as a mere puppet at the megaplex hurt, she knew that that's what she was there; a posessed puppet, and anyone else in her position would have probably been forgiven for just letting themselves fall asleep and wake up with blood on thier hands. But Ness fought tooth and nail for control, refusing to just become a tool so easily, and on many nights, made sure the only blood on her hands was her own. She remembered the ghost kids that carolled her out of the guest room she had locked herself in back when she felt she didn't deserve freedom, and remembered thier later conversation's: that for each of them, there were two other kids who made it out alive, knowing her as the strange woman posessed by a horrible thing that she thwarted by harming herself just to buy them more time.

"I guess that's why I'm excited for William Afton's trial." Ness grinned, "At some point, we're actually hoping to bring him to trial: that'll be when me and these bracers really get thier time to shine, as they'll need to actually talk to William, and they don't want to risk anyone getting hurt. I can't wait to watch the playback and see the look on William's face when the twenty surviving kids testify that I freaking filleted myself just to buy them more time. The only two I don't remember having to gut or stab myself to save were Rachel and Gregory, and Rachel saw me force William to give Luis a fair fight, and Gregory is well, Gregory. Maybe I did though and just can't remember."

"Getting a bit ahead of yourself, warden," Vincent smiled back, "there isn't even a date planned yet, and finding suitable lawyers for a case like this is not easy. I know we have Kit, but she can't one-fox-show an entire courtroom."

"Would Fazbear Entertainment's former own court demon Kayla be a good choice," Ness suggested, "or do you think it'd be a conflict of interest, seeing as, you know, Faz Ent killed her a few weeks back."

"Suggesting it won't hurt, but even if it is, Kit could use a good co-council," Vincent giggled; the prospect of Kit and Kayla teaming up was an interesting one that would definitely leave an impression on the courts.

"So I guess we'll just have help more with the prep work," Ness smiled and even giggled herself, but the sound didn't sound disturbing or strange.

Hearing her effective uncle (she has considered her mother's friend's former colleague her uncle for a while now) also giggle didn't sound odd either, and he'd told her himself how he used to have no emotions and how almost every smile and laugh had been forced. She couldn't help but giggle more at how pathetic he must have soudned in the 80's when he was forced to laugh or smile.

"Is the idea of finding a third lawyer really that funny?" Vincent asked.

"Nah. I'm just thinking about how you and your former colleagues described your laughing back in the 80's and early 90's." Ness felt tears in the corners of her eyes as she strained to not burst into a full fit of laughter.

Vincent's cheeks puffed as he replied with "well yours weren't much less ridiculous."

"I know! He made me sound ridiculous!" Ness couldn't hold it anymore. It took her letting out one chuckle, and she was gone.

She started laughing harder than she'd ever laughed before. At how William had made her laugh, at how the former emotionless hitman used to laugh. She couldn't stop laughing, and Vincent followed suit, also laughing at how ridiculous his forced laughs from the 80's were, and at how they finally could just laugh at themselves.

Being able to laugh and not feel like a manic? Ness figured that that was another good step in the right direction.

°°•°°•°°•°°•°°•°°•🌹•°°•°°•°°•°°•°°•°°

[minneawalkingshadow]

Experience the Intrigue of 36 Views by Naomi Iizuka at Walking Shadow Theatre Company

Walking Shadow Theatre Company in Minneapolis is proud to present 36 Views, an enthralling play by Naomi Iizuka that takes audiences on a journey through the world of art, perception, and the complexities of human relationships. This captivating production explores the boundaries between truth and illusion, as characters navigate the mysterious world of a rare Japanese artifact. Through its intricate storytelling, 36 Views Play challenges audiences to consider how our understanding of art and personal connections is shaped by perspective.

A Glimpse into 36 Views by Naomi Iizuka

36 Views revolves around the discovery of a rare and mysterious Japanese pillow book, an artifact whose historical significance could change the course of art history. The play begins with Michael, an art dealer, who stumbles upon this ancient and potentially priceless object. As the story unfolds, Michael finds himself entangled in a web of intrigue, deception, and power struggles between art experts, scholars, and collectors, all vying to claim the book for themselves.

What makes 36 Views by Naomi Iizuka so unique is its exploration of the subjective nature of perception. The play delves into how people interpret not just art, but also their personal relationships and their understanding of the world around them. Each character in the play has their own perspective on the events unfolding, leading to a deeper examination of identity, authenticity, and the narratives we construct for ourselves.

Iizuka's writing is rich with layers of meaning, blending elements of mystery and drama to create a story that keeps the audience on the edge of their seats. As the characters wrestle with their desires and motivations, the play raises important questions about the value we place on objects, the stories we tell, and the truths we choose to believe.

Themes of 36 Views Play

The title 36 Views references the many perspectives presented throughout the play. Just as the pillow book has multiple interpretations, so too do the characters’ interactions and the events that unfold. This multi-dimensional approach invites the audience to view the story from various angles, forcing them to question what is real and what is manufactured.

The play also examines how people manipulate their surroundings to create a version of truth that suits their needs. As the narrative unfolds, the audience is left to piece together the puzzle of what actually happened, creating a thrilling experience where nothing is as clear-cut as it seems.

Walking Shadow Theatre Company in Minneapolis

Walking Shadow Theatre Company is known for its bold and innovative productions that push the boundaries of contemporary theater. By bringing 36 Views to life, the company continues its mission to challenge and engage audiences with thought-provoking plays that spark conversation and reflection.

For those in Minneapolis, this production offers a rare opportunity to experience a work that blends art, mystery, and human psychology in a compelling way. The play is a must-see for anyone interested in the intersection of art and human nature, and how our perceptions shape our understanding of the world around us.

Don’t miss out on this captivating performance by Walking Shadow Theatre Company in Minneapolis. For more details on show dates and tickets, be sure to visit the company’s website. 36 Views Play promises to be an unforgettable theatrical experience that will leave you questioning the nature of truth and the art we cherish.

[dernarrleid]

he may have spoken, though she did not hear his words in particular. everything in the world was frozen, as though the very breath of mother earth had ceased all of a sudden. the crime scene vivid in her memory, the redhead sat by the table side. though he was there, he whose hands had delved into her skin quite a number of times before, for a while, everything she was able to see was the blood, the death. what lingered, however, far longer than the crime scene had created was this disarray of contradictory sentiments. and she did not want to be alone with them.

he may have spoken, said something to her, but mya wasn't certain what exactly. what she did pick up on was that subtle change in the tone of the doctor's voice. what? was he going soft on her? had she not been so weary of all that she felt, all that she carried within herself, she may have offered kenzou one of those sharp laughs of hers, a reminder all his work did, when it came to her, was to save a monster, a horrid beast thirsty for blood, a beast capable of ruining even him, should it ever come to that. yet, silence persisted.

tilting her head back, her storm-like gray eyes were brought to seek the man's gaze. in situations where to exist akin to an open wound reminded her of that thing that killed her and enlivened her at the same time, her heart, the woman would have looked away, wanting to be seen by none. still, retreating to that solitude of hers became the more unbearable option. a nearly soft smile danced upon her lips. the doctor knew a patient's autonomy better than anyone else, did he not? therefore, this implied there was already a degree of knowing between them, one that, though clinical in nature, was the closest thing to connection she could have thought of right then and there. ( you know who this is for go wild uwu )

Kenzou observes forbearance to a fault. Gone to thinking so lowly of himself, seeing all progress dwindle back to what he'd worked so hard to avoid in a murky room of filth. The groves of plaque-lined teeth feel foreign when his tongue finally unsticks itself from the roof of his mouth. When the light from the world, all consuming, outlined the figure of a woman too familiar, he was simply relieved to have a chance to breathe fresh air. If the air was caked in blood and sweat, he didn't acknowledge it; the fact remained unspoken even now, distorting conventional arousal. Fiending for motivation to leave his hobble, not sure if he would have returned without threat of the afterlife. Words fall with the adrenaline he feels pumping life into him, walking around with care to not trip over any stray supplies with purpose. Has wondered how long he was meant to identify with a darkness looming over, when the event horizon would compress the once indestructible resolve of man.

He deigns to stare at the ground, or her arm depending on the issue at hand. Wrapping bondages felt serious when he hadn't done so multiple times on the same limbs he would helpfully remind her, still haven't healed, as she insisted on vengeance with far more gusto than he was ever prepared to argue against. Kenzou knows Ana finds it rather tedious to be intellectually challenged as far as ill acquisition of injury. The response, predictable at best, earned an eye roll while he continued, "You're bruising from last time has gotten a lot better." She seemed less guarded in the eyes, drinking from the mug who's contents he doesn't remember, although from experience, his scrutinizing may not have the intended affect.

It registers later, an embarrassingly slow later that he may not have meant those words with the same chiding tone of the past. Finishing his ministrations, it's as if the devil himself wretched his head upward, meeting an intensity he's only ever heard in stories. Rare smiles of hers often held animosity behind them. Always used in conjunction with several weary-laden shouts of discomfort when treating the complex wounds only she could manage. The kind of transfixed gaze that melds the sole of one's feet to the ground, seemingly forever because they're so full of irony.

The noise of sirens in the distance, fan out until a blanket of quiet envelops them. He looks at the cup in her hands, breaking their respective holds uncaring of the consequence having so much intertwined with a beast might imply. "Out there..." Kenzou breathes, "do you feel better?" They were living together, in the same place at different times. Maybe his contrary virtue exists to foil hers in the way hers exists to eradicate his. Benevolence slaved tirelessly for redemption—even as it may fall on deaf ears—to express it's gratitude for trying. Was it worth finding meaning in their living together if it meant following a path so different?

[itsclydebitches]

Holy, that commentary... In what world Weiss pointing a sword to her brother is meant to represent Weiss' character growth, her standing up to the last of her family and "taking over the house"? Even then, she later on just stood there and moped! I don't think even the people defending that scene as "it's just Weiss' character flaw, she's being a self-centered" (which could have been good) predicted something so wild.

Yeah, I'm admittedly struggling to comprehend how you can lack this level of insight into the story you wrote. I mean, I get the common misconception about Whitley because I walked that road myself for a while. He's the only Schnee brother deliberately emulating his father, both in looks and disgusting rhetoric. He's a minor character with very little screen time, making it easy to misremember what actually happened last time he showed up (like the fandom thinking it's his fault that Weiss lost her inheritance). On a purely surface level Whitley looks like the entitled rich kid they label him as and thus I'm not at all surprised when other fans come to these conclusions about how he should be 'Put in his place'... but RT wrote him. How do you spend years of your life working with these characters and not realize the less than subtle implications you've laid out?

ESPECIALLY given Weiss' Beacon storyline! I mean, again, I get how, taken out of context, many might overlook the abuse, isolation, and overall harmful influence that is driving Whitley's 'Uphold the Schnee name' thinking because this kid is repeating a disgusting and, sadly, all too relevant worldview. Some people - fans and writers included - are too close to an issue to easily spot the nuances inherent in it; it's just too much of a knee-jerk, awful subject to give any ground to. But RWBY is not that story. RWBY is the story that included a rich, racist, spoiled white girl as a member of the title team, forced to work with a minority character and overcome her bigotry (even if the execution of that was terribly done). We already got Whitley's story through Weiss. We already GOT the acknowledgement that a teenager/young adult isolated in a racist household and suffering under abusive/neglectful parents will need to leave that environment, be shown other perspectives, and have time to overcome their failings through the help and teachings of those they trust. Weiss was allowed this! The story acknowledged that these were necessary parts of Weiss becoming more than just an elitist Schnee, so how in the world have the writers overlooked that this automatically applies to Whitley too?

I mean, I know why. Or at least I can theorize about two likely possibilities. 1. Whitley is not a title character we're automatically expected to emotionally connect with, regardless of his failings. 2. Whitley is not a cute girl whose tsundere personality is primed to make audiences forget, or even instantly forgive, any harm enacted. But good god, can you imagine if this story played out between Winter and Weiss? Imagine a RWBY where Whitley doesn't exist. Winter visits Beacon and instead of just bopping her sister on the head in a playful manner, threatens her with her weapon as a means of very seriously insisting she do better in school. When Weiss asks if she can help Winter with anything while she's here, Winter scoffs and orders her back to her dorm. This military associated, licensed huntress terrorizes her younger sibling until Weiss does something she likes, which is when Winter breaks out the hug to show they're besties now. Then the commentary for this Volume ignores the abuse they were both suffering to instead laugh about how Weiss needs to "chill" and isn't it great that Winter is reclaiming the Schnee name by making sure her little sister falls in line?

And this comparison doesn't even delve into the pretty crucial difference in details. Like how Whitley immediately demonstrated more empathy for Nora and the civilians (which include many faunus) he tried to rescue with the airships, whereas a younger Weiss was busy comparing Sun to a trashcan. Or the fact that in this made up scenario Weiss is safe at Beacon whereas Whitley, a 14yo, was left alone after his father was arrested, his staff all left him (including Klein who apparently only cares about one of the younger Schnees), and his mother locked herself in the room upstairs to drink. Also. there's a war on and the whole Kingdom is about to be destroyed. Kind of a stressful situation. If my fugitive sister showed up with her friends trying to commandeer the house while she was a target of both the military and all the bad guys... well, I'd certainly help if she asked for it. If she stuck a weapon in my face and demanded entry though? I'm suddenly not feeling so generous about risking my life. Especially when, as you say, anon, she then goes on to do nothing for the rest of the day. Whitley calls Klein. Whitley thinks of the airships. Whitley manages to send them off at great risk when Weiss' friend draws the Hound. Whitley has blueprints on hand to give to Ambrosius. The girls took their break while commenting on how many people must be dying out there. Whitley risked his ass against a super grimm to help others and he isn't a trained fighter.

We've talked Whitley to death since that scene aired and Weiss' horrendous treatment is indeed worth emphasizing, but yeah, can we also acknowledge how ridiculous it is for Whitley to act as Weiss' final boss? "I also thought it was kind of important, for Weiss' growth, to show her standing up to the person... basically the last person still trying to uphold what the Schnee name used to be." What? Whitley is upholding that name with what power, exactly? He's a kid. He has no fighting prowess or semblance. He has no access to his family's money. His manner of upholding the Schnee name amounts to, literally, griping a little to the people who force their way into the house. Oh yes, defeating Whitley is really going to fix the treatment of faunus laborers. Or convince Mantle citizens that Schnees can be trusted. Or explain and deal with the fact that one faunus had their brand on his face. Silencing the teenager who ultimately wants to help is really going to change the Schnee name for the better. The idea that Weiss sending her little brother to his room is some big moment for her is laughable and highlights just how far RWBY dropped the ball with her arc. What did we actually get?

The information needed to take Jacques down was handed to Weiss by Willow with no effort on her part.

She turns her father's arrest into a joke.

Simultaneously makes enemies of both the man Jacques hates the most (Ironwood) and her big sister until Winter switches sides.

Suddenly claims that Mantle is her home and she's going to fight for it... to the faunus also trying to fight for it.

(Seriously, who thought Weiss lecturing Marrow was a good idea?)

Told her brother to get lost in the Volume that's supposedly about coming together, rather than dividing from within.

Sat around in her mansion while the Kingdom she fought another team to protect is actively under siege.

Was not a part of the team that took Ironwood down, thereby saving the Kingdom from a bomb threat.

Was not a part of her father's demise. Ironwood is the one to randomly blow him up.

Yeah that's... a pretty terribly written arc. If a moment of growth for your character is threatening and then ignoring the teenage family member she should oh so easily be able to identify with, then you've not only failed to write a compassionate hero, you've also failed to write a compelling arc for her too. The fact that the beginning of Weiss' "growth" is making a joke about whether she can arrest folks (in the volume with anti-military themes, no less) and ends with her threatening a kid for no reason, just beautifully lays out how much of a mess Volume 8 is.

[genshin-impacted]

memories // Zhongli x Reader

Word Count: ~1k

Notes: gender-neutral reader, established Zhongli/Reader, previous Zhongi/Guizhong, hurt/comfort, Liyue lore, i just want zhongli to be happy man

Summary: You wonder if Zhongli thinks about her every time someone mentions the Guili Plains.

//in my second playthrough of genshin, I came across the quest that delved into the lore abt Guizhong and felt compelled to write this.

--

"In the beginning, when the people assembled to farm the land, a god named Guizhong descended, and whose reach shrouded the skies for thousands of miles around. The god laid down four commandments for the people.”

.

.

Zhongli has memories that expand for centuries, and he has retained every single one of them. You can’t imagine what it’s like to have history ingrained into your mind when you can barely remember what you ate last night. When you tell Zhongli this, he only chuckles good-naturedly and fondly brushes away a stray hair on your face and tells you that he doesn’t mind at all. 

To be fair, you remember things that are important to you, like your parents’ birthday, your best friend’s favorite tune, and whether or not it’s your turn to cook dinner. (You usually cook alongside Zhongli, the two of you bumping shoulders as you maneuver in the kitchen since he refuses to let you work even more after you come home from commissions.) Among other things, you remember everything Zhongli has told you-- from the sweetest of words he has whispered late at night to the long stories he has woven about Liyue and its history.   

Oftentimes, Zhongli speaks in third-person, as though he were not the one living through history himself. It’s easier, you think, to talk about things that happen to other people rather than yourself, especially when it comes to the friends he has come to know (and love)-- especially Guizhong. 

In the many avenues of memories Zhongli has walked you through, it is the road less taken that you remember best. 

.

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“Then another god descended whose dominion was over Geo, and who brought the people of Liyue to this place. Jointly they shepherded the people for their protection, and the assembly was named Guili after the names of the two Gods."

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God of Dust-- Guizhong: creator of the four commandments, a gentle and compassionate god loved by all, and one of the two creators of the Guili Assembly.

Guizhong. Zhongli. 

The Guili Plains-- with glaze lilies planted by his own hands so that the flowers she loved would not die out.  

You wonder if Zhongli thinks about her every time someone mentions the Guili Plains. 

You do not need to ask to know that Zhongli loved Guizhong with all of his heart, even if he does not tell this to you directly. It’s evident in the way his voice grows nostalgic when he holds you in his arms and talks about the past, and it’s in the way you gently brush through his locks and comb through his hair as he grows quiet and contemplative. 

The lock puzzle (‘Dumbbell,’ Zhongli recalls her saying), the fragment of dust she gave him still sits in your shared bedroom, unopened. He has told you about their promise, about what he has yet to understand, and while you cannot speak for Guizhong, you think you understand what she wanted. After all, the two of you both love Zhongli. There is shared kinship knowing that the two of you would want nothing but the best for him-- and you are certain Guizhong had passed away in his arms with this thought in mind. 

To have Zhongli-- Rex Lapis-- understand that he has always loved his people, has always known how to love others despite all the bloodshed and trials and tribulations of war and humanity was Guizhong’s last wish. You are almost certain of it. And you thank her for all that she’s done for all that has happened, you are the one that’s able to love Zhongli as he is, for all that he has changed and learned throughout the years, even if he isn’t aware of it himself.

"Do you think I did enough?" Zhongli asks, your hands intertwined in his lap. And there are so many ways to interpret his question, and you are sure he intended it to be vague just so you can answer however you would like. 

You are in an odd position, some might think, to be comforting a loved one over someone that still has a place in their heart. And perhaps you would have felt envious to have known that Guizhong was his first love, someone who knew Zhongli as Rex Lapis at his peak of dominance and ignorance all at once, but you don’t (not anymore if you ever did). For all the stories you have heard of Guizhong, of the land she had built with Zhongli, of the memories of her and their love scattered all over Liyue, you love Guizhong too if nothing else but because Zhongli does. 

And you know he does-- love her, you mean-- even if he cannot admit to you now, so you say it for him. 

"You did," you say, squeezing his hand comfortingly. "I'm sure she knew you loved her, even if no words were said."

Zhongli looks at you with eyes that you have always loved, flashing amber with surprise. He breathes out your name almost reverently, and you wonder if he knows how much he is loved by the two people who know both his divinity and humanity (in two different times of his life).  

“Let me help you carry the burdens of your memories,” you say, and your heart skips at the way Zhongli’s gaze softens when he looks at you like there could be no one else he could possibly love more. “And we can make new ones together.” 

“Yes,” Zhongli says, brushing his hand against your cheek that you lean into. “That sounds like a fine plan, my love.”

When the two of you turn off the lanterns and lay next to each other in your shared bed, Zhongli holds you tighter, whispering words of gratitude and utmost adoration to you and kissing them onto your skin. He says three words he was not able to speak of long ago that he now repeats every night before the two of you fall asleep. 

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The ‘dumbbell’ opens while the two of you sleep.

[margridarnauds]

I think a lot about what it means to be a Celticist, what it takes, how I ended up in this area, what led me here, what my relationship is with it. Most of the time, terrified of accidentally leading someone into being in over their head, I emphasize the hard work, and it’s true --  the field is notoriously strenuous. 

But there are times, just times, especially when I see people’s ideas of what it’s like, usually filled with misty forests and insufferably easy translating work, when I want to talk about the emotion behind it, the love. As terrifying as it is, as raw as it is, because it’s so much easier to talk difficulties. You’re not putting as much out on the line, it’s more detached, more clinical. Talking about the love is inherently personal, it’s inherently terrifying and vulnerable, especially when you’re in such a position that people have, in the past, voiced a belief that you have no business studying it in the first place. It isn’t what people who are invested in notions of dark academia or overly aestheticized visions of the Celtic peoples think, it isn’t particularly mystical or effortless. 

It’s almost the opposite, really. 

It’s when I was working at home over the summer, my head bent over my notebook, my brow knit, working through some Old Irish paradigms, and one of my cats would paw at my pen, and I would think of the poem Pangur Bán, about the monk and his cat and, for a moment, I wasn’t sitting in a disheveled desk, littered with books and bits of paper, lit with a cheap lamp that made my face look absolutely ghoulish in morning Zoom calls, I was a medieval monk, carrying out my studies in the dead of night, a small candle burning at my side, my trusted cat beside me, as we worked to turn darkness to light. 

It’s when I’m working on some line or the other from the Mabinogi and, for one moment, one magical, golden moment, I figure out how all the verbs and nouns and adverbs and particles fit together perfectly, and, in that moment, the text sings, and I can step back and appreciate how good the writing is, the fine use of Middle Welsh, the attention to pacing, the delicate characterization, all the better part of a thousand years later. 

It’s looking at a manuscript and seeing all the little ways that a scribe’s hand could differ, all the little things that make them unique, at the little notes in the margins, in the way that the symbols can change. (And sometimes, being furious at a scribe with a particularly bad hand or bad vellum to work with, when you have to cut off a transcription partway through.) It’s wondering whether, when they were writing this down, they knew it would reach quite so far into the future, by people with such different lives from them in so many ways. 

It’s walking by a river or lake or bit of rock and thinking of the Dindshenchas, of how the Irish heroes carved their identities into the landscape and thinking about how, no matter where you go, people have looked at the same rivers and lakes and woods for thousands of years, and I’ll wonder what people saw a thousand years ago.

It’s when I delve into the historical side, looking deeper into the people who are otherwise just names in the annals, all these people with names like “the short”, “the fair”, “the dark one”, and realizing that each one of them had lives and loved ones, all these lives spread out across the years, just names to us now. 

It’s reading bardic poetry, listening to all these great poets from close to a thousand years ago -- Their loves, their heartbreaks, their fears, about one princess’ love for her favorite lapdog and another’s love for her pet goose, and feeling this connection to people who are long since gone.

It’s finishing a paper on some character or person and being overwhelmed because, after hours and days and weeks and months and, God help you, sometimes years, it’s done. And you feel, if not totally happy with it, because there are always going to be little things, that you did them some amount of justice, after all these years, and for a second, they’re there with you, whether they were chieftains or slaves, whether they even ever existed in any tangible way. 

It’s being able, if you’re very lucky, to visit some spot or another associated with a character that you’ve done research on, and being overwhelmed because it doesn’t really matter if they never existed, what matters is that you have something of them that’s solid. 

It’s sometimes looking at when a text references some work that’s been lost and feeling this overwhelming sense of loss and fury, not just for the stories or the books, but for everything. All the lives lost to the greed and cruelty of colonialism. All the things we can’t know because they were destroyed. All the things we can’t get back. And then it’s going right back into it because there’s nothing else to do but to fight like Hell for everything that’s been preserved. 

It’s looking at the historical scholars who did everything they could to preserve these things, often at great cost, and just wanting to reach out and tell them that it was all for something. That we’re carrying on what they started, and that we know what they did, that we’re grateful.

It’s being worried each time some new ordinance passes against a Celtic language, every time another comes within a knife’s edge of extinction, every time someone writes a thinkpiece about their lack of relevancy, every time Celtic Studies programs are cut, and wondering whether we’ll ever see a day when everything we’ve done, all of us, all of it, is for nothing. And it’s wanting to reach out and SHOW THEM, take them by the hand, let them read the literature, let them understand the greatness that these languages produced. (As an American Celticist, it’s wanting to SCREAM “If I can love this, why can’t you?”) And it’s knowing that it wouldn’t matter to anyone whose mind is already closed to anything outside their own experience, especially as I think back to everyone who told me I was wasting my time doing this work, that I should go somewhere important, someplace useful.

It’s feeling an immense debt to it all, because it did give me a life, it’s saved my life multiple times at this point, while knowing that there’s an awesome responsibility to make sure that it’s all passed on, that it can keep living, the modern and the medieval alike. 

It isn’t easy. It isn’t effortless. And, frankly, most of the time, it isn’t particularly #aesthetic or romantic. But it’s worthy.

[smhalltheurlsaretaken]

On the Citadel and writing (Star Wars) essays.

I’ve just stumbled upon captures of clones deaths in the Citadel and Obi-Wan’s reactions (easily summed up by “we must keep moving”), and the op was using this as evidence of Obi-Wan dehumanizing them, and I can’t stop thinking about it and it’s making me so (irrationally) angry. 

...

So yeah instead of ranting, I’ll attempt to direct my seething frustration into trying to organize a few thoughts on character analysis. Rule of thumb: text without context is pretext. Or in this case, picture without scene is probably bs. When using a particular frame as a piece of evidence supporting a take, you have to make sure you’re not excluding any surrounding material that could potential contradict that take, or else the analysis doesn’t hold. Quick example: using pictures of Yoda goofing around to test Luke’s patience as evidence that he is insane doesn’t work, because it’s revealed right after that he was playing an act. 

This principle is to be broadened when analysing entire scenes or episodes. You can’t take them out of the wider narrative. 

The post I was talking about continued on to say that this wasn’t the first or the last time that Obi-Wan was careless with the lives of his clones. Unless they were referring to RotS (which isn’t fair or intellectually honest because it was made long before anyone considered giving the clones identities and individual thinking), I don’t see that as being the case at all in canon material. Obi-Wan fights on the front lines. He takes the exact same amount of risk as his troops - he takes more risks even, as established as early as Christophsis (when he tells Rex to retreat with his men while he holds off the B2 super battle droids). 

What the op was probably talking about was the many plans of his that result in clones dying (ex: on Geonosis with the zombie worms, many troopers die as they escape). Here’s what I meant about the wider narrative: TCW is about war. It’s about people dying, and it has to be so the audience can understand the horror of a full scale war. And since it’s still (supposed to be) a kid’s show, it has to be mostly faceless people dying. 

I’m borrowing a quote from @trickytricky1​‘s absolutely amazing vid ‘Your Body and Your Blade’, which compiles scenes of Jedi placing themselves between their clones and enemy fire: “We are shown a war, and in that show, to tell that story, they will kill the soldiers. They will kill the soldiers regardless of whether we think they should have been able to be saved. They will kill the soldiers to prove a point, to tug the heartstrings, to move the plot, to set the scene. But that is far from the only thing we are shown.”

So there, wider narrative. The clones dying in missions led by Obi-Wan don’t say much about Obi-Wan himself. And speaking of Obi-Wan, more on character analysis. Obi-Wan, according to Matthew Stover’s Lucas-approved RotS novelization, is “the ultimate Jedi,” Jedi being supposedly defined by their compassion.

Obi-Wan is the guy who cradles one of his worst enemy in his arms as he dies, the guy who knows like a billion languages and is always shown to be super respectful and/or knowledgeable of other beings’ cultures (the Twi’Leks whose homes he doesn’t want to destroy, the Zygerrian whose culture he uses to buy Anakin time to disable the bombs, the Geonosian Queen, telling the Gungans they live in symbiosis with the Naboo...) and the one who knows the names of the 501st troopers despite not being their general (see The Deserter). Obi-Wan is not presented as dismissive of people or things because he does not understand them, and he certainly is shown to value all sentient life above his own. That does not jibe with Obi-Wan dehumanizing the clones. 

What we’re uncomfortable with might be the show itself not delving deeply enough into issues we as an audience can perceive because we have the benefit of omniscience and hindsight. Just as Yoda and Obi-Wan killing the clones in RotS does not inform their characters but the real life context of the movie’s creation, the same can be said of most problems with clone rights that we are indigned by. (Except in Krell’s case, or Tarkin’s - that’s what dehumanization looks like. And that’s what the show draws attention to, practically screaming “hey, look, these guys are evil for doing that!!!”)

To go back to the Citadel arc itself... Again, context. They’re in the middle of a highly time-sensitive mission, their failure could (as far as they know) mean complete defeat and the end of the Republic if the Separatist invade the Core worlds, and it’s more than probable that the clones who came along volunteered. (The ones we know are all high-ranking officers.) 

With this in mind, Obi-Wan not taking the time to show grief (again with the context that Obi-Wan isn’t one to wear is emotions on his sleeve) says one thing about his character, and only one: he’s a damn leader. As Piell puts it, this is war. You act first, survive first, mourn second. It’s hard to swallow as the audience, because we love the clones and care for them and want other characters to show that they care too, but fan-service can make for poor writing and characterization. 

(And by the way - Obi-Wan carries a clone on his back when they make their way down a cliff. He also personally assists most of the men up and down ledges, he gives out the warning about the blast doors closing... He’s trying to have everyone’s back. Pressing people to move isn’t being cold, it’s being cool-headed.)

To finish off, I’d like say that the “death of the author” principle is great when you’re writing school essays and want to show off (I should know, pretending that I’m smart and know stuff about literature is basically what I’m majoring in). But it can very easily lead to interpretations that - while valid to the degree that you’re entitled to make them and that they’ll probably always be defendable in some way - are not what you were meant to take away from the story. (Ex: the Empire was actually good, the Jedi deserved genocide, the Dark Side is freeing - go crazy, make defending these into fun rhetoric exercises, actually believe them if you want - but it’s still not what Lucas was trying to say.) 

Here’s what JAT (Obi-Wan’s voice actor) had to say about the Citadel. (Borrowed from the amazing @gffa​.)

“He has sympathy and heart for the clones, but at the same time he knows the mission.” 

tldr: the Citadel isn’t an arc meant to highlight Obi-Wan’s flaws (if anything, it’s an Ahsoka arc, and an Anakin arc setting up his future interactions with Tarkin). The deaths we see him walk away from are mostly for shock value, to make us understand what how dire the situation is and to make Even Piell’s death believable when it comes (which in turn is to further Ahsoka’s arc).

So yeah, keep the author alive, try to make serious analysis in good faith and not based on your emotional reactions to character you cherish, but go crazy on the wildy AU headcanons and don’t let people spoil your fun. 

[taylorswifthongkong]

Taylor Swift broke all her rules with Folklore — and gave herself a much-needed escape The pop star, one of EW's 2020 Entertainers of the Year, delves deep into her surprise eighth album, Rebekah Harkness, and a Joe Biden presidency. By Alex Suskind

“He is my co-writer on ‛Betty’ and ‛Exile,’” replies Taylor Swift with deadpan precision. The question Who is William Bowery? was, at the time we spoke, one of 2020’s great mysteries, right up there with the existence of Joe Exotic and the sudden arrival of murder hornets. An unknown writer credited on the year’s biggest album? It must be an alias.

Is he your brother?

“He’s William Bowery,” says Swift with a smile.

It's early November, after Election Day but before Swift eventually revealed Bowery's true identity to the world (the leading theory, that he was boyfriend Joe Alwyn, proved prescient). But, like all Swiftian riddles, it was fun to puzzle over for months, particularly in this hot mess of a year, when brief distractions are as comforting as a well-worn cardigan. Thankfully, the Bowery... erhm, Alwyn-assisted Folklore — a Swift project filled with muted pianos and whisper-quiet snares, recorded in secret with Jack Antonoff and the National’s Aaron Dessner — delivered.

“The only people who knew were the people I was making it with, my boyfriend, my family, and a small management team,” Swift, 30, tells EW of the album's hush-hush recording sessions. That gave the intimate Folklore a mystique all its own: the first surprise Taylor Swift album, one that prioritized fantastical tales over personal confessions.

“Early in quarantine, I started watching lots of films,” she explains. “Consuming other people’s storytelling opened this portal in my imagination and made me feel like, Why have I never created characters and intersecting storylines?” That’s how she ended up with three songs about an imagined love triangle (“Cardigan,” “Betty,” “August”), one about a clandestine romance (“Illicit Affairs”), and another chronicling a doomed relationship (“Exile”). Others tell of sumptuous real-life figures like Rebekah Harkness, a divorcee who married the heir to Standard Oil — and whose home Swift purchased 31 years after her death. The result, “The Last Great American Dynasty,” hones in on Harkness’ story, until Swift cleverly injects herself.

And yet, it wouldn’t be a Swift album without a few barbed postmortems over her own history. Notably, “My Tears Ricochet” and “Mad Woman," which touch on her former label head Scott Borchetta selling the masters to Swift’s catalog to her known nemesis Scooter Braun. Mere hours after our interview, the lyrics’ real-life origins took a surprising twist, when news broke that Swift’s music had once again been sold, to another private equity firm, for a reported $300 million. Though Swift ignored repeated requests for comment on the transaction, she did tweet a statement, hitting back at Braun while noting that she had begun re-recording her old albums — something she first promised in 2019 as a way of retaining agency over her creative legacy. (Later, she would tease a snippet of that reimagined work, with a new version of her hit 2008 single "Love Story.")

Like surprise-dropping Folklore, like pissing off the president by endorsing his opponents, like shooing away haters, Swift does what suits her. “I don’t think we often hear about women who did whatever the hell they wanted,” she says of Harkness — something Swift is clearly intent on changing. For her, that means basking in the world of, and favorable response to, Folklore. As she says in our interview, “I have this weird thing where, in order to create the next thing, I attack the previous thing. I don’t love that I do that, but it is the thing that has kept me pivoting to another world every time I make an album. But with this one, I still love it.”

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY: We’ve spent the year quarantined in our houses, trying to stay healthy and avoiding friends and family. Were you surprised by your ability to create and release a full album in the middle of a pandemic?

TAYLOR SWIFT: I was. I wasn't expecting to make an album. Early on in quarantine, I started watching lots of films. We would watch a different movie every night. I'm ashamed to say I hadn't seen Pan's Labyrinth before. One night I'd watch that, then I'd watch L.A. Confidential, then we'd watch Rear Window, then we'd watch Jane Eyre. I feel like consuming other people's art and storytelling sort of opened this portal in my imagination and made me feel like, "Well, why have I never done this before? Why have I never created characters and intersecting storylines? And why haven't I ever sort of freed myself up to do that from a narrative standpoint?" There is something a little heavy about knowing when you put out an album, people are going to take it so literally that everything you say could be clickbait. It was really, really freeing to be able to just be inspired by worlds created by the films you watch or books you've read or places you've dreamed of or people that you've wondered about, not just being inspired by your own experience.

In that vain, what's it like to sit down and write something like “Betty,” which is told from the perspective of a 17-year-old boy?

That was huge for me. And I think it came from the fact that my co-writer, William Bowery [Joe Alwyn], is male — and he was the one who originally thought of the chorus melody. And hearing him sing it, I thought, "That sounds really cool." Obviously, I don't have a male voice, but I thought, "I could have a male perspective." Patty Griffin wrote this song, “Top of the World.” It's one of my favorite songs of all time, and it's from the perspective of this older man who has lived a life full of regret, and he's kind of taking stock of that regret. So, I thought, "This is something that people I am a huge fan of have done. This would be fun to kind of take this for a spin."

What are your favorite William Bowery conspiracies?

I love them all individually and equally. I love all the conspiracy theories around this album. [With] "Betty," Jack Antonoff would text me these articles and think pieces and in-depth Tumblr posts on what this love triangle meant to the person who had listened to it. And that's exactly what I was hoping would happen with this album. I wrote these stories for a specific reason and from a specific place about specific people that I imagined, but I wanted that to all change given who was listening to it. And I wanted it to start out as mine and become other people's. It's been really fun to watch.

One of the other unique things about Folklore — the parameters around it were completely different from anything you'd done. There was no long roll out, no stadium-sized pop anthems, no aiming for the radio-friendly single. How fearful were you in avoiding what had worked in the past?

I didn't think about any of that for the very first time. And a lot of this album was kind of distilled down to the purest version of what the story is. Songwriting on this album is exactly the way that I would write if I considered nothing else other than, "What words do I want to write? What stories do I want to tell? What melodies do I want to sing? What production is essential to tell those stories?" It was a very do-it-yourself experience. My management team, we created absolutely everything in advance — every lyric video, every individual album package. And then we called our label a week in advance and said, "Here's what we have.” The photo shoot was me and the photographer walking out into a field. I'd done my hair and makeup and brought some nightgowns. These experiences I was used to having with 100 people on set, commanding alongside other people in a very committee fashion — all of a sudden it was me and a photographer, or me and my DP. It was a new challenge, because I love collaboration. But there's something really fun about knowing what you can do if it's just you doing it.

Did you find it freeing?

I did. Every project involves different levels of collaboration, because on other albums there are things that my stylist will think of that I never would've thought of. But if I had all those people on the photo shoot, I would've had to have them quarantine away from their families for weeks on end, and I would've had to ask things of them that I didn't think were fair if I could figure out a way to do it [myself]. I had this idea for the [Folklore album cover] that it would be this girl sleepwalking through the forest in a nightgown in 1830 [laughs]. Very specific. A pioneer woman sleepwalking at night. I made a moodboard and sent it to Beth [Garrabrant], who I had never worked with before, who shoots only on film. We were just carrying bags across a field and putting the bags of film down, and then taking pictures. It was a blast.

Folklore includes plenty of intimate acoustic echoes to what you've done in the past. But there are also a lot of new sonics here, too — these quiet, powerful, intricately layered harmonics. What was it like to receive the music from Aaron and try to write lyrics on top of it? 

Well, Aaron is one of the most effortlessly prolific creators I've ever worked with. It's really mind-blowing. And every time I've spoken to an artist since this whole process [began], I said, "You need to work with him. It'll change the way you create." He would send me these — he calls them sketches, but it's basically an instrumental track. the second day — the day after I texted him and said, "Hey, would you ever want to work together?" — he sent me this file of probably 30 of these instrumentals and every single one of them was one of the most interesting, exciting things I had ever heard. Music can be beautiful, but it can be lacking that evocative nature. There was something about everything he created that is an immediate image in my head or melody that I came up with. So much so that I'd start writing as soon as I heard a new one. And oftentimes what I would send back would inspire him to make more instrumentals and then send me that one. And then I wrote the song and it started to shape the project, form-fitted and customized to what we wanted to do.

It was weird because I had never made an album and not played it for my girlfriends or told my friends. The only people who knew were the people that I was making it with, my boyfriend, my family, and then my management team. So that's the smallest number of people I've ever had know about something. I'm usually playing it for everyone that I'm friends with. So I had a lot of friends texting me things like, "Why didn't you say on our everyday FaceTimes you were making a record?"

Was it nice to be able to keep it a secret?

Well, it felt like it was only my thing. It felt like such an inner world I was escaping to every day that it almost didn't feel like an album. Because I wasn't making a song and finishing it and going, "Oh my God, that is catchy.” I wasn't making these things with any purpose in mind. And so it was almost like having it just be mine was this really sweet, nice, pure part of the world as everything else in the world was burning and crashing and feeling this sickness and sadness. I almost didn't process it as an album. This was just my daydream space.

Does it still feel like that?

Yeah, because I love it so much. I have this weird thing that I do when I create something where in order to create the next thing I kind of, in my head, attack the previous thing. I don't love that I do that but it is the thing that has kept me pivoting to another world every time I make an album. But with this one, I just still love it. I'm so proud of it. And so that feels very foreign to me. That doesn't feel like a normal experience that I've had with releasing albums.

When did you first learn about Rebekah Harkness?

Oh, I learned about her as soon as I was being walked through [her former Rhode Island] home. I got the house when I was in my early twenties as a place for my family to congregate and be together. I was told about her, I think, by the real estate agent who was walking us through the property. And as soon as I found out about her, I wanted to know everything I could. So I started reading. I found her so interesting. And then as more parallels began to develop between our two lives — being the lady that lives in that house on the hill that everybody gets to gossip about — I was always looking for an opportunity to write about her. And I finally found it.

I love that you break the fourth wall in the song. Did you go in thinking you’d include yourself in the story?

I think that in my head, I always wanted to do a country music, standard narrative device, which is: the first verse you sing about someone else, the second verse you sing about someone else who's even closer to you, and then in the third verse, you go, "Surprise! It was me.” You bring it personal for the last verse. And I'd always thought that if I were to tell that story, I would want to include the similarities — our lives or our reputations or our scandals.

How often did you regale friends about the history of Rebekah and Holiday House while hanging out at Holiday House? 

Anyone who's been there before knows that I do “The Tour,” in quotes, where I show everyone through the house. And I tell them different anecdotes about each room, because I've done that much research on this house and this woman. So in every single room, there's a different anecdote about Rebekah Harkness. If you have a mixed group of people who've been there before and people who haven't, [the people who’ve been there] are like, "Oh, she's going to do the tour. She's got to tell you the story about how the ballerinas used to practice on the lawn.” And they'll go get a drink and skip it because it's the same every time. But for me, I'm telling the story with the same electric enthusiasm, because it's just endlessly entertaining to me that this fabulous woman lived there. She just did whatever she wanted.

There are a handful of songs on Folklore that feel like pretty clear nods to your personal life over the last year, including your relationships with Scott Borchetta and Scooter Braun. How long did it take to crystallize the feelings you had around both of them into “My Tears Ricochet” or “Mad Woman”?

I found myself being very triggered by any stories, movies, or narratives revolving around divorce, which felt weird because I haven't experienced it directly. There’s no reason it should cause me so much pain, but all of a sudden it felt like something I had been through. I think that happens any time you've been in a 15-year relationship and it ends in a messy, upsetting way. So I wrote “My Tears Ricochet” and I was using a lot of imagery that I had conjured up while comparing a relationship ending to when people end an actual marriage. All of a sudden this person that you trusted more than anyone in the world is the person that can hurt you the worst. Then all of a sudden the things that you have been through together, hurt. All of a sudden, the person who was your best friend is now your biggest nemesis, etc. etc. etc. I think I wrote some of the first lyrics to that song after watching Marriage Story and hearing about when marriages go wrong and end in such a catastrophic way. So these songs are in some ways imaginary, in some ways not, and in some ways both.

How did it feel to drop an F-bomb on "Mad Woman"?

F---ing fantastic.

And that’s the first time you ever recorded one on a record, right?

Yeah. Every rule book was thrown out. I always had these rules in my head and one of them was, You haven't done this before, so you can't ever do this. “Well, you've never had an explicit sticker, so you can't ever have an explicit sticker.” But that was one of the times where I felt like you need to follow the language and you need to follow the storyline. And if the storyline and the language match up and you end up saying the F-word, just go for it. I wasn't adhering to any of the guidelines that I had placed on myself. I decided to just make what I wanted to make. And I'm really happy that the fans were stoked about that because I think they could feel that. I'm not blaming anyone else for me restricting myself in the past. That was all, I guess, making what I want to make. I think my fans could feel that I opened the gate and ran out of the pasture for the first time, which I'm glad they picked up on because they're very intuitive.

Let’s talk about “Epiphany.” The first verse is a nod to your grandfather, Dean, who fought in World War II. What does his story mean to you personally? 

I wanted to write about him for awhile. He died when I was very young, but my dad would always tell this story that the only thing that his dad would ever say about the war was when somebody would ask him, "Why do you have such a positive outlook on life?" My grandfather would reply, "Well, I'm not supposed to be here. I shouldn't be here." My dad and his brothers always kind of imagined that what he had experienced was really awful and traumatic and that he'd seen a lot of terrible things. So when they did research, they learned that he had fought at the Battles of Guadalcanal, at Cape Gloucester, at Talasea, at Okinawa. He had seen a lot of heavy fire and casualties — all of the things that nightmares are made of. He was one of the first people to sign up for the war. But you know, these are things that you can only imagine that a lot of people in that generation didn't speak about because, a) they didn't want people that they came home to to worry about them, and b) it just was so bad that it was the actual definition of unspeakable.

That theme continues in the next verse, which is a pretty overt nod to what’s been happening during COVID. As someone who lives in Nashville, how difficult has it been to see folks on Lower Broadway crowding the bars without masks?

I mean, you just immediately think of the health workers who are putting their lives on the line — and oftentimes losing their lives. If they make it out of this, if they see the other side of it, there's going to be a lot of trauma that comes with that; there's going to be things that they witnessed that they will never be able to un-see. And that was the connection that I drew. I did a lot of research on my grandfather in the beginning of quarantine, and it hit me very quickly that we've got a version of that trauma happening right now in our hospitals. God, you hope people would respect it and would understand that going out for a night isn't worth the ripple effect that it causes. But obviously we're seeing that a lot of people don't seem to have their eyes open to that — or if they do, a lot of people don't care, which is upsetting.

You had the Lover Fest East and West scheduled this year. How hard has it been to both not perform for your fans this year, and see the music industry at large go through such a brutal change?

It's confusing. It's hard to watch. I think that maybe me wanting to make as much music as possible during this time was a way for me to feel like I could reach out my hand and touch my fans, even if I couldn't physically reach out or take a picture with them. We've had a lot of different, amazing, fun, sort of underground traditions we've built over the years that involve a lot of human interaction, and so I have no idea what's going to happen with touring; none of us do. And that's a scary thing. You can't look to somebody in the music industry who's been around a long time, or an expert touring manager or promoter and [ask] what's going to happen and have them give you an answer. I think we're all just trying to keep our eyes on the horizon and see what it looks like. So we're just kind of sitting tight and trying to take care of whatever creative spark might exist and trying to figure out how to reach our fans in other ways, because we just can't do that right now.

When you are able to perform again, do you have plans on resurfacing a Lover Fest-type event?

I don't know what incarnation it'll take and I really would need to sit down and think about it for a good solid couple of months before I figured out the answer. Because whatever we do, I want it to be something that is thoughtful and will make the fans happy and I hope I can achieve that. I'm going to try really hard to.

In addition to recording an album, you spent this year supporting Joe Biden and Kamala Harris in the election. Where were you when it was called in their favor? 

Well, when the results were coming in, I was actually at the property where we shot the Entertainment Weekly cover. I was hanging out with my photographer friend, Beth, and the wonderful couple that owned the farm where we [were]. And we realized really early into the night that we weren't going to get an accurate picture of the results. Then, a couple of days later, I was on a video shoot, but I was directing, and I was standing there with my face shield and mask on next to my director of photography, Rodrigo Prieto. And I just remember a news alert coming up on my phone that said, "Biden is our next president. He's won the election." And I showed it to Rodrigo and he said, "I'm always going to remember the moment that we learned this." And I looked around, and people's face shields were starting to fog up because a lot of people were really misty-eyed and emotional, and it was not loud. It wasn't popping bottles of champagne. It was this moment of quiet, cautious elation and relief.

Do you ever think about what Folklore would have sounded like if you, Aaron, and Jack had been in the same room?

I think about it all the time. I think that a lot of what has happened with the album has to do with us all being in a collective emotional place. Obviously everybody's lives have different complexities and whatnot, but I think most of us were feeling really shaken up and really out of place and confused and in need of something comforting all at the same time. And for me, that thing that was comforting was making music that felt sort of like I was trying to hug my fans through the speakers. That was truly my intent. Just trying to hug them when I can't hug them.

I wanted to talk about some of the lyrics on Folklore. One of my favorite pieces of wordplay is in “August”: that flip of "sipped away like a bottle of wine/slipped away like a moment in time.” Was there an "aha moment" for you while writing that?

I was really excited about "August slipped away into a moment of time/August sipped away like a bottle of wine." That was a song where Jack sent me the instrumental and I wrote the song pretty much on the spot; it just was an intuitive thing. And that was actually the first song that I wrote of the "Betty" triangle. So the Betty songs are "August," "Cardigan," and "Betty." "August" was actually the first one, which is strange because it's the song from the other girl's perspective.

Yeah, I assumed you wrote "Cardigan" first.

It would be safe to assume that "Cardigan" would be first, but it wasn't. It was very strange how it happened, but it kind of pieced together one song at a time, starting with "August," where I kind of wanted to explore the element of This is from the perspective of a girl who was having her first brush with love. And then all of a sudden she's treated like she's the other girl, because there was another situation that had already been in place, but "August" girl thought she was really falling in love. It kind of explores the idea of the undefined relationship. As humans, we're all encouraged to just be cool and just let it happen, and don't ask what the relationship is — Are we exclusive? But if you are chill about it, especially when you're young, you learn the very hard lesson that if you don't define something, oftentimes they can gaslight you into thinking it was nothing at all, and that it never happened. And how do you mourn the loss of something once it ends, if you're being made to believe that it never happened at all?

"I almost didn't process it as an album," says Taylor Swift of making Folklore. "And it's still hard for me to process as an entity or a commodity, because [it] was just my daydream space."

On the flip side, "Peace" is bit more defined in terms of how one approaches a relationship. There's this really striking line, "The devil's in the details, but you got a friend in me/Would it be enough if I can never give you peace?" How did that line come to you?

I'm really proud of that one too. I heard the track immediately. Aaron sent it to me, and it had this immediate sense of serenity running through it. The first word that popped into my head was peace, but I thought that it would be too on-the-nose to sing about being calm, or to sing about serenity, or to sing about finding peace with someone. Because you have this very conflicted, very dramatic conflict-written lyric paired with this very, very calming sound of the instrumental. But, "The devil's in the details," is one of those phrases that I've written down over the years. That's a common phrase that is used in the English language every day. And I just thought it sounded really cool because of the D, D sound. And I thought, "I'll hang onto those in a list, and then, I'll finally find the right place for them in a story." I think that's how a lot of people feel where it's like, "Yeah, the devil's in the details. Everybody's complex when you look under the hood of the car." But basically saying, "I'm there for you if you want that, if this complexity is what you want."

There's another clever turn-of-phrase on "This is Me Trying." "I didn't know if you'd care if I came back/I have a lot of regrets about that." That feels like a nod toward your fans, and some of the feelings you had about retreating from the public sphere.

Absolutely. I think I was writing from three different characters' perspectives, one who's going through that; I was channeling the emotions I was feeling in 2016, 2017, where I just felt like I was worth absolutely nothing. And then, the second verse is about dealing with addiction and issues with struggling every day. And every second of the day, you're trying not to fall into old patterns, and nobody around you can see that, and no one gives you credit for it. And then, the third verse, I was thinking, what would the National do? What lyric would Matt Berninger write? What chords would the National play? And it's funny because I've since played this song for Aaron, and he's like, "That's not what we would've done at all." He's like, "I love that song, but that's totally different than what we would've done with it."

When we last spoke, in April 2019, we were talking about albums we were listening to at the time and you professed your love for the National and I Am Easy to Find. Two months later, you met up with Aaron at their concert, and now, we're here talking about the National again.

Yeah, I was at the show where they were playing through I Am Easy to Find. What I loved about [that album] was they had female vocalists singing from female perspectives, and that triggered and fired something in me where I thought, "I've got to play with different perspectives because that is so intriguing when you hear a female perspective come in from a band where you're used to only hearing a male perspective." It just sparked something in me. And obviously, you mentioning the National is the reason why Folklore came to be. So, thank you for that, Alex.

I'm here for all of your songwriting muse needs in the future.

I can't wait to see what comes out of this interview.

This interview has been edited and condensed.

For more on our Entertainers of the Year and Best & Worst of 2020, order the January issue of Entertainment Weekly or find it on newsstands beginning Dec. 18. (You can also pick up the full set of six covers here.) Don’t forget to subscribe for more exclusive interviews and photos, only in EW.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Next part of the weird Thorin-story that comes to me while I swim

Dear friends…Here I am again with another part of a story I had not planned to write and that has taken on a life of its own…

I love you, don’t hate me…

(Warning: this is less formal and a lot more…ridiculous than the last parts)

(It is “in-universe”, but barely, because I have no idea of the universe per se…)

She took the bowls to the river to rinse them in the cold waters that glittered and glimmered in the dimming light; the way the last sun of the day reflected in the ever-changing blue hues reminded her of the man she was travelling with.

It came as a very small surprise to her that her old nan had been mostly right about the dwarves, and she was more inclined to believe her post-mortem, now that she had seen a dwarf lord, no a future king, with her own eyes.

She harboured not the inkling of a doubt in her mind that he would indeed be king one day; there was something so noble in his demeanour and deportment that she found it easy enough to have faith in him. He was clearly born to lead, just as she had been born to serve.

A pang of pain washed over her heart like the cold water submerged her numb hands; she wished she could tell her grandmother about the magical creature she had come upon in the woods. How nan would have loved to hear about a man whose eyes held all the mystery of endless tunnels and the deep longing of the open sea at the same time; she would have laughed and nodded her fragile, little head, saying that kneeling was easy to those who will stand up for you as a protector rather than as an executioner.

“You shall find your master one day.” Old nan used to exclaim every time her young granddaughter had been particularly wilful or disobedient, running wild in the forest or toying around with the ingredients the old woman had collected during long hours.

She had loved her nan, but she had not believed that anyone would ever manage to curb her spirit and bind it to their will. “There are things between heaven and earth, child, that you cannot even fathom. Creatures of great strength, beings of profound wisdom, and lives full of beauty and suffering; one day, you’ll find your place in the grand design and you shall bow to its magnitude.”

At this moment, her nan’s words revealed their true and full meaning. She had believed that walking to the chapel every day would be her life’s work, but she had been wrong. All her life, she had but been waiting for the quest to begin. A quest for truth and for freedom.

His cloak was still around her shoulders and she regretted having to take it off to slip back into her own, sinfully rumpled, clothes. Checking if he was looking at her, she lifted his garment to her face and inhaled.

It smelled of woodsmoke, pine needles and of something darker that she could not identify, for she had not known any man before. Not like that. She had not smelled their skin and thought about pressing her lips against theirs; she had spent her youth with an old woman and her adulthood alone.

“Woman, there are hills in the distance. Can we reach them before night falls?” He called out to her and she dropped the garment, feeling caught and embarrassed.

“No, but we should reach them soon after. Why?” She responded, returning to where he stood, both feet firmly planted on a rocky outcrop cutting through the grass like a blade.

“We could spend the night in one of the caves in the rocks.” He cocked one eyebrow as if that had been a very obvious thing to consider.

Approaching the point where he stood, already holding on to her cart, she hesitated.

“We cannot.” Her feet stopped moving entirely as they bumped against the edge of the rock.

“I have never gone beyond this point. This is where the wilderness starts.” She whispered, pulling a small, needle-like dagger from her pocket and planting it forcefully in her forearm. While her blood dripped onto the grass, she said a quiet prayer.

“What are you doing?” He asked, interested and slightly alarmed to see her bleed onto the floor.

“My blood is bound to this earth, Master Dwarf, I want the ground to remember me and to bring me home if ever I lose my way.” She sighed before adding with a tremor in her voice: “Many have not come back after stepping past this stone. This is where the world of fire and mystery starts.”

He looked at her with calm interest. “We are getting ever closer to where my kin lives.” He declared, an unspoken question in his eyes. “Aye.” She nodded, forcing herself to smile.

“Are you afeared?” – “Aye.” She repeated, but with a heaving sigh, she lifted her foot onto the ledge. His hand closed around her elbow as he pulled her up and took his cloak from her cold, trembling hands. “You may turn back now; I won’t resent you.”

She laughed in a low, rumbling voice. “I cannot turn back, Master Thorin, I have pledged my service to you. Your story is part of my blood now, inscribed forever in this earth you might never tread upon again. Maybe, it always has. Maybe, old nan knew what would happen long before I was born.”

He had to admire her blind faith. She seemed so brave in her belief that all that happened was meant to be. Closing his hand around the shells buried in his pocket, he decided to believe her.

“Why can we not take refuge in the caves?” He then asked as they made their way through the rougher terrain. Sometimes, he had to steady her as she tottered and stumbled because she could not see the small boulders jutting out of the ground like gravestones; she never complained or pulled away from him and the smile she wore in the semi-penumbra was full of faith and affection.

“You cannot breach the integrity of the rock and delve into it without being given permission. It is rude and bad manners lead to bad accidents.” She shrugged.

“Another teaching of old nan?” He commented without irony or ill-will. “Everything beyond that rock”, she pointed to the ledge they had just passed, “is alive. We are now in the realm of the old souls where the trees have voices and the stones are stubborn. Listen, Master Dwarf.” She murmured and he was surprised, again, at the simplicity with which she accepted these things.

Indeed, he could feel the rock underneath the thin layer of greenery thrum with anticipation; it had been a long time since last someone had come this way.

“The stone bears you no ill will, woman.” He heard himself say in a low, gentle voice. Her tread was so light that it felt like a caress to the neglected ground; or, maybe, it was the inherent reverence she seemed to hold for everything around her that swayed the unmoving to support her insecure, flailing steps as well as they could.

“I give thanks to its gracious acceptance then.” She smiled, kneeling on the ground immediately and pressing both her hands to it in silent prayer.

This, he thought, was why she had survived. She had believed herself out of the reach of what she called “magic wilderness”, but he was almost certain that every element surrounding her had conspired to keep her safe.

“I have a sister.” Why did he tell her those things? “Oh, really? Is she beautiful?” She looked up.

“No, she’s a terrible…yes, she’s…She’s my sister. I guess she’s alright. Others find her beautiful.” He laughed and her smile broadened while the ground hummed in agreement with the joy they were spreading.

“She has those two terrible boys. I wonder…Would you teach them?” He was not usually this open, protecting his family and their secrets with fierce jealousy, but a part of him wanted her warm light of affection and respect to shine on his kin as much as on himself.

“Teach them what? What could a simple maiden like me teach princes?” She scoffed.

Maiden? Had she really told him that? She could have died of embarrassment.

Thankfully, he did not pick up on it, instead pinching the bridge of his impressive nose and groaning: “Respect…and how to swim.”

“Love shines brighter than respect, Master Thorin, but it doesn’t cancel it out. I’ve respected nan a great deal, but I loved her more. You are their uncle first and their king second, I’m afraid.” She smiled and he was struck by the truth in her words. It had been a silly remark, only half-serious, but her earnest tone chased away all teasing in his voice as he agreed with her.

“Keep that gorgeous head over the waterline and you’ll be fine.” She then picked up on the second part of his sentence seamlessly with a cheeky wink. “That much, I had figured out.”

They neared the looming rock now, pocked with caves and alcoves, and her steps slowed.

“Trust me, we are quite welcome.” He reassured her when he saw her hesitate; her hand slid very willingly into his own as he led her up a narrow ledge, leaving the cart at the foot of the small rise.

“I’ve told you so much about my sorry, lonesome life. Tell me more about yours if you please.” She asked as they entered a spacious cave. “We are on our way to rejoin my kin in Ered Luin.” He started, his face growing hard and unforgiving for a second in the light of the small fire he was coaxing to life. “One day, I shall reclaim Erebor though.”

She gasped. Another childhood story seemed to bleed from her befuddled mind into the real world surrounding her. “The lonely mountain…is real?” She asked, her breath bated.

“Of course it is real. What do you mean? What do you know about it?” He looked up sharply.

She had poured over every map in the small library of her town, she had even asked for express permission to enter the one in the richer, more sophisticated neighbouring town and she had questioned every travelling merchant she had encountered, but nobody had ever seen that fabled mountain. Many had even scoffed and laughed at her, shooing her away like an unruly child with too many questions and not enough common sense.

“Oh no, you were telling me a story, Master Dwarf.” She shook her head, undecided if she should tell him about a family secret; after all, since she had met him, many things she had imagined being mere fiction and a dash of conjecture had turned out to be completely true. Maybe, he would know more about those things and old mysteries would finally be resolved.

“As I said, I shall reclaim Erebor and lead my people home…after the bane is dead.”

“Which bane?” She cradled her head in her hands, elbows resting on her drawn-up knees and listened to him talk. He had a deep and melodic voice, the voice of century-old pride and eternity-spanning strength, and she liked the way it soothed the gnawing fear inside of her guts.

The sound of his voice was a presence in itself, reassuring and as solid as the creature it spilled forth from; it conveyed confidence and inspired trust. It was the voice of a king, booming in alarm and lulling in peaceful narration.

“The dragon, Smaug.” He uttered with disdain and barely held-back anger. “A dragon? Really?” She shook her head, dazed beyond words; dragons were even less likely to exist than dwarves.

“Yes, really. What other creatures do you not believe in?” He seemed partially impatient and partially amused; when his face split into a dazzling grin though, she realised that he was mostly entertained by her apparent naïveté.

“Are there really creatures made of pure light who can talk to trees and float over the ground?”

“His name is Thranduil and he’s a pain in the ass. Excuse the language, he’s a treacherous, disloyal coward, but yes, he is fair. As in…he shines with a cold, hard light. He rides an elk and some say that his soul can travel in the form of a white cow…or deer…or something stupid like that.” Thorin grumbled, heat flushing his face upon thinking of that distasteful creature he was describing. She laughed, she threw her head back and laughed heartily, her laughter echoing deep within the lonely stones encasing them. “Amazing!” She wheezed, clapping her hands and, had he hated Thranduil just a smidgen less, he would have been tempted to take her to the dark woods that cursed king lived in just to see her marvel at him.

That leaf-muncher riding other grass-eating dumb beasts did not deserve her starry-eyed wonder, even though, Thorin didn’t doubt that for one instant, the king of dark trees would have loved that.

She would also enjoy the forest, at least the way it had once been; she would love the different berries and herbs one could find galore in the shade of the trees that did indeed whisper of their dark secrets.

“Oh, I hope you won’t be disheartened by the long walk. There’s so many people I want you to meet: my darned nephews, my fiery sister…Ori, he sure loves a good story. If you start telling him your stories, he’ll follow you around like a puppy.” Thorin rumbled and she was struck by the love in his voice. These people sounded interesting and she couldn’t wait to meet them.

He inspected the fading burns and muttered: “Óin will want the recipe for this salve. If you manage to charm the old boy, and I’m sure you will, he might trade some of his own tinctures and potions with you.”

“Oh, I’d love to share my recipes with him. I’m sure there’s a dire need for it…with furnaces and dragons and such things.” She exclaimed, completely disregarding the gravity of the subject.

“Do you think they’d want to meet me though? I am just a human and far from the best of them.” Suddenly, she was overcome by a sense of dread and insecurity. She had never left her valley and the surrounding area; she would strike them as a silly girl who knew nothing of the world they had been born and raised in.

“You’re charming and you bring skills and knowledge we’d greatly profit from…but yes, we’re a private people and there will be dwarves who will not take to you kindly. I shall do my best to protect you.” He would not lie to her and she was thankful for his candid words.

“I have been poor and outcast all my life, I am not afraid of being shunned. I am used to a life in the shadows surrounding the bright lights.” She gave him a warm smile that was meant to be reassuring; she did not want him to trouble himself on her behalf.

“There will be none of that under my rule.” He sounded definitive, clearly, the last word was spoken on the matter and she dared not contradict him.

“Will you tell me of your prophecy?” His voice was soft now, enchanting, coaxing, seductive.

“Will you tell me of your mountain?” She shot back in the same melting tone.

“Tell me what you know of it first.” He challenged her and she blew up her cheeks in an effort to remember the exact words, handed down from generation to generation in her family. From daughter to daughter, words spoken in kitchens over steaming cups of herbal brew and at bedsides when the fire burned low.

“When my nan’s mother was but a babe in arms, or was it her grandmother, I don’t recall…either way, a traveller came to them.” She rolled her eyes, adding in a narrator-tone “Travellers coming seems to be a theme in our family history”.

“So, a traveller came and told them a great treasure had been received in the Lonely Mountain.”

“The Arkenstone.” Thorin exploded, shocked and outraged, apparently, she had touched upon another one of his well-guarded and jealously kept secrets.

“No, it didn’t sound like it was a stone. It was said that – after desolation and ruin, after being lost and found, upon returning home through the fire to lead his people – he, whoever he is, will be the “spring”.”

She paused, rubbing her index along her lower lip slowly to focus her mind.

“Go on…” He encouraged her. “I do not know if “spring” is meant in the sense of the season of rebirth or of the source of something good…or even as the coil that will catapult the world into the future, but he shall be the “spring”.”

She shrugged. “It’s been, oh so many years, and no doubt, the story has been tweaked beyond recognition or sense, but there it is. We’ve only ever heard of that place once: as the crib of a miracle.”

She shivered in the flickering light of the dying embers and when he took her hand, it was icy cold. “It’s a real place…I was born there, but we had to leave when the dragon came. It has vast halls, once filled with laughter and light, and…a treasure.” He tried to hold up his end of the bargain.

“You said that twice.” She teased. “What?” He frowned.

“You said that you have lived there and then you said there was a treasure. I understood you the first time.” She grinned when a treacherous blush stole into his cheeks. He was a warrior and a leader, he was not used to shameless flattery from females and he did not know how to react.

“I meant an actual treasure. Gold and gems.” He stammered, lost for words.

“I meant an actual treasure too, silver and marble.” She smiled, waving aside his embarrassment.

“Did you believe in that prophecy?” He then asked, to change the subject.

“Oh, Master Dwarf, human lives are short, but we believe in cycles. We are born, we live, we die, but everything and everyone comes back somehow. What has been lost, will be found. What has left, might well return. Nan used to say when one is at a loss, one should go back to where it ended, because chances are, that’s exactly where it will start again.”

Giving his hand a slight squeeze, she whispered: “You will face your dragon again, you will see your home again, you will have the chance to walk the same path backwards and find new solutions to old problems. This is not the end, it is but another beginning.”

She looked like an old, wise woman herself now, despite the youth of her face and the softness of her body, for her eyes seemed timeless. How many cycles had those eyes and the knowledge within them seen?

“Where is old nan now?” He asked. “Buried under the chapel where you found me. Where I found you.” Her smile was unfathomable and deep, as if the world held no secrets for her anymore, and he was in awe of her once again.

“You are cold.” He said in a hushed voice when she shivered again. He remembered how she had plunged into the cold water for his dinner and suspected that she had never really dried.

“I am fine.” She crept a little closer to the dying fire. “I don’t want to leave you here to fetch more wood.” He murmured as if to himself and she was quick to promise that she was completely comfortable the way she was. She had known cold and darkness before and she was not afraid of it.

“Will you teach my nephews to swim then?” He prompted her again, just to see her warm smile. She thought them children, but to her, they would look like full-grown men already.

“I could not bear to see such beautiful hair turned into this.” She pointed at the matted, tangled mass of her own hair hanging in a wild nest from her head.

“Their hair is pitiful either way. You might want to brush, should I give you privacy?” He offered, turning around and handing her a comb.

She wondered where he had taken it from, but she suspected that he brushed his own luscious locks obsessively every time her head was turned away, because there was no way his hair looked like this on its own.

He could hear the comb dragging through her hair and the sweet smell of fresh water filled the air, a note of citrus and wild flowers dancing on the waves the scent conjured up, and he had to grit his teeth to keep himself from turning around.

“You know you can watch me brush my hair? I don’t make a secret out of it.” She laughed after a moment and he did not need more coaxing or inviting than that; he spun around immediately, his eyes riveted on her slow movements.

She felt slightly awkward with him staring at her as if she was about to undress in a slow, salacious way; more than ever, she was convinced that he brushed his hair in secret in a kind of semi-erotic ritual. His hair was of course also something that was quite bewitching.

She didn’t question the fact that she seemingly found everything about him enchanting, literally from the top of his head down to the sturdy boots he was pulling off now.

“Don’t do that, you’ll get cold feet.” She warned, mainly because her own felt frozen stiff by now, but he just gave a rumbling chuckle that seemed to be echoed by the walls.

“I am…not.” He laughed, rubbing his thumb over her cold, frail hand slowly to show her that he was much better than her at keeping his body temperature stable.

“So…have you always been a herb witch?” He asked, not letting go of her hand. For some reason, he just couldn’t bear when she fell into silence. He was so full of questions; old nan had never told her that dwarves were such nosy creatures.

“What? I am not. I am a potter by trade. I started making the vessels for my nan’s tinctures, but when…after the plague, there was no need for vases and plates and so I made money how I could.” I needed to eat, she thought, and my nan’s knowledge of the world around her saved my life.

“A potter?” He sounded taken aback. “Yes, Master Thorin, I make fragile things to be used just like you make durable, strong things to be used. We are what we make, it seems.”

He cocked one eyebrow: “You don’t strike me as particularly fragile.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter anyway, we learn a trade and we work in it, but ultimately, we must come back to our blood and the responsibility we have towards it, don’t we?”

He nodded slowly. One of her hands felt warm now, encased as it was in his huge paw, while the other one was still numb with cold.

For one moment, she debated if this was the moment to be prideful, but then she just extracted her hand from his, shoving it into the gap between her tunic and her skin.

He looked positively hurt by her action.

“I am sorry.” He mumbled. “Why? For what?” She asked as she extended her other hand to him; he just stared at it in confusion. “Could you warm this one up as well, please, Master Dwarf?”

It was mortifying having to ask, but he seemed puzzled. “Oh, I thought I had crossed a line by holding your hand for so long…I…you snatched it away to tuck it away in a safe place…kind of…wiping it…I don’t know.” He confessed.

She didn’t know if she should laugh or frown at that kind of stupidity. “You are very warm.” She simply said, sighing with relief when he took her other hand and rubbed it slowly.

“You are clearly not.” He replied, his strong hands closing around hers up to the wrist. She felt like crawling into him and staying there.

Had nan known about this as well? Had she known that a dwarf lord was like a furnace, radiating light and heat in to the confined space she was huddled up in? The almost dead fire before her seemed a ridiculous, puny thing compared to him.

The hand in her tunic was growing cold again and she proceeded to another sneaky switch, which made him chuckle under his breath. “Scoot in closer?” He offered.

It was inappropriate. He was a king-to-be, he was a creature she had not believed existed in the first place, he was wholly too virile and intimidating, but when he extended his arm she pressed against his ribs with fervent eagerness.

“You’re frozen…and your clothes are wet. How are they wet?” He exclaimed as his arm settled around her shoulders. She had thrown them too carelessly onto the bank and they had soaked up some water, she thought, but she would not tell him about her own stupidity for fear of making him worry more than she was worthy of.

“Enough is enough. I’ll go get some new wood and fetch some dry clothes from the cart. You get out of these rags.” He rumbled, but when he tried to get up, she slung her arm around his waist in a fit of childish petulance.

“I’ll be back soon.” He draped his own cloak around her. “No, you’ll be cold. Take it.” She cried out, extending his garment to him. “Stone and metal hold heat better than mud.” He smiled gently and exited the cavern.

His sudden absence turned the cave into a grave and she scrambled out of her wet clothes with frantic urgency, spreading them on the rocks at the back of the grotto.

“Oh stone, let me hear those heavy footfalls so I know I’m not alone.” She begged, lying down on the floor, his cloak underneath her skin and half-draped across her shivering body.

He found nothing but his own clothes and, in his haste to get back to her, he grabbed a tunic of his and hurried up to the cave again.

She was lying on the floor and for a second, he thought that she might have fainted or worse, but when she sat up, a smile of welcome blossomed on her face that made his heart wince.

His cloak had slipped and he realised that she was back in her chemise, her naked body clearly fathomable under the thin layer of fabric. “I could only find my own tunic, I am, again, so sorry.” He mumbled, walking over to her slowly. She did not flinch or move back; her whole body seemed to lean towards his approaching silhouette instead.

While he threw some twigs onto the fire, begging it to flare into life again for her sake, he couldn’t help observing the way her breasts lifted and sank as she shrugged into his tunic, sighing in an expression of pleasure that was cruelly uncalled-for in her present state of hypothermia.

“Tell me more about your kin, Master Dwarf. Tell me about the people I shall meet so I shall know them when I see them.” She begged, extending her arms to make him sit down by her side.

“Are you still cold?” He asked, alarmed, as he settled next to her. She slipped back under his arm like a child, feeling frail and shivering, but sighing contentedly.

“I shall be warm in a minute. Look at the fire, Master Dwarf, what beautiful things we could fashion if we had the tools and the time.” She murmured, fatigue making her voice grow slow and melting, like honey dripping onto his senses.

He was aware of her slowly heating up flesh and her tiny hand resting innocently on his thigh as she was snuggled against him the way his nephews had when they had been but tiny little things. Only, he had never felt the fire pass from the hearth in front of him into his bloodstream when his nephews had sought solace or protection under his wing. He had not wondered about the way he might feel or smell when they had been this close to his body.

“I think that you’ll like Balin. I really do. He’s kind and smart; he’ll love the stories about your nan. Ah, you’ll get to meet Dwalin as well, he’s…probably my best friend. He’s solid, but he’s…there’s a reason he’s my best friend. We’re…less courteous than we should be.” Thorin started to honour her wish. “You’re lovely, stop it.” She mumbled hazily.

He thought about her words and about the mussel shells he still kept in his pocket. She was right, if he had the tools and the time, he would make something beautiful for her; she deserved something frivolous and gorgeous for all the help and devoted service she had offered him.

His eyes fell on her feet that were extended away from him and he was aghast to see them take a blueish hue. She was not falling asleep; she was succumbing to the surrounding cold still.

“Close in, oh stone, protect her.” He whispered, but the rock around him seemed to mock his words. “Close in, oh son of stone, son of ore, protect her.” Voices thrummed through the unmoving walls, and so he did.

Gathering her up like a bundle of empty clothes, he pulled her into his lap, leaning back against the stone wall and held her there.

Looking down, he saw the naked expanse of her legs which made him feel like an idiot for not having thought of that before. With one hand, he bent her legs at the knee and tucked them safely into the hollow he had created by spreading his own.

She lay flush against him now, he could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his own and, when he pulled his cloak over her gently, his hand brushed the smooth skin of her unclothed thigh.

Just a hand-breadth higher he would have brushed against other parts, secret parts, that were much like his dinner: firmly closed now, but if heated just right, revealing a glittering pearl.

This was a very inopportune thought to have, he berated himself, as his body heated up against his will, making her press against him with ever more fervour.

A maiden, she had used that word, and despite being clearly of age, he wondered if she had meant that in the most allusive and perversely seductive of senses.

When had that plague ravaged her village? When had old nan died? How long had she been alone?

It didn’t matter. She would not consider sacrificing that most precious of prizes to one such as him…She had not denied him anything this far, he remembered, not her time, not her care, not her boundless courage.

Not this though, he curbed his own fanciful imagination, never this. He would not ask anything of her, not before he could show himself worthy of all the things she had given up for his benefit this far.

Her hand snaked up and came to rest just above his heart. “Lovely.” She repeated in a low, mumbling voice.

And, as she was warm and clearly asleep now, he permitted himself the tiny, tortureous indulgence of pressing his lips for one brief moment against her head, resting against his shoulder as if it belonged there. Maybe…it did.

[sapphicbookclub]

Author Spotlight: Edale Lane

Today, we’re excited to bring you a blog post from Edale Lane about one of our book club books, Walks with Spirits.

Walks with Spirits Blog Post

How would you like to live in a world where LGBTQ persons are honored and respected? The one I grew up in was exactly the opposite. Shame and exclusion awaited anyone whose life hinted at other than the accepted normal. By the time I was six years old, I understood two vital things about myself: I liked little girls more than little boys (who I viewed as equal playmates, not romantic interests), and I could tell no one, but must at all times act otherwise. At each stage of life, I considered it to be a phase I would grow out of and if I just kept pretending to be “normal” everything would work out.

It wasn’t until at thirty years old, a mother and a widow, I arrived at a different conclusion. A brunette can dye her hair blonde, but the roots will still come in dark; one can wear colored contact lens, but underneath her eyes remain the same as before. I could keep living a lie or allow myself the freedom to be who I was born to be. Drawing on my Biblical upbringing, I reconsidered the words of Jesus: “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.” The truth is God loves everyone just the way we are, in all our infinite array of variety, without prejudice or demanding we cease to be the marvelous unique persons it was His pleasure to create. The problem never lay with God, but with people and their narrow interpretations.

My book, Walks with Spirits, is set in a time and place where religious leaders taught it was a blessing to be of two spirits, and society did not assign lesser status to those who loved members of their own gender. Women were leaders alongside men and more respect was afforded to peace-makers than warriors. Of what fantasy world do I speak? None, but rather an actual civilization that pre-dated ours. Was it perfect? Far from it, as humans will be human, and some choose to be malicious and judgmental despite what their elders teach. Just because it was accepted, doesn’t mean life was easy for lesbians, gays, and transgender members of society; they faced the same trials, dangers, and expectations as everyone else in town.

I am a deeply spiritual person, and the First Nations of the Pacific Northwest were, and are, a profoundly spiritual society. The more I studied their beliefs, the more similarities I found they shared with my own. Just to be clear, Native American studies was not the emphasis of my Master’s Degree in History, nor do I claim to be an expert in that culture, but I know how to do my homework and was fortunate to work with an Indigenous sensitivity reader to ensure my novel, though a work of fiction, is accurate and non-offensive. It may delve into the details of another culture and expound upon spiritual principles, but Walks with Spirits is primarily a love story between two women who must learn and grow through difficult circumstances on the way to their happily-ever-after.

[theonetheycallhannah]

The Treatment of Captain Syverson-Chapter 16: Sit Rep

Characters: Captain Logan “Sy” Syverson, various other original supporting/secondary characters (This includes Sy’s Army Buddies of varying rank as follows: Kevin Kaufmann, Nate Banning, Chad Randall, Matt Styles, Jake Ryburn, and Travis Hodges. I apologize if I’ve mixed up their names anywhere. I just gave them last names and sometimes rank so they could be called something other than their first names for sake of variety! lol!)

Summary: Sy meets up with his Army buddies and they are eager to help.

Romance and Smut Abound HERE!

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Language, firearms, implication of abuse and violence

Author’s Note: Guys, we are getting closer! Our couple will be back together soon! I can’t wait and I know most of you feel the same! I hope the strike team members aren’t too muddled and confusing. If they are, I’m very open to your feedback and suggestions on how to clarify and improve! Thank you to everyone, long time readers, and new fans picked up along the way! I cherish you all, and would never have gotten this far in the story if it wasn’t for each and every one of you! I hope you enjoy the 16th chapter (18th installment…remember when I thought this would just be a few chapters of fluff with a smutty conclusion? Lol!) of The treatment of Captain Syverson.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism. This is an original work by me, Hannah. Please reblog if you wish to share. Please do not repost either in whole or part, as the work of anyone but myself. Thanks so much for reading!

Tags:

@onlyhenrys @cavillryarchive @summersong69 @titty-teetee @bloodyinspiredfuck @agniavateira @oddsnendsfanfics @omgkatinka @thisismysecretthirstblog @speakerforthedead0 @tumblnewby  @suavechops @radkesgirl83 @wheretheriversrunintothesea @heartfelt-pen @auds24  @geekycanuck @lunarstarknight @wilma-g  @coldmuffinbanditshoe @feralrunaway  @sugarpenchant @bichibibi @mzchievous-blog

If you want to be notified when I post a new chapter or work, I’ll be happy to add you to my tag list! Stricken blogs are getting personal messages from me when a new chapter is uploaded because Tumblr’s faulty tagging system will not stand in the way of me delivering what the people want!(?) lol! (Although…their lackadaisical notification system might…sorry for that. I have no control. lol!)

X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@

Sy sat in his truck in the parking lot of Cade's. He couldn't help but think about the last time he was here. The altercations with Elliott, both inside the bar and outside, the friendships he'd started to build with the other fellas in Shane's work group, the simple way Shane pulled off the elegance of minimalism with her wardrobe and makeup, the ride home…and the night of lovemaking that followed. He had made a mistake. He shouldn't have agreed to come tonight. He was gonna leave. His right hand reached for the keys in the ignition, a firm grip ready to set the engine roaring again, when he was startled by a rap at his window.

Tap-tappa-tap-tap his friend Kevin had just rhythmically knocked with one knuckle on the window. He was smiling and waving exuberantly, like a puppy whose master had just come home.

Sy's scowl softened into a sheepish grin and he knocked back tap-tap.  

Kevin waited near Sy's front fender while he got out of his truck.

"How ya doin' Kevin?" he greeted his old friend warmly.

"Alright, I s'pose! You?"

"Oh…I'm makin' it, I guess. What are you up to these days? Still workin' at the plant?" Kevin had worked for the 3M factory over in Lebanon, Missouri since his last tour. Sy knew if he just got him talking about his life, Sy wouldn't have to give him details about his own, which he was going to avoid like the plague, if he could tonight.

"Yup, I actually just got a promotion. I'm a line manager now." And Sy could barely congratulate him before he started delving into the details as the two men walked into Cade's.

It was already busy, even for a Friday night. But the rest of the guys had already claimed a table between the dart boards and the pool tables, and were working on a couple of pitchers of beer. The two were welcomed warmly and only slightly teased about walking in together.

With the group finally assembled, they began taking turns giving report on their lives. It began with Kevin, who, having already begun with Sy, continued with a brief recap for the others. Sy exhaled with relief when Matt, who was seated on the other side of Kevin piped up to speak next, having recently proposed to his long time girlfriend. They were going to get to him last, if at all. He listened as well as he could as he battled the troubled thoughts in his head by bombarding them with beer. Unbeknownst to him, his friend Nate, who'd organized the gathering, had been observing his behavior with curiosity, and a measure of concern. He didn't let Jake finish talking about his latest dalliance into what they were all sure was a pyramid scheme disguised as direct sales. Even though Jake insisted it was not.

"Well, I'm curious as to why Sy's been so tight-lipped all evening. What's on your mind, Captain?"

"Nothin' Nate. Just enjoying a few beers with old friends." Sy lied, not convincing anyone at the table, least of all Nate, who had been one of his closest friends while they were stationed together.

"If I wanted to hear bullshit, I'd have let Jake keep talking about the Duraplex scam."

"It's not a scam, guys, it's real supplements for busy people!" Jake defended.

"Can it, Hodges. We aren't buying it, and we aren't signing up to sell it, either." Nate focused again on Sy. "Come on, man. You told me on the phone you had a lot going on. What is it? Female troubles?" He snickered, as did the other guys.

Sy looked into his glass, through the foam and into the honey liquid below it with a rueful grin. "In a sense."

He took a huge drink of the beer, five gulps, nearly emptying it, fortifying himself to speak.

"My girlfriend is missing." Everyone froze in position as they processed this.

Half a dozen questions hit his ears at once. Which he could have handled if he hadn't had almost a full pitcher by himself.

He shut them down, and began to tell them the story of how he met Shane and their sort of whirlwind romance. He paused for a moment to pour himself another beer.

"Never heard you talk about a woman like that, Sy." His friend Chad piped up.

"Never felt this way before, man. She's…she's the one."

"You said she was missing, though?" Nate asked, brow furrowed in concern.

Sy continued, talking about their argument, reconciliation, and then his leaving for training, ending his briefing with the phone call he got from Shane's boss.

"That's fucked up, man." Matt said. "What are you gonna do about it?" His worry seemed genuine, as well, as if he was putting himself in Sy's shoes. Sy assumed because he had been in love with Tonya, his now fiancé since they were in high school, even though she didn't come around on him until he came home on leave one holiday weekend.

"I've already gone to the police with my statement and an idea for a prime suspect."

"You think she was kidnapped?" Brad Randall, who was a Sergeant for the Rolla Police Department, inquired.

"I personally have no doubts that she was kidnapped, and I am a hun'ert percent certain it was her shithead ex."

"And you don't think she's just…ghosted you?" Brad prompted. The thought put a painful tightness in Sy's chest, but it passed quickly. He knew she wouldn't do that. And not just to him.

"No way, man. She left her phone. She didn't tell work. She didn't even tell her parents. Shane takes her phone with her from room to room. She's glued to it. She'd never do that to her coworkers, who are practically family, and she'd certainly tell her parents if she was going to leave town for any amount of time. It's just…not her. I know her."

"And who's this ex? What's his deal? Why is he on the short list of suspects?"

"He IS the list, Brad. He was abusive when they were together. And a cheater. And a liar. And he tried to jump me right outside just a few weeks back. Ask Candace. She was behind the bar when he started getting in Shane's face up there. And I'd bet she saw what happened out in the parking lot, too." He gestured to the sporty blonde bartender with a high ponytail and a Cardinal's jersey when he mentioned her, and then pointed toward the windows looking out onto the dozen or more vehicles parked outside.

"Can we do anything?" Kevin asked, clamping a hand on Sy's shoulder.

"Nothin'. But I appreciate the offer, brother." And he returned the contact with a clap to the other man's shoulder.

Nate and Brad exchanged pointed looks, and Nate countered Sy's rejection.

"I wouldn't say THAT, Sy."

"What do you mean?" Sy looked at Nate as if he was pedaling snake oil…or Jake's supplements.

"I think…that we CAN do something. To help you find Shane."

"We all have military experience, and some of us have connections that could be very useful." Added Brad. "I'm on the Force. I can handle getting intel on the guy."

"I'm in to help with transpo." Matt Styles raised his hand to offer up the vehicles in his transportation service, Rydes with Styles. Sy hated when words were misspelled for the sake of gimmicks…but he had to give Matt credit for that one.

"And Travis and I still work at the base. We can arrange gear." Jake added as Travis nodded.

"And whatever else you need, I'm in too." Kevin concluded.

"No way, guys. You can't stick your necks out for me like that. I won't have it."

"Sy…You know I talked to Lopez after that last mission the two of you were on?" Travis met Sy's eye as he spoke. "He said you had your team carry out Kominski's body. And that you took on most of, and then all of his bodyweight, just so Freeman could cover everyone. Said you were hurt, yourself, but helped him, carried him, to your extraction point. Up several flights of stairs."

Sy had no response other than a blank stare. It seemed to say all it needed to, because Travis continued.

"Lopez is alive and the Kominski girls got to say a proper goodbye to David. Plus, that mission WAS a success because you got the target. I know it's still classified, but…I think we all know the significance of what you did by leading that mission. You didn't leave a man, living or dead, behind."

"And we aren't gonna let your girl get left behind, either. We're gonna take that sonofabitch out. Because what do we do?" Nate declared, ending with the call Sy had always used at the end of his mission briefs.

The whole table, including a reluctant Sy, recited “We embrace the darkness and the suffering.”

“And why do we do it?” Nate continued.

“So that our fellow man is free to live in peace." Sy looked around the table at all of these men he had served with, fought with, watched comrades fall with, and fought against tyranny with. He thought most of them could have come up with their own story about his role in their military time, but the mission Travis was talking about outlined what he figured was the most significant sacrifice he had ever made for a teammate.

"Well…I guess we need to come up with a plan, then." Sy smiled and finished off the beer in his glass before laying it out for the others.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sy had given them all missions tailored to their own strengths and connections. Brad would gather all the info he could on Elliott. Matt would reserve vehicles. Jake and Travis would procure tactical gear for the team, and Nate…Nate would provide weapons. Pistols and blades. Ammo. Holsters. Even flash grenades and smoke bombs.

Cade's was too public to talk about their plans, so Sy told everyone to rendezvous at his house the very next afternoon. They sat around the patio table on his back deck while they waited for everyone to arrive. Jake was late.

"Well, I guess 'direct sales' waits for no man, and we can't wait for Ryburn anymore. Styles, report?" Sy commenced the meeting.

"I have three Suburbans that are only a couple years old. They're black, discreet, and all glass is tinted within an inch of it's life. Even the license plate covers. I'll make sure they're fueled and ready." Matt stated.

"Aces. Richardson?" Travis spoke up next.

"Yeah, Jake had to go in for a late shift last night after we met, but I talked to him. He's gonna get vests for everyone, eyewear, comms, the whole works. All rated for Black Ops. He told me a bit ago he was following up on a lead and was hoping it would pan out. Said he had a hunch." Travis shrugged, not certain what his friend was up to, but not that concerned.

"Sounds good. Randall?"

"I made up some dossiers for everyone that includes everything I could find on Thomas. He doesn't have a ton of priors. Mostly drunk and disorderly's that were thrown out, because he got the right representation and the wrong judge. He must have someone backing him, because I have no job on file for him. No employer has run a background on him in ten years. Last known address is from six years ago, when he filed a change of address from an apartment in the Cottage Hills complex to…407 Oak Street."

"That's Shane's address." Sy interjected. "He must not have changed it since she kicked him out."

"It seems so. But it's so weird. I don't see any credit cards, online orders, not even a Netflix account on the guy. He's totally fallen off the grid since Shane. I did get into some social media accounts, but he hasn't posted to anything in the last 18 months."

"Really?"

"Yeah, he was posting hot and heavy about this girl, Kara Hutch. 37. Lives over in Waynesville. But his last Facebook status just says, 'What a waste.' and 'feeling betrayed' and that was in February of last year."

"Hmm, do you think--" Sy was interrupted by the unexpectedly loud and abrupt sound of his front door flying open and Aika, with them on the deck, barking like they were about to be murdered. She was ready to kill whatever came through next. The men, all of them battle hardened veterans sporting conceal and carry permits, were out of their seats and in defensive stances in a fraction of a second. Aiming at an unseen enemy. A figure approached in the shadow of Sy's kitchen, arms raised and slowing as it saw several barrels aimed for its head and chest.

"Woah, woah, woah, guys it's me! It's Jake! Stand down!"

"Are you FUCKING INSANE, Corporal!?" Sy asked, reverting to Captain mode. "You just snuck up on and burst in on a group of soldiers. Do you comprehend how close you came to looking more like Swiss Cheese than a man, Ryburn?!" Sy scolded, fire in him rising, but more out of an angry concern for the friend they nearly shot.

"Sorry, sir, err, Sy. I was focused on getting here for my report." Jake said, out of breath.

"Travis already told us about the gear, Ryburn. You didn't need to bust in like that." Nate berated.

"Oh, guys. What I've got is way better than night vision devices. I might have an address for our guy."

"How in seven hells did YOU get an address?" Brad exclaimed, pride wounded as intel was his task.

"I know, dude, that was on you, but…I overheard a conversation when I was doing some work on equipment in the Air Traffic Control tower."

"What could you have possibly overheard in ATC?" Sy was incredulous.

"Do you want me to tell you, or would you like to keep screaming at me?"

Sy called Aika off and let Jake onto the deck, but the German Shepherd was still eyeing the corporal with marked skepticism.

"So I kept hearing this controller talking to the other girl at her station. She kept talking about her boyfriend…whose name was Elliott." Eyebrows went up all around the table. "Yeah, and he fit the description in every way. Physical appearance, textbook narcissism, the works. I went to the personnel office when I got done with the service call and told the attendant that the girl had helped me with my gear and I wanted to send her an email to thank her. She gave me a contact sheet on Sasha King. I looked her up on my lunchbreak, and found some photos of her with a guy I think might be Elliott." Jake showed Sy an image he'd saved to his phone. "Is this him?"

"Yup, that's the guy." Sy's blood was boiling again at the smiles on the couple's faces. He didn't deserve happiness. He didn't deserve a pretty girlfriend. He should die alone, starving for the love he deprived others. "You say you got an address?"

"Yeah, the gal in personnel printed me a full demo sheet. The only thing we don't have is a social." Sy noted the redacted 9-digit code in one corner of the document Jake had handed him. He read out loud. 3502 Highway D. St. Robert, MO.

"You boys feel up to a little recon tonight?" They all nodded, excitedly, patting Jake on the back, and high fiving him in congratulations on the invaluable find. Even Brad commended him on his detective skills and told him he'd have a job on the Force with him if he ever wanted a change. The corporal almost blushed.

The men went back into the house and through the front door to the driveway where they were all parked.

"Jake, you brought all the gear, too?"

"Sure did, Sy. There's vests, belts, NVDs and helmets to mount. There's plenty for everyone." Jake opened the back of his Jeep as if it were a buffet of delicious tactical equipment. Sy found among the gear a large case and opened it out of curiosity. A sound amplifier with headphones. That was going with him, as it appeared there was only one.

"I'll outfit everyone with guns and ammo later. But here are some tac knives, and three of each diversionary devices for each member of the team." Nate passed out packs with the blades, smoke grenades, and flash bombs.

"Okay, rendezvous at Matt's shop at 1800. We'll go over some procedures for the evening and get set up with the rest of our weaponry then. Okay?" General nods of ascent and "mmhmms" in confirmation of the plan came from the men. Sy continued, "Maybe get some rest between now and then. I don't know how long this is going to take."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sy got to Matt's a little early. 1730. Nate showed up about ten minutes later and pulled in next to Sy, leaving the rear doors accessible to arm the team. The men got out of their vehicles and began double checking Nate's inventory.

"Nervous?" Nate said after exchanging the usual pleasantries.

"I didn't think I was. But just now, I got to thinking about what that…monster is doing to the love of my life. What he's putting her through, if he's even let her live. What are we going to come across when we get to this place?"

"You can't think like that. She's not Schrödinger's cat. You have to be positive here. This mission depends on your strength as a leader. You're gonna do great. And Shane is gonna be fine. We all will. Have a little faith, man." Nate patted Sy on the back in encouragement. Sy appreciated it. But he thought he might have to compartmentalize, instead. Think of this as just another mission. Forget that Shane was involved. Even if it wasn't healthy, it might at least be helpful.

Matt arrived soon after and waved at the two men as he pulled in on the other side of Nate. He got out and greeted his friends, all of them shooting the breeze and enfolding the others into the conversation as they got there. Kevin was the last to arrive, just before 1800, when the briefing commenced.

"So," Sy began, more timidly than was his usual way. "First, guys, I wanna say, I appreciate y'all so much for doing this. For putting in the time and the resources to help me and Shane. I owe y'all more than I can repay, but that doesn't mean I won't try. Within reason." He grinned and his friends chuckled.

"Now, we've got the comms set up. We'll be in each other's ears, so we can report in real time. I've looked up an aerial view of the farm on Google Earth, and there should be good cover for surveillance with the sound equipment and NVDs. I'll take point, Nate, you and Matt are with me. Kevin, you and Brad will flank the property on the left, Travis and Jake are going right. I'm hoping this will just be recon, but if I get wind of something I don't like, I may call for the strike. You guys will report anything you think looks fishy, and I will make that call with the intel I'm given. Now. When and if I make that call, we're gonna aim for disorientation and soft incapacitation. If you don't have to kill, don't. I don't know how much help this bastard has, but I know it would have taken several to take down Shane. It's not that I think any of them deserve to be spared, but…I don't want us to break up any families. We don't need the weight on our already heavy souls." War had changed them all, and Sy didn't want to make any more widows. "We good?"

Nods of approval from the men made Sy think he was looking at a military bobble head collection. He stifled a smile.

"Alright, lets get armed and ready, then Matt can take us to our chariots."

They were all mostly suited up, black or dark colors were the general uniform. They were ready for whatever might happen. As Nate handed out guns and ammo, the men examined their clips, loaded their guns, and put them in their holsters until needed…they hoped they wouldn't be.

When they were all set, they followed Matt to the huge garage he kept his fleet in.

Although, "garage" didn't quite do the building justice. It was actually an airplane hangar that Matt got for a good price when the local airline went under. He'd made a loft in it with a ramp so there was extra room for smaller vehicles like his town cars. The limos, SUVs, and the stretch Hummer were on the lower level. He had a separate space outside for the two party busses and the RV, protected from the elements by large carports.

Matt went to grab keys from the lock box as the men gathered near the Suburbans. Sy was getting angsty. Moment of truth was here.

"Okay," Matt jingled two sets of keys in his hands. "Who's driving?"

Kevin deferred to Brad without contest, but Jake and Travis were bickering over the question between them.

"Grow up or get married already." Sy chided. "Jake, you got the good intel for us yesterday. You drive."

Travis was mildly crestfallen, but Jake was stoked and he caught the keyring Matt tossed him.

"You wanna drive, Captain?" Matt offered Sy the last set of keys.

"No, Matt. You're driving our group. I'll take shotgun though."

And the seven men got into the vehicles as if they were mounting horses, headed into the sunset.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over the comms on the way, Sy addressed the team. "Okay, there's a large outbuilding near the road, guys. Pull off the driveway and park behind that structure. Hopefully they'll hide the vehicles from the main house. Bravo and Charlie teams, you let Alpha team get in place before you take your positions."

"Roger that, Captain." Kevin said in the headset.

"We copy." Travis answered for himself and Jake.

The first phase of the mission went perfectly. Sy, Nate, and Matt were in position, and Sy had set up the sound amplifier, aiming it at the house, headphones on. When the other teams were in position, Matt reported to Sy, since he was getting feedback using the earpiece and the headphones for the amp at the same time.

"Bravo and Charlie teams are in place, Captain."

"Great. Sit Rep?"

"All's quiet so far. Wait. Headlights coming up the drive." Each team tried to make themselves as small and low as possible so as not to draw attention to their presence. Sy had been getting nothing but crime show drivel from the TV in the house since he got here.

A petite but curvy brunette got out of the white Honda Civic and stomped into the house.

"Hey babe." Elliott's unmistakable voice rang in Sy's ear. And he was filled to bursting with rage all over again.

"What the fuck, Elliott? I've been trying to call you for hours! What the hell have you been doing?"

"Oh, I was charging my phone in the bedroom. What's going on?"

"That Captain Syverson your little pet was banging? I found out today that he's back in town. Has been for a few days."

"Shit. Shit!!! SHIT!!!"

"Yeah, so…if he isn't already, it won't be long before he starts trying to find her."

"But…how could he? Even if he thought it was me, I have no official ties to this place, or even you!"

"Flattering."

"You know what I mean."

"Whatever, but I'd get rid of her ASAP. This guy is NOT someone you wanna piss off, Elliott."

"I'll bring the guys in. We'll take care of it. Tonight."

Sy cussed in a loud whisper. He wanted to rip Elliott apart with his bare hands. Nate asked him what was wrong, but Sy held up a hand for him to remain quiet because he heard the scumbag inside on the phone.

"Yeah, it's me. Listen, change of plans, we need to do this tonight. Get everyone out here. Yes, immediately. There's a…potential complication. We need to take care of her before it becomes more. Yeah, she's weak, but I'm still gonna wait until you guys get here. She's still got some fight in her. She about took Jackson's eye out yesterday when he was  down there. He's got some wicked scratches on his face. I think he made her regret it, though." Elliott laughed with evil mirth. Sy was furious. He reckoned God Himself might have a time pulling him off that degenerate before he made him unrecognizable as a human man. Once he started punching him, he might not be able to stop.

When Elliott signed off, Sy pulled the earphones down onto his neck. He looked at Matt and Nate.

"He's planning something with Shane and has called in reinforcements. It sounds like he means to take her somewhere else, and it didn't sound like it was gonna be pretty. I think we need to go in now."

"Shit. Okay." Matt responded. Sy put his earpiece in and called on the rest of the team.

"Bravo and Charlie, do you copy?"

"Bravo copies." Kevin reported back.

"Charlie copies. Go ahead, Alpha." Travis cleared.

"Listen, boys. We need to go in, and we need to make it quick. Here’s the situation. We have one male and one female assailant inside the domicile, and an undetermined number of additional combatants en route to reinforce the enemy's line. We have one target. A female prisoner, presumably in the basement, given verbiage used in the communication I intercepted. Alpha team will make our priority extraction. Bravo, you will subdue the male assailant and then maintain sentry position on the lookout for more unfriendlies. Charlie team, you will clear the second level of the house and subdue the female combatant. She is a soldier, so proceed with extreme caution. Once the area is secure, drivers, go and retrieve the vehicles. We are gonna need to get out of here quick, or else things might go tits up. I'm concerned we'll lose the advantage of numbers if we wait too long. Are we clear?"

"Copy that, Alpha leader."

"Roger. On your count, cap."

Sy took a deep breath. Thought to himself "Shane. I'm on my way, baby!" He saw red, then. And called for the charge, out of the darkness, and into the farmhouse. To an uncertain outcome.

Up Next: Chapter 17-Gait Training

[path-of-my-childhood]

Taylor Swift Broke All Her Rules With Folklore - And Gave Herself A Much-Needed Escape

By: Alex Suskind for Entertainment Weekly Date: December 8th 2020 (EW's 2020 Entertainers of the Year cover)

The pop star, one of EW's 2020 Entertainers of the Year, delves deep into her surprise eighth album, Rebekah Harkness, and a Joe Biden presidency.

“He is my co-writer on ‛Betty’ and ‛Exile,’” replies Taylor Swift with deadpan precision. The question Who is William Bowery? was, at the time we spoke, one of 2020’s great mysteries, right up there with the existence of Joe Exotic and the sudden arrival of murder hornets. An unknown writer credited on the year’s biggest album? It must be an alias.

Is he your brother?

“He’s William Bowery,” says Swift with a smile.

It's early November, after Election Day but before Swift eventually revealed Bowery's true identity to the world (the leading theory, that he was boyfriend Joe Alwyn, proved prescient). But, like all Swiftian riddles, it was fun to puzzle over for months, particularly in this hot mess of a year, when brief distractions are as comforting as a well-worn cardigan. Thankfully, the Bowery... erhm, Alwyn-assisted Folklore - a Swift project filled with muted pianos and whisper-quiet snares, recorded in secret with Jack Antonoff and the National’s Aaron Dessner - delivered.

“The only people who knew were the people I was making it with, my boyfriend, my family, and a small management team,” Swift, 30, tells EW of the album's hush-hush recording sessions. That gave the intimate Folklore a mystique all its own: the first surprise Taylor Swift album, one that prioritized fantastical tales over personal confessions.

“Early in quarantine, I started watching lots of films,” she explains. “Consuming other people’s storytelling opened this portal in my imagination and made me feel like, Why have I never created characters and intersecting storylines?” That’s how she ended up with three songs about an imagined love triangle (“Cardigan,” “Betty,” “August”), one about a clandestine romance (“Illicit Affairs”), and another chronicling a doomed relationship (“Exile”). Others tell of sumptuous real-life figures like Rebekah Harkness, a divorcee who married the heir to Standard Oil - and whose home Swift purchased 31 years after her death. The result, “The Last Great American Dynasty,” hones in on Harkness’ story, until Swift cleverly injects herself.

And yet, it wouldn’t be a Swift album without a few barbed postmortems over her own history. Notably, “My Tears Ricochet” and “Mad Woman," which touch on her former label head Scott Borchetta selling the masters to Swift’s catalog to her known nemesis Scooter Braun. Mere hours after our interview, the lyrics’ real-life origins took a surprising twist, when news broke that Swift’s music had once again been sold, to another private equity firm, for a reported $300 million. Though Swift ignored repeated requests for comment on the transaction, she did tweet a statement, hitting back at Braun while noting that she had begun re-recording her old albums - something she first promised in 2019 as a way of retaining agency over her creative legacy. (Later, she would tease a snippet of that reimagined work, with a new version of her hit 2008 single "Love Story.")

Like surprise-dropping Folklore, like pissing off the president by endorsing his opponents, like shooing away haters, Swift does what suits her. “I don’t think we often hear about women who did whatever the hell they wanted,” she says of Harkness - something Swift is clearly intent on changing. For her, that means basking in the world of, and favorable response to, Folklore. As she says in our interview, “I have this weird thing where, in order to create the next thing, I attack the previous thing. I don’t love that I do that, but it is the thing that has kept me pivoting to another world every time I make an album. But with this one, I still love it.”

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY: We’ve spent the year quarantined in our houses, trying to stay healthy and avoiding friends and family. Were you surprised by your ability to create and release a full album in the middle of a pandemic? TAYLOR SWIFT: I was. I wasn't expecting to make an album. Early on in quarantine, I started watching lots of films. We would watch a different movie every night. I'm ashamed to say I hadn't seen Pan's Labyrinth before. One night I'd watch that, then I'd watch L.A. Confidential, then we'd watch Rear Window, then we'd watch Jane Eyre. I feel like consuming other people's art and storytelling sort of opened this portal in my imagination and made me feel like, "Well, why have I never done this before? Why have I never created characters and intersecting storylines? And why haven't I ever sort of freed myself up to do that from a narrative standpoint?" There is something a little heavy about knowing when you put out an album, people are going to take it so literally that everything you say could be clickbait. It was really, really freeing to be able to just be inspired by worlds created by the films you watch or books you've read or places you've dreamed of or people that you've wondered about, not just being inspired by your own experience.

In that vein, what's it like to sit down and write something like “Betty,” which is told from the perspective of a 17-year-old boy? That was huge for me. And I think it came from the fact that my co-writer, William Bowery [Joe Alwyn], is male — and he was the one who originally thought of the chorus melody. And hearing him sing it, I thought, "That sounds really cool." Obviously, I don't have a male voice, but I thought, "I could have a male perspective." Patty Griffin wrote this song, “Top of the World.” It's one of my favorite songs of all time, and it's from the perspective of this older man who has lived a life full of regret, and he's kind of taking stock of that regret. So, I thought, "This is something that people I am a huge fan of have done. This would be fun to kind of take this for a spin."

What are your favorite William Bowery conspiracies? I love them all individually and equally. I love all the conspiracy theories around this album. [With] "Betty," Jack Antonoff would text me these articles and think pieces and in-depth Tumblr posts on what this love triangle meant to the person who had listened to it. And that's exactly what I was hoping would happen with this album. I wrote these stories for a specific reason and from a specific place about specific people that I imagined, but I wanted that to all change given who was listening to it. And I wanted it to start out as mine and become other people's. It's been really fun to watch.

One of the other unique things about Folklore — the parameters around it were completely different from anything you'd done. There was no long roll out, no stadium-sized pop anthems, no aiming for the radio-friendly single. How fearful were you in avoiding what had worked in the past? I didn't think about any of that for the very first time. And a lot of this album was kind of distilled down to the purest version of what the story is. Songwriting on this album is exactly the way that I would write if I considered nothing else other than, "What words do I want to write? What stories do I want to tell? What melodies do I want to sing? What production is essential to tell those stories?" It was a very do-it-yourself experience. My management team, we created absolutely everything in advance — every lyric video, every individual album package. And then we called our label a week in advance and said, "Here's what we have.” The photo shoot was me and the photographer walking out into a field. I'd done my hair and makeup and brought some nightgowns. These experiences I was used to having with 100 people on set, commanding alongside other people in a very committee fashion — all of a sudden it was me and a photographer, or me and my DP. It was a new challenge, because I love collaboration. But there's something really fun about knowing what you can do if it's just you doing it.

Did you find it freeing? I did. Every project involves different levels of collaboration, because on other albums there are things that my stylist will think of that I never would've thought of. But if I had all those people on the photo shoot, I would've had to have them quarantine away from their families for weeks on end, and I would've had to ask things of them that I didn't think were fair if I could figure out a way to do it [myself]. I had this idea for the [Folklore album cover] that it would be this girl sleepwalking through the forest in a nightgown in 1830 [laughs]. Very specific. A pioneer woman sleepwalking at night. I made a moodboard and sent it to Beth [Garrabrant], who I had never worked with before, who shoots only on film. We were just carrying bags across a field and putting the bags of film down, and then taking pictures. It was a blast.

Folklore includes plenty of intimate acoustic echoes to what you've done in the past. But there are also a lot of new sonics here, too — these quiet, powerful, intricately layered harmonics. What was it like to receive the music from Aaron and try to write lyrics on top of it? Well, Aaron is one of the most effortlessly prolific creators I've ever worked with. It's really mind-blowing. And every time I've spoken to an artist since this whole process [began], I said, "You need to work with him. It'll change the way you create." He would send me these — he calls them sketches, but it's basically an instrumental track. the second day — the day after I texted him and said, "Hey, would you ever want to work together?" — he sent me this file of probably 30 of these instrumentals and every single one of them was one of the most interesting, exciting things I had ever heard. Music can be beautiful, but it can be lacking that evocative nature. There was something about everything he created that is an immediate image in my head or melody that I came up with. So much so that I'd start writing as soon as I heard a new one. And oftentimes what I would send back would inspire him to make more instrumentals and then send me that one. And then I wrote the song and it started to shape the project, form-fitted and customized to what we wanted to do.

It was weird because I had never made an album and not played it for my girlfriends or told my friends. The only people who knew were the people that I was making it with, my boyfriend, my family, and then my management team. So that's the smallest number of people I've ever had know about something. I'm usually playing it for everyone that I'm friends with. So I had a lot of friends texting me things like, "Why didn't you say on our everyday FaceTimes you were making a record?"

Was it nice to be able to keep it a secret? Well, it felt like it was only my thing. It felt like such an inner world I was escaping to every day that it almost didn't feel like an album. Because I wasn't making a song and finishing it and going, "Oh my God, that is catchy.” I wasn't making these things with any purpose in mind. And so it was almost like having it just be mine was this really sweet, nice, pure part of the world as everything else in the world was burning and crashing and feeling this sickness and sadness. I almost didn't process it as an album. This was just my daydream space.

Does it still feel like that? Yeah, because I love it so much. I have this weird thing that I do when I create something where in order to create the next thing I kind of, in my head, attack the previous thing. I don't love that I do that but it is the thing that has kept me pivoting to another world every time I make an album. But with this one, I just still love it. I'm so proud of it. And so that feels very foreign to me. That doesn't feel like a normal experience that I've had with releasing albums.

When did you first learn about Rebekah Harkness? Oh, I learned about her as soon as I was being walked through [her former Rhode Island] home. I got the house when I was in my early twenties as a place for my family to congregate and be together. I was told about her, I think, by the real estate agent who was walking us through the property. And as soon as I found out about her, I wanted to know everything I could. So I started reading. I found her so interesting. And then as more parallels began to develop between our two lives — being the lady that lives in that house on the hill that everybody gets to gossip about — I was always looking for an opportunity to write about her. And I finally found it.

I love that you break the fourth wall in the song. Did you go in thinking you’d include yourself in the story? I think that in my head, I always wanted to do a country music, standard narrative device, which is: the first verse you sing about someone else, the second verse you sing about someone else who's even closer to you, and then in the third verse, you go, "Surprise! It was me.” You bring it personal for the last verse. And I'd always thought that if I were to tell that story, I would want to include the similarities — our lives or our reputations or our scandals.

How often did you regale friends about the history of Rebekah and Holiday House while hanging out at Holiday House? Anyone who's been there before knows that I do “The Tour,” in quotes, where I show everyone through the house. And I tell them different anecdotes about each room, because I've done that much research on this house and this woman. So in every single room, there's a different anecdote about Rebekah Harkness. If you have a mixed group of people who've been there before and people who haven't, [the people who’ve been there] are like, "Oh, she's going to do the tour. She's got to tell you the story about how the ballerinas used to practice on the lawn.” And they'll go get a drink and skip it because it's the same every time. But for me, I'm telling the story with the same electric enthusiasm, because it's just endlessly entertaining to me that this fabulous woman lived there. She just did whatever she wanted.

There are a handful of songs on Folklore that feel like pretty clear nods to your personal life over the last year, including your relationships with Scott Borchetta and Scooter Braun. How long did it take to crystallize the feelings you had around both of them into “My Tears Ricochet” or “Mad Woman”? I found myself being very triggered by any stories, movies, or narratives revolving around divorce, which felt weird because I haven't experienced it directly. There’s no reason it should cause me so much pain, but all of a sudden it felt like something I had been through. I think that happens any time you've been in a 15-year relationship and it ends in a messy, upsetting way. So I wrote “My Tears Ricochet” and I was using a lot of imagery that I had conjured up while comparing a relationship ending to when people end an actual marriage. All of a sudden this person that you trusted more than anyone in the world is the person that can hurt you the worst. Then all of a sudden the things that you have been through together, hurt. All of a sudden, the person who was your best friend is now your biggest nemesis, etc. etc. etc. I think I wrote some of the first lyrics to that song after watching Marriage Story and hearing about when marriages go wrong and end in such a catastrophic way. So these songs are in some ways imaginary, in some ways not, and in some ways both.

How did it feel to drop an F-bomb on "Mad Woman"? F---ing fantastic.

And that’s the first time you ever recorded one on a record, right? Yeah. Every rule book was thrown out. I always had these rules in my head and one of them was, You haven't done this before, so you can't ever do this. “Well, you've never had an explicit sticker, so you can't ever have an explicit sticker.” But that was one of the times where I felt like you need to follow the language and you need to follow the storyline. And if the storyline and the language match up and you end up saying the F-word, just go for it. I wasn't adhering to any of the guidelines that I had placed on myself. I decided to just make what I wanted to make. And I'm really happy that the fans were stoked about that because I think they could feel that. I'm not blaming anyone else for me restricting myself in the past. That was all, I guess, making what I want to make. I think my fans could feel that I opened the gate and ran out of the pasture for the first time, which I'm glad they picked up on because they're very intuitive.

Let’s talk about “Epiphany.” The first verse is a nod to your grandfather, Dean, who fought in World War II. What does his story mean to you personally? I wanted to write about him for awhile. He died when I was very young, but my dad would always tell this story that the only thing that his dad would ever say about the war was when somebody would ask him, "Why do you have such a positive outlook on life?" My grandfather would reply, "Well, I'm not supposed to be here. I shouldn't be here." My dad and his brothers always kind of imagined that what he had experienced was really awful and traumatic and that he'd seen a lot of terrible things. So when they did research, they learned that he had fought at the Battles of Guadalcanal, at Cape Gloucester, at Talasea, at Okinawa. He had seen a lot of heavy fire and casualties — all of the things that nightmares are made of. He was one of the first people to sign up for the war. But you know, these are things that you can only imagine that a lot of people in that generation didn't speak about because, a) they didn't want people that they came home to to worry about them, and b) it just was so bad that it was the actual definition of unspeakable.

That theme continues in the next verse, which is a pretty overt nod to what’s been happening during COVID. As someone who lives in Nashville, how difficult has it been to see folks on Lower Broadway crowding the bars without masks? I mean, you just immediately think of the health workers who are putting their lives on the line — and oftentimes losing their lives. If they make it out of this, if they see the other side of it, there's going to be a lot of trauma that comes with that; there's going to be things that they witnessed that they will never be able to un-see. And that was the connection that I drew. I did a lot of research on my grandfather in the beginning of quarantine, and it hit me very quickly that we've got a version of that trauma happening right now in our hospitals. God, you hope people would respect it and would understand that going out for a night isn't worth the ripple effect that it causes. But obviously we're seeing that a lot of people don't seem to have their eyes open to that — or if they do, a lot of people don't care, which is upsetting.

You had the Lover Fest East and West scheduled this year. How hard has it been to both not perform for your fans this year, and see the music industry at large go through such a brutal change? It's confusing. It's hard to watch. I think that maybe me wanting to make as much music as possible during this time was a way for me to feel like I could reach out my hand and touch my fans, even if I couldn't physically reach out or take a picture with them. We've had a lot of different, amazing, fun, sort of underground traditions we've built over the years that involve a lot of human interaction, and so I have no idea what's going to happen with touring; none of us do. And that's a scary thing. You can't look to somebody in the music industry who's been around a long time, or an expert touring manager or promoter and [ask] what's going to happen and have them give you an answer. I think we're all just trying to keep our eyes on the horizon and see what it looks like. So we're just kind of sitting tight and trying to take care of whatever creative spark might exist and trying to figure out how to reach our fans in other ways, because we just can't do that right now.

When you are able to perform again, do you have plans on resurfacing a Lover Fest-type event? I don't know what incarnation it'll take and I really would need to sit down and think about it for a good solid couple of months before I figured out the answer. Because whatever we do, I want it to be something that is thoughtful and will make the fans happy and I hope I can achieve that. I'm going to try really hard to.

In addition to recording an album, you spent this year supporting Joe Biden and Kamala Harris in the election. Where were you when it was called in their favor? Well, when the results were coming in, I was actually at the property where we shot the Entertainment Weekly cover. I was hanging out with my photographer friend, Beth, and the wonderful couple that owned the farm where we [were]. And we realized really early into the night that we weren't going to get an accurate picture of the results. Then, a couple of days later, I was on a video shoot, but I was directing, and I was standing there with my face shield and mask on next to my director of photography, Rodrigo Prieto. And I just remember a news alert coming up on my phone that said, "Biden is our next president. He's won the election." And I showed it to Rodrigo and he said, "I'm always going to remember the moment that we learned this." And I looked around, and people's face shields were starting to fog up because a lot of people were really misty-eyed and emotional, and it was not loud. It wasn't popping bottles of champagne. It was this moment of quiet, cautious elation and relief.

Do you ever think about what Folklore would have sounded like if you, Aaron, and Jack had been in the same room? I think about it all the time. I think that a lot of what has happened with the album has to do with us all being in a collective emotional place. Obviously everybody's lives have different complexities and whatnot, but I think most of us were feeling really shaken up and really out of place and confused and in need of something comforting all at the same time. And for me, that thing that was comforting was making music that felt sort of like I was trying to hug my fans through the speakers. That was truly my intent. Just trying to hug them when I can't hug them.

I wanted to talk about some of the lyrics on Folklore. One of my favorite pieces of wordplay is in “August”: that flip of "sipped away like a bottle of wine/slipped away like a moment in time.” Was there an "aha moment" for you while writing that? I was really excited about "August slipped away into a moment of time/August sipped away like a bottle of wine." That was a song where Jack sent me the instrumental and I wrote the song pretty much on the spot; it just was an intuitive thing. And that was actually the first song that I wrote of the "Betty" triangle. So the Betty songs are "August," "Cardigan," and "Betty." "August" was actually the first one, which is strange because it's the song from the other girl's perspective.

Yeah, I assumed you wrote "Cardigan" first. It would be safe to assume that "Cardigan" would be first, but it wasn't. It was very strange how it happened, but it kind of pieced together one song at a time, starting with "August," where I kind of wanted to explore the element of This is from the perspective of a girl who was having her first brush with love. And then all of a sudden she's treated like she's the other girl, because there was another situation that had already been in place, but "August" girl thought she was really falling in love. It kind of explores the idea of the undefined relationship. As humans, we're all encouraged to just be cool and just let it happen, and don't ask what the relationship is — Are we exclusive? But if you are chill about it, especially when you're young, you learn the very hard lesson that if you don't define something, oftentimes they can gaslight you into thinking it was nothing at all, and that it never happened. And how do you mourn the loss of something once it ends, if you're being made to believe that it never happened at all?

On the flip side, "Peace" is bit more defined in terms of how one approaches a relationship. There's this really striking line, "The devil's in the details, but you got a friend in me/Would it be enough if I can never give you peace?" How did that line come to you? I'm really proud of that one too. I heard the track immediately. Aaron sent it to me, and it had this immediate sense of serenity running through it. The first word that popped into my head was peace, but I thought that it would be too on-the-nose to sing about being calm, or to sing about serenity, or to sing about finding peace with someone. Because you have this very conflicted, very dramatic conflict-written lyric paired with this very, very calming sound of the instrumental. But, "The devil's in the details," is one of those phrases that I've written down over the years. That's a common phrase that is used in the English language every day. And I just thought it sounded really cool because of the D, D sound. And I thought, "I'll hang onto those in a list, and then, I'll finally find the right place for them in a story." I think that's how a lot of people feel where it's like, "Yeah, the devil's in the details. Everybody's complex when you look under the hood of the car." But basically saying, "I'm there for you if you want that, if this complexity is what you want."

There's another clever turn of phrase on "This is Me Trying." "I didn't know if you'd care if I came back/I have a lot of regrets about that." That feels like a nod toward your fans, and some of the feelings you had about retreating from the public sphere. Absolutely. I think I was writing from three different characters' perspectives, one who's going through that; I was channeling the emotions I was feeling in 2016, 2017, where I just felt like I was worth absolutely nothing. And then, the second verse is about dealing with addiction and issues with struggling every day. And every second of the day, you're trying not to fall into old patterns, and nobody around you can see that, and no one gives you credit for it. And then, the third verse, I was thinking, what would the National do? What lyric would Matt Berninger write? What chords would the National play? And it's funny because I've since played this song for Aaron, and he's like, "That's not what we would've done at all." He's like, "I love that song, but that's totally different than what we would've done with it."

When we last spoke, in April 2019, we were talking about albums we were listening to at the time and you professed your love for the National and I Am Easy to Find. Two months later, you met up with Aaron at their concert, and now, we're here talking about the National again. Yeah, I was at the show where they were playing through I Am Easy to Find. What I loved about [that album] was they had female vocalists singing from female perspectives, and that triggered and fired something in me where I thought, "I've got to play with different perspectives because that is so intriguing when you hear a female perspective come in from a band where you're used to only hearing a male perspective." It just sparked something in me. And obviously, you mentioning the National is the reason why Folklore came to be. So, thank you for that, Alex.

I'm here for all of your songwriting muse needs in the future. I can't wait to see what comes out of this interview.

*** For more on our Entertainers of the Year and Best & Worst of 2020, order the January issue of Entertainment Weekly or find it on newsstands beginning Dec. 18. (You can also pick up the full set of six covers here.) Don’t forget to subscribe for more exclusive interviews and photos, only in EW.

[lifblogs]

celnene

9414 words

destiel, fae!castiel, high fantasy!au

written as a prompt request awhile ago

The baby was crying. The beautiful, blond-haired baby with green eyes was crying, and both parents had left him there in the cabin alone. Their intentions hadn’t been evil, seeing as the mother had gone to hunt for food, and the father had gone to the market to sell furs in exchange for something to eat other than meat. Castiel understood why they hadn’t brought the baby along. Even the trek to the market could be dangerous. Castiel had been there before, wearing a glamour so as to hide from the humans. He found that he enjoyed watching them, even though these people would kill him if they knew who, and what, he was. They’d see his sharp canines, and his pointed ears, his perfect skin, and ethereal glow, and they’d shoot and stab him full of iron.

Usually, most of them weren’t violent to other humans, not as severely as some had been during the wars centuries ago. There were a number, however, who belied that simple fact. Bandits were on the roads, ready to take advantage of helpless townsfolk. A few ex-soldiers wandered, taking their anger out at being dismissed from the army on the people there, and bullying them for money.

So no, a baby wouldn’t have been able to be brought along, despite the sure amount of kindness he would find.

As for friends? Castiel was sure the two parents of this baby didn’t have any that could watch their six-month old. He knew because, well, for some reason he had had his eye fixed upon them for years. He just felt… drawn to them, particularly when the mother had become pregnant.

Once they’d had the baby, they’d taken extra precautions, making weapons of iron. Some were still in the house, but if they didn’t touch Castiel, he would be fine. Would the parents return in time to make an attempt at ending his life? No, the chances of that were slim. Even now he could smell the scents of the parents fading, and they hadn’t renewed. They were getting farther away.

That baby boy was still crying. At six months old he was able to eat mashed food, and he was becoming a little less helpless. Still, he was a baby, and for now, he was all alone in the world.

Castiel came down from his perch on the tree, jumping easily to the ground fifteen feet below and landing on his feet, strong bones and legs easily taking the impact.

As he walked towards the cabin, idly flicking out his power behind him to brush the snow and obscure his tracks, he raised his hand, and he pushed, letting his power pulse outwards. The latch unhooked, the door swinging open slightly. Cold air rushed in ahead of him, and a flurry of snow swept across the mat inside the door. Not wanting the baby to get too cold, Castiel hurried in, taking care to close the door behind him.

The baby didn’t seem hungry when he swept a discerning hand that glowed gold over his body. He was fine. However, he was… lonely.

Castiel, feeling warmth in his chest, picked up the baby, and started bouncing him. For some reason he started telling him about the wars, telling him of the dark fae the humans had helped battle off, and then, in a stroke of mistrust, had turned on the fae that had helped them. The battles had killed more humans than fae, and Castiel, acting as a highlord beneath the reign of his father, the highprince, had been able to convince them to turn away. He left out the gory details, of course, but he told the story of how their peoples had separated, and how some fae still cared about the humans. Too many years had passed for the humans to remember what had happened, and those who weren’t royal or wealthy could barely read. Even then, most humans saw the word Fae and turned away from it, even if that word was on a history book.

Despite their ignorance, Castiel found them interesting. But not as interesting as the baby boy he was bouncing on his knee. The baby, whose name he’d caught a few months ago—Dean—was now gurgling instead of crying. He looked up at Castiel with the greenest of eyes. One of his little hands fisted in Castiel’s silvery-white cloak.

“Yes, it’s all right, Dean,” he told him. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

Castiel stayed with Dean till he heard the parents arriving home.

They didn’t even know he had been there.

✥

Castiel had work to do as a highprince. In his opinion, it was boring work. Most of it was politics between the different courts in the realm in an attempt to postpone another war. Along with that, there were ledgers to keep a decent account of, new guards to choose for his retinue, overseeing commerce—which, to his dismay, included strong drinks that were so punctuated with alcohol they could easily double as cleaning fluid. The alcohol hadn’t made its way to the nobles of his court, but he was aware of its circulation through the slums in the lower depths of his city.

Castiel’s city was Taivakel, built atop a towering mountain. His palace resided at the top; a thing of marble, and gold, and diamond. The city then grew out in a circle all around the mountain, many of the buildings made of smoothened white stone. Different sections of the mountain had been carefully segregated. Though, in the past century, Castiel had had the walls separating them knocked down. He did not want his people to be divided. In part because he cared about them, but he also knew that a divided people could plant animosity among his citizens, and dangerous things could happen. Rebellion—though that hadn’t happened since his father was highprince—civil wars, higher criminal activity.

With this new system, the different quarters had begun to merge with each other, and Castiel quite enjoyed it. The reports he received from his lords and advisors relayed that the people did as well.

Castiel’s people were all fae. The lesser ones, without powers, had been pushed to the bottom of the mountain. They lived in small, wooden shacks and crowded apartments. They had created a black market centuries ago as an attempt to get by. Another highprince, one of whom he was acquainted with—Corvalend, the highprince of Aardess—tried to curtail his worries about the lesser folk. He claimed that they were lesser for a reason, reminding him of the fact that they lacked magic.

Still, Castiel was trying to help; setting up donations, attempting to send builders to fix up the homes, lowering the taxes, and sharing goods. Some for free, some at a lower price. Despite his attempts, he had received quite a bit of backlash from the non-magic folk in his city. They claimed they did not want the help of a highprince who surely looked down upon them, and they insisted that they did not need his help. They had been self-sufficient for four centuries now, and claimed that their ways of life could not be changed. Still, he tried. He desperately tried, caring about all his people.

Then, of course, there were the religious zealots of Dawn’s Children. Dawn was supposedly a representative of the dawn of a new age, in which humans and fae would live together. To most, it was blasphemy. Castiel was not very religious, but he welcomed the idea of merging with the humans. However, sharing that would make him very unpopular with his people. 

Dawn’s Children took in all kinds. They preached in thick robes, collected followers, kept their heads unshaven. To appease them, Castiel had appointed their high priestess as one of his advisors.

Many of Dawn’s Children were tame, gentle, but problems quickly arose whenever they wandered into human territory. Which they did quite frequently.

They wished to mate with them, seeing as they had found ways for two beings of the same sex to mate and create life. In the city, that secret was guarded carefully. However, the work of Dawn’s Children never seemed to come to fruition. Many of the members who delved into the human kingdoms did not return. During their first foray, Castiel’s father had sent a battalion of troops after them, even requesting that Castiel lead them. He had declined, and without his leadership, only half the troops had returned. His father blamed him, as Castiel did himself.

Quite frequently he found himself venturing into the human realm in secret, as he had a few years ago when drawn to that baby. His only creed was to explore, observe, and not interact. Yet, he felt pulled to the child, and often walked through doorways of light to the human realm. He would do this at night, while tasking one of his lords or trusted advisors to watch over the city in his stead. Perhaps the time for another visit was drawing near.

✥

The day had been grueling. Highprince Castiel had undertaken a building project in the lower quarter. Though his identity had remained hidden till an hour or two into his work, he was eventually found out, and vitriol was flung his way. Still, Castiel worked, whether these fae wanted him to or not. This was his duty. To serve, protect, lead. If he could not do what he would ask of someone else, then in his eyes he would have failed as a highprince.

Castiel let out a deep sigh as he now settled down into the hot water filled nearly to the brim in his deep-set, marble tub. There was a ledge to sit on when one did not want to be fully submerged.

The ledge was where he rested for now, sore from his day’s work. Eventually, he soaped up his body, washing away the sweat, and grime that had collected on him. After dunking into the water to rinse away the soap, servants toweled him dry. They attempted to dress him in his night clothes, and Castiel dismissed them, a fluffy towel wrapped about his hips.

He perused his wardrobe, opting for dark clothing. He donned a black silk tunic with a deep v cut down the center, and silvery embroidery on the cuffs, black leather pants, paired with fur-lined boots, a vest for partial warmth, and a cloak.

Fall had come, and he did not want to get cold on his travels.

Castiel waved his hand, widening a doorway of golden light. He stepped into it.

✥

Dean was playing in the forest. It was evening, the sky that dull gray before the sun lowered beyond the horizon and surrendered the world to starry night.

Dean was seven years of age now, and he was receiving some schooling. His little brother was three years of age. Dean couldn’t wait to take him out in the woods to play with him. All his brother Sam seemed to be able to do for now was play with the wooden toys their father had carved for Dean some years ago.

Sometimes, against his mother’s will, Dean traveled into town. Whilst there he came to know that his patched together clothing, originally taken from his father’s trunk after his death, was a sign of poverty. With one parent, they were not very well off.

Now, he played in the woods; he had found a giant stick, and was whacking a tree with it. He moved into different stances, ones he had come up with in his head, and had convinced himself that the soldiers used.

Light broke through the twilit sky, and Dean gripped his stick hard, heart pounding. What was that?

Then he saw a tall shadow through that golden glow, and Dean ran to hide behind a thick ash tree he had taken to climbing a year ago.

Poking his head around, he saw the shadow step out of the light and materialize into a man. He was dressed in black, his tan skin inhumanly smooth, dark hair immaculate, and—

Dean hid behind the tree again, gasping, breathing hard.

The man was fae!

Dean had seen the pointed ears. Did he have fangs too?

The fae male stepped so lightly that Dean hadn’t even heard him approach, and—

He rounded the tree Dean was hidden behind. At his discovery, Dean’s instincts told him to drop his stick, to run. Yet, there was something deeper inside of him. An excitement, a thrill of some sort. Dean ran at the fae male and cried out, swearing, “Get back! Get back! You don’t belong here, you damned Inenuan rubbish!” as he beat at his legs and lower abdomen with his stick.

Eventually, he tired, and when he stepped away, panting, shaking fingers scraped from bark, still holding onto his stick, he looked up into the face that observed him. He saw blue eyes, a strong jaw, nearly too-pink lips, and eyes as blue as the Clear Lake a few miles away. Mary and Dean had made the trek before; Mary with Sam bundled up against her chest. Dean was reminded of those waters when he looked into those eyes. Blue, cold, perhaps even empty.

No, emptiness was not what lay there. Just something different, something he could not recognize. After all, he was fae.

The fae male reached out, and took Dean’s stick. Dean trembled.

“You know,” he said in a low, gravelly voice, sharp teeth flashing as he examined the stick, “if you stripped this of bark, whittled it down, and sharpened the edge, it would be a more effective weapon.” 

He handed it back to Dean, and Dean just stared, mouth dry. He licked his lips. 

“Your form was off as well,” he commented. Then Dean was sure his heart had stopped because that thing, that being, was touching him. The touch was not harsh, nor anywhere inappropriate; simply meant for moving his limbs around. Yet he had dropped his stick in shock. “Here,” the male said, “you want to keep your feet shoulder width apart, and lower yourself slightly as if you were sitting up on a high stool. There, good. Feet must be straight, pointing forward, bringing power and balance into your legs.”

Dean still couldn’t breathe. A fae was touching him! Talking to him! When would the killing blow come? Would he steal him away, cook him up before eating him for dinner? Would he enslave him, perhaps keep him as a pet? Or would he put him on the front lines of his army to be used as a distraction to lessen the deaths of the real soldiers? No matter the course of action, he was sure he would die.

“All right. Yes. Now put your arms up.” He now grabbed hold of his arms, and Dean took in a sharp breath. Though, the touch was gentle, perhaps even kind. No, impossible. This creature did not know kindness. “You want to keep one held up, angled slightly away from your body. This one you use to block blows. It protects you, and from this position you can easily lift it to protect your face, or lower it to protect your abdomen. The other arm should be lower, pulled back slightly. You can alternate which hands you use if we’re talking hand-to-hand combat—here make a fist—keeping you from tiring on one side too quickly, and giving you the advantage of coming at your enemy from both sides. And you see here?” He lightly patted Dean’s elbow, and Dean realized he had not left the position he’d been placed in, too terrified to move. “With this arm farther back, when you reach out to punch someone, it gathers momentum, but only if you keep your elbow and wrist straight.” The male backed up slightly, taking his hands off him. “Here, try it. Punch me.”

“Wh-what?” Dean questioned, voice small in the otherwise empty forest.

“Hit me,” the fae male commanded. 

That voice was commanding. It was the voice of a leader, the voice of one with power. Dean found he could not resist. He stepped out with one foot, and drove a punch into the fae male’s gut. The satisfying sound of a fist hitting the center of a body met Dean’s ears. To his dismay, the male had not moved even an inch.

Dean faltered.

The fae crouched down, getting on his level. “It’s all right, Dean,” he told him. “I am stronger than you, able to withstand much more, but with practice, you will be able to protect yourself.”

“H-h-how do you kn-know my name?” Dean asked, struggling to get the words out.

“That story is long,” he said. “But perhaps in a decade or two, I will tell it to you.”

A gate of golden light opened, and Dean shielded his suddenly-watering eyes against it, blinking something fierce.

“Farewell, Dean,” the fae male said, and then he made to walk into the light. Before disappearing into it he turned, saying as if in afterthought, “By the way, my name is Castiel.” 

Castiel stepped into the light, which receded behind him. Dean was alone in the darkened woods.

✥

Sam coughed, blood coming up on his lips. Dean just held his hand, bowing his head. Sam was unconscious, but still he said to him, voice rough, throat aching with emotion, “Come on, Sammy. Hold on for me. You’ll be okay.”

Mary was out trying to get herbs for him, and she was desperate, saying she would not lose another one of her boys. After their father had died, she had attempted to be a good mother, but had no longer possessed the will. The spark had gone out, and Dean had tried to light it once more. He’d given everything for her, for Sam. It hadn’t been enough.

Somehow, with Sam being sick, she seemed to have that spark again, that fight. She was going to be there for him.

Dean searched their little cabin for a cloth. He found one resting over the edge of the washbasin—which was empty. He groaned, knowing they needed more water.

Dean put the cloth over his shoulder, took the washbasin, and went outside into the cold with it. He forwent putting on a cloak. He wouldn’t be out there for long. He went to the spigot located in the back of their cabin. The metal was cold as he worked it up and down to get the water from the cistern. It seemed to burn his hand.

Doesn’t matter.

Water splashed over his hands. Dean couldn’t do this gently. He was breathing hard, sweat on his forehead despite the cold.

Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam

Praise Ilvasar, that even this little bit of water would help.

Doubtful.

Dean went back in out of the cold, put the washbasin down near Sam, and then soaked the cloth. Water dripped in little pitter-patters as he wrung it out. He used it to clean the blood off of Sam, and then put the clean part of it on his blazing hot forehead.

Sam’s breaths rattled in his chest.

Dean stayed kneeling by the bed, and put his head down against Sam, one hand resting across his brother’s stomach. He knew that with his arm like this, he was supposed to be able to feel Sam breathing. The abdomen seemed to hold deep breaths. Sam couldn’t breathe deeply enough for them to reach lower.

His brother whimpered, and when Dean moved his head higher, he could feel Sam’s too-slow heartbeat. His breaths rattled, and squeaked. A tear fell from one of Dean’s eyes, rolling down his cheek to land on Sam’s cotton tunic.

Dean held on to his shoulder, fingers kneading, trying to soothe.

“Sammy…” he murmured.

The door banged open, and in an instant, Dean—though exhausted—rose and settled into a stance he’d somehow learned but possessed no memory of being taught. He relaxed, heaving out a breath at the revelation that it was just his mother.

Their eyes met, and unspoken, horrid words passed between them.

Dean collapsed to his knees, reaching out for Sam’s hand.

His mother came to hold his hand, and despite the trials of their past, he allowed the touch.

“What must we do?” Dean murmured.

“There’s nothing.”

Dean pulled his hand away. A part of him wished to argue, wished to fall into the habits he’d developed years ago. Instead, he went into his room, and donned the jacket and cloak he’d left resting on his bed. He grabbed his leather gloves by the door, and pulled his hood up, ready to set out.

His mother grabbed him.

“You can’t go,” she said to him, pleading.

Dean found his words were lost to him, that he could not speak. Instead of soothing his mother, or confiding in her with his plan, he shrugged free of her grip, and walked out into the cold evening.

Dean wandered for quite some time, searching for any roots that could have survived in all the snow. There were rumors of magic in the land, so surely there would be some.

His search proved fruitless. Dean had wandered at least two miles from the cabin, the sun now beginning to set. The sky was painted in red, bleeding into the gray darkness.

Cold, shivering, Dean knelt in the snow, holding himself upright against the thick base of a tree. His hands were frigid despite the gloves protecting his skin. The ice bit at his nose, his lips, and the wind made a good many attempts to tear his hood off.

He held onto it with his free hand, breaths suddenly coming hard and fast.

The now-familiar ache in his throat built up, and in pain-filled moments his vision began to blur, the world fading away from him.

There was nothing he could do. Nothing at all.

Sam was surely meant for the grave.

With that thought pounding inside his head, he rose, and walked, even as he lost all track of time, all understanding of his body. Dark had settled upon the world when he came to, when his tears dried. Stars blinked out above the bare trees.

Ilvasar, please.

No. Hope for his brother was not something Ilvasar could grant him, if Ilvasar even truly existed. Religion had always seemed rather weak and feeble to Dean. Were gods and powerful spirits truly watching over them? Or were the human superstitions all for naught?

However, Dean had begun to burn prayers for the gods some months ago, searching for anything that could help Sam.

Ilvasar was a common god to be used as a curse. However, he would not help here. He didn’t have the powers, did not know how. So he looked up, and he prayed to Neia, the goddess of all things natural in the world. The legends told of her proclivity for healing. Perhaps…

Dean attempted to reach her, to believe.

Please, my brother is dying. Neia. I beg of you.

Sam will die.

Sam will die.

Please…

Sam will die. He will perish and be taken to the afterlife, perhaps even into a realm of darkness.

Neia…

A tortured scream left Dean, and he climbed to his feet. He kicked at the snow, and then drew his arm back in a fist. When he punched the tree, the bark tore at the leather glove of his right hand. His knuckles throbbed. Yet, he wished to take his anger out on the tree once more.

Fist raised, about to deliver another blow, the realization that he should put his anger and fear into use came upon him. What would screaming and crying in the dark and cold accomplish? Such a manifestation of emotions would never help.

Hand throbbing, ice cold reaching through the tear in his glove, and radiating against him to numb his face, he birthed an idea.

Was the idea a terrible, and possibly perilous one?

Yes.

No other options had presented themselves.

Beginning to hunger, his stomach growling from missing dinner, Dean looked up at the stars, determining his position.

Good. He had already unintentionally been traveling in the correct direction. All he must do was continue north in a straight line.

He walked, keeping his cloak wrapped securely about himself, raising his feet up high so as to not get stuck in the snow. His breaths were harsh in his chest, his thighs beginning to ache. Still, onward he went.

Dean was not sure how he was aware of crossing the Border. Perhaps it was the slight tingle that had traveled down his spine. Or perhaps it was the way the very air seemed different, more… pure.

Now what must he do?

Dean knew not.

He walked. Hopeless.

Cold and exhaustion gripped him, and he gave in, lying beneath the low bough of a fir.

✥

The tugging in Castiel’s gut alerted him to Dean’s presence. He had crossed the Border. But why? Why did Castiel then sense a dark dread, and exhaustion?

These feelings had awoken him, and he did not bother to dress—only grabbing his cloak, and shoving his feet into some boots—before fixing himself on Dean’s location. Light opened up in his chambers, a tear in the physical plane of this world. He stepped through it.

Where he was transported to was a forest a few miles from the Border. Dean had been traveling north, yet he would have never reached Castiel’s territory that way—if that had truly been his goal.

He slept beneath a tree, his face pale against the light of Castiel’s portal, his lips blue. His hair, which had darkened to brown with age, had been swept away from his face.

With his chest aching despite his immortality, Castiel rushed to him, and cradled his head in one hand, hoisting him up into his lap. He wrapped an arm around him, and found Dean was limp. Lifeless.

Not even daring to hope, he put two fingers to Dean’s neck, feeling for life, for blood flowing through him.

Yes!

There it was.

Faint.

Castiel could not bring beings back from the dead, but he could heal. It was an ability he’d acquired from his father.

Those two fingers traveled to Dean’s frozen lips, almost pressing into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he reached into the well of power inside of him, reached into that strong, viperous glow and warmth. Light played against Castiel’s eyelids. In mere moments, Dean’s breath warmed his fingers.

Pleased that Dean would not die at this moment, Castiel hoisted him up, carrying him over his shoulder, and he took him through the portal.

✥

Softness caressed Dean, enveloping him. He was sunken into something plush, furs layered above him. Despite this, the outward comfort could not penetrate the aches in his body.

Eyelids heavy, feeling as though he could barely open them, Dean breathed deep, attempting to fall back into sweet, blanketing sleep.

Fear suddenly spiked through him, and he tried to sit up. He hardly succeeded, holding himself up with a shaking arm, his other arm across his aching ribs.

Hands were on him now, and Dean tried to push them off, rip them away from him.

He found he could not do so. There was an iron strength in those hands.

As Dean took in the room, the white, gold, and silver coloring of it, his head became a place rife with fear.

He had passed through the Border.

These were not the chambers of a human. There was something distinctly inhuman about them. Perhaps it was the delicate, arching designs, the natural lines to everything that put the rough angles of humanity’s creations to shame. Silver and gold arced and swirled through the white of the room, creating a beautiful, unfathomable pattern.

Dean dared to look up into the face near his. Dared to confront the truth that he had been captured by a fae, and one who was surely male, the size of his hands giving him away.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean started, gaze traveling over that strong jaw, those pink lips, the nearly sharp cheekbones, and the big, beautiful eyes. The fae’s skin was tan, hair dark and ruffled. It did not serve to hide his pointed ears.

Did he have sharp fangs?

Why did it matter? This fae knew his name.

This fae had captured him.

Dean was plunged into the stomach-churning sensation of vulnerability, and then a new realization came upon him. He looked down to assess the truth. Of course. He was naked.

“How do you know my name, and what did you do to me!” Dean growled, shocked by the strength in his voice.

The fae male just pushed him down into the bed, Dean struggling all the while. He then set himself on the bed beside Dean, pulling the furs up against his chest, covering him once more.

“You were dying,” his captor told him.

Fear pumped through Dean’s blood.

Yet, those eyes, that face, was so beautiful. Strength lay beneath his night clothes. A deeper part of Dean that tended to crave someone’s touch, was very pleased with this situation. However, it was not the one ruling his mind.

“The cold had gotten to you,” he explained. “You were blue, frost-bitten. Your bodily functions had slowed. Death had been upon you, so close that I feared I hadn’t reached you in time.”

Dean glared, and this strong, stupid, self-absorbed, repgunant being—

No, Dean, he chastised himself. You require his help. For Sam.

He saved you.

He can save your brother.

—the fae male removed his hands, leaving Dean propped up on plush pillows.

“You still haven’t answered how you know my name,” Dean said.

The fae frowned, tilting his head in a way that seemed to signal confusion.

“You truly don’t know?” he questioned.

“Know what?”

The male reached two fingers out towards him, and Dean attempted to shy away.

Useless. Those warm fingers rested against his forehead with a gentle touch.

Dean was carried away. Away from the bed, the elaborate and lavish chambers that were so hauntingly beautiful. Away from the palace he now understood he was in. Away from time, from the present. He went back, and back…

Till he was just a little boy standing in a forest, shaking with fear as he raised a stick, preparing to fight the fae before him. He was all dark hair, and bright eyes, so tall, so large.

The fae spoke, positioned his body, taught him. Dean recognized the stance he was directed through, a stance that had helped him when he had enlisted in the army. The army had not brought much good, seeing as any attempts to fight across the Border had killed troops in droves, yet Dean had learned to fight. With his fists, with knives, a sword, a staff, a spear. Before he’d become a deserter upon hearing of Sam’s illness, he’d been training with the axe, and even with a bow.

Had… Had this being truly helped him with this?

Why couldn’t Dean—

As the fae male turned to leave through a gate of golden light, he turned back, a slight smile turning up his lips. By the way, my name is Castiel.

Dean was rushed back through time, through the world, as if a rope had suddenly been pulled taut, the strength of some ethereal creature reeling him back in. Dean strained against it, head pounding.

A voice rang through the travels of his mind: Don’t fight it. It’s all right.

Implicit trust was born in Dean, and he breathed deeply.

His mind returned to its natural place inside him. His vision was blurred, but in seconds, it righted itself.

“Castiel,” Dean breathed.

Castiel’s smile in response to his words was gentle, warm. It was not what he had expected of a fae.

“So where am I?” Dean asked, attempting to sit up once more. He shied away from Castiel’s hands, though the strength in them had begun to stoke a fire deep in him. “I saw this is a palace. Are you… Are you a royal of some sort?”

“I’m a highprince of the kingdom of Taivakel,” Castiel informed. “We are on top of a mountain, and you are leagues from the Border.”

“All right. Why am I naked?”

“I had to warm you. Your clothes were wet and cold.”

Dean saw the sense in that, but still, he was slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps not in a way he should’ve been. Staring at Castiel, his gut began to throb.

He attempted to banish the treacherous thoughts from his head. He smothered them under prolonged pain, and the coming of grief.

Words spilled from his mouth, tone aching with the very love he held for his brother, “Castiel, you have to help me. My brother Sam is dying of sickness. I crossed the Border to find someone to save him, to…” He swallowed roughly, and forged on, “To make a deal.”

A sultry darkness flickered in Castiel’s eyes, and the grin on his face transformed into something feral.

Dean’s mouth went dry, and he tried to swallow, but found his throat was just as parched.

“Cas—” he began to ask before the dryness of his throat deadened his words.

“Yes, we can make a deal. But you cannot back out of it. Whatever we come to, you must follow through accordingly. Betraying me, attempting to break the deal, it will result in your untimely death.”

Dean found the strength to speak. He asked, his voice rough, gravelly, “You can save him?”

“Yes, I can save him.” Castiel pulled away from him, getting off the bed. He began to pace, a hand to his chin. “But what do I desire?”

Dean wanted to hide in the furs, pretend he was no longer there despite the deadly allure of Castiel.

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

Castiel turned to Dean, eyes bright, and Dean gulped, holding the furs to himself, kicking himself away as Castiel crawled over him on the bed. He held himself up with his hands and knees, and Dean’s breaths were shallow as he stared up at this being, as he felt the pressure where their bodies touched. Dean imagined he could hear his heartbeat. How was that possible? All fae had hearts of stone, surely. It was why they could not die.

Those eyes seemed to penetrate him, and Dean’s body began to betray him, heat building up in between his legs.

Oh, Ilvasar. Neia. Jhana. No. Spirits, help me.

Castiel lowered his face to his, their lips nearly touching, nose brushing against his own. Everything in Dean begged and pleaded for he himself to reach up, to press their lips together. To discover whether the stone was in his entire body, if the dreaded evil could truly live in him.

Castiel breathed deep, and Dean shifted, hand lowering to hide his growing arousal.

“I will heal your brother for you, Dean Winchester. In return, I ask only for your firstborn.”

That was it?

Dean had expected to bleed for him, to become enslaved, to be at the mercy of this fae.

For the moment, sacrificing his firstborn did not seem like an evil act. He did not have a child, and surely wouldn’t for years. Dean was not the kind of man who gave women a reason to stay and settle down with him—his recently broken engagement was testament to that. As for his other tastes… They could not produce children.

He’d heard rumors however that when a human and a fae... became close in that way, that despite being the same sex, they could create a child… somehow. Perhaps it was just rumor, but still, Dean found himself asking, wanting to hold up his end of the bargain as studiously as possible, “When will we begin?”

Castiel pulled back slightly. “I beg pardon?”

“Creating a child,” Dean added, cheeks reddening, gaze traveling away from those penetrating eyes. They then found the thickness of his body, and his own body continued to betray him. “I… I heard that… a human man, and a fae male can…”

Castiel sat back, and sidled off of Dean. He rested back on his heels. “Ah, so you’ve been preached to by Dawn’s Children.”

Dean nodded.

“They pander lies, they meddle where they should not, but that is one truth they properly acknowledge. However, my people and I try to keep it close to us.”

“Why?” Dean found himself asking.

“It is thought of as blasphemous for our races to mix.”

Dean wished to nod in agreement, but he was still frozen, naked under the pile of furs.

“However,” Castiel went on, a sensual haze darkening his eyes, “I find your presence quite persuasive. I am not averse to the idea of making you mine.”

Highprince Castiel grinned.

✥

Castiel had the strong urge to dress Dean up as he saw fit, to parade this human around as his own. He was. He would be. The idea of creating life with Dean Winchester coaxed a thrill in him that he could barely contain. Was it because of the taboo acts that would take place? The betrayal of a stifling culture? The touch of someone forbidden? No matter, he wished to let out the thrill, the rush. To let it out in luxurious ways that this human wouldn’t even be capable of comprehending.

Yet, Dean ordered him around. He ordered Castiel to get him clothes, to leave him alone as he dressed. Made him heal his aches, get him food and refreshment. Now, he came out of Castiel’s room, and crossed his arms as he stood across from him.

Dean was dressed in fine leathers and furs of mostly black. Castiel resisted licking his bottom lip when he looked at him.

“First things first, you are going to hold up your end of the bargain. I’m not quite sure how much time my brother has left, but when I went in search of something, anything, to help him he was… He must not have long.

Dean lowered his head slightly at those words, blinking fiercely.

Perhaps Castiel should have feigned ignorance and pretended he hadn’t seen that look, but he went to Dean, and held him by his shoulders in what he hoped was a reassuring grip. Dean was an inch taller than him, it would seem, but that didn’t mean that Castiel couldn’t do as he wished.

He lowered himself slightly, head tilted upward, so he could meet Dean’s tearful gaze.

“I will save him,” Castiel promised.

✥

Memories rekindled themselves in Dean’s mind when Castiel seemed to create a glowing tear in reality. He had been hesitant to step through it, so the highprince had grabbed him by his upper arm, and hauled him through with him.

Dean found that he did not possess the will to object. With Castiel’s strong hand on him, Dean felt as if he had just started living, as if his previous life was in dull colors and darker shades.

He worried. Yes, he worried. He had given himself to this fae highprince, and he had done so with hardly a thought.

Yet, Dean would do it all over again. He would have given up more if he had to, he would have become a very slave to the highprince who had saved him if that was what was required.

For now, it seemed as if Castiel was content to fulfill his end of the bargain.

The light had taken them to Dean’s family’s cabin, which now seemed too small and drab, even after only seeing a few rooms in the palace of Taivakel. His life, a human life, could not compare to the very being holding onto him so tightly. The heat his touch brought to life in Dean’s stomach was something he had never felt before. Even with all the girls he had been with in the village, and the few boys, Castiel was already unlike any other. Dean’s betrothal to Lisa now seemed far and in the past, despite it only being broken off a fortnight ago. She didn’t matter. Only Sammy mattered. Only… Dare he say it?

No, he could not.

He would not.

Dean was better than that.

If you are, then why did you offer yourself up to him so willingly? Are you that desperate for someone to fill the void?

Dean tried to push that thought down, but it festered inside of him. His black, fur-lined cloak billowed in the winter wind whispering through the trees, as did Castiel’s.

What he was wearing was still astonishing. He knew his clothes had not been anything special, and at times were very close to falling apart, but now, he felt regal. How was it that he felt such a thing from clothes he did not belong in? These were the clothes of a fae, not of a man. Clothes of royalty.

Dean was no such thing.

Castiel took his hand—which was protected with a black leather glove, just like Dean’s—and hurried over to the cabin with him. No light could be found inside despite the growing dark.

Dark?

Had it not been day when he’d awoken?

Yes, but he had assumed it was morning, not taking time to look at the positioning of the sun.

He swallowed roughly. Oh, Ilvasar, he’d been away a whole day.

Where was his mother?

Was Sam…?

Was he…?

Dean shrugged himself free of Castiel’s grip, and rushed towards his home. He flung the door open, barely daring to see what awaited him.

Darkness shrouded the common area where Sam’s bed had been set up so it would be easier to keep an eye on him. His mother would have had a fire going, or at least have some candles lit. She wasn’t here.

“Sam?” he called out, voice shaking.

He knew his brother couldn’t answer, yet it felt better to speak than to stand there silently.

A hand clasped down on his shoulder, and he jumped. He turned to look at Castiel.

“Do not tarry, Dean. Your brother still lives, but is approaching the veil.”

Paying closer attention to sound, he heard his brother’s harsh breathing. He rushed in, tripped on a stool, cursed, and then stumbled to Sam’s side. As Castiel entered, a golden glow was lit upon his hand, brighter than any lantern. For a moment, Dean had to shield his eyes.

Dean held his brother’s hand, and brushed his sweat-dampened hair back from his face. He was in different night clothes, and he looked as if he’d been bathed. So his mother had been here. Where was she now? Why was she gone?

Perhaps it didn’t matter.

“I’m here now, Sammy. It’ll be all right. I’m going to look after you.”

Still on his knees, Dean turned, and he swallowed roughly as he looked up at Highprince Castiel, as he took in the ethereal features that would never be touched with age, the pointed ears, the dark hair, those sensuous lips hiding sharp canines, the beautiful blue eyes that had seen countless lifetimes of men wax and wane.

“Please, help him.”

Castiel bowed his head in deference, startling Dean. “As you wish,” he told him.

Before long, Castiel was kneeling beside Dean, and he had one of his glowing palms pressed against Sam’s chest. The glow intensified, and Sam’s breathing seemed to falter, his body arching up into that large hand.

Dean gripped Castiel’s arm.

“Stop it. What are you doing to him? What’s happening?”

Castiel just gripped Dean by his hair, and pulled him off of him.

“Quiet. I’m healing him.”

Castiel closed his eyes, and his lips were parted as he focused. His breaths came heavy, and Dean could just see those fangs poking out.

A darkness seemed to flow up into Castiel’s hand, nearly blotting out the light. It twisted up his arm, where it penetrated him. He groaned, and then his body slumped; he let out a protracted sigh. Sam’s body relaxed, and his breaths sounded even for the first time in two months.

Oh, praise Jhana! He was alright!

Smiling, tears dripping from his eyes, Dean held Sam.

Suddenly, Castiel and his light were gone, and Sam’s eyes opened. Before Dean could wonder about the whereabouts of the highprince, Sam met his gaze.

“Dean?”

“I’m here, Sammy. I took care of you. You’re all better.”

“How?”

Dean leaned down, placing a kiss upon his brother’s brow. “The answer matters not. You’re all right now. You’re healed.”

“Where’s Mother?” Sam asked, now sitting up on his own, searching the cabin.

Castiel chose that time to make his reappearance. Light shot out from his hands, making both Dean and Sam flinch, and in moments, the cold fireplace was a beacon of roaring warmth.

Sam kicked himself backwards on the bed.

“D-Dean? Who is that?”

Dean was given no chance to answer. Instead, Castiel informed them, “Your mother will be along shortly.”

“And you…” Sam began to ask, then swallowed roughly. His wide eyes traveled between Dean and Castiel. Then, his face softened, but not into an expression of admiration or content. There was sadness there. “And you made a deal with him,” Sam finished.

“Yes, I did, Sammy.”

Sam ripped his hand from Dean’s.

“How could you?”

“You were dying!”

“What did he ask of you in return? To be his pet? His whore?”

“Sammy, I’m alright.”

Castiel came over, Sam flinching back. “Your brother has offered up his firstborn. He intends to have me collect shortly.”

Sam’s brows furrowed together. “How? Dean’s not—”

“No, he’s not. It appears he would like to do this with me. I shall be helping him.”

Disgust painted his brother’s features, tension coiling in his limbs.

“How?”

“The details are not of import,” Castiel answered. “What you need to know is that your brother came into this willingly, and that he will be all right. I swear to you, Sam, I will not harm him, and I vow to keep him safe.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Sam accused.

Castiel started pulling the glove on his right hand off. With the leather off, Dean saw a large ring on his fourth finger he hadn’t taken note of before. The gem set in the silver metal was darkened and smooth. Castiel worked the ring off his finger, and held it out for Sam to take. Hesitantly, Sam held his hand out, and Castiel dropped the ring into his anxiously waiting palm.

“Here,” he told him. “This ring is connected to another that I have in my palace. Rub your thumb over it whenever you wish to see how your brother fares.”

“What if you hide the other ring?” Sam asked. “What if this one is not real? What if you will pretend that Dean is safe?”

“I like you, boy,” Castiel commented. “You certainly think of all the loopholes.” Sam just gave him a grim look in return. Dean went back to holding his hand, and his brother let him. “How about, one week out of every month, I let you, and perhaps your mother, come stay with me to see how Dean fares?”

Despite having been unconscious and bogged down with sickness for so long, Sam’s mind seemed just as sharp as ever.

“And what do you want in return?”

Castiel brushed a hand across Dean’s cheek, his stomach fluttering at his touch.

“I will get to keep Dean.”

“What? No!”

“It’s all in the price of saving you,” Dean told him. “I think it an honorable deed. Please, let me do this. I will be safe. Besides, it was about time I moved out of the cabin anyway. I’m a little too old to be living with my family. Perhaps it’s time to make my own way.”

“You won’t be able to!”

“Sam.”

“Tied to him, you won’t—”

Dean took hold of Sam’s face, looking deep into his hazel eyes.

“I will. I wanted this. I did this for you. You’re”—Dean choked on the next words he wished to speak, and his vision blurred, a tear rolling down his cheek—“...damned Inenua! You’re alive.”

“Dean, you know you should not speak of that place.”

“What?” he asked with a shrug. “You know it’s not real.”

The silence of Castiel beside him was deafening.

Dean looked up at him, and Castiel just winced.

He swallowed roughly. “Ah, well. Wonderful. I suppose I always liked fire anyway.”

“Hush now,” Castiel commanded.

Dean had opened his mouth to say something else, but now he found he had no choice but to obey. The sheer power in Castiel’s tone was something that he was sure no being could ignore.

“All right, Sammy, I have to go,” Dean said when words came to him once more.

“You’ll leave me? Just like—just like Dad?”

“You know it’s not like that. Besides, you’re old enough to be out on your own. We’ll see each other often. Please, live your life. Don’t waste away in my shadow.”

Sam nodded, having difficulty looking at Dean. Then, he drew him into a bone-crushing hug. Dean held him with just as much strength.

“Bitch,” Dean quietly called him, as was their proper way of saying goodbye to each other.

Sam laughed against him. “Twit.”

Long seconds passed before Dean was able to pull himself from Sam’s grip.

“Bye, Sammy.”

“See you soon, Dean. What of Mother?”

He waved his hand absently. “Ah, she’ll be fine. As will you.”

He turned to the highprince who still held onto him, the highprince who might actually possess a real heart. “I suppose it’s time you took me back to the palace.”

A golden tear opened in the room already flooded with light and warmth. Dean blinked his eyes against it.

“Wait,” Sam began, standing and taking his first steps from the bed in months. “Your ring,” he offered to Castiel.

Castiel smiled at him, and it was a smile that Dean hadn’t ever expected from a fae. What he saw there was…

Kindness.

He barely noticed anything else besides the light Castiel had the ability to create.

“Keep it.”

Once through the tear in reality, they were back in Castiel’s chambers.

Immediately, the highprince shoved Dean against a wall. Perhaps being fearful would have been the reasonable reaction, but Dean had never been known for being reasonable. His breaths left him as wanting groans, and he fought against Castiel for only a moment, testing his strength.

Yes, Castiel was far superior.

Dean swallowed roughly, and asked, voice already a low gravel, “Not going to show me off to the lords and ladies first?”

As an answer, Castiel growled, and pulled Dean’s head back. Throat exposed, Dean barely dared to breathe. The highprince began to lavish his neck with gentle kisses, a press of lips against skin that was soon becoming more insistent. When he began to suck over his pulse point, it was as if a string of pleasure had been drawn taut throughout his body, and someone had just yanked on it, making it shudder with wanton desire. He moaned, finding himself weak, needy, at this fae’s mercy.

Castiel held Dean’s arms above his head, so he had nowhere to go when he felt Castiel’s fangs at his neck.

Again, his reaction was far from reasonable. In fact, his body was beginning to ache with arousal.

“Do it,” Dean begged.

Castiel tilted his head up, stroking a thumb along the column of Dean’s throat. Pleasure trailed through him.

“Hmm, if you wish for it that badly, then no, I will not give you what you desire.”

“Then what—“

Castiel pressed his lips to Dean’s, and Dean kissed back. The world faded away into a realm of white light. Castiel remained pressed up against him, yet his lips were traveling lower as he began to undress him.

Dean felt weightless, and yet, the white all around him did not falter.

Breathless, Dean asked, “Are we in Celnene?” Celnene was one of the afterlives, the one Dean wished to pass into after death took him.

Castiel grinned, a dark, seductive laugh leaving him as he straightened.

“We’re in your mind.”

Dean pulled back, furrowing his brow as he frowned at him in confusion.

“I… I don’t understand.”

Castiel let Dean step away, yet he took the space apart as an opportunity to begin undressing. First he unpinned his cloak. It fell away, as if it had never existed. In fact, when Dean looked down he found no true source of stability. What were they standing on?

Overwhelmed, dizzy, he began to feel like he was falling, and would never stop.

Dean suddenly found himself in Castiel’s strong arms, and he panted as he looked at him.

“It sure would be nice if my mind at least knew how to create a floor.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you, Dean.”

A bright flash of pain seared from his throat down to his collarbone. It greatly stirred his fading arousal. Then, of all things, he felt a body pressing against him, hardness fervently grinding in between his legs, finding Dean’s own—

Yet, Castiel was only holding him in here.

“Castiel?” Dean asked.

The highprince swiped a thumb across Dean’s cheekbone. “I am about to show you the proper way to make love. Making love is not just an act of the body, it is one of the mind, and we fae can embody that. In fact, that is how I am going to put a child in you.”

Dean groaned at those words.

Castiel ground against him in the physical realm, and in the realm of Dean’s mind they were suddenly… ONE. Gold flared through Dean, caressing his very insides. The sensations seemed to shatter him, burning him all over. When he opened his mouth to scream, pleasure took hold of him there. It went into his mouth, into his throat. Dean breathed in the very essence of Castiel, and he learned in every part of his being that Castiel’s heart pumped blood like any living being. A whole world burst behind his eyelids, and Dean never wanted this fae male to leave him. Dean himself would surely never leave him.

He was in Celnene.

This was more than just something he had agreed to to save his brother. This was what he wanted.

Great Ilvasar, and Neia, and Jhana above, this was what he was sure he had always wanted, whether he’d known it or not.

Castiel claimed him, and in turn, Dean claimed Castiel.

Somehow, when the act was over, Dean could feel a part of Castiel’s consciousness in him, mixing with his own. He was lying down, groaning, tired and aching all over. Castiel was up against him, bare skin nearly burning everywhere they touched.

“So that’s how—” Dean began to ask.

Castiel kissed the back of his head. “Yes, which is one of the reasons we tend to not interact with humans. The child you will birth for me will be more powerful than even myself.”

Dean twisted his head back to look at him, the soft furs of the bed caressing his skin as he did so. When had they gotten to the bed?

“Then why? Why agree to this?”

“You agreed first.”

Dean grinned at him. “Trying to win against you is folly, I assume?”

“I think you would find trying to do so a most unfortunate plight. Now, sleep.”

At his words, the tiredness and exhaustion Dean had been feeling since the completion of their coupling simmered to the surface.

“Sleep,” Castiel murmured, holding Dean close. He kissed the back of his head once more, and began to caress him, touch gentle against his chest. “Sleep.”

Dean began to let that comforting darkness take him, knowing in his heart that his brother was saved, and that he was where he was supposed to be. Not only in Taivakel, or in this realm. With Castiel. His own little slice of Celnene.

With memories of meeting Castiel in his childhood dragging him down to sleep, warmth enveloped him. So this was where Dean’s life had been leading him.

Now, all he could do was wait, and birth his firstborn—the babe that would become Castiel’s.

In sealing this bargain, even Dean had become Castiel’s.

What Castiel didn’t know yet, was that Dean was going to make him his. A fae highprince all to himself.

Once more, Castiel murmured, voice soft in his ear, “Sleep.”

[thewatsonbeekeepers]

Chapter 5 – Hey, Soul Sister: Who is Eurus?

Do you get it? She’s his sister? But metaphorically, she’s a part of his soul? I was very impressed with myself for this title. Anyway…

This chapter of the meta is going to deal with the various times we meet Eurus before TFP and what this might mean, which will help us to understand who she is once we have stripped off the disguises.

Before series 4, we had real!characters and MP!characters set up as distinct entities, particularly in TSoT, which distinguishes between MP!Mycroft (the deducing brain) and real!Mycroft, as well as MP!Irene representing desire and real!Irene, who doesn’t come near the episode. The MP section in TSoT, for a lot of people in the fandom, broke down Sherlock’s psyche into MP!John vs. MP!Mycroft – and John is clearly winning.

However, I want to suggest that Sherlock’s psyche isn’t nearly so straightforward as a tug of war between the brain and the heart. Whilst MP!Mycroft undoubtedly represents the oppressively reasonable part of Sherlock’s psyche, that’s not the only thing repressing him – it can’t be. If it were simply a rejection of ‘sentiment’, this wouldn’t be the powerful queer love story we know it to be – there is a lot more internalised homophobia being dealt with than just love being illogical. That’s where Eurus comes in.

Eurus and Mycroft are parallel oppressive forces in Sherlock’s brain, but they’re oppressive in different ways. Having family members and childhood trauma be the psyche’s symbols for repression is particularly poignant in a queer love story, for obvious reasons. However, I want to take you through my reasoning behind Eurus being the most secret and troubled part of Sherlock’s soul.

The first clue is that her prison is called Sherrinford. We all assumed that the third Holmes sibling was going to be Sherrinford back before s4, and it seemed that way in the beginning, with Mycroft mentioning speaking to Sherrinford several times, construing it as a person rather than a place. This is no coincidence – for those who aren’t familiar with the history of the stories, Conan Doyle’s original name for his protagonist was Sherrinford Holmes, which he later changed to Sherlock. That Eurus is trapped inside Sherrinford is a clear suggestion that Eurus is something that’s trapped inside Sherlock – a dangerous MP entity. More important than that, Sherrinford is the version of Holmes that never made it into the books. Plenty of people have worked on queering the Holmes canon and working out what ACD might have been implying and leaving out and arguably none more so in an adaptation that Mofftiss. Let’s think about the implications of this. A kind of second self, not shown to the public, buried inside your mind and forgotten since childhood, which is bursting out into a moment of acute psychological distress. Gee, I don’t know what that could be about. The Sherlock that Sherlock thinks he is has thus far been dominated by MP!Mycroft, but this series is about uniting canon!Holmes with the non-canon, queer Sherrinford who has always existed, judging by the name, and who is currently dominated by the destructive MP!Eurus. The other important point to note here is that Sherrinford is an island in the middle of the sea – that’s not a coincidence, given how much water imagery abounds in this series. I spoke briefly in Chapter 2 X about how water represents Sherlock sinking deeper and deeper into his own subconsciousness – this is the deepest he can go. In Greek mythology, Eurus was the name of the wind most associated with causing storms at sea X – this isn’t a coincidence either. She’s very deliberately tied in with water.

(In real life terms, of course, all this means that a real!Eurus probably does or did exist in some form, although I can’t begin to hazard a guess about this. However, I’m trying to refer to her as MP!Eurus when she’s in her normal form in the MP, in case we get a series 5 with Sian Brooke as real!Eurus, and also to distinguish her from therapist!Eurus etc.)

This is my reasoning as to why MP!Eurus represents Sherlock’s innermost trauma. She is not merely the fact that he loves John – he deduced this in TSoT without her appearance. She is the trauma that he needs to come to terms with. A running theme through our analysis of Eurus will be that her gender is particularly important; her representation of Sherlock’s repression cannot be but as a woman, because for most of s4 he is only able to process his identity through the most heterosexual of lenses. We see this hinted at quite early on in TST, when Sherlock takes on a case called ‘The Duplicate Man’, warning John that it is never twins. The word ‘duplicate’ here, removing twins, leaves us with the only real possibility that it is in fact the same person. Eurus’s gender makes that more difficult to see; she needs to be female, but it’s much more difficult to elide the two characters without employing a Cumberbatch doppelganger. However, this hint that Eurus is not only male but an actual ‘duplicate’ of her brother should give us pause for thought. With this in mind, I want to use the rest of this chapter to analyse her three forms before TFP.

1.)    Faith!Eurus

I’m certainly not the first to point out that Faith!Eurus is a mirror for John, nor will I be the last – people jumped on it pretty much as soon as TLD aired. There are a few good reasons for this. Firstly, she walks with a cane, a throwback to ASiP – in case we’d forgotten, however, Sherlock has a flashback to John walking with a cane to make the link explicit. We are supposed to link these two characters, the authors are saying pretty clearly. Faith!Eurus is also suicidal, which John was at the start of ASiP, as made clear by the fact he carried a gun – and Faith!Eurus does the same. Sherlock also takes her out for food (for more on the food/sex metaphor, see here X) which he doesn’t with anyone bar John, and we certainly never see him talk so easily with someone who isn’t John. An eagle-eyed tumblr post that I can’t find now also broke my heart in pointing out that Faith!Eurus’s unseen self-harm matches long-sleeved John Watson a little too well.

This isn’t just the show trying to remind us of what John was like in ASiP, however. MP!Eurus is the trauma prodding Sherlock’s sexuality – it’s going to be hell to get through it, but he absolutely needs to do it. This is Sherlock’s trauma, not reminding him that John was suicidal, but forcing him to acknowledge it in the first place, something which Sherlock has buried. We know this because of the way the image of John forces its way into Sherlock’s mind – it’s much like the way Moriarty breaks into TAB. His brain is making a connection that he’s not quite capable of making and it’s knocking him. His deduction that Faith!Eurus is suicidal is accompanied by that image of John, and he then re-enacts the food ritual he completed with John the evening John left his cane behind, before throwing Faith!Eurus’s gun into the Thames – proving that it was Sherlock himself who stopped John from taking his own life.

This is trauma, however, and Sherlock can’t process it in full – hence why the image of John that breaks in is shaky, and Sherlock tries to push it out of his head. It’s also why Faith!Eurus, who in Sherlock’s subconscious could take any form, specifically takes the form of a woman. His gay trauma means that he first has to process John’s suicidal ideation in a heterosexual dynamic, before fully grasping and applying it to his relationship with John. (Chapter 9 X explains how that plays out over the rest of TLD in full detail.)

2.)   E!Eurus

Taking a jump back to surface level plot here, the first thing that grabbed me about E!Eurus was just how minor John’s flirtation with her was. In the terms of a television show which really rides on very high drama (multiple faked deaths and insane cliffhangers for a start), the emotional peak of John’s emotional arc with Mary being that he texted another woman – not went out for lunch, not kissed, not slept with – is bizarre, particularly when we know next to nothing about E!Eurus at this point. It’s incredibly anti-climactic as a means of John falling short of Mary’s view of him. Maybe we can accept it as in line with John Moral-Principles Watson, but it’s difficult to accept as in keeping with the nature of a show whose intent is nearly always to shock.

With this in mind, let’s delve back into the MP to see how that might give this moment greater emotional significance. Chapter 10 X is on the hug scene, and that will deal with John’s revelation of his infidelity in greater detail. For the moment, the most important thing to remember is that John Watson is not real!John – he is heart!John. In other words, we are seeing a similarly heterosexualised re-enactment of Sherlock’s relationship with John.

I will talk a lot in Chapter 10 X about how MP!Mary is linked to Sherlock’s compulsory heterosexuality; at the end of TST, Sherlock substitutes Mary’s body for his because he cannot conceive of John’s queer grief without breaking himself. This is interesting because the E of Eurus actually stands for Elizabeth in this scene (certainly in the credits, and possibly elsewhere, although I can’t remember Sian Brooke actually saying it). Elizabeth is Elizabeth is Mary’s middle name in BBC Sherlock, which looks like another of those shared name links our creators love so well. If so, this begins to justify how Sherlock’s heart is conceiving of its emotions. We will see in TLD that heart!John’s relationship with fem!John in the form of Eurus is aligned with Sherlock’s sexual desire in the form of MP!Irene. Both are hidden and exist only in texts – i.e., they cannot be spoken yet. But they will be.

 3.)    Therapist!Eurus

This one is perhaps the most straightforward on a symbolism level, but also possibly the most significant moment in the series. Therapist!Eurus, plain and simple, is Sherlock’s trauma prodding at John, interrogating him like a therapist would, trying to work him out – and largely failing, right? She can get basically nothing about how he feels about Sherlock out of him. But this is part of MP!Eurus’s ongoing project to get Sherlock to wake up – the Gay Trauma is interrogating John, trying to suss him, and failing.

Except, in the final scene of TLD, without the help of Therapist!Eurus, Sherlock has finally sussed John – it has taken until Culverton’s confession to recognise that John is suicidal without Sherlock (Chapter 9 X). The sigh of relief that is the hug scene (Chapter 10 X) is a kind of acknowledgement of that relief that he’s finally worked out what he’s been trying to cover up with drugs – so much so, that he misses the obvious, which is that John is suicidal again. When John leaves his cane with Sherlock in the hospital, it is a reminder of the first time he is suicidal, and Sherlock doesn’t make the immediate leap in his comatose haze that this is what his psyche has been trying to tell him. Hence you have this moment of immense relief and fade out at the end of the hug scene which suggests the end of the episode, and could feasibly end Sherlock’s life, except we’re started awake with a much more abrupt and troubling ending scene – Therapist!Eurus shooting John. Because, of course, if Sherlock is gone again, John must be suicidal again, and it has taken a few scenes of cognitive dissonance for this to clock. Indeed, it’s not Sherlock himself who clocks – Gay Trauma in the form of Eurus!Therapist returns and shoots John for us. This shooting isn’t, of course, permanent (in one of the worst cliffhanger resolutions in TV history), but that’s because it’s not real – it hasn’t happened yet. It is Sherlock, through MP!Eurus, finally recognising the problem – John.

This is particularly poignant in light of the opening and closing shots of TLD. Although there’s the fucky not-blood red that fills the screen at the end of TLD, apart from that the shots of Norbury shooting Mary and Therapist!Eurus shooting John are one and the same shot. It’s also a stylish shot (what I call split screen, but given that I never went to film school I think that’s just my name for it) and it’s repeated enough times over TLD that it’s pretty clear the creatives want it to be memorable. By the time John gets shot, then, we shouldn’t be caught up in the drama of it – we should be thinking, as so many did, “something’s fucky.”

And it is – but it’s brilliantly fucky! Head over to Chapter 7 X if you want to read about Norbury shooting Mary, but TLDR it’s a metaphor for Mary shooting Sherlock as understood from Sherlock’s warped and depressed perspective – and he’s finally realised what it means! The version in which Mary shooting Sherlock means John losing Mary (the Norbury version) is one in which John is sad, goes to therapy, and the world moves on. Now, however, that Sherlock has recognised that John was suicidal, he can also recognise that Mary shooting Sherlock will make John suicidal again – hence why it’s the same shot. Mary shooting Sherlock is the same as John dying – and the latter is much more important in Sherlock’s mind.

[It’s worth noting that the identical shots we see in TST and TLD don’t match the shot in HLV, although admittedly that one’s not in the MP – it does strike me, however, that the sounds are reversed – HLV sounds like a dart, whereas the MP shots sound like bullets. If anyone has any thoughts on that, do let me know – it has me flummoxed for the moment. If you want meta explaining why the shot from TST is the same as HLV, Chapter 7 is here X, and I’m certainly not the first to hypothesise this. For me, the TLD shot being the same is therefore a logical extension.]