#yet as you might be able to see: my life is still a nightmare hellscape torture realm because america :)

[anistarrose]

alright. today I read an ingredient label that finally made me mentally fucking snap, so I did it. I made the impossible difficulty uquiz:

[Image description: screenshot of a uquiz title reading "Guess which foods contain cornstarch - written by someone with a corn allergy!" End description.]

take the quiz here, and come away with a new contempt for the American food industry! I will not tell you which product was the final straw with regards to my sanity today, but it is one of the twelve items included, and once you see the answers, I think that you'll understand why I needed to share 🙂🙃

[notgonnarememberthis]

find your way (back to me) - chapter fourteen

Here we gooo. I absolutely have Em to thank yet again for helping me with this chapter and the discord gc for continuously inspiring me to keep writing. It’s honestly been such a blast writing this that I’m getting out updates faster than anything I’ve ever published before. Em knows just as well as me exactly where I want this story to go and that was a neverending push to getting down voices and conversations. I’m just mushy honestly because this is the most reception I’ve ever got to a fic before and I couldn’t do it without an amazing group of people rallying behind me. Thank you all so much.

The walk inside the warehouse feels like a death march. Her heels clang loudly on the cement, the echo off the metal walls is a laughing chorus towards her own personal doom. She misses the lonely sound when the frantic, muffled screaming starts. She knows it’s Malcolm and he knows the steps are hers.

She steps into the room, her hands balled tightly and in no way mentally prepared for the sight. Malcolm’s hands and ankles are bound to the chair, his hair is disheveled and she wonders for a moment how long he’s been struggling. The blood on the side of his face makes her heart skip a few beats but his eyes are worse.

Even from back here she could tell he’s been crying. They’re swollen and the blue stands out against the red rims in the artificial light. His mouth is bound as well, making it clear that’s why he sounded so muffled. She wants more than anything to run to him, free his hands and hug him with all of her might.

And then she spies the one in the chair across from him. Her head is tipped forwards but the white coat alone is enough to identify Dr. Garcia. The woman that she’s caused enough pain. Now trapped in this hellscape. She was going to call, offer to pay for Freddy’s funeral expenses. But no, now she’s stuck in her son’s nightmare. Awaiting death by the madman in the center of it all.

“I’ve got to be honest,” Her eyes jump to the man standing between the two. For the first time he’s wearing no mask. It sickens her how painfully average he looks. Her dreams always showed the monster, sharp teeth and glowing eyes. Absolutely torn apart by every aspect pushing him to murder. She knows better, or she should’ve. The monsters look ordinary until they’re covered in blood. “I wasn’t sure you were going to show up.”

Malcolm’s screams become more frantic and he throws his body in every which way. She knows, painfully, how futile it is. The chairs are bolted to the ground. They won’t budge in the slightest.

“Shut up!” The man snaps, spitting at her son.

“Do not touch him.” Her voice rolls with the threat, more confident than she feels. His gun glistens with the turn back to her.

When he tilts his head towards her the smile is so much worse than she expected. Malcolm stares at her, eyes pleading that she walk away. She can’t. Not again. “You’re bolder when it’s your son tied up, hm?” He steps towards her and she takes another towards him. He points the gun at Malcolm and she freezes. “Ah, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Malcolm doesn’t have anything to do with this. Let him go.”

“I really thought you would’ve learned better than making demands. Don’t you remember what happened last time?” Her side aches with the recalled memory. “Your recovery is really impressive. Dr. Garcia did stunning work.” He gestures to the unconscious woman. Her breathing is the only indicator that she’s even still alive. “Would be tragic for the world to lose such a gift.”

“Why are you doing this?” She asks. The desperation wrecks her throat. “I would have given you anything you wanted. Just end this.”

“I don’t want your blood money.” He hisses with his head bowed, his challenge to avoid the sin that drove him to madness. “It is poison, you poisoned me.”

“I did nothing to you!”

“Liar!” She steps forwards, emboldened by her anger and the gun trains on her. She takes a deep breath, steadying the fear that sent her heart into orbit. “It’s time to make your choice.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I won’t play your game.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that, so I changed the rules.” He spins on his heel, gun trained on Dr. Garcia. “Either the talented doctor that saved your life or your son.”

She steps back in horror. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“Neither was your escape.” He shrugs with a smirk. “Plans change. If you don’t pick? I’ll kill them both.”

“No!” His glare could lay down an army and she corrects herself. “No, please. Just let me talk to my son.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I just want to say goodbye.” She says. Malcolm begins to protest but she puts a hand up silencing him. “Do you have kids?” He shifts and she knows she struck a nerve. “What would you give to be able to say goodbye?”

The silence weighs heavily on her shoulders. For a few moments all she can hear is her thundering heart. Even Malcolm holds still, wondering what exactly is her plan. Truth be told, she’s not even sure. His permission is no more than a wave of the gun, a signal to go ahead.

She rushes to him coming down hard on her knees before him. Her hands fall on his shoulders while her eyes search for any other injuries. She doesn’t see any more blood than the head wound, which is a relief. So he didn’t want to hurt Malcolm, but he would if she wasn’t careful.

“Oh, Sunshine.” She whispers, her fingers tracing the fabric covering his mouth.

“Don’t take it off!” They both flinch at the shout but she obeys. 

Her hand traces up to the wound and he winces painfully. “I’m sorry. Are you alright?” He gives her a look somewhere along the lines of are you serious? and she smiles despite herself. “Don’t blame yourself for this. You’re too hard on yourself.” He doesn’t respond but his eyes glisten. “Your sister will need you. I need you to be strong for her one more time, ok?” The tears come down with that statement. He knows, god help them both he knows what she plans to do. “Gil will take care of you both. Tell him…” Her voice catches with the confession she never got to say. “Tell him I loved him. Tell your sister too. Every time she needs to hear it.”

“Hurry up.”

“I love you all, so much. I’m so proud of you.” She cups his jaw with both hands. His words are muffled but she knows he’s begging her to stop all this. To stall just a little while longer. Back up is coming. Gil will find them in time. 

She stopped waiting on someone to save her a long time ago.

“Close your eyes Sunshine. I’ll be ok.” She smiles sadly before standing to face the man. He raises his eyebrows waiting impatiently for the answer. She swallows heavily, thinking for only a moment. Whenever she picked herself the other would die. But this isn’t between her and Dr. Garcia. This was Dr. Garcia or Malcolm. She will not take the risk that the rules will change again. “Kill Dr. Garcia.” Malcolm begins screaming and thrashing again but she’s just out of his limited reach. The smile cracks across the killers face as she stares down the barrel of the pistol.

“Thank you for coming to your senses.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Gil races as fast as the car can go. He blows through every traffic light without even looking as the red and blue lights race through the darkened roads. He’s close, they just need to hold out a little longer. Jessica had went in without protection, without Dani. If she were to alert that Jessica wasn’t alone. It could mean the deaths of everyone in that warehouse.

The metal structure looms in the shadows, it feels bigger than it actually is. The sharp edges threaten to collapse with his worst fears as he climbs out backed by JT and Agent Collette arriving shortly after him. He spies Dani’s car but there’s no sight of her. It’s possible she’s already inside. At least that’s what he tells himself to alleviate the pain in his chest.

And then a shot breaks through the crisp air sending his world crashing down with it.

[eldunea]

the galra kingdom.

ok so i touched on there being a galra kingdom throughout my post on the galra and ataxte maari’s first encounter and i have so many ideas for them so i’m gonna put them all here.

the galra kingdom existed hundreds of thousands of years ago and is basically our world if it went really, really wrong. they had reached our level of technology and even surpassed it, but at the expense of their environment. the wealthy and powerful did invent the means to clean up the entire planet and restore it to close enough to what it was before……but they didn’t, simply because they wanted to keep people desperate. they only restored the areas in which they lived, as well as some other select areas that people who “earned” the right to live on unpolluted land could live on. 

see, the galra were like capitalists, except if capitalism’s definition of “working your way up” was physically beating the shit out of everyone else to prove you deserve more than they. in the galra world, basic food supplies, clean water, working medicine and halfway decent housing had to be at least tirelessly worked for or else it was not “rightfully earned.” (honestly that’s kinda how living under capitalism feels already, especially when you’re lazy like me and doing any sort of work feels 1000000000x worse than it actually is.) while the elites lived it up in pollution-free technological havens where all their needs were provided for, the common people scrounged about in dilapidated, smog-covered cities--some even living in medieval conditions, with no access to modern technology or healthcare. 

there were no welfare programs. common people didn’t bathe because the elites wanted to hoard all of daibazaal’s water to show off their wealth. only family would ever help you if your life took a turn for the worse, and even then, in some families you’d be lucky if they lifted a hand. there wasn’t even care of the elderly and disabled--starving galra killed and ate disabled children and elders, having been brainwashed into thinking that those who couldn’t care for themselves were only useful for meat. honestly, at this point, the only reasons the galra race didn’t experience a mass die-off were that 1) galra are very hardy and 2) galra women had dozens of children, breeding like fish who release thousands of eggs into the water but only a handful survive to reproduce. yet for an unlucky few, not even that would ensure the continuation of their line. there were sometimes reports of women having over twenty children and losing them all.

there was one main way out of the nightmare that most galra people were trapped in: the military. soldiership got you and your family incredible lifetime benefits such as:

actually being able to put food on the table

not having to live in a polluted hellhole where there’s enough carcinogens to give you cancer in your forties

not worrying about whether you’re going to lose your home to some asshole who wants to fight you for it

medicine to treat basic illnesses that you might have had to lose a limb for otherwise

and hey, you’ll probably die fighting a pointless war for a bunch of assholes who don’t even care about you, but you were going to die of starvation at age 35 anyway, so what the hell.

the future american leaders’ ploy was thus: if everybody was so desperate in their daily lives that they saw the military was the only way out, they would 1) be able to build a MASSIVE military with assured loyalty and 2) be able to keep the standard of living so low that sparing minimal expenses to cover basic necessities for soldiers would seem like unimaginable luxury. they did let a small percentage of the soldiers that exhibited exemplary courage move up even further to elite status, but they kept this percentage small enough that everyone in their kingdom would jump their entire lives for that carrot but only a few would ever reach their goal. so they constantly pumped out propaganda that the main way to redeem one’s suffering and move up in life was through the honor of military work. they pumped out propaganda that if one kept working hard, one could make one’s life better (erasing the fact that the deck was stacked against them)……and it worked. the effects of their propaganda are still felt on galra society today.

just like with the modern galra, everyone wanted to be in the military. the gladiator matches to earn soldiership were selective enough that a large amount of people were left out, but still large enough that the galra were able to build the largest army on the planet. for those who could not join the military, they had the almost-as-honorable option of becoming technicians, scientists and architects that would keep rich people paradise running as smoothly as possible. for everyone else, however, they were out of luck. 

this is how the galra empire runs today: it’s a dystopian fascist hellscape where everyone is brainwashed into fighting for the country despite being treated deplorably. just like in the kingdom, honor and dignity are not truly valued by many galra--they were only brainwashed into those values. they parrot them and perform “valorous” acts out of sheer desperation: it’s the only way they can hold onto their jobs, and onto societal respect. 

[lovemesomerafael]

El Amor Todo Lo Puede            Chapter 51:  Adrift In The Wasteland

Source:  Barbaoutfits

Chapters 1-50

************* Important Note **************** Just a reminder:  The happy ending for Rafael and Laura was in the last chapter.  If you can’t live with a different ending, please accept my most sincere thanks for reading and take my advice: don’t read further. 

*********************************

Rafael took a long, satisfying drink of coffee that was probably a little hotter than was good for him, but he didn’t want to wait.  He felt good.  He’d just won a trial that was the beginning of the end for a hate group that had intended to bomb the Mayor’s office.  The three defendants he’d tried were all going to prison for years, which did not bode well for the other five people indicted in connection with the plot.  It wasn’t the whole group, but it was a start.

He had to smile to himself, now that this first trial was successfully over.  He would never have admitted it, but he’d been concerned about what Laura would say if he botched a trial based on evidence it had taken her and Carisi a month undercover to gather.  Of course, the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force had been working on the case for much, much longer.  But he wasn’t concerned about answering to the Joint Terrorism Task Force.

Rafael had never liked Laura going undercover.  It was dangerous, unpredictable work without a net.  He trusted her ability to think on her feet and defend herself if she had to – which she had, on more than one occasion. But he didn’t trust the situations the detectives put themselves into, and he damn sure didn’t trust the suspects.

But this assignment – working with the Joint Terrorism Task Force – had been by far the worst.  He had hated the danger to her, he had hated their inability to communicate and, if he was being honest, he had hated having their home life disrupted.  He didn’t mind long, irregular hours.  He did mind sleeping alone for weeks at a time.  

That actually caused him to smile into his coffee cup even more than he already had been.  There had been a time when sleeping alone had been a point of pride with him.  Now, after celebrating three anniversaries with Laura, he barely recognized his life or his priorities, and he wondered how he had survived the long, lonely years before she came into his life.  That thought reminded him of the time, over a year ago now, when he had thought he would lose her to a bullet aimed at him.  Once her hair had grown back, she hadn’t thought much about it.  But he had. The anguish he’d felt then was a big part of why he had such a hard time when she went undercover now.

At least this assignment was over.  He remembered the night she had come home.  He had been laying on their bed, still in his dress shirt and slacks, reviewing reports on the case while Laura took a shower.  He had just begun to feel the weight of responsibility for getting indictments and convictions after all the investigative work.  But as Laura came out of the bathroom, her hair freshly dried and a short, silky robe loosely tied around her waist, he decided that responsibility could definitely wait at least another night.  From her mischievous grin, and the way she crawled onto the bed and began kissing him, she’d missed him as much as he’d missed her.

“Let’s never do that again,” he said against her lips as he pulled the robe from her body.

“Amen,” she agreed.

“You have no idea how much I missed you.”  

“Then why aren’t you helping me get these clothes off of you?  I can’t get you naked fast enough...”

“We’ve been over this.”

“I swear, Harvard, if you say the word ‘structure’, I will…”

“Yes?”  The smirk on his face was as enticing, and had the same effect on her, as the very first day they’d met.

“Probably do whatever you ask me to,” she sighed, smiling up at him.  “Like always.”

Carmen came into Rafael’s office with a package, interrupting a very nice memory of what had happened afterward.  

“This was just hand-delivered,” she said, holding the box out to him.  “It’s heavy.”

Curious, Rafael took the package from her and began to open it.  Carmen stayed by his desk, just to see what was inside.

They never felt a thing when it exploded.

***********

When Fin was very small, his Gran had lived in a building in the projects.  He’d loved that building.  He’d been too young to even see that the building was a ruin; to him, the building was a place where his Moms knew everyone and they all loved him, and where his Gran waited to spoil him with baking and overflowing love. And then, in the first tragedy of his young life, his Gran had died and, shortly thereafter, the building had been condemned.  He’d watched in horrified fascination as the building had been gutted, first emptied of his Gran and all the people who had always smiled at him and made him feel welcome, then stripped of everything of any value.  It had become an empty, sad, unbearably lonely shell echoing with the sounds of the lives that had once been lived there.

That building was the only thing Fin could think of that remotely came close to the way Laura looked.  Her expression had been one of stunned horror since that very first, cursed moment in Liv’s office, and that hadn’t changed.  But now there was absolutely nothing behind her eyes.  He felt sure that if he could look inside of her, she’d be entirely hollow. Maybe with a freezing cold wind blowing a few scattered ashes around.  Laura Parker was gone.  She’d just… flickered out.  He had watched it happen the moment she had finally accepted that Olivia was telling her the truth about the bombing.  

And Rafael’s death.

Fin hated hysterics.  He was the first to run the other way when someone got emotional.  Especially when he, himself, was also feeling the full weight of that emotion.  But now, today, he would have given everything he had to see his partner shed even one tear or, better yet, fly into a howling, sobbing, keening lamentation with an all-engulfing tsunami of tears.  He wanted her to scream and rage and destroy things, hurl vile words and swear vengeance.  Or even just weep a little.  He just wanted her to do anything to let him know that she was still in there somewhere.  

As it was, it looked like the squad had lost both of them.  Rafael was dead, and Laura was… gone.  

Fin was the only one who could get near her.  With anyone else, everyone else, she was grim and silent, just gazing through them with that lost, broken stare, as though they were ghosts.  Or she was.  Only Fin could get a response from her, whispered and vague though it might be. She would say ‘yes’, or ‘no’, or ‘OK’. ‘I don’t know’ was beyond her; even saying that many words was too much effort.  If he asked her something she couldn’t answer, she just remained silent, looking confused and indescribably lonely.  

He had absolutely no fucking idea what he was supposed to do.  Fin had thought that, once they’d become desperate enough to fly him out for a day, Dr. Charles would take over.  He was the trauma expert.  He was her psychiatrist.  He was the one who had helped her reclaim herself after she’d endured an attack so vicious and devastating she still had night terrors as a result.  Nothing.  She hadn’t seen or heard Dr. Charles any more than she could see or hear her parents, or her brothers, or her friends.  The best that Dr. Charles had been able to tell them was that there was a name for her condition – catatonia – and that she would probably find her way back.  Probably.  

In the meantime, the people who loved her kept her alive.  They put food into her hand and told her to eat it.  They held articles of clothing up to her and told her to put them on.  Her mother led her into the shower and bathed her.  They led her to her bed and told her to lie down.  She would stare blindly at the ceiling until, at some point, her body’s basic needs would take over and she would sleep.  

The only time she was remotely responsive was when she was asleep, and her family could only imagine what kind of hellscape she was responding to then. She moaned and thrashed, called out in terror, and would eventually wake herself up with her screams.  

For whatever reason, that was the part that her older brother Steve found absolutely intolerable.  He refused to leave her alone at night, and had moved into her apartment with her rather than stay in a hotel, as originally planned.  Once he did, the rest of the family followed suit.  It was the first time in many years that all five of them had lived together.  Steve slept in a chair next to his little sister’s bed, ready to spring up whenever she screamed, which happened several times a night.  When it did, he talked to her until she was calm enough to lay back down. Even as she shouted and screamed through the nightmares, she never said a word.  And even then, she didn’t cry.

***************  

The bomb had damaged two floors of the D.A.’s office building at One Hogan Place. It was a miracle there had been only two deaths, although quite a few people had been injured, some of them severely. All of them were expected to survive. Only Rafael and Carmen had not.  

The FBI combed the wreckage and gathered evidence, although everyone knew who was responsible for the explosion.  The remaining members of the group had decided to go through with the bombing, they’d just chosen a different target.

Randolph had pushed the plan to bomb Barba’s office, and he got wood every time he thought about it.  Not only did they get rid of him, but they had also struck back at Kevin and Susie White – apparently really some fucking NYPD detectives named Carisi and Parker.  Randolph very much enjoyed thinking about their pain at losing their husband and friend.  

So far, Randolph had been able to keep entirely under the radar.  No one in law enforcement had any idea he was the group’s leader.  Most people in the group didn’t even know that.  

********

“It’s fucked up, Pete.  She just sits there.  Doesn’t do anything, doesn’t talk.  Except when she’s screaming at night, of course, which is the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever seen.”

Carol Parker looked up from what she was doing in the kitchen.  “Steven, I don’t disagree with you, but can we please have a little variation in descriptions?”

“Sorry, Mom, but damn!”

Carol gave Steve a sympathetic look.  This was a nightmare for all of them and, truth be told, she wouldn’t mind using a few choice descriptions herself.  But she knew Peter Stone was having a rough time not being here in New York with Laura, and she didn’t think it would help having Steve’s feverish narration in his head.

“No, still only her partner,” Steve answered whatever Peter had asked.  “The doc said they sometimes do that, latch onto one person they trust.  But we’re talkin’ about ‘yes’ and ‘no’.  It’s not like even he’s gettin’ conversation out of her.  Today she, like, touched his arm, and you’d’a thought it was the fuckin’ Second Coming.  It was the first spontaneous thing we’ve seen her do.  Except, of course, the screaming…”

Steve listened some more.  

“I don’t think so, dude.  But don’t feel bad.  They tried takin’ her to church, see if that would do something, but apparently she’s not even talkin’ to Jesus right now.”  It was a weak joke, but he needed it. 

“So, anyway, I called to tell you the funeral’s Friday.  The Moms talked about it, and they have to go ahead, even though my sister’s a fuckin’ zombie.  I mean, how long are they supposed to wait?”

At the other end of the phone, Peter asked another question. 

“Who the fuck knows?”  Steve answered.  “Her partner told her the funeral’s Friday and she said ‘OK’.  No way to know whether she even knew what he was talkin’ about.”

Carol could hear a very faint, tinny sound as Peter’s voice came through Steve’s phone as he held it to his ear. 

“I know, right?  It’s not like I got to know the guy very well, but he was really cool, and he for sure had her number.  I’m still tryin’ to wrap my head around the whole thing.  And my sister bein’ a fuckin’ vegetable is not helping.”

There was another pause while Peter said something. 

“Yeah, bro, text me your flight.  We’ll pick you up.  Just… be ready.  It’s hard lookin’ at her like this.” 

*************

Some of her friends had made the oblique suggestion that Lucia Barba should be angry with her daughter-in-law for making her do all the work.  Lucia didn’t see it that way.  Rafi was hers.  Always had been.  Although it hurt worse than Lucia had known anything could, she was constantly remembering him as a baby, and a chubby little toddler extraordinarily pleased with himself when he learned to walk, and all through his life where he had been a constant source of comfort and happiness and overwhelming pride.  Rafi was hers.  They had a huge family, on both her side and Rafi’s father’s, but there had always been an element of the two of them together against the world, even when Mateo had been alive.  Of course, Lucia had recognized the sizzling connection between her son and Laura, and the deep love that had even then already begun to grow, and she’d made sure it did.  But she hadn’t done it for Laura, much as she liked her.  She’d done it for Rafi.  Because he was hers and, despite his stubborn insistence that he didn’t, he had wanted a wife.  And Lucia had wanted him to have someone to take care of him.  Her Rafi.  Hers.

So making his funeral arrangements was something that Lucia, and no one else, should be doing.  In the three years Rafi and Laura had been married, Lucia had become very close to Laura’s mother, and she appreciated that friendship more than ever right now. Carol understood.  She had her own child to worry about, and all she had done was offer – once – to assist with the arrangements on Laura’s behalf.  When Lucia had explained that this last opportunity to care for Rafi belonged to her alone, Carol had burst into tears born of her complete understanding.  It was how she would feel if one of her own children had died.  

Lucia was, of course, concerned about Laura.  But that was a very distant second to the jagged, burning agony of losing Rafi. So she let Carol take care of Laura. One day, when Laura began to be able to tolerate feeling her own loss, she and Lucia would spend all the time in the world grieving together.  Their losses had a lot in common; they’d both loved Rafi above all else.  But Lucia selfishly appreciated that Laura was staying out of it for a while.  Everyone wanted to comfort the widow; she’d be the center of attention.  But Lucia knew that her loss was by far the greater.

*************

Rafael’s funeral was held at the church where he was baptized.  The church where he had encountered God throughout most of his life, had received all of the sacraments, and had been an altar boy.  Lucia had thought about St. Augustine’s, where Rafi had married his Laura and had occasionally attended Mass.  But this was Rafi’s spiritual home, and this is where he would have chosen to be committed to his God had anyone known to ask him.

So many people had made the trip to the Bronx for Rafael’s funeral that there was a bit of a panic about there being enough space.  But people had crowded together and made it work. Everyone watched Laura, wondering how she would appear.  Naturally, one of the main questions people asked one another was how she was holding up. Those who didn’t already know learned from the general hubbub in the church that she wasn’t.

She sat between her mother and Rafael’s, blinking blankly and wearing that same shocked, devastated expression behind the filmy black veil Carol had decided she should wear.  Carol wasn’t going to bother with makeup, and she understood the curiosity that would cause everyone to want to get a look at Laura’s face.  Because her daughter wasn’t able to protect her own privacy right now, Carol had decided to do it for her by simply reverting to the old-fashioned tactic of having her wear a veil.  

There didn’t seem to be a face in the church that didn’t wear some variation of Laura’s expression, anyway.  The SVU squad, Olivia Benson in particular, looked blasted.  Captain Tucker kept an arm around Olivia and had armed himself with all the tissues he could fit into the pockets of his suit.  Fin didn’t do much to try to hide his tears, and Carisi and Rollins wept openly.  Rafael’s friends and colleagues from the D.A.’s office were more discreet about their feelings, but then they had only know Rafael Barba’s prickly, snarky public persona. They had liked and respected him, but he wasn’t family to them as he was to the SVU squad.  Rafael’s immense family, men and women alike, wore their grief plainly.

Peter Stone had declined the invitation to sit in the front pew with the family, but had staked out a place two rows behind them, where he could see Laura’s face.  He watched her the entire time, a hideous snarl of emotions making him feel sick as it slithered around inside him.  What he really wanted to do was go to her, pick her up and carry her away from this disaster, somewhere he could protect and care for her forever.  The idea that she was in pain so overwhelming it had shut her down completely broke Peter’s heart.  One of the emotions in the snarl was guilt.  Guilt that his sorrow for Rafael Barba’s murder could only be that of a near-total stranger being saddened by a tragedy, whereas he felt a towering sorrow for Laura’s loss.  He hadn’t been able to hold back tears any more than anyone else at the funeral, but all his tears were for Laura.  

Maggie Lockwood was glad that she had called Peter and arranged for them to fly out together.  She was a mess.  She hadn’t known Rafael, having met him only once, but she and Laura had been extremely close since they met in Nursing school.  Which meant that Maggie had been there when Peter and Laura met, and throughout their whole relationship.  She knew Peter very well, and she knew what he must be feeling.  It had been a very good idea to be on the same flight, so that they could share their mutual grief for what had happened to Laura.  Not that Peter was particularly forthcoming about his feelings, of course, but Maggie didn’t need him to be.  She could plainly see that he was as much a mess on the inside as she was on the outside.

Hank Voight had come from Chicago with Trudy Platt and her husband Randall McHolland, along with Kim Burgess and Kevin Atwater.  Voight was going to be there for Parker no matter what.  While Trudy didn’t love Laura as a daughter the way Voight did, she still felt she had to be there, and Randall – Mouch to his squad – had volunteered to go to represent the firefighters of Station 51.  The Intelligence team had all wanted to be there for her, and had settled for pulling together enough money to send Kim and Kevin, who had been closest to Parker.  Their grief was evident on all of their faces.  

*****************

It had been an impulse born of cruelty for Randolph to stake out the funeral. He couldn’t help it.  He wanted more of the glorious high he got thinking about how much pain he had caused.  He wanted more confirmation of his immense power, and the fact that it was his to wield without consequence.  He was invisible.  Untouchable. And he loved seeing all the tears as people shuffled out of the church.  He had especially been eager to see the widow’s grief.  He was pissed that the little bitch had worn a veil so he couldn’t see her face, but he got a great deal of satisfaction seeing her being led around like a blind person.

She wasn’t blind.  She was bewildered, and terrified, and in agony beyond endurance, but she wasn’t blind. She saw him.  Something changed behind her veil.

*******************

The gathering in the hall next to the church was attended by just about everyone who came to the funeral.  Lucia had stood alone at the door, a one-woman receiving line, and to her it felt right.  Laura was nearby, at a table with her family and a few other people, but in no condition to do anything as complex as receive condolences.  When people asked, Lucia tactfully told them that she was having a hard time, and just wasn’t up to talking to anyone.  

The few people who tried to speak to Laura didn’t stay long.  They would touch her on the shoulder or the hand and murmur their sympathy but, receiving no acknowledgement, would awkwardly step away.  Laura’s family gracefully acknowledged their kindness while she simply sat, looking apparently into oblivion.  The family had decided that she should be at the gathering for a little while, so that they could tell her she had been there.  After that, Steve and Peter would take her home.  

Until Hank Voight stepped up to her, and she saw him.

At first, she moved so slowly that those at the table didn’t even notice it happening. But as Hank introduced himself to her family, Laura looked up at him.  When he leaned down to speak to her, he found that she looked him in the eye. It was perhaps less disconcerting to him than it would have been to anyone who had been with her over the past days, because he was used to her acknowledging him when he spoke to her. But he was aware of her condition and so recognized that something was happening.  

He knelt down on the floor so that he was eye-to-eye with her and waited as she slowly, fumblingly, pulled the veil up from her face.  She looked like a wraith, if wraiths themselves could be haunted.  

“Hank,” she rasped.  

“I’m here.  I had to be here for you.”

“You could do it.  You would help me.”

He had no idea what she meant, but he would do anything for her, so he just looked into her eyes and waited.  

“Randolph.  His name is Randolph.”

Hank looked up, scanning the table for a clue.  He instantly saw the recognition in Carisi’s face.  

“You know what she’s talking about?”

“Yeah, I do,” Carisi answered, looking around.  “Maybe we should… go somewhere.”

Trying to swim back to the surface was painful and frightening for Laura, and it was a difficult, arduous task made more difficult by the fact that she didn’t want to get there.  She would much have preferred staying where she’d been, where there was no sound, and no feelings, and she could watch the world from a million miles away.  She knew what was waiting for her in that world. But she had to go back, now that she knew who had killed Rafael.

[kentremendousblog]

The Health Care Freedom Act: A Transcript

INT. SENATE FLOOR - NIGHT

SEN. MCCONNELL addresses the august body.

SEN. MCCONNELL Okay, idiots. We’ve had seven years of the Obamacare hellscape, which, as everyone agrees, has ruined our country, killed jobs, slaughtered animals, and set the Bible on fire. But now the GOP is in charge -- and it’s time for this national nightmare of “sick people being able to maybe not die or go bankrupt” to end.

SEN. SCHUMER Okay, you’ve been talking about a replacement bill for eight years. Let’s see what you got.

SEN. CORNYN Whoa whoa whoa -- you’re being a little “pushy” there, Chuck.

SEN. SCHUMER That’s usually code for “Jewish.”

SEN. CORNYN Nobody said “Jewish.” I said “pushy.” You’re being pushy, is what I said. Don’t put words in my mouth. Anyway: read it and weep: the American Freedom Bald Eagle Old Glory Healthcare for Everyone with No Exceptions “It’s Gonna Be So Easy” Act.

SEN. WARREN ...Where is it? We haven’t seen it yet. Can we see it?

SEN. MCCONNELL No.

SEN. JOHNSON A little history for you: when the Democrats wrote “Obummercare” --

SEN. MCCONNELL (chuckles) Nice.

They high-five.

SEN. JOHNSON -- they did it in secret, in scarcely 16 months, behind closed doors, with not even 100 Republican amendments, and barely 70 public hearings.

SEN. MCCONNELL Like you can craft anything good in 16 months!

SEN. CORNYN In contrast to that undemocratic process, we, the GOP, spent literally dozens of minutes crafting this, over chicken caesar wraps and Arnold Palmers, earlier today in the senate dining room.

SEN. MCCONNELL Enough talking. We’ve been discussing this bill for almost eight minutes. Time to vote.

SEN. WARREN Can we see the bill?

SEN. MCCONNELL No.

SEN. SCHUMER Can we offer amendments?

SEN. MCCONNELL No.

SEN. WYDEN Can we have public hearings?

SEN. MCCONNELL No. Go back to Oregon, you dirty hippie.

SEN. COLLINS I’m voting no, Mitch. This bill is terrible.

SEN. MURKOWSKI I’m voting no too. It’s an abomination.

SEN. MCCONNELL (shakes his head sadly) Broads. Look, I know the bill is miserable. It would crash the insurance markets immediately. But who cares? This is just symbolic. This bill isn’t going to be a law. We’re just doing it to initiate a conference with the House, so we can actually pass a real bill later.

SEN. JOHNSON I just got a text from Paul Ryan. The House might just pass this bill.

SEN. MCCONNELL They might pass it?! Why the hell would they pass this bill we are about to pass?!

SEN. GRAHAM (fanning himself) This bill is abhorrent. It’s absurd, I say. I shudder to think what would happen if it became an actual law!

SEN. SCHUMER So how will you vote?

SEN. GRAHAM Oh I’m voting “yes.”

SEN. CAPITO This bill would devastate the people of West Virginia!

SEN. PORTMAN It would ruin lives! My own governor hates it!

SEN. SCHUMER You’re both voting for it, though, right?

SEN. PORTMAN Oh yeah.

SEN. CAPITO No question. Voting “yes.”

SEN. HARRIS Can we read the bill now?

SEN. MCCONNELL No. Any word from Ryan?

SEN. CRUZ I’ve been texting him a lot. No word. Oh -- hang on, he’s writing back...I see the little bubbles.

SEN. MCCONNELL What’d he say?

SEN. CRUZ “New phone, who dis?” Guess I have the wrong number.

SEN. MCCONNELL No, that’s his number. It’s just: nobody likes you.

SEN. JOHNSON Ryan just texted me. I asked him if he could guarantee the House wouldn’t just pass our bill.

SEN. MCCONNELL What’d he say?

SEN. JOHNSON (reading) “Look, this is complicated. This stuff gets a little wonky -- I don’t want to bore you with the nerdy, wonky details. I’m kind of a policy geek, so I kind of get down in there with the nitty-gritty stuff, that other people are bored by, because they’re not policy geeks like me.”

SEN. MCCONNELL ...He didn’t answer your question.

SEN. CRUZ (checking Johnson’s phone) Let me see what number you have for him...yeah, that’s the same number I have. Weird.

SEN. MCCONNELL It’s not weird. No one likes you.

SEN. GRAHAM (lying on fainting couch) My fellow members of this most august body, don’t you see we are headed for a disaster? This bill cannot pass! It would upend generations of Senatorial norms and procedure, and devastate the very fabric of American society!

SEN. SCHUMER Still voting for it, though?

SEN. GRAHAM Oh yeah, still a solid “yes.”

SEN. MURKOWSKI I’m still a “no,” by the way.

SEN. COLLINS Me too.

SEN. MCCONNELL No one cares, ladies. Go get your hair blown out or whatever.

SEN. HARRIS Can we read the bill now?

SEN. MCCONNELL (angry) No! Why are there all these women haranguing me?! How many goddamned women are in the Senate now, 95?!

SEN. WARREN Twenty.

SEN. MCCONNELL Seems like 95. Look: no one gets to read the bill. It’s not a real bill! It’s not supposed to become a law!

SEN. JOHNSON What if the House just passes it?

SEN. MCCONNELL Call that little pissant Paul Ryan and tell him they better not!

SEN. JOHNSON (dials) Paul? It’s Ron Johnson. You better not pass this bill that we are about to pass, because we don’t want it to pass, even though we are gonna pass it!

SEN. MCCONNELL What’d he say?

SEN. JOHNSON He said the process of passing bills is wonky, and it’s hard to explain, and he’ll try not to bore me with the wonky details.

SEN. CRUZ Let me talk to him. (takes phone) Paul? It’s Ted. Listen, bud -- (beat) Oh, sorry. Okay. (hangs up) It was the wrong number.

SEN. MCCONNELL We were already talking to him, moron.

SEN. PORTMAN No one likes you.

SEN. WARREN Can we read the bill?

SEN. MCCONNELL No. No more women talking. Time to vote. It’s a fake bill, and if the House passes it and all hell breaks loose, we can just blame Hillary or something. (calling out) Who wants to pass a fake disastrous bill that, if it became law, would cause the insurance markets to collapse, and 18 million people to immediately lose health care, but who gives a crap, because it’d be the House’s fault and no one pays attention to this stuff anyway?

49 REPUBLICANS Yay!

48 DEMOCRATS Nay!

SENS. MURKOWSKI AND COLLINS Nay.

SEN. MCCONNELL (aside) Must be that time of the month.

SEN. CRUZ Nice!

Cruz goes to high-five McConnell, who ignores him.

SEN. MCCONNELL Okay, one more vote. John?

SEN. MCCAIN I vote no.

Everyone loses their minds.

AMERICAN MEDIA MCCAIN VOTED NO! MAVERICK! ONCE AGAIN HE DEFIES THE PARTY! HERO! NO ONE HAS EVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THIS!

SEN. MURKOWSKI ...I voted “no” as well.

SEN. COLLINS Yeah, Lisa and I are also Republicans who defied--

AMERICAN MEDIA WE REPEAT: THIS IS UNPRECEDENTED! LITERALLY ONLY JOHN MCCAIN WOULD EVER DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS! PLUS HE HAS CANCER -- AND HE STILL CAME HERE AND VOTED!

SEN. HIRONO I have Stage 4 kidney cancer, and I voted --

AMERICAN MEDIA JOHN MCCAIN JUST DID SOMETHING THAT LITERALLY NO OTHER MAN IN THE HISTORY OF AMERICA WOULD EVER DO EVER!

SEN. CRUZ Bummer, huh guys? Anyone want to come over to my place, get some wings, watch a little “Life of Brian?” No? Rain check, then.

Flourish. Exeunt. Curtain.

[picturediary]

23.09.20

23.09.20

… and just like that, a week has passed…

Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

But I have promised that I wouldn’t pressure myself too much about writing, so it’s what I’m doing.

I wish I could say it’s been an eventful week... but it wasn’t.

I wish I could say it’s been a happy week... but it wasn’t that, either.

I haven’t been well, both physically and mentally. I’ve been listless and lethargic, lacking both drive and motivation to do anything. I’ve been living in my head, too, moving heavy thoughts back and forth in my mind. It wasn’t productive. It wasn’t helpful.

But weeks like this one do exist, don’t they?

And I’ve been trying to be more patient with myself when they happen.

It’s Tuesday again, and tomorrow I’ll be back again at work. I had wanted to do that yesterday already, but I’ve had such a horrible night that it didn’t happen.

But first things first, I suppose:

Thursday, 17.09.20: Tuesday still was a good day. A really good day, I’d say. I stayed at home and tried to rest as much as I could. So I slept in, but my throat and head still bothered me. It was late afternoon that I managed drag myself up from the couch. And it seems trivial, so awfully trivial, but I was excited about the Lush package that was waiting for me in the hallway. It had arrived earlier that day.

This is what I wrote online:

“Maybe it‘s been obvious from my lack of posting, but I have been struggling a bit with Lush in the past months. I thought a lot about consumerism and what dedicating an instagram account dedicated to a company - and thus, consumerism - says about me. I‘ve been very, very disappointed when they took so many products - most of the products I use and love, in fact - from the mainline. I‘ve been disappointed in their products in general, especially bath bombs I bought recently that seemed to be... a bit too old to work. Of course, this year is tough on all of us, and companies need to do what‘s necessary to survive, but still... a bitter aftertaste remained because I can’t shake the feeling that the values Lush promotes officially are not necessarily followed everywhere in that company. That being said, I haven’t been this excited about receiving a Lush package in a very, very long time. I actually squealed sniffing the products. Loudly. I had thought I had gotten a bad case of Lush-nose and that I wasn’t able anymore to smell all the fantastic scents of their products, but that wasn’t the case here. (Which brings me back to the suspicion that they have been selling a lot of old stuff recently that they couldn’t sell during the lockdown.) But there it was: the smell that used to excite me so, so much. And a package full of goodies that made me smile like an idiot. This is Lush as I love it. Exciting, cute, and with so many amazing, unique scents. A little spicy, a little sweet, and so, so comforting. So here it is; my first little Halloween haul (not the last, because I LOVE Halloween)...”

And it’s true. I haven’t been this excited about a Lush package since Christmas, I think. I don’t know if it’s a feeling of nostalgia, or if it’s the autumnal and spicy scents that made me so, so giddy, but I finally felt that magic again.

Last year around this time, on Sept 26th namely, I made the little Lush-appreciation Instagram account. Last autumn wasn’t the calmest, most peaceful seasons of all time, but there were some special things that I carry with me ever since then: the sewing classes, watching horror movies with F in candlelight... and the first time I indulged in the Lush Halloween treats. It’s a very special scent that I have trouble describing, but I was so happy to smell it again. I have become a victim of their marketing strategies, that’s for sure... but then again, is it not okay to consume things that are comforting? Others drink or smoke, and spend hundreds of Euros a year... I indulge in bath bombs. It’s a controversial discussion, I’m aware, but at least I’m not going into it blindly. Not entirely, at least.

Being so excited, I showed F everything and let him sniff and wrinkle his nose about those things. It felt a lot like last year, and that was nice. It was before DT’s devastating email arrived, and although I was sick around this time and worried sick, too... a lot of things were still unspoken, and sometimes that’s a blessing. And a part of me, back then, actually thought there was still hope. Now, I haven’t heard of him for so long, and I’m well aware it might be months or years until I hear of him again. And sometimes that drives me crazy. Sometimes, that makes me so, so angry.

Because of course, there was no answer to my email. Of course not.

I dreamt it, even. And when I woke up on Thursday morning, my first thought was: “Well, it was just a dream. Maybe...?” But the dream came true, and it was no surprise. This whole thing has become so layered, to tangled with negative emotions and so loaded... that I should be grateful about the silence. Why can’t I be? Why am I running after someone who doesn’t want me in their life?

F and I had a long midnight walk; the first in months.

It became a small, much needed routine when the lockdown started. We ventured out in the neighbourhood after midnight. We ventured out into the dark, into the crisp air of early spring, into the mist and glowing golden light of the street lamps. We checked on houses that were built in the past months, we watched the cats of the village, saw a mouse and a wild bunny, and looked up at the stars. It’s a lovely little tradition, and we haven’t done it often enough.

So last Thursday, we did it again, and it was beautiful. The night was so clear that we could see the milky way. It wasn’t too cold yet, but cold enough to walk that bit faster. It’s a strange, beautiful serenity that comes with the night, and I’ve always felt like that.

I hope we can do it more often again soon, but F has been very unbalanced, easily irritated and stressed lately. There is hardly a day he doesn’t get upset about this or that, about work or the house or people or the world in general, and it’s the same phrases every time. Not that I blame him. His workload is insane, and it hasn’t gotten any better since the pandemic hit. But it’s frustrating to see him fight the same windmills every day, to see him run in circles and repeat the same little hell again and again. I wish I could help him, and I wish things could just go back to normal. But who doesn’t? We’ve been living in our own little dystopian hellscape for half a year now.

Although it feels much, much longer.

And I’m aware that a vaccine will not necessarily eradicate the virus. It’s highly unlikely. But this? This is hard to endure. It’s stressful, all the additional work, all the conflicts in society, all the panic inside and outside. It’s more than a small nightmare.

But during those midnight walks, sometimes, life is good. Especially like last Thursday, when the air was crisp and smelt of autumn, of damp earth and leaves. (On a side note: spreading the pine mulch a week before had been such an amazing scent-experience, too. It smelt so earthy, so much like approaching autumn that it made my heart ache just a bit.) Temperatures had dropped down to 4°C. When it had been 30°C less than 48 hours before. That, too, is exhausting.

I had a lovely, long bath to end the day, using the black bat bath bomb that was full of glitter and had such a wonderful herbal, autumnal scent. It was a good way to end the day.

 Friday, 18.09.20: There are days when you wish you hadn’t gotten up, at all. Friday was such a day. I was irritated from the start, plagued by a restless night and dreams. My head hurt, my nose was so dry it bled (it still does) and my throat hurt. I was in a bad mood from the beginning. Facing the mess in the kitchen I’ve been facing for the last weeks every day didn’t help. In the past months, due to a lack of time, F has made it a habit to just dump everything – dirty plates, garbage, everything – onto the counter. I understand why, it’s not that, but it’s frustrating to spend a long time cleaning up, unloading and filling the dishwasher... only to find the same mess again the next day. I know... that’s being an adult 101. Doesn’t mean that I can’t feel overwhelmed by it from time to time...

To do something nice and silly, I took some pictures for my IG with those bath bombs – another awfully trivial, stupid thing to do, but it makes me happy – and enjoyed that, and prepared dinner when F arrived at home. I made pasta with my spinach and salmon sauce, and that was nice and filling. But F got upset over things to do in the garden again, and it was a tense atmosphere all evening.

In the late night hours, I watched a so-called horror-movie, although it wasn’t all too scary. But it made me think a lot.

I watched “Boogeyman”, that godawful movie of 2005.

2005... that sounds so close. That sounds so familiar. And yet, it was 15 years ago. Again, time flies. And seeing the movie, seeing the fashion choices and atmosphere, a world without the constant presence of social media and the pressure to be constantly available at all times... it made me feel so nostalgic.

2005.

I was 24 back then. Young. Skinny. A music major preparing for the final concert exam. I was broken, too. Bordering an eating disorder, which made me skinny in the first place, but I would lie if I pretended it doesn’t bother me that I put on so much weight. I loved wearing the pencil skirts. I loved wearing the clothes I can’t wear anymore today. I loved the world more than I love it today.

I was broken, and I went to see my psychoanalyst 3 to 4 times a week. I spent a lot of times waiting for a tram or a bus, and I always had a book in my pocket. Instead of my iphone. I read so much, back then. Now, the distraction of the internet is everywhere.

I miss those days, when the world was coming together instead of falling apart. When my body wasn’t my enemy, like it is now. Always hurting, always causing problems, a thick shell of fat caused by the lipedema that makes moving and exercising so, so hard.

Yes, I had unhealthy habits. Many of them. Back then, I created the scars that I still carry with me. Studying music under TO was exhausting and challenging.

But I felt a sense of accomplishment. I felt proud of what I was doing. Yes, I could also rip myself apart over a passage in the Brouwer sonata, I felt inferior compared to my fellow students who came from around the world. But I travelled to make music. I played in concerts on a regular basis. I was young and the world was wide open.

Am I romanticizing this time?

Of course I do.

Which middle-aged person doesn’t?

Middle-aged. That’s what I am now, right? I’ve used this word aloud for the first time last week, during my last lesson with my student A. I don’t even know how I got there, what made me say it. But there it was, loud and clear: “That’s what happens, when you’re middle-aged.”

It felt strange.

2005, I was young. It was the time when the future was wide open and the years weren’t weighing my down, when my body wasn’t weighing me down. Time was not a factor and everything, simply everything was still possible.

Now, I do feel time and its weight. Decisions need to be made before it’s too late. The future is narrow and determined.

And the world was coming together. There was a liberal air around everything. It was before the pandemic, before the financial crisis. There was a general sense of optimism, or am I mistaken? Just looking at some of the movies makes my heart ache. I feel like the world wasn’t as separated as it is now. The internet was there; a strange place with even stranger people... but it was before facebook and instagram and a constant pressure to post a fake, fabulous life to gain fake, faceless friends and fake, meaningless likes.

Is it bad that I get nostalgic about that?

Sometimes I think: but the world wasn’t as tolerant back then, regarding ethnics and the lgbt+ community.

But... was it?

Was it really?

We live in a radicalized world these days. There are only extremes left in a nightmarish dystopia. There is no moderation. There is no centre left. Only the wrong opinion and yours. The ability to talk and argue in a civilized way seems to be lost.

And here I am, witnessing the wonders and horrors of this time.

And looking at a face in the mirror that doesn’t match me anymore. Photos of myself shock me. I’m old. I’m fat. I don’t play concerts anymore.

Needless to say, I was depressed when I went to bed.

 Saturday, 19.09.20: There are days when you wish you hadn’t gotten up, at all. Saturday was another such day. F was tense, we fought. It wasn’t nice. I tried to tend to the plants outside, but there were once again so many people around... I hate that. I hate that I can’t just water the heather without being seen, without having to smile and wave. I’m a hermit, always have been, and there’s something to be said about the anonymity of large housing blocks. We don’t have that here anymore, and sometimes I wish for a huge, huge, impenetrable wall around our house. If only it wouldn’t look stupid and like a prison from the inside...

While F spent a bit of time outside, I did what I’ve been wanting to do for three weeks now: I put up the autumn decoration. The golden pumpkins, the orange and red leaves, the berry twigs and candles. That, at least, felt like a small accomplishment.

I convinced F to take more me-time. I know he needs it, and badly. I miss him. I miss having dinner with him, but he needs it and it makes him happier, less irritated and more stress-resistant. So I told him to take that time for himself, and things have gotten slightly better since then.

I ended the day in the bathtub again, trying a new bath bomb that was full of spice and beauty. But my heart was pounding and I didn’t last all too long in the tub. But the scent was autumnal and divine.

 Sunday, 21.09.20: I didn’t sleep well and nodded off on the couch in the afternoon. Those days feel empty. I felt empty, too.

The best part about Sunday was a wonderful cooking session. I made homemade tomato soup and spent hours peeling tomatoes, roasting garlic in the oven and bringing it all together. That is the kind of accomplishment I have these days... not playing a whole concert program.

I spent the evening getting lost with my new ipad pro and the drawing app on it. It’s a little addictive and very complicated. I’ve been comfortable with the medium of traditional pencil art and have rarely tried anything else... and this... this is something. I lost track of time, scribbled an opossum, watched the new Netflix series “Ratched” and went to bed.

There was a text on my phone (among many... because that damn thing never, ever stays silent...) from my former student R. The one I have taught for so many years. The one I brought to so many competitions. The one who won third prize on the nationwide round. The one I drove to my old professor. The one who passed the entrance exam at my old college of music. He asked if we couldn’t meet or talk on the phone one of these days. He wanted to tell me what’s going on and how his future will look.

What to bet that means he won’t study music, in the end?

The rest was just more work, more appointments, more requests.

 Monday, 22.09.20: the plan was to go back to work on Monday. That didn’t happen.

I had a horrible night.

I couldn’t fall asleep until half past seven. AM. I was restless and my heart was pounding. I thought about work, about DT, about life and the world and couldn’t stop. Couldn’t rest. Couldn’t sleep.

I dreamt, too. And vividly.

It was a strong dream about DT. I was back at home, with my parents. And I had to prepare a concert. But I hadn’t practiced, at all. My father had informed a local tv station, even. But I hadn’t practiced, and started to panic. I had to get ready, do my make-up, do my hair, get into my concert clothes (oh, how I miss that feeling...) and somehow, miraculously, practice some pieces to fill a concert with...

And somewhere in this mess, where I tried to find sheet music – maybe some duos to play with an old classmate – there was DT.

It was such a vivid, strong dream. So intense.

He was dismissive. He didn’t really want to talk about us, or about how things would unfold from here. And somehow, I tried to convince him that talking would help. That it would make sense to carry on. I tried to convince him that not everything was lost.

And because I had to practice, I just gave him one diary after another. Years and years, tomes and tomes of diaries, piled up in his arms. Somehow, I thought that would be a good idea. Somehow I thought, if he read it all, he would finally understand me.

I was under so much stress, trying to convince him to talk to me...

... then F woke me.

And I felt like hit by a truck.

For a while, I tried to force myself to go to work. Had breakfast, tried to get ready... but with so little sleep, I tend to feel both nauseous and lightheaded. It’s a dizziness that’s hard to be put into words. No way I could be patient enough to teach.

So I called my doctor. And surprisingly, he was on the phone himself. He gave me a sick note for two days. I actually let myself be talked into getting Tuesday off, as well.

I slept until F came home.

I dreamt about my student R., and that he actually didn’t intend to study music. But in the dream, he wasn’t allowed to, so I promised to take care of it, to talk to the college and my old professor.

I felt a little better when I woke up.

F ate dinner alone, and I watched documentaries about video games, continued with “Ratched” and tried to overcome both the lethargy and depression. I think it’s that; the depression. I haven’t been quite myself in the past days, and sometimes all you can do is take one day at a time.

I like the aesthetics of “Ratched”. The 50s vintage beauty of interior design and fashion. I love the soundtrack that is a wonderful homage to old Hitchcock movies. It’s disturbing, thoroughly disturbing, and I’m not quite sure yet if it’s my kind of disturbing. We’ll see. Maybe it’s just the lethargy and depression that drag me in.

 Tuesday, 23.09.20: Again, I slept badly. I can only hope tonight will be better. Tomorrow, I must go back to work. I don’t feel worthy of breathing when I’m not working on a work day. But the night was short and troubled again. Pounding heart. Heavy thoughts. Restless sleep.

I tried to not fall asleep during the day, so I looked for ProCreate tutorials online and tried myself on one of them. I tried to create some characters for the guitar book for children I intend to write (will I ever finish it, though?). And surprisingly, when I looked up again, it was dark. Just like that, hours had passed.

F ate dinner with me, and that was wonderful. His company always helps when I’m feeling lethargic and disturbed and not quite like myself. I’m grateful for that. I’m so grateful for him.

And I really, really hope that I will start feeling better soon.

And that I will sleep.

I hope work will help.

[greed-the-dorkalicious]

Between Life and Death, Chapter III

Fandom: Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure Major characters thus far: Jonathan Joestar, Dio Brando Pairings: None Word count: 4,066 (9,642 total) Warnings: Semi-graphic violence, dark themes, endgame spoilers for Phantom Blood and Stardust Crusaders. Notes: There is a playlist that goes along with this fic, designed to sync with the story if listened to while reading the fic. You can find chapters 1 - 5 here, or alternatively here on YouTube. For chapter 3 only, go here.

Chapter I | Chapter II | Read on AO3

Chapter III: These People are Weird in Here

These people are weird in here And they're giving me the fear Just because you know my name Doesn't mean you know my game I look myself in the face And whisper "I'm in the wrong place" Is there more to lose than gain If I go on my own again? On my own again

~Marina and the Diamonds, “The Outsider”

Jonathan was suspended in the air, in a nightmareish hellscape version of Cairo- simultaneously Cairo and not, like Jonathan was in the city, yet also in empty darkness at the same time. Below him was a pile of dead bodies, in front of him was a broken clock tower and a water tank gushing blood, and surrounding him was knives. Dozens and dozens of knives, pointing at him from every possible angle. From an unseen location, Dio’s voice spoke. “One second has passed…” Dio’s voice boomed, sounding as if he was walking around Jonathan, but always in his blind spot. Jonathan tried to turn his head, searching for Dio, but he couldn’t move. “Two seconds have passed.” Each time Dio announced the seconds, more and more knives appeared, filling Jonathan with fear. “Three seconds have passed… Well, Jojo? What will you do? When time resumes, you can try to block the knives with your Star Platinum, but with so many… How could you possibly block them all?” Dio chuckled darkly, his voice seemingly coming from everywhere at once now, reverberating in a way that felt like he had destroyed physics themselves, filling Jonathan with fear. He knew that Dio was right; there was no way he’d be able to block all those knives. Unless he could knock them away now, or get to cover, he was done for. Jonathan tried to reach for one of the knives, willing his body to move, but he was still paralyzed. There was nothing he could do, as more and more knives threatened him. “Four seconds have passed.” That was very, very bad. There was only one second left. If Jonathan didn’t move, he was going to die. Why couldn’t he move?! He couldn’t afford to stay still! Jonathan tried with all his might to get away, his soul screaming at his body to move, damn it, but all he could manage was the slightest twitch of his right finger. That wasn’t good enough! He needed to get away, now! “Five seconds have passed! Time resumes!”

Jonathan gasped, opening his eyes and sitting bolt upright with a sudden motion. He was drenched with sweat, breathing heavily, heart pounding in his chest as he felt overwhelmed with fear and helplessness. Where was he? What had just happened? His memories were hazy, and he wasn’t sure what was going on. As his mind remained clouded by terror and sleepiness, he looked around to try to get his bearings, and the first thing he saw was-

“Dio!” Jonathan practically yelled in surprise, jumping backwards slightly as he struggled to form coherent thoughts. “You- you- what- I- ...Why were you watching me sleep?!” he spluttered, completely astounded.

Dio watched Jonathan with one eyebrow slightly raised and an otherwise unemotional expression, arms crossed as he sat on the edge of the bed. “You were sleeping late,” he replied simply, shrugging. “It’s nearly 6:30, you know.”

“So? What do you care how late I sleep?” Jonathan muttered in an almost offended tone, still leaning away from Dio and watching him with a wary look.

“Normally I wouldn’t, but I bought tickets for a play at 8:00,” Dio replied. “We’re leaving at 7:30 or so, so you should hurry up and get ready.”

Jonathan frowned hesitantly at this new information. “A... play..? What play? And why didn’t you say so yesterday? I never said I wanted to see a play,” he argued with slight confusion.

“It’s called a ‘surprise’, Jojo,” Dio said, in his usual way of speaking that felt cold and threatening even when he was teasing. “The truth is, I wasn’t aware of it until yesterday, but there’s going to be a performance of Dracula at the National Theatre tonight. So of course we have to go,” he explained with a grin.

“What’s it about?” Jonathan questioned, letting his curiousity get the better of him as he sat up slightly.

“...It’s Dracula,” Dio repeated slowly, raising an eyebrow at Jonathan as if that alone should have been enough of an explanation.

“Which is… what, exactly?” Jonathan responded.

For a moment, Dio stared at Jonathan with an open-mouthed look of astonishment, as if Jonathan were stupid somehow. Then he seemed to come to a realization of some sort, and relaxed, returning to his default bored, slightly smug expression.

“Ah, yes. I forgot Dracula was slightly after your time,” he admitted. “It’s a famous novel about a vampire. It’s highly influential, there have been quite a few films and books based off it. You should read it, I know how much you like gothic novels,” Dio told Jonathan thoughtfully.

Jonathan said nothing for a moment, only stared at Dio with a hesitant, debating expression. As much as he hated to go along with anything Dio said in any way, well… he always did have a hard time resisting the allure of books. Especially hearing about not only a gothic novel he’d died too soon to read, but one that had become highly influential…

“Anyway, I’ll leave you alone to get dressed,” Dio said, interrupting Jonathan’s internal conflict as he stood up from the bed. “I assume you’ll be wanting breakfast afterwards? You know where to find it,” he added nonchalantly, and began his descent down the stairs.

After Dio left, Jonathan remained sitting on the bed for a few minutes, taking some time to collect himself and think about everything that had just happened. He had only just woken up, after all, and it was a bit much to process all at once. He was still a little shaken by his nightmare (although he’d already forgotten nearly all the details), and now he had an hour to get ready to go to the theatre? Something about that just felt… annoying. It would be one thing if Dio had invited him to go, giving him some prior notice and an opportunity to decline, but it was another thing entirely to be simply told he was going- whether he liked it or not, apparently- immediately after waking up. He hated being treated like Dio’s puppet, with no free will of his own.

But what could he do? As much as he hated it, he effectively didn’t have any free will. He had no way of escaping, no choice but to follow along with Dio’s whims. He sighed as he opened the wardrobe and began looking through the clothes he’d been given, searching for a suitable outfit.

At least theatre was fun, he thought despondently to himself.

Jonathan felt slightly anxious as he walked down the stairs to the first floor of the mansion. Although he had been too asleep to think of it during his conversation with Dio, it now occurred to him that going to the theatre meant actually going to the theatre- in other words, in just a little under an hour, Jonathan would be leaving Dio’s mansion and seeing the outside world for the first time. And that, frankly, was a terrifying thought.

It wasn’t like he was completely ignorant when it came to the 20th century; He’d heard stories from Erina and Speedwagon, and overheard a few things at the mansion, and he’d even read a little bit about it as well. (Though admittedly not as much as he should have- the mansion’s library was impressive, but the majority of it had quickly become abandoned the moment he discovered A Study in Scarlet had grown into an entire series after his death.) He knew about cars and planes, and the World Wars, and movies… That is, he knew they existed, at least. He had never experienced them for himself. What’s more, he knew little of Cairo other than the narrow glimpses of the street that were visible through the mansion’s windows and holes. Egypt was an entirely different world from England, one he knew next to nothing about, and he wondered how well he’d survive it.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit excited at the same time. Dio’s mansion felt like a prison, all stone walls and boarded-up windows and weirdly dim lighting, devoid of life save for Dio, his creepy butler, and Dio’s occasional victims. Everything Jonathan did was at Dio’s whim, everything he knew was what Dio decided to tell him, and from dawn until dusk every day he was quite literally locked away in a tower. It would be nice to get out for a change, breathe some fresh air, and see ordinary people going about their lives. It would be nice to have a little taste of freedom, just for a few hours.

In any case, there was only a little under an hour to go until it was time to leave, like it or not. And so, Jonathan stepped off the stairs and turned down the hall towards a room Dio referred to as the “breakfast room”- a smaller, less formal dining room, with only a small dining table and simplistic lounge-like seating, as well as large windows (though they were generally obscured by curtains).

Unsurprisingly, when Jonathan arrived at the breakfast room, Dio was waiting for him while reclining casually in one of the chairs. D’Arby, too, was lurking rather ominously in a corner, waiting to obey any requests Dio might make.

“Hello, Jojo,” Dio greeted Jonathan as he sat down at the table. “What would you like for breakfast?”

“I don’t know, just… Normal breakfast, I suppose,” Jonathan answered tentatively. If he had to sum up his overall mood in one word, that word would be “uncertain”, and it showed. Every move he made was slow and hesitant, and he watched Dio and d’Arby with suspicion. As Jonathan finished speaking, d’Arby gave a nod and quickly, silently set out towards the door.

“D���Arby, bring some coffee too,” Dio ordered without looking away from the table. D’Arby stopped in his tracks just as he reached the door.

“As you wish, Lord Dio,” he replied with a bow, before continuing out the room.

With d’Arby gone, Jonathan was left alone with Dio while he awaited his breakfast.

“I apologize for not having more formal clothes for you,” Dio told Jonathan out of the blue after a few minutes. “You know how difficult it is to find clothes in such a large size. Perhaps tomorrow we should go shopping?” he suggested.

“And what about you? Surely you’re not going to the theatre in that, are you?” Jonathan wondered, gesturing towards Dio’s outfit.

Dio was clad in a tight-fitting black shirt that was cut short, showing off his (Jonathan’s!) well-toned abs, as well as having several long, tear-like holes that revealed his chest. Over this, Dio wore a metallic, slightly baggy deep purple jacket, and several bangles on either wrist. The rest of his outfit consisted of scandalously tight pants that matched the jacket, a belt with- god only knew why- a skull-shaped buckle, and what looked like the sort of shoes a medieval jester might wear, only more threatening.

Dio looked down at his clothes idly, as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing, and then looked back up at Jonathan.

“Yes, why?”

Jonathan opened his mouth to reply, but found himself unable to even begin to think of a response to such an absurd question.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to; It wasn’t long before d’Arby returned, carrying a silver tray containing two cups of coffee, a small silver creamer, two spoons, and two napkins. He placed the tray on the table and once again left the room, just as Jonathan and Dio both reached for their respective coffees.

Jonathan blew on his coffee for a few seconds to cool it down, and then eagerly took a sip. His face scrunched up in an almost irritated expression as he tasted the brew.

Dio gave a quiet, amused chuckle. “What’s with that face?”

“I forgot Egyptian coffee is different from English coffee,” Jonathan admitted, looking at his cup with both eyebrows raised. “It’s good, of course, it just took me by surprise is all,” he explained.

“You’ll get used to it soon enough,” Dio promised.

Just as Jonathan had been debating whether or not to add some cream to his coffee, Dio reached for the creamer. Jonathan watched as Dio tilted the small vessel, and to Jonathan’s surprise, an opaque, red liquid poured from its spout and into Dio’s coffee cup.

“That’s… not cream,” Jonathan said slowly, with an almost numb sense of dawning horror.

“What an astute observation,” Dio replied nonchalantly as he watched the blood pour into his coffee, and when he felt it to be a satisfactory amount, he tilted the creamer back up. Then, with almost cheerful casualness, he held it out towards Jonathan- “Want some?”

“No, I most certainly do not! Why would you even ask that question?!” Jonathan snapped angrily, feeling almost sick with revulsion.

“There’s no need to get so up in arms; I was just offering,” Dio replied with irritation. “Really, you should try it. Blood in coffee tastes much better than you’d think.”

“I’m not a monster like you, Dio,” Jonathan insisted, glaring at Dio with teeth bared.

Dio rolled his eyes. “Yes, you are. Like it or not, you have to face reality sooner or later. Do you honestly think eggs and toast can sustain an immortal body? Don’t be naive. You can’t live in denial forever,” Dio said in a suddenly serious tone. His harsh words made Jonathan’s blood run cold- a truly ironic expression- as he realized that there was at least some level of truth to what Dio was saying.

A truth he didn’t want to face.

But Jonathan was nothing if not steadfast, and he refused to give in and fall to Dio’s level. He would stand by his morals to the very last, no matter what the cost to himself. If he had to go through hell, so be it; He’d done it before, and he would do it again.

“I don’t care if I starve, and I don’t care what you do to me. I will never, ever do what you’re asking me to do,” Jonathan snarled.

Dio stared at Jonathan strangely for a moment, and then took a long, savoring sip of his coffee before speaking again.

“You know, even if we don’t share the same set of morals, I do understand where you’re coming from. If I’m being honest, your commitment to your values is something I’ve always found admirable about you,” Dio confessed. “But I would like to point something out.”

Jonathan stared expectantly and warily at Dio, waiting for him to continue.

“The person this blood came from is already dead. That’s a fact, regardless of how you may try to distance yourself from it. Abstinence cannot bring back the dead, Jojo,” Dio said, meeting Jonathan’s eyes with a serious expression. “So, knowing this… Wouldn’t it be better to drink the blood, and give their death meaning, rather than simply throwing it all away like yesterday’s spoiled milk?” Dio finished, and pushed the creamer towards Jonathan with a smirk, waiting for him to make the next move.

Jonathan froze. He knew Dio was right, and that hurt. Knowing innocent people were being killed, and sometimes for almost nothing… It made him sick, sick with the same sort of overwhelming sadness one feels after hearing about a catastrophe. It wasn’t right that those people had to die, and he knew there was nothing he could do.

But… Regardless, he could never drink blood. Doing so, no matter what the justification, would mean becoming like Dio, and that was something he would never do. Besides, the very thought was so revoltingly disgusting that he didn’t think he’d be able to anyway.

“Enough. No matter how many excuses you come up with, I won’t do it,” Jonathan told Dio, glaring back at him with equal intensity.

Dio frowned slightly, seeming almost as if he was plotting something (like usual, really), before sighing slightly.

“Fine. It’s clear this debate is going nowhere. It’s too early for this sort of argument,” he decided.

As if on cue, Jonathan heard footsteps approaching the door- not the soft, slow thuds of d’Arby’s footsteps, but rather more steady, energetic, clacking footsteps. A woman with curly, purple-hued hair entered the room, clad in a flowing yet fitted yellow dress, a multitude of colorful ocean-themed jewelry, and tall blue heels.

“Ah, Midler! You’ve certainly recovered well,” Dio greeted her enthusiastically, with the sort of smile that was impossible to tell how much of it was genuine and how much was fake.

Midler smiled, blushing slightly. “Thank you, Lord Dio. I’m glad to- Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had guests,” she said upon noticing Jonathan.

“Not at all,” Dio assured her. “This is my brother, Jonathan. Jojo, this is Midler, one of my best assassins- and an excellent dancer,” Dio introduced the two of them.

“Nice to meet you,” Jonathan said, hesitant as he always was when speaking to Dio’s associates. So this one was an assassin, was she..? Jonathan wondered whether she had always been so evil, or if Dio had seduced her with his mind control like he’d done to poor Poco all those years ago. Or maybe she’d simply fallen victim to Dio’s natural charisma, no magic needed other than a pretty face and a smooth tongue.

Midler smiled almost teasingly at Jonathan, walking over to him slowly. “That’s an interesting scar you got there, handsome,” she said, speaking as if to seduce Jonathan, though he could hear an underlying question in her voice. She poked his neck playfully with a flirtatious wink.

“...Uh.” Jonathan instinctively touched the still-tender wound on his neck, at a loss for words. He felt slightly stunned and confused.

“His body used to belong to Jotaro,” Dio explained to Midler.

Midler’s eyes widened as she looked back at Dio. “You’re kidding,” she gasped breathlessly, and Jonathan thought he caught a glimpse of something unguarded for a moment- Fear? Regret? Guilt? Anger?

But if there was truly something there, it disappeared quickly, as Midler returned to her role as a lascivious assassin.

“Well, you know what they say… When one door closes, another opens. When you lose one man, you may gain an even better one.” She spoke the last sentence in a low tone as she looked at Jonathan with a half-lidded gaze, walking slowly, teasingly around him.

Jonathan shrunk back uncomfortably, this time maintaining most of his composure as he finally understood what was going on. “Please, I’m married,” he explained with a frown.

“So? Plenty of men here in Egypt have multiple wives, you know,” Midler replied with an innocent shrug.

As she spoke, d’Arby entered the room with another tray, this time with Jonathan’s breakfast. Jonathan sighed in relief as Midler finally backed off slightly, and his breakfast gave him a legitimate excuse to ignore her.

...And admittedly, he was also just glad to have breakfast. Jonathan had always been quite enthusiastic when it came to food, and even the horror and misery of his situation couldn’t negate the sheer joy that could only be created by bacon.

While Jonathan eagerly began eating his breakfast, Midler sat down calmly in one of the chairs, watching Jonathan with a thoughtful expression. “...You know, Lord Dio… I didn’t know you had a brother,” she admitted curiously after a few minutes.

“He’s adopted,” Dio explained.

Jonathan gave Dio an annoyed look. “Uh, pardon? You’re the one who was adopted,” he corrected Dio between bites of toast. “Besides, I’m fairly certain father’s disowned you by this point.”

“Yes, well unfortunately for him, dead men have little say in the legal system,” Dio replied in a bored monotone.

“Dead men have little say in anything, it seems,” Jonathan muttered bitterly.

“Oh, stop whining,” Dio said with an eyeroll, before turning away from Jonathan. “Now then, Midler…”

Midler sat up attentively, giving Dio an expectant look. “Yes, Lord Dio?”

“You have served me well all these years. You’re beautiful, intelligent, powerful, loyal, and your High Priestess is quite formidable,” he began.

Midler gasped slightly and smiled, a wider, more genuine smile than the seductive ones she’d given before. “Thank you, Lord Dio. It is my honor and privilege to serve you,” she said excitedly with a deep, reverent bow of her head. (Meanwhile, Jonathan remained deeply absorbed in his food.)

“But, Midler…”

“...Yes, Lord Dio?” Midler responded uncertainly to Dio’s sudden dark tone.

“Despite all this, what was it I sent you to the coast to do?” Dio prompted, sounding almost like a condescending school teacher, only far, far more sinister.

“...To… to kill the Joestar group, my lord,” Midler answered quietly, going slightly pale as she realized where the conversation was going.

(Jonathan looked up slightly with his fork still in his mouth, raising an eyebrow at Dio and Midler’s exchange.)

“And did you kill them?” Dio prompted once again.

“No, my lord,” Midler answered even more quietly, head bowed in shame rather than reverence this time.

“Then you know what that means,” Dio said darkly.

“...Yes, Lord Dio.”

Without further prompting, Midler stood up from her chair and walked over to Dio. She knelt down in front of his chair on both knees, head bowed and eyes closed.

“It is my honor and duty to give myself to you,” Midler said with solemn conviction. She then tilted her head up, looking towards the ceiling in an almost prayer-like pose. “My life is yours. Please accept it,” she finished.

Dio smiled a slow, hungry smile. “Good.”

Dio reached towards Midler’s neck, and-

“Wait a minute! Don’t tell me you’re going to kill her?!” Jonathan interrupted with a horrified gasp, standing up abruptly.

“Of course I am,” Dio replied, as if this were common sense. “She knew the consequences of failure. If she wanted to live, she should have tried harder.”

“B-but that’s not fair! That’s hardly a reason to kill someone!” Jonathan insisted distressedly.

“I’m happy to give my life for Lord Dio,” Midler chimed in, still kneeling in front of Dio.

Jonathan shook his head in horror. “No. I won’t let this happen,” he said firmly, stomping over to Dio and Midler and grabbing Dio’s wrist with a rough, strong grip.

Dio yanked his arm away from Jonathan’s grasp, glaring at Jonathan in annoyance and anger. “Oh, for god’s sake, Jojo, are you seriously going to play the whole pacifist game every single time? Get over your damn idealism already!” he snapped. “Like it or not, you have to accept that you are a vampire, and more importantly, I am a vampire. I have no intention of changing my lifestyle and going against the natural order simply because you have a weak stomach. If you want to starve yourself, so be it, but you have no right to tell me what to do. Remember who’s in control here,” he threatened with a dark, violent snarl.

“Then at the very least, you could have the decency not to murder people in front of me while I’m trying to eat breakfast,” Jonathan hissed in response, matching Dio’s show of dominance- as always- with equal fire.

For a few moments, Dio and Jonathan continued staring each other down unblinkingly, locked in a battle of wills. Finally, Dio scowled and turned away from Jonathan.

“Fine. Midler, you are dismissed,” he announced sharply, with a clipped, seething tone.

Midler stood up quickly and said nothing, for fear of further provoking Dio’s anger. She hesitated for a brief second, glancing between Dio and Jonathan with wide eyes, before hurrying out of the room.

Jonathan ate the rest of his meal in angry silence. A tense, bitter aura filled the air between him and Dio, neither party willing to look at the other. Jonathan finished his food as quickly as possible, all appetite and enjoyment gone, and stormed out of the room as soon as he was done. As he left, he slammed the door hard enough to leave a crack in the wall.

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 15

Help me

Chapter 15: A Place to Begin

These first few paragraphs feel like something out of the EotW dream sequences what is going on.

This place felt different from the dream world, and oddly familiar.

Wait a second…

Yes…he thought, seizing at a memory. I have been here before, but not in a long time.

ASLFKEAJSLEA

If this is what I think it is, a) this chapter might kill me and b) why hasn’t it happened before now? Though now that I write that, I can think of any number of possible reasons, so, okay.

He’s far more aware than he was in the EotW dream sequences. He’s not letting his knowledge that this is a dream – or his memory of where he actually is – slip away. But WHY IS HE HERE? Why now? Now, when he’s already so close to the edge, rather than just beginning down his path…

Actually there’s a thought. These dreams played a large role in setting him onto this path in the first place, pushing him towards and across that first crucial threshold. And now, close to the ending, it feels as if he’s nearing a low point – another threshold, and in that sense it’s fitting that the dreams would be back, to once again give him some kind of push, or…

Or something. I don’t know. I’m still not a hundred percent sure this is the same sort of dream but I really, really hope so.

There was no ground beyond the courtyard. Just tat same terrible sky. Rand did not want to look toward the left side of the room. The fireplace was there. The stones that formed floor, hearth and columns were warped, as if they had been melted by an extreme heat. At the edges of his vision, they seemed to shift and change. The angles and proportions of the room were wrong. Just as they had been when he’d come here, long ago.

FUCK. YES.

IT’S THE SAME DREAM IT’S THE BA’ALZAMON DREAM THE ISHAMAEL DREAM THE

This is almost as exciting to me as Ishamael’s return was. Maybe even more exciting. Like, Shadar Logoth levels of exciting.

There had once been a table here, hadn’t there?

I love that this is basically some kind of bizarre nostalgia for a sequence of traumatic villain-induced dreams. Like ‘wait, wasn’t there a table somewhere in this twisted horror hellscape that I remember from long ago? Ah, those were the days…’

The table was gone, but two chairs sat before the fireplace, high backed and facing the flames, obscuring whomever might be sitting in them.

Yeah I see that cheeky ‘whomever’ there but listen, I am not fooled, there is exactly one person who could be sitting in one of those chairs right now and I think I sort of hoped for this at one point but wasn’t really expecting to get it and

His breath caught and his heart pounded as he approached those chairs.

Same feeling here

He feared what he would find.

but for different reasons.

A man sat in the chair on the left. Tall and youthful, he had a square face and ancient blue eyes that reflected the hearthfire

YEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!

Youthful but ancient, and his eyes are no longer literal caverns of fire but they still burn with reflected flame and the dream is the same but different, familiar and alien, hostile and yet…

The other chair was empty. Rand walked to it and sat down, calming his heart and watching the dancing flames.

AK;FLESJALTKERSEASKELAFLSKEAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaa…………*flatlines*

Okay, okay, I’m okay.

So can I just. He’s in this hellscape of a dream, a dream he remembers, and he’s terrified…and then he sees who is sitting there and he calms his fear. He doesn’t run, doesn’t rage, doesn’t stare in horror. He just walks over to the chair. And sits down. And joins Moridin in watching the fire.

(‘ancient blue eyes that reflected the hearthfire’ could easily describe both of them right now).

He had seen this man before in visions […] At times during those visions, Rand had felt almost as if he could reach out and touch this man. He’d been afraid of what would happen if he did.

Is that why this dream is happening, now? Is it not because Moridin is pulling him into it the way he did as Ba’alzamon, but simply because there is a…link between them now? But if that is the case, why now and not before, at any point since Shadar Logoth? Is the link growing stronger? Is it because Rand himself is growing darker and is less and less able to hold himself together? Something else entirely?

And as for what would happen if he did ‘reach out and touch this man’….well. That is the question, isn’t it? Literally and figuratively. What would happen if Rand reaches out and touches the Shadow, the darkness, everything Moridin has become? What would happen if Rand reaches out and bridges the gap between them that is at once a chasm and little more than a crack?

What would happen if Rand reaches out along the strange bond that is between them and…well, more so than ever, I’m reminded of a specific EotW dream moment: “In every mirror, the flames of Ba’alzamon’s face raged behind him, enveloping, consuming, merging. He wanted to scream, but his throat was frozen. There was only one face in those endless mirrors. His own face. Ba’alzamon’s face. One face”

And I still can’t figure out exactly what that means, except that it feels so closely linked to Min’s vision of Rand and another man merging, and one living and one dying, and Rand thinks it’s Lews Therin and it could be but it’s so close to this and are we talking a literal merging or a figurative one and in either case how and why and what and I would try to follow this (again) but right now I’m A LITTLE DISTRACTED BY THIS SCENE SO IT’LL HAVE TO WAIT.

He had met the man only once. At Shadar Logoth. The stranger had saved Rand’s life, and Rand had often wondered who he had been. Now, in this place, Rand finally knew.

“You are dead,” Rand whispered. “I killed you.”

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS PERFECT.

Rand thinking about how this man saved his life, and in the next breath saying ‘I killed you’. Rand finally putting the pieces together, and realising who this is, and his first words are not to name his enemy but to say ‘I killed you’. The fact that his first words are ‘You are dead’ when the name Moridin has taken literally means death, though Rand of course does not know it. The way ‘You are dead. I killed you’ becomes itself a naming, of sorts. That is the main identifier. I have won again, Lews Therin except.

And mostly how calm this all is. Rand walking to the chair and sitting down. Rand realising who he is looking at, but it’s a soft firelit realisation, a whispered statement, a puzzle piece fitting gently into place, and it’s world-shaking but everything is so quiet.

He doesn’t lash out, doesn’t shout or strike or make any movement at all. Not even an accusation, or a ‘why am I here’ or a ‘what do you want’. There’s no anger or fear or even hostility. No sense of enmity, except in the implication of the words themselves, but even that statement is spoken peacefully. Just a simple ‘I killed you,’ as if opening a conversation, words jarring agains tone, and yet at the same time it’s as if this is the only thing he could possibly have said; it’s that perfect.

The man didn’t look from the fire as he laughed. It was a rough, low-throated laugh that held little true mirth.

I am not going to survive this scene.

There’s still no sense of antagonism, except in the actual content of the conversation. But the entire setting, the tone…it’s this beautifully eerie juxtaposition of fire-and-brimstone nightmare and quiet fireside comfort, of nostalgia and what should be enmity.

“I watched you die,” Rand said.

Yes, well, he could say the same of you, technically speaking.

I love that they’re talking. I love that this is the topic of conversation but the conversation itself sounds like they’re talking about the weather. Which, here, is ‘cloudy with a chance of eternal damnation’ but the point still stands. Even more so, actually.

“I stabbed you through the chest with Callandor. Isha—”

“That is not my name,” the man interrupted

HE INTERRUPTS AT ‘BETRAYER’ BEFORE RAND CAN SPEAK THE WORD FOR ‘HOPE’. I’M FINE THIS IS FINE. I’m overreading this but I DO NOT EVEN CARE THIS IS EVERYTHING.

And now I’m reminded of the Prologue, where Ishamael claims the name proudly – gets Lews Therin to speak it, forcing him to acknowledge it, and taking pride in the name and its meaning. But now he doesn’t even let Rand finish the word.

“I am known as Moridin, now.”

“The name is irrelevant,” Rand said angrily.

Ah, now we get some anger.

But is it so irrelevant, Rand? “I am Rand al’Thor! I am me!” Do you really believe the name matters so little? You, who cling so tightly to your own and refuse to acknowledge that you carry another, determined to distance yourself from that past identity?

“You are dead, and this is just a dream.”

“Just a dream,” Moridin said, chuckling. “Yes.”

(Life is a dream, and all men must wake).

Moridin finally looked at him. Flames from the fire cast bright red and orange light across his angular face and unblinking eyes.

I’m laughing but also kind of impressed with the way this so nicely echoes the way his eyes were on fire when he was Ba’alzamon. The same and yet not the same. I also love the fact that he didn’t even look at Rand until now. Every beat of this scene is designed to ruin me.

“You are dead,” Rand said stubbornly.

“So are you. I watched you die, you know.”

Ha. He actually went there. Of course he did. Of course he would. After all, he more than just about anyone else sees this all as a neverending cycle of theme and variation.

Mention of this event always brought on howls of grief and anger in Rand’s mind.

But this time, there was silence.

OH. Okay that is…rather fascinating. Even more so because Rand is aware of it. And it fits well with the rest this scene, with this odd feeling of silence and peace where there should be anything but.

But he knew the truth of what Moridin had said. Rand’s enemy still lived. Light! How many of the others had returned as well? Anger made him grip the armrest of the chair. Perhaps he should have been terrified, but he had stopped running from this creature and his master long ago. Rand had no more room for fear. In fact, it should be Moridin who feared, for the last time they had met, Rand had killed him.

Except I’m reasonably sure Moridin doesn’t at all fear death.

But they are certainly meeting on different terms now than they did in these dreams during the first three books.

Even in his growing anger, though, and thoughts about how he killed Ishamael before, and how Moridin should be afraid of him…Rand just talks to him. Doesn’t attack or shout or anything. He just asks how.

And Moridin answers.

“Long ago, I promised you that the Great Lord could restore your lost love. Do you not think that he can easily recover one who serves him?”

Listen, I’m not saying you could twist that wording to imply that Ilyena served Shai’tan, but…

(No, I do not actually think this was the case. I’m just amused because it fits with a thing I wrote a while back).

“We are all reborn,” Moridin continued, “spun back into the Pattern time and time again. Death is no barrier to my master save for those who have known balefire. They are beyond his grasp. It is a wonder we can remember them.”

THEY’RE ENEMIES BUT MORIDIN IS JUST CALMLY PHILOSOPHISING AND ALSO SHARING INFORMATION AND NEITHER OF THEM IS ATTACKING THE OTHER AND IT’S LIKE IN SHADAR LOGOTH WHERE THEY’RE NOT REALLY ENEMIES AT ALL EXCEPT THEY ARE BUT THEY AREN’T AND I CAN’T HANDLE THIS.

Why is Moridin telling him this?

Maybe because there’s no way for him to lose. Maybe Rand will irreversibly kill more of the Forsaken, but if he uses balefire to do so, the net result is still chaos. Moridin is playing all sides of the board.

And even in the earlier books, as Ba’alzamon, when the dreams were far more hostile and frightening and Rand had far less idea what was happening, Ishamael rarely actually lied, as far as I can recall.

Anyway, the way he links his answer to the fact that they are all reborn again and again is interesting.

“The Great Lord can grant you sanity, you know,” Moridin said. 

“Your last gift of sanity brought me no comfort,” Rand said, surprising himself with the words. That had been Lews Therin’s memory, not his own. Yet Lews Therin was gone from his mind. Oddly, Rand felt more stable – somehow – here in this place where all else appeared fluid. The pieces of himself fit together better. Not perfectly, of course, but better than they had in recent memory.

Here, in a nightmare, with only his enemy for company. Yet it feels right, and I’m trying to figure out how to articulate why.

It’s as if there’s an openness and an honesty between them, in which nothing is truly hidden. And there is a link between them, one that arguably goes back across time and Ages, and so who they were and who they are becomes less distinct. And then here, in this dream, this pocket of space and time set aside from everything else, this place where as Rand says, everything is fluid, it’s almost like a ceasefire, or a momentary truce. So it’s as if some of the other conflicts almost…fall away, in this place that is and is not reality, where everything else is paused and all that exists are the two of them. And the dynamic between them almost supercedes who they each are or are trying to be individually; they’re not playing their set roles here, but are rather meeting more as two individuals.

And that line from Rand. Stated almost lightly, almost teasingly, almost as a joke between friends, but referencing the worst moment of his life. And then Moridin almost laughs, and it really does feel like old friends remembering past antics, except they’re remembering the end of an Age.

Moridin snorted softly, but said nothing. Rand turned back to the flames, watching them twist and flicker.

At something like peace in his own mind for the first time in a long time, staring into the fire, thinking and remembering, sitting in companionable silence.

With his enemy.

Help.

This is everything I want, to the extent that I don’t even know how to deal with it.

Enemies or antagonists meeting or interacting as not-quite-enemies is, quite possibly, my single favourite thing in the entire genre. These moments where weapons are laid down, replaced by a strange honesty and openness, tension replaced by a sense of ephemeral delicate peace, made somehow stronger rather than less significant for the knowledge that it will not last. But for the space of a scene or a chapter or even an arc it does, occupying this liminal space between corruption and redemption in which either is possible but neither is likely, and instead it’s the feeling of a moment frozen in time, of two characters who know each other not at all and all too well falling into something that is at odds with and yet perfectly complimentary to their dynamic in the ‘real’ story, full of what could have been or what might have been or what if. There’s something almost surreal about it. And it serves to enhance the overall dynamic by providing a different lens through which to view it, and when done well there is nothing better. So this scene is…a lot.

One might have thought that they were two old friends, enjoying the warmth of a winter hearth. Except that the flames gave no heat, and Rand would someday kill this man again. Or die at his hands.

Or both?

But this. One might have thought they were two old friends This is what I mean. Except that the flames gave no heat This exact feeling. and Rand would someday kill this man again. Just bury me in this scene.

Moridin tapped his fingers on the chair. “Why have you come here?”

MORIDIN DIDN’T EVEN BRING HIM HERE. OH MAN THIS MAKES IT EVEN BETTER. Rand doesn’t know why he’s here but Moridin doesn’t know why Rand is here and they each think the other has some reason for meeting here like this but instead it just happens and they share conversation and a fire before either of them asks and finally Moridin is the one who asks.

He didn’t expect Rand here, but he doesn’t throw Rand out of the dream. Doesn’t throw fire at him or turn from him or tell him to leave, or leave himself. He just…sits with him and answers his questions. Kill me now.

“I feel so tired,” Moridin continued, closing his eyes. “Is that you, or is it me?”

HELP ME

Honesty in response to Rand’s questions is one thing, but this is SOMETHING ELSE. Unasked and unprompted, he is openly stating…weakness.

But who else can he tell? He is tired – and so is Rand, and I think the answer to his question is ‘both’ – but he is Nae’blis, and the end is drawing near, and there are things he has to do, and he rules the other Forsaken but at the same time disdains them, and certainly cannot confide in them. Like Rand, he has almost no one he trusts. Like Rand, he is so tired, and very possibly trying similarly to hold everything together and keep all the pieces in the right places and move everything to the ending, to the point where he can finally let them go…he serves chaos, but he is still trying to play all sides of a game that encompasses the entire world. It’s exhausting, and he’s alone in it, and there’s no one he can tell.

And so that leaves…Rand. They are enemies, but they are also the only ones who come close to understanding each other on certain level. So here we are, in this space where both of them are outside of their normal role, enemies and yet…the only ones they can talk to about some things. Even leaving aside the link between them, they share a bond by virtue of being champions of opposing forces; they both know something about a role that is all-consuming, and greater than they are alone. And now that Rand knows who and what he is (mostly), they share a…an understanding of the true scope of this game or conflict they are playing out. Rand is maybe not quite there yet, but he – as Rand, and especially here as Rand-and-Lews-Therin – comes closer than anyone else to being on the same level as Moridin in that regard, I think. And so there is a layer of understanding between them, which makes honesty like this possible.

“It is not time for us to fight,” Moridin said, waving a hand at Rand. “Go. Leave me in peace.”

This is all so quiet and peaceful and sad. And Moridin isn’t throwing him out here, or even making any effort towards him for any purpose. He doesn’t know why Rand is there, but indulges him for a little while in conversation, answers his questions honestly, admits his fatigue. And now just tiredly asks Rand to go – to LEAVE HIM IN PEACE, I’M NOT OKAY – without giving any indication of adverse feelings towards Rand himself.

It’s not time for them to fight. That’s all. They will eventually, because that is what must happen, but Moridin doesn’t seem to want to. Not that he wants not to, but there’s no active antagonism there, at least not right now.

It goes back to the ‘one might have thought that they were two old friends, enjoying the warmth of a winter hearth. Except that the flames gave no heat, and Rand would someday kill this man again.  Or die at his hands.’ It’s as if in this moment, understanding – or perhaps exhausted apathy – surpasses hatred, and their enmity is more circumstantial; a result of the roles they each embody.

Also. If Moridin didn’t bring Rand here, that means he actually was just...sitting in the World of Dreams, alone, looking into the fire. Not doing anything specifically, as far as we can see - thinking, certainly, but otherwise sitting in peace. And we also know time spent in Tel’aran’rhiod isn’t as restful as real sleep, so Moridin is sitting here almost at rest but also not at rest and he is so tired and ‘leave me in peace’ everything hurts and nothing is okay.

“I do not know what would happen to us if we killed one another.”

Again with the disarming honesty. I wonder, though, if that’s exactly what we’re going to find out.

“The Great Lord will have you soon enough. His victory is assured.”

It still doesn’t come across as threatening or even gloating, though. More just…fatalistic apathy with a trace of arrogance or maybe relief.

“He has failed before and will fail again,” Rand said. “I will defeat him.”

Moridin laughed again, the same heartless laugh as before. “Perhaps you will,” he said. “But do you think that matters? Consider it. The Wheel turns, time and time again. Over and over the Ages turn, and men fight the Great Lord. But someday, he will win, and when he does, the Wheel will stop.

“That is why his victory is assured. I think it will be this Age, but if not, then in another. When you are victorious, it only leads to another battle. When he is victorious, all things will end. Can you not see that there is no hope for you?”

Are you sure you’re still talking to Rand there, Moridin? (Did you betray hope, or did it betray you?)

And so he’ll talk with Rand, and give him truth and surprsing openness, both because there’s no one else he can talk to about this and also because…do you think that matters? As he sees it, it doesn’t. Because as he sees it, all paths eventually lead to the same end, whether now or in another Age.

So why, then, is he making any effort at all? Why not just sit back and wait? To enjoy the benefits of power while they last? Or…

When he is victorious, all things will end. The other Forsaken don’t really understand this – or else they’re so deep in denial as to make no difference – but he does. And if he is working to ensure that victory – even though he believes it will come eventually regardless – then he…wants all things to end. Oh. “I feel so tired.” I…oh.

I’ve wondered about that before, and it’s certainly been hinted at, but this is…not hinting.

Also ‘when you are victorious, it only leads to another battle’ is kind of heartbreaking because it fits all too well with what Rand has said and thought; he is trying so hard to force peace, and keeps telling people versions of ‘you can go back to killing each other once this is done’. Bashere said it as well, when he talked about hoping this really would the the Last Battle, but knows it won’t be. There will always be another battle, another conflict. Rand isn’t buying peace with his life, he’s buying the chance of having a future.

And there are two ways of looking at that. Either as a source of hope, because as long as there is a future there is a chance, and there may not be peace but there will at least be choice, and life, and possibility. Or as a source of despair, because what does it matter when war and death and conflict are inevitable, and when each victory only means having to fight again? Moridin takes the latter view, clearly, and Rand…

Rand is meant to take the first. But he’s at a point in his arc right now here he doesn’t, really. He’s determined to win, but has lost sight of why; has lost a certain amount of faith in hope and a future because all he can see before him is more destruction and pain and fragile peace that is bought with blood and will fall apart as soon as he is gone. So he’s sort of…between these two viewpoints, and as such is not at all ready to face the Last Battle as the champion of the Light.

“Is that what made you turn to his side?” Rand asked. “You were always so full of thoughts, Elan. Your logic destroyed you, didn’t it?”

H E L P  M E

ELAN.

YOUR LOGIC DESTROYED YOU, DIDN’T IT.

ELAN.

He started by naming him Ishamael – or trying to. He all but ignored ‘Moridin’. And now…Elan. With a statement that sounds absolutely like remembering an old friendship. Even more than that, a statement that sounds like sympathy.

Your logic destroyed you, didn’t it? THIS LINE IS DESTROYING ME

And, perhaps oddly, Rand seems more hopeful and certain here than he has in a very long time, more in line with the side he is ‘meant’ to take. It reminds me a bit of that moment of calm, peaceful certainty in TGH, when he faced Ba’alzamon and said “I will never serve you, Father of Lies. In a thousand lives, I never have. I know that. I’m sure of it. Come. It is time to die.” It’s as if being faced with a true glimpse of what the darkness he is moving towards looks like – despair and apathy and nihilism – he is more able to pull himself away from it, and ground himself somewhat in the hope and determination he is ‘meant’ to embody and bring.

It may not last; this dream will end and Rand will be back where he was, but I think it’s very possible that this – and Moridin in general, and the bond between them – will play a role in pushing Rand across the threshold he is approaching, and in getting him to where he needs to be. It probably won’t be pleasant; it wasn’t last time, either. But there’s something about being faced with an ‘opposite’ that sometimes allows for truer conviction. This is what he is fighting – or is meant to be fighting. This sense of meaninglessness, and the despair that leads to capitulation and resignation. He is supposed to be a source of hope, and to bring about a future in which that hope has a place, even amidst destruction and conflict.

“There is no path to victory,” Moridin said. “The only path is to follow the Great Lord and rule for a time before all things end.”

The ultimate ‘take what you can and pay for it’, I suppose…

“The others are fools. They look for grand rewards in the eternities. But there will be no eternities. Only the now, the last days.”

He laughed again, and this time there was joy in it. True pleasure.

I…

Wow. Okay. That’s.

Yeah. Again, he’s implied as much before, but.

He wants this. He isn’t looking for ‘grand rewards in the eternities’, but is instead taking true pleasure in the thought of…the last days. Of an ending. His name isn’t a threat; it’s a promise. Or maybe a wish. 

Because if every victory only leads to another battle, and existence means being reborn again and again, to face those battles again and again, and if you don’t believe there’s any hope of anything different…oh, Elan.

He’s not fighting Rand because he wants to; he tells Rand it’s not yet time for them to fight, and there’s virtually no emotion in it. But when he speaks of the last days, of all things ending, that is the one time he shows joy. He doesn’t want the triumph of evil, or to rule for eternity. He wants…everything to end.

This chapter is too much. Take it away.

“There is a way to win, Moridin,” Rand said.

So now he’s ‘Moridin’. After talking of no path to victory and the inevitability of death and the last days. Fitting.

And in face of that, Rand shows conviction and determination, if not exactly optimism. I’m not sure he’s capable of that just now, and he’s still in something of a downwards spiral, but this scene feels almost like a brief respite from that.

“I mean to kill him. Slay the Dark One. Let the Wheel turn without his constant taint.”

Uh.

I feel like that’s…possibly the worst idea you’ve had all series, Rand. And that includes the time you climbed a garden wall to look at a false Dragon.

I mean, points for conviction, but no. Balance tends to be a rather important idea in stories like this. And this is where we see the darker part of Rand’s current path coming through yet again; he wants to win, and right now that means destroying his enemy. That, to his current mindset, feels like ‘victory’, and it’s appealing right now because he has far too much to deal with and he’s barely holding it all together and he just wants it to end – not quite in the way Moridin wants it to end but not quite differently enough – and so he’s seizing on the most ‘direct’ solution he can find, on a way to force his way through. Like forcing peace through invasion and kidnapping, or trying to push the Seanchan back with lightning and Callandor, it’s a brute-force solution that relies entirely on power and not at all on understanding.

“We are connected,” Moridin finally said. “That is how you came here, I suspect, though I do not understand our bond myself. I doubt you can understand the magnitude of the stupidity of your statement.”

I love every single word of this. The way Moridin begins on what seems like an entirely unrelated topic, the answer to a question neither of them quite asked but have both been thinking about. The way he is, once again, almost surprisingly honest in both stating that there is a bond but also acknowleging his ignorance of exactly what it is. And then just ending with ‘and you’re a fucking idiot’. But without any real heat behind it. Beautiful.

He reached for the One Power. It was distant, far away.

Huh. That’s…interesting. Moridin doesn’t seem to use saidin much, if at all…and the bond they formed was with the True Power meeting the One Power…and when Rand seizes saidin, it pulls him away from this dreamspace. There’s something in this…

The dream ends and I’m just going to sit here for a minute and feel personally attacked by everything this scene chose to be because wow.

I’m fine.

So anyway we’re with Min now, reading a book by someone called Pelateos who totally isn’t Plato.

Min hadn’t been able to get close enough to [Aviendha] to have a converesation, despite the fact that they’d been in the camp together for some time now.

ABSOLUTELY NO COMMUNICATION. Come on, at least let them get to know each other.

Min’s still trying to take Herid Fel’s place as resident philosopher, looking into the puzzle of the seals of the Dark One’s prison, and hopefully she will a) not get murdered by the gholam and b) deliver an answer in a way that people can actually understand. I have high hopes.

What was she doing trying to solve a scholarly mystery? But who else was there?

This is what I love about Min: the way she refuses to be overwhelmed by so much that should overwhelm her. She’s not Aes Sedai or royalty; she’s just Min Farshaw, but she doesn’t let that stand in her way. She doesn’t let it be a ‘just’. This is something that needs to be done, and she’s the only one who can do it, so she can do it.

She followed Rand because she loved him, and she could feel – literally – that he returned her love. Despite the harshness that was invading him bit by bit, despite the anger and the bleakness of his life, he loved her.

This is lovely as well. He loves her, and still has that capacity to love and to know that he is loved, and it’s one of the very few things anchoring him right now.

Which makes me think that something terrible is going to happen; I think I’ve said this before but if the line he holds most strongly as a division between himself and Lews Therin – that Lews Therin killed everyone he loved, where Rand insists that he doesn’t kill when he doesn’t have to – were to be crossed, that would very likely result in a darkest hour sort of scenario.  “I won’t hurt you, Min. I will cut off my arm before I hurt you.” I thought maybe this foreshadowing played out when Rand lost a hand because he couldn’t move aside without exposing Min, but now I almost wonder if the ‘before’ could be literally chronological. Though it wouldn’t necessarily have to be Min; there are a handful of characters I’m worried for at the moment. Someone is going to get hurt. Rand has hurt his own people before – the battle at Cairhien by necessity, the battle against the Seanchan by accident and Callandor – but he has just about managed to avoid truly hurting those he loves. And he’s crossed almost every other line he’s set for himself, so that’s the logical next step…

Rand stirred again. This time, he groaned and opened his eyes, sitting up. […] Min pushed her book closed. “And what do you think you’re doing, sheepherder? You barely slept for a couple of hours!”

Min Farshaw: reverse alarm clock.

“He’s inside my head. He was gone during the dream. But he’s back now.”

It’s as if facing Moridin made Rand more truly himself. Made both of them more truly themselves, even.

“Rand,” she said, setting her book aside and joining him beside the window. “You have to talk to someone. You can’t keep it all inside.”

“I have to be strong.”

Ah, Rand.

Min’s not going to let him get away with that, though; she’s persistent and she knows damn well that he needs to talk to someone because otherwise this will break him. So she just keeps pushing aside his excuses and she stays there with him and doesn’t let him push her away.

“Burn it all, Min! If my enemies discover my weaknesses, they will exploit them.”

Rand. Do you forget how Moridin just told you he felt tired? Not to mention the rest of it? You’re not wrong but also you need to talk to people and maybe trust the people who love you.

“I’m running in the dark on an unfamiliar path. I don’t know if there are breaks in the road, or if the whole cursed thing ends in a cliff!”

Knowing Rand’s luck with high places, that’s exactly where it ends up. Or maybe on top of a wall.

“Tell me.”

“You’ll think I’m mad.”

She snorted. “I already think you’re a wool-headed fool. Can it be much worse than that?”

Fair.

“You had a viewing of me that showed to people merging into one. That means Lews Therin and I are distinct!”

Er…no. And there’s no way it’s coincidence that this viewing is mentioned again, right after that dream with Moridin and all the thoughts and discussion about the bond there, and Rand wondering what would happen if he reached out and touched him and WHERE DOES THIS GO.

“Rand, he’s you. Or you’re him. Spun into the Pattern again. Those memories and things you can do, they’re remnants from who you were before.”

Listen to Min, Rand. Unlike you, she’s making sense.

“No,” Rand said.

Or not.

“Min, he’s insane and I’m not. Besides, he failed. I won’t. I won’t do it, Min. I won’t hurt those I love, as he did.”

Ah, and here we are again. This is the crux of it, really; he has to believe they are different people, because he cannot accept that this is his past, that he killed those he loved. He cannot accept that he failed, because he cannot accept the possibility of failing this time. But he conflates acceptance with being condemned to the same fate. Lews Therin failed, and Rand is Lews Therin reborn, but that doesn’t mean Rand will fail; it means he has another chance to not fail. And he can remember that past – if he lets himself – and maybe learn things from it.

But it’s still too much for him to accept, especially as he is just barely holding himself together as it is. He has crossed so many lines, that he absolutely cannot let himself hurt those he loves, because that’s pretty much all that’s keeping him anchored on this side of redeemability in his mind – that and his thing about not killing women – and so he continues to reject that aspect of who he is, or was, because to do otherwise is unthinkable. To do otherwise would mean he has already crossed that line, and where does that leave him? He still doesn’t see, or can’t see, that it can be his past without being his present or his future.

“Does it matter?” she asked. “If there is another person, or if those are just memories from before, the information is useful.”

Have I mentioned that I love Min? Trust her to take a practical approach to this. And it’s invaluable as well in the sense that she’s not reacting with fear or horror at what Rand is telling her. She’s just listening and standing by him and talking to him calmly about it, treating it as just…another thing to work with. Even if it does scare her, she doesn’t let that show, because that’s the opposite of what Rand needs. Instead, she tries to help him, so that they can work on this together.

“Ishamael lives,” Rand said.

She snapped her eyes open. “What?” Just when she was beginning to feel comfortable!

That’s one way to break the news, I suppose.

“He has returned, bearing a new face and a new name, but it is him.”

Men wear many names, many faces. Different faces, yet always the same man…

Rand is all for using the balefire option. Which is hard to disagree with, given that it’s the only way to permanently kill these people, but still.

“I need the voice, Min. Lews Therin knows things. Or…or I know things. Whichever it is, the knowledge is there. In a way, the Dark One’s own taint will destroy him, for it is what gave me access to Lews Therin.”

Indeed. It’s a rather excellent irony, there, and I think he’s probably right. Also, this is probably the most sanguine he’s sounded yet about the voice – he at least accepts the possibility that it is ‘him’ in some way.

“You have to destroy the seals to the Dark One’s prison.”

Interesting. Makes sense, though. And Rand seems to agree, so…so far so good.

The prophecies didn’t say Rand would win. Only that he would fight. Min shivered again – blasted window! – but met Rand’s gaze. “You’ll win. You’ll defeat him.”

He sighed. “Faith in a madman, Min?”

“Faith in you, sheepherder.”

Oh man that is a great exchange.

It’s even better in contrast to Rand’s certainty and conviction in the dream just before. The entire mood is so markedly different, and it makes the dream feel even more like a…scene that exists out of time, almost, or just outside of ordinary reality, where the rules are different and everything else is fluid and the two there are more themselves, with everything else on hold.

More viewings from Min, though most of these have shown up before.

He nodded, and she was surprised to feel his trust through the bond. That was a frighteningly rare emotion from him recently, but he did seem softer than he had during previous days.

And TALKING TO HIS ENEMY is the cause. I cannot get over this; it is everything that I love.

(Moridin is a good influence on him. This amuses me greatly, and Moridin would probably glare at me for saying so).

It was a beginning. She tightened her arms around him and closed her eyes again. A place to begin, but with so little time left.

Well, and I…don’t know that this will be a true beginning. At least, I don’t think it’s a straight upward journey from here. The dream had an influence, certainly, but Rand still has further to fall, and I don’t think this moment is going to stop that. It might, though, help give him something to pull himself back up with, so to speak.

Over to Aviendha now, who is carrying out yet another form of useless labour.

And Amys is here no doubt to throw her another set of questions, and Aviendha still hasn’t figured out what’s going on or what she needs to do.

Bashere and company are back, with news that the Seanchan have agreed to another meeting with Rand. No doubt that’ll end well…

The Aiel are really, really not fans of making peace with the Seanchan. It makes for an interesting contrast between two ‘foreign’ groups who could both, to the average person living in the main setting, be seen as invaders.

“Which is more important, Corana?” Aviendha replied raising her chin. “The argument you have with another Maiden, or the feud your clan has with its enemy?”

The ‘enemy’ here being literal apocalypse, so I’d say Aviendha has a point.

“The Seanchan deserve to be fought,” Aviendha said, “and you are right that it pains to ask them for peace. But you forget that we have a greater enemy. Sightblinder himself has a feud with all men, and our duty is larger than feuds between nations.”

Amys nodded. “There will be time enough to show the Seanchan the weight of our spears at another date.”

Always another battle. About that, Moridin was not wrong. And this keeps getting brought up, either directly or by conversations like this, that make it all too clear that there are conflicts that will stretch beyond the Last Battle, and that even as humanity is being united to face a greater threat, it’s not a peace that will be able to last.

Aaaaand the news of Aiel Wise Ones being leashed by the Seanchan is not going to help that in the slightest.

“Do not think that we will ignore this insult, Corana. Vengeance will come. Once this war is done, the Seanchan will feel the storm of our arrows and the tips of our spears. But not until after.”

The sad thing is, the Wise Ones were leashed as the price of peace and cooperation between Perrin and the Seanchan – a high price, certainly, but one at the time deemed necessary – but in making that peace, they ended up striking the first blow against the Aiel, which means there will be retaliation, which means it won’t end easily, if at all. It’s an exchange that fits well with the rest of the chapter, certainly.

Next (TGS ch 16) Previous (TGS ch 14)

[ladybuvelle]

Regarding the new lore, it seems to me that Demacia's attitude towards magic might be even more problematic for Sona than petricite. Lux's story shows that not only is Demacia distrustful of mages, it outright shuns them, to the point where even a noble like Lux is afraid. We know that Sona's music exerts an extremely powerful effect on those who hear it, whether or not it's actually magical in nature. Even so, might not Demacians still see that power as some breed of sorcery?

Cont - Also, I suppose there may yet be more info to come, and I understand the merits of taking a little while to let all the new information settle before analyzing it to death. That insight just kind of struck me, and I wondered if you'd had any initial thoughts on the matter.       

// So... What we know right now is that we’re not getting anything else for the moment. No Xin Zhao, Fiora, Poppy, and no Sona story (though at least Poppy and Fiora are currently situated somewhat in new lore). So Xin and Sona (coincidentally the only two Ionians of the group - though perhaps Xin is debatable because something something where the fuck does he even actually come from) are left completely out in the cold. Xin Zhao isn’t even mentioned in Jarvan’s new bio, even in passing. And while Lestara Buvelle is mentioned is Quinn’s bio, it paints to me a very odd picture that a woman like her would be out hunting dangerous game like that.

For all we know, these two might be in for a lot of changes. But Sona is where it gets especially tricky. Xin at least has the benefit of being a warrior. I don’t think Demacians have anything against foreigners in a general sense (they were surprisingly accepting of Shyvana despite her very different physical appearance with her purple skin), they just don’t trust magic at all. So he’s off the hook for now. Xin can sit pretty with his spear by the king and it’s fine.

But you’re right. Where the fuck does Sona fit now?

Lux recently got some new voice lines, and in one she claims to be a big fan of Sona - even knowing “what an etwahl is”. And I believe Sona still falls under the category of “Demacian champs” within taunts/jokes/etc in-game, as well as her page still saying she’s Demacian-aligned, so at least for the short-term I want to assume Sona is still staying in Demacia. Because on the other hand, Lux has been more traveled than the average Demacian. If Sona was taken out of there, it’s possible Lux could still know about Sona. But I doubt this is the case. For now.

So. Annullers. They seek out people who can use magic and toss them outside the city in “slums”. And generally speaking we pretty much know that mages are straight-up exiled. So why. the fuck. would Lestara Buvelle wake up one day, go to her breakfast table, read her local paper, and suddenly have the thought “I should go adopt a magical Ionian orphan and bring her back home. Wouldn’t that be swell?”

It makes no sense anymore. Not in the current context, not when we don’t know anything more. There are tons of possible theories I could come up with, but they’d all be just that. As things stand it just doesn’t fit. Why would people tolerate Sona? How could she possibly thrive in a kingdom petrified of sorcery and general magic use? Demacians make no distinction between “good” and “bad” magic. There is no middle ground, nor can a middle ground be discussed. Garen says as much at the end of “For Demacia”. They live the way they do because holy shit the world is a scary and unforgiving fantasy hellscape outside, and they are just trying to scratch out some modicum of peace for their people. They have absolutely every reason to be afraid when demons (implied Nocturne) are out there, able to put entire towns to sleep and bring their nightmares to physical form and life. When there are witches who capture soldiers and devour their memories before killing them outright. Massive dragons and tunnel worms that crop up every 100 years to feast and dens full of dozens upon dozens of flesh-eating creatures. Runeterra is fucking scary and Demacia is just trying to fucking live.

Demacians care deeply about each other. This is a point constantly driven home; that their sense of community is so, so strong. But as a culture, they are frightened.

So how the hell do you even begin to present someone like Sona?

Lux currently gets away with it because she was taken in by the Illuminators. For whatever reason they’re willing to work with a mage to seek out demons and sources of dark magic and monsters. Lux is basically a magical detective, more or less.

But Sona is a performer at heart. She’s surely not been drafted into the military, and it’s certainly not the case that her magic is harmless. How can she be trusted? How can she function? How does she get around the petricite problem? Even if she can still perform to some degree around petricite, it would still act as a seriously draining inhibitor.

Why would a wealthy Demacian woman travel all the way across the world and across the sea - a journey that probably took the better part of a year and was fraught with danger - to act on a rumor she probably heard somehow (HOW she even heard it, who the fuck knows since Demacia doesn’t fucking trade!), to look into an instrument and the girl it’s attached to possibly during the Noxian invasion but we don’t even know what’s going on with that, and then she brings this girl home.

It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense unless you force it to make sense, and I can’t really come up with any satisfying conclusions. And in a way, right now, I don’t want to even bother. Because I’m sure no matter what I come up with I’m probably going to be wrong. Sona’s probably not going to get any explanation until the Ionian update, if I had to guess. I have the strangest suspicion Sona may being going back to Ionia... or maybe she’s (pardon the pun) floating around.

I honestly don’t know. And I’m frustrated. And not to call anybody in particular out, but I’m too tired by my own mind ticking away at this to be open to suggestions or further arguments on the subject right now.