#but the discomfort is Distinct and Unpleasant. and now I’m just having to sit with it. and Feel Uncomfortable. and try to accept what was

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

My roommate and I had a conversation last night and I keep rotating it in my brain and I Don’t Like It

[girlmeetsliv3]

Lilies of the Valley VI

A/B/O!BTS x Reader

Flowers can have different meanings depending on the flower shape, color, and method in which they are presented. Lilies are my favorite for such a simple flower can have so many distinct meanings.

     “Why is there a missing flower you ask? I have left it out for only you could complete me.”

Release Date: 06/05/20 @ 7 pm

previous ~ next

         It had been three days since YN had broken the fever and experienced her heat. The past days had been uneventful mainly, as most of the alphas remained hidden away in the main house. Like a routine, each of the men would swing by to check on her: Taehyung in the morning, Jimin for lunch, and Yoongi at dinner. It had been annoying at first, but YN had become accustomed to their presence which after dwelling on it for some bit she surmised was their plan. Then there lay another issue which had entirely slipped her mind until earlier this morning when she had received a call from her mother.

           “Hi, Mom.”

           “Oh, it’s so nice to hear your voice. You really should call more often we all miss you.”

           “I know. Sorry, I’ve just been busy.”

           “I was just calling to remind you about your sister’s engagement brunch. Seeing as you didn’t rsvp.”

           Shit. “Yeah, um, about that -”

"No excuses. You promised you would go." There was a brief pause before her mother spoke again. "I know you're worried, but it's the 21st-century darling. Mates aren't as important as they used to be. People are a lot more open-minded nowadays."

           “I know, Mom.”

           “I just miss you so much, YN. It would mean a lot to the family if you showed up. You might regret not being there and your sister has promised that they’ll be no unmated alphas so you don’t have to worry.”

           “Alright, mom. I’ll be there.”

           Now YN had a little over twenty-four hours to convince her mates to allow her to go alone. It would be easier to steal the crown jewels. Though she appreciated it, the men had been noticeably tenser since her heat and she couldn’t predict how they would react. So, perhaps it would be best to wait this out. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. No point in damaging the delicate peace that had been established between her and the pack.

            "You seem distracted," Jimin commented as the two of them sat at the edge of her bed watching some random sitcom YN had settled on. In front of her was a bowl of ramyeon that had been cooked by Seokjin. It hurt her pride to admit that it tasted delicious as if the man needed any more positive qualities to be attributed to him. "I was just wondering how everyone is." If the alphas were still out of commission, it would be an easier escape. The betas were still protective over YN, but less so.  

           “Ah, about that. We were wondering if you wanted to join us for dinner tonight? I promise everyone will be on their best behavior.”

           YN doubted that sincerely, but it wouldn’t hurt her to show up. It would better her chances of convincing them, by demonstrating that all the effects of her heat were gone. Though there was one thing to account for. “Is that okay? So soon after their ruts?” YN was sure hormones were bound to be raging and it might not bode well for her either, but Jimin gave her the sweetest of smiles when he said. “Of course, we’d never do anything to put you in harm's way.” How could she not believe him? Even when deep down she knew it was a lie.

          It stank. To be entirely honest it wasn't a bad smell, but it was so intense that YN could practically choke on it and that's what made it unpleasant. The manor was less polished than the first time she had been there, but not so. Before it looked like something one would find in the cover of architectural digest, now it simply looked lived in. Even if it was warmer these days, YN still covered up drowning herself in jeans and a large wool sweater. Yoongi hadn't commented anything when he came to pick her up, merely intertwined his hands in hers, and led her towards the dining room. The second she crossed over the threshold, arms swept her up into the air. Jungkook's musky scent filled her senses.

           “I missed you.” He said, before placing her back on the ground. It took all her will power, not to recoil from the young alpha and he seemed greatly pleased at that. “Yah, Kookie. Let her be, you stink.” Hoseok scolded, as he helped set the dishes. As YN glanced around she saw everyone settling into their seats, her eyes met Seokjin’s briefly and he flashed her a smile. One that, subconsciously or not, YN returned. However, someone was missing as there were only six in the room.

            "Where's Namjoon?" YN asked, looking around. Everyone seemed to stiffen a bit but refrained from answering. Suddenly, YN felt hot breath caress her ears causing her to jump slightly. Namjoon chuckled before placing his arms on her hips, "Right here, Lily." Before she could respond, he moved away towards his seat at the front. YN went to sit between the beta's like last time but found the only available space was between Jungkook and Hoseok. Great. This is going to be a long night. From what little she knew about ruts, YN knew that alphas tended to be a bit needy afterward - especially if they were mated. YN hadn't assumed this would matter much since her partial bond was tied to Jungkook and not the lead alpha, but it seemed to affect them all nonetheless. On the one hand, there were the peering eyes of Namjoon and Jungkook moving his chair ever so slightly closer to hers whenever he thought she wasn't looking. On her other side was Hoseok, whose legs would brush hers under the table.

           Then there was Seokjin, who simply smiled at her whenever their eyes met - which was a lot. Even though the atmosphere wasn’t as tense as the first night, it still felt suffocating to her. She was beginning to look forward to the trip, preferring to stay a weekend with her stingy relatives rather than the men.

           “Are you alright, YN? You’ve barely touched your food.” Suddenly all eyes were on her, she nodded meekly trying to play it off but the damage had been done.

             Hoseok’s palm came to rest on her forehead and she wasn’t sure how he was supposed to check her temperature given how warm he was. “You are a bit warm.”

            “Do you not feel good?” Jungkook spoke up beside her, as he tucked a loose strand behind her ear.

             “I’m fine. Just a bit warm that’s all.” Immediately Namjoon gestured for the air conditioning to be lowered. All eyes were on her now and despite how uncomfortable it made her, it did present an opportunity. Here goes nothing. "I wanted to speak to all of you about something." The change was minuscule, blink and you'll miss it sort of thing, but had YN been paying attention she might have noticed the darkened look that crossed over then men's faces. How their eyes became hooded in anticipation.

             “My sister is engaged and I’m supposed to be attending a family brunch is her honor.” At this all seven of them visibly slackened, tension exiting their bodies.

              "That's fantastic," Jimin spoke, lips pulled upward into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Unfortunately I've got work, so I won't be able to meet the family just yet."

             Wait. What? “Uh -”

             Taehyung's baritone voice echoed loudly, "I can't either. Have to help Jimin." It was then that YN realized she'd been misunderstood. They thought she was asking for accompaniment when all she had been doing was informing them. Cautiously her eyes turned to Yoongi, who merely shrugged. "I'm overdue for a deadline." No.

            “Well,” Namjoon cleared his throat. “That settles it then, you’ll be going with us.” If the smile he flashed her was meant to be reassuring, it accomplished the opposite of its goals.

               "Promise me, you'll behave." Yoongi wrapped his arms around Hoseok's neck puckering his lips as the lead alpha leaned down to kiss him. "No promises." He smirked, before placing the last of his luggage in the trunk. YN could swear it was a week-long trip with the number of clothes the men had packed, not to mention all the last-minute wardrobe changes they had forced on her. There was a bigger issue that hung over YN's head, much larger than her being stuck with only Alphas for the entire weekend, it was that her family wasn't aware of her current living situation. All they knew of her 'mates' was the incident and YN didn't think they'd be so inclined to welcome them into their home.

                So, they had booked a hotel. It didn't really address the issue but considering YN was certainly going to arrive late, her childhood home was bound to be taken up by relatives. Once in the car, the atmosphere was quite tense though that was mainly because Jungkook had almost thrown a temper tantrum when he saw that YN was sitting between Seokjin and Namjoon. Not him. "Jungkook if you don't quell your hormones, I will buy you a literal dog house for you to sleep in." Seokjin threatened, earning a few snickers and a pout from the young alpha.  

           YN stared out the window seeing the houses move by as Namjoon scrolled on his phone. Whenever YN was in cars she always thought of what she should do if an escape needed to be made. The fault of that might be on all the spy movies she grew up watching. The other might be the Omega protection course she was forced to take in college which engrained survival skills such as: covering up, self-defense, and how to escape a kidnapper. Fun things. She was beginning to wonder whether or not escape was possible when it dawned on YN that her eyes had been situated on Namjoon’s phone the entire time. The man in question had noticed as well.

           “Sorry, I zoned out.” She rushed to apologize.

           Namjoon smiled, “Don’t worry I noticed. I was just setting up an appointment with Dr. Lee.” Who? "She's an OB. I spoke with her to get you off suppressants." Ah, right. YN had yet to tell them that her prolonged heat was more her due to misuse than the suppressants. Sensing her discomfort, Seokjin grabbed her hand and squeezed it tenderly. "Don't worry. We'll figure it out." YN couldn't figure out if he'd been referring to the suppressants, the family visit, or everything that was happening. It didn't matter, YN didn't believe him for a second.  

              Instead, YN took a deep breath and closed her eyes, preferring sleep than having any more interactions with the alphas. She knew once they arrived, she would need all her strength. Her family wasn't bound to be happy at not being informed at their daughter's mating status - not to mention who her mates were. It seems Jungkook was wearing headphones for YN could barely pick up the rhythmic thumping of bass, but that was enough to lull her into a nap.

               When YN awoke, she found herself strewn across the laps of the men. Though she had not opened her eyes, she sensed her head was resting on Hoseok's with her feet at Namjoon's. Delicate hands weaved themselves through her hair, their calming nature causing YN to shift in order to feel the sensation more. She swore she heard the muttering of a 'cute' before the glare of the sun hit her face, forcing her awake. "C'mon, baby. Rise and shine." Yn grunted and stood up, the back passenger door had been opened but all of them had remained in place. In her groggy state, YN rubbed her eyes and asked. "Why'd you move me?" Instead of an answer, she got a pat on the back and Jungkook tugged her off the car.

                YN's eyes widened in recognition as she saw Yeong-gwang's school grounds in front of her. It had been years, but the school's arches remained as pristine as she remembered them. Its Rococo inspired architecture is a clear demonstration of its wealth and status. YN's parents could just barely afford tuition and only received a scholarship because her grandfather attended. "What are we doing here?" She wanted to move her eyes away, but they remained frozen on the platinum gates. A place that once held such fond memories was now only a place of tragedy for her.

           “Your sister wanted to meet here.” And as if having called on the devil herself, she appeared.

             “What the fuck are they doing here?!”

Sorry this update is short, but that’s because the next one is going to be long and important.

Tag List:

@hxsxxk-180294​ @saxpam24​ @trixsterbi @mel-gonzalez07​ @cstobitk​ @dionysus-png​ @taekimxx​ @moonlitehunter @joonie-grim​ @wonderlace19​ @sugashaye​ @rosey-roseu​ @mintaemark​ @ciderxi @soloikeadates​

@alex--awesome--22​

[beca-mitchell]

growing pains (1/1)

Word count: 1.6k bc i keep it short and sweet 

Summary: Beca pulls a muscle because she’s out of shape. Rated M for sex of the face-sitting kind.

This was written quickly (and is therefore unbeta’d) to accompany this gifset by @asimplefavors​ because she’s a demon.

Read below or on AO3.

* * * * *

Beca can see the surprise on Chloe’s face when she proceeds to quickly pull off her shirt and clamber up the bed—careful to not jab her knees into any part of Chloe—so she can settle with her knees gently framing the sides of Chloe’s head. Delicately, Beca ensures that Chloe’s hair is bunched up and away from her knees, not wanting to cause Chloe any discomfort, though her excitement makes her hands tremble momentarily.

Immediately, Chloe’s hands come up to her thighs, eyes flicking downwards to where Beca is wet and exposed and ready for her, like she has been all night.

Even though Chloe often takes some pleasure in feigning surprise at how much Beca wants her on a typical night (read: she takes some pleasure in prolonging Beca’s torture), this surprise isn’t quite that. It’s more about the positions they find themselves in and the sudden, abrupt shift in the dynamic (however slight) that typically flows between them.

The surprise still doesn’t quite leave even as Chloe’s tongue flicks out to wet her lower lip in contemplation: her eyebrow arches up her forehead as her gaze flicks back up to Beca’s face. Beca goes for a grin. Maybe a smirk, she isn’t quite taking stock of what her face is doing beyond the slow blush spreading across her cheeks.

It’s not that they’ve never done this before, it’s more that Beca has never really been, in delicate terms, eager to position herself on top of Chloe like this.

Though, for whatever reason, she’s not sure why. They’ve been dating for half a year now, it’s probably long overdue, Beca thinks. She thinks this as she she reaches down to run her fingers through Chloe’s hair, marvelling in the soft, silken strands between her fingers and the way Chloe’s breath exhales sheer warmth across her sensitive centre.

“Beca,” Chloe rasps, hands sliding up and down Beca’s thighs. “This is new.”

“I like trying new things.”

(It’s kind of a lie, but Beca’s kind of willing to try new things for Chloe. Of course she is.)

Beca exhales noisily when Chloe’s hands move to grip her hips with immediate firmness, tugging her down snugly over her mouth. With a groan, Beca rocks her hips greedily just Chloe’s lips and tongue go to work against her cunt. Even without much of a preamble, Beca feels ripple after ripple of pleasure as Chloe sucks and licks at every available area she can reach. The grip on Beca’s hips has only tightened in the past few seconds, making Beca react instinctively by grinding her hips down on Chloe’s face while also being mindful of keeping herself upright. She can see Chloe’s eyes and how brightly they shine up at her whenever Chloe doesn’t have her eyes closed. It’s a struggle between tilting her head down to watch Chloe work between her legs mercilessly and tilting her head back in pleasure she can just take in every last swipe of Chloe’s tongue through her aching core.

Beca is not at all surprised by how turned on she is. She craves that feeling of fullness already—needs Chloe inside her in whatever capacity possible—and can do little more than tangle her fingers further into Chloe’s messy hair.

“Chlo,” she moans. “There—please—“ She cuts herself with a sharp gasp as Chloe’s tongue probes and pushes into her ever so slightly. Without much room for articulate words, Beca groans and swivels her hips as best as she can without dislodging the sensation of Chloe’s tongue—her lips, her mouth—between her legs. Chloe moans audibly in response, changing tactics and shifting her head so she can get at Beca’s clit with more accuracy. Beca groans and lurches forward, catching herself just barely as she tries to regain balance.

For a few minutes more, Beca is content to let Chloe sweep her up in pleasure, lust, and love. She decides fairly quickly that she wants to put this in their regular sex rotation, unsure why they had never done this before. If she had time to dwell on it, she’d contemplate why Chloe had never suggested it before.

She can really only focus on how her thighs tense which each distinct press of Chloe’s lips to her cunt; how she aches and trembles with how empty she feels without Chloe’s fingers pressing deep inside her and yet, it is that exact tension that works with how wet she is and how Chloe maps out those aches between her legs, bathing inch after inch of skin with increasingly desperate, messy kisses and sucks that match Beca’s own need coiling inside her.

Chloe takes a breath to lift a hand from Beca’s hip so she can curl it just inside her thigh and gently press on Beca’s clit while she lifts her head ever so slightly to speak. “You’re so good like this,” Chloe whispers, her voice absolutely sinful and just the slightest hint muffled. Her breath no longer feels warm between Beca’s legs—simply hot and unbearably so. Beca whines, shifting at the combination of the sensation of Chloe’s fingers and breath and her words—her fucking words—tilting her head back as she loses herself more and more in the sensation.

Still—

“Don’t stop,” Beca whines, knowing Chloe will probably give her shit for it later, but she can’t help herself. Her mind is hazy, as it usually whenever she and Chloe get bed like this (though not like this, not before). She can barely think beyond how expertly and wonderfully Chloe takes care of her. “Chlo,” she whines again when she doesn’t feel that heady sensation of Chloe’s mouth between her legs. “Please.”

Chloe, to Beca’s surprise, complies, though not without another quick press and swivel of her fingers to Beca’s clit, sending another jolt of pleasure through Beca.

There is something about the way she is perched on top of her girlfriend’s face—the way Chloe still somehow holds her with distinct possession and firmness—that sends rippling heat through her lower belly. An especially firm suck on Beca’s clit makes her grunt and shift again, this time with more tangible tension coursing through her, starting somewhere in her stomach and—

“Oh, fuck,” Beca grunts, now torn between pleasure and very faint hints of pain. “Chlo—“ she gasps as Chloe expertly flicks at her clit with her tongue, immediately followed by a slow lick and—shit, Beca thinks with a wince. “Chloe, baby—I—wait. Wait, fuck.“

It takes a moment for Beca to gather herself as various signals are being fired from her brain to the rest of body, confusing her, yes, but ultimately, disappointing her as she registers that the ache that proceeds to dominate her sense of feeling is the one that is the most unpleasant: a sharp feeling to her side, around her mid-section.

“Beca, what—” Chloe is concerned more than anything. Her grip loosens on Beca’s hips and she moves to run her hands soothingly up and down the tops of Beca’s thighs. She taps quickly on Beca’s leg, indicating for her to move off her so they can resettle on the bed. Beca doesn’t even have time to admire the redness of Chloe’s lips, the flush of her cheeks, or the wild state of her hair before she’s rocked by a quick jab to her side.

“Oh, fuck, I think I pulled a muscle,” she blurts before she can think about how embarrassing that sounds in the context of everything.

To her credit—always to her credit—Chloe does not vocalize anything beyond the slightest of giggles. She moves to wrap her arm around Beca’s back, pulling her in for a soft kiss, almost jarring in how soft it is compared to how vigorously and enthusiastically she had been eating Beca out just moments before.

In the quiet few seconds that pass as Beca slowly processes the taste of herself lingering on and in Chloe’s mouth, she forgets momentarily the brief reminder that she is no longer quite a young college-aged student with a regular fitness regime that was required of her as part of a group of acapella performers.

She is sharply brought back into the present with a groan from her own lips as the discomfort continues to persist. “I can’t,” she whines against Chloe’s mouth. “Just—just let me lie down and you can finish,” she tries desperately, mindful of the pressing ache between her legs even with everything else going on.

Chloe giggles and presses her face against her shoulder, wrapping her arm tighter around Beca in affection. “You’re so out of shape, baby. Let’s just get you in the bath or something and we’ll try again.” Chloe leans back, eyes glinting. “Maybe when you’ve done a few stretches. Just in case.”

Beca gapes after her as Chloe rises to grab her bathrobe from her closet. “You make me sound like I’m old.”

“Well you’re definitely not young,” Chloe mutters, audible enough for Beca to hear.

Beca glares at her girlfriend. “You’re older than me,” she retorts, eyes shamelessly tracking down Chloe’s body. It is, Beca thinks, totally unfair that Chloe looks the way she does on such a regular, consistent basis and Beca is simply expected to just forget about that fact of life to deal with a stupid cramp in her side. She mourns for just a second when Chloe pulls out one of Beca’s shirt to wear temporarily.

“And yet,” Chloe says with a sigh as she finishes buttoning up a loose plaid shirt. “I’m not the one who pulled a muscle while we were having sex.”

“Yet,” Beca clarifies. “Your time will come.”

“You know,” Chloe says seriously as Beca wraps her bathrobe around herself. “This is why I never let you be on top.”

Beca laughs, only slightly embarrassed. “Wow,” she drawls, rising from the bed to follow Chloe.

fin.

[sinningsanders]

Experiment

  words: 2000

warnings: bondage, smut 

taglist: @austinsugarplum @stupidfangi3l @nonbinary-gay-trash

@virgilsblogofanxietys @pundefulpapa @your-average-pangirl @iamanemotrashbag @therealmoshar

Being “Logic” meant that Logan was considered the most intelligent among the Sides. He took pride in this distinction, studying hard to show it. So, it was incredibly rare when he admitted to being wrong.

 This would not be one of those times.    “Come on, Lo! Just admit that I’m right, you are such a sub!” Roman said loudly.    It was just the two of them in the Mindscape, with Patton and Virgil out helping Thomas with his latest issue. Roman would have never brought up this conversation around the others. When he was with Logan, he felt comfortable talking about these things, maybe a little too comfortable.    “There’s no way you’re correct, Roman. I’m a naturally dominant person. Additionally, you have no evidence, while I have debate after debate to back me up.” Logan declared with confidence. He turned back to his book, thoroughly done with the conversation. He didn’t see the look in Roman’s eyes as he walked away.    It was nearly a month later that the issue resurfaced. Logan sat in his room, puzzling over the latest schedule he had created for Thomas. He was startled out of his work by a knock far too dramatic to be anyone other than Roman. Turning his chair away from his desk, he moved to answer the door.    “Hello, Roman. What brings you to my room?” he asked. Roman gave him a smile.   “How did you plan to spend tonight?”   Logan frowned in confusion. “Working, of course,” he answered. “Was there something you required my assistance with?”   Roman smiled again, but it felt different this time. “Well, yes actually. See, I’m conducting a little experiment that I need help with and Padre and Hot Topic are busy. Of course, when it comes to matters of science, I’d prefer to have you anyway.”    Logan sighed, thinking it over. “Very well. I suppose I can help for a minute.” Roman’s face lit up. Reaching forward, he grabbed Logan’s arm and pulled him from the room. Logan felt a tug of sorts and suddenly found himself in front of a set of large doors.   “Come in, Logan!” he heard Roman call.    Pushing open the door slowly, Logan stepped into a scene that seemed to come straight out of a movie. Stone floors, tall windows, and rich wooden furnishings, with a large, soft-looking bed in the center. Roman stood by a window, the light turning his hair gold and accenting the elegant maroon robe draped over his broad shoulders.    “Roman, what is going on?” Logan asked, a little overwhelmed by the display. “I thought you said there was an experiment and you needed assistance?”     Roman turned to look at Logan with a smirk on his lips. “I did. This is the experiment. I thought about what you said last month. About your not-so-secretly suppressed submissive side.”   Logan’s cheeks went a little pink at his words. “I… recall.” Roman stepped closer. “Then you’ll also recall that you claimed I had no evidence. Well, the only way to collect evidence is to experiment. A change of scenery should greatly change the outcome.”   Roman stood very close now. Logan was unsure how he had been able to approach without Logan even being aware he was moving.   “How does changing the room affect d-dominance?” Logan blushed harder as he stuttered on the word.    “Ah, I was hoping you’d ask that question. In the Mindscape, you are Logan, the embodiment of Logic, and it helps. Here, however,” Roman gestured around him, “-you’re out of your element. You’ve never been in my kingdom before and your knowledge won’t get you very far.” Roman rested his hand gently against Logan’s chest. “You have no power here.”   Logan swallowed and spoke quietly. “Well then, Your Majesty, what is your hypothesis?”   “I hypothesize that if one was to be removed from his comfort zone and stripped of every ounce of authority, he would exhibit otherwise unseen submissive traits.” Roman’s voice was low, and he was leaning so close to Logan that their lips were almost touching.        Roman spun them around and walked Logan backwards towards the bed. Eventually, Logan was backed into the edge of the bed and he fell onto it. Roman loomed above him, his hands working to untie the belt holding his robe together.    Holding the belt in his hands, he looked at Logan sprawled out below him.       “Can I tie you up, Lo?” he asked, smiling when Logan nodded, suddenly seeming very shy.   Logan knew he was playing right into Roman’s hands, but found that, at this point, he didn’t really care.    “Okay, Logan. I use a system kind of like a stoplight. Green is good, yellow is maybe, and red is no. When I say ‘color’, I want you to respond with one of those, okay?” Roman’s voice was soft, but still held a note of command. Logan nodded, moving up the bed to rest comfortably on the pillows. Crossing his wrists, he put them against the headboard. Roman leaned over him, using the belt to secure him in place. Once he had tightened the knot, he looked to Logan.   “Color?”   “Green.” Roman smiled. “Good boy.”    He slipped the robe off his shoulders and stood before Logan completely naked. Logan barely had a moment to appreciate the view before Roman straddled him on the bed, pressing his lips to Logan’s in a surprisingly gentle kiss. Logan moaned into the kiss, and Roman nipped lightly at Logan’s lips in response before shifting down to his jawline and neck, tugging the collar of his shirt down.    Logan let out a gasp as Roman sucked a mark on his neck, while also skimming his fingers along the skin under his shirt. Moving still lower, he placed teasing kisses along Logan’s stomach. He ran his hands down to Logan’s thighs, squeezing lightly, before sitting up.    “I’m going to take these off. Is that okay?”  Roman asked as he fingered the button on Logan’s dress slacks.  Logan nodded, biting his lip as Roman popped the button. Roman pulled Logan’s pants and boxers down his legs, getting them caught on the shoes he hadn’t noticed Logan was still wearing. Throwing aside the offending shoes, then the pants, then the boxers, he finally refocused his attention back to Logan and his already achingly hard cock. Roman spread Logan’s legs and settled in the space between them. Roman wrapped his hand around Logan’s cock, making him let out a choked gasp. Roman smiled to himself.  

   “Someone’s sensitive.”

     Logan managed a nod in response. Roman set a steady pace stroking him, listening to the small sounds and moans he made, noting that they still seemed to be restrained. He shook his head. Of course Logan would be stubborn. Lowering his head, Roman licked the tip of Logan’s cock, before taking the head in his mouth. Instead of moving down, he kept his attention focused on the tip, holding his hand still at the base of his cock. Logan began to grow frustrated, thrusting his hips in an attempt to feel more of Roman’s mouth.      Roman pulled off with a pop and pressed Logan’s hips back to the bed. “Keep them there. You move again, and I’ll stop. Understood?” His voice was rough. Logan groaned, nodding and biting his lip. Roman paused for a moment, looking to Logan.    “Color?” he asked softly.    “Green.” Logan answered; voice strained with need. Roman took Logan’s cock fully into his mouth, causing him to moan. Roman set a steady pace, bobbing his head up and down. Logan’s moans grew louder and more desperate the longer this went on, body tensed and breathing erratic. He was close, but Roman clearly had other plans, pulling away before Logan could find his release.     “Why’d you stop?” he called, voice catching on the last syllable as Roman took him in his mouth again. Having been so close to his edge before it didn't take long for him to start nearing it again. He didn’t get any closer than before when Roman pulled away from him again. This time when Logan cried out Roman slapped his thigh. Logan snapped his mouth shut, looking at Roman with wide eyes. It hadn't hurt, but Logan also hadn't expected the jolt of pleasure it caused.       “Color?” Roman asked, his tone calm, but Logan could see the hesitation on his face.       “Green” Logan’s voice was breathless.     Roman nodded, leaning over to kiss Logan as he opened the drawer to the left of the bed and pulled out a small bottle. Pulling away from the kiss, he returned to his position between Logan’s thighs. Opening the bottle, he poured a generous amount of lube onto his fingers before tracing Logan’s hole. He locked eyes with Logan to ask for consent. Only when Logan nodded did he push a single finger in.    The feeling was strange, but not unpleasant and, after a minute of gentle movement, Logan nodded at Roman to add another one. The stretch was a bit uncomfortable, this being the first time Logan had bottomed. Roman paused when he noticed the discomfort.    “Hey, Lo, look at me. Color?”    Logan focused on Roman. “Green.” he responded.    Roman nodded and began moving again. He hooked his fingers causing Logan to moan loudly as he hit a sweet spot. Roman smiled using his other hand to bring Logan’s cock back to his mouth. Bobbing his head in time with the movement of his fingers, Roman had Logan hurling towards his orgasm again. Once again, he stopped right before Logan tipped over the edge.    Sitting up, he removed his fingers before leaning back towards the side table and pulling out a condom. Rolling it on, he positioned himself above Logan, looking at him before pushing in. Roman moved slowly, careful not to hurt the other man. He paused after a few seconds and looked at Logan.    “Color?” his voice was hoarse and strained.      “Yellow...please just give me a minute,” Logan panted as he closed his eyes.    Roman started trailing kisses over Logan’s chest and neck in hopes to distract him from his pain.    “Ro, you can move now,” Logan whispered, afraid to ruin the suddenly sweet moment.        Roman nodded, keeping his lips pressed to Logan's chest as he slowly resumed. His thrust was gentle, but Logan was impatient. He wrapped his legs around Roman’s waist hooking his feet and dragging the other man down on top of him.     “Go faster!” he demanded. Roman, however, slowed down more, pulling his upper body away.    “Now, now. It appears another experiment has presented itself. Is Logan a bratty sub or a good boy?” Roman ended his sentence with a quick snap of his hips.     He paused again, waiting for an answer. Logan locked eyes with Roman and whined. When Roman still didn’t move he resorted to begging.      “Please! Please go faster! Fuck me!” Logan pleaded, not caring how loud he was being. Roman finally listened, thrusting harder and faster.     Logan yelped when Roman’s hand made contact with his ass, moaning when the second smack sounded. Having been denied his orgasm three times he was teetering on the edge of ecstasy. Roman reached in between them with the hand he had been spanking him with and wrapped his hand around Logan’s cock.       Logan cried out as he was thrown over the edge, his orgasm painting their stomachs. Roman groaned as his hips stuttered and he followed Logan into bliss. Roman pulled out gently before disappearing into a room to the left of the bed.      He came back a minute later with a washcloth. Cleaning up the mess on both himself and Logan, he tossed the rag in the hamper. Crawling back into bed, he pulled Logan under the covers then against his chest.       “So did you like the experiment?” Romans' voice was soft. Logan nodded as he snuggled close to Roman.      “You should let me help you with more experiments soon,” Logan mumbled before he drifted off to sleep in Roman's arms.

[witchespromise]

An Intervention

Arelle de Dzemael’s sitting room was perfect. Recently remodeled in more current fashion, a mix of respectable old sprinkled throughout the newer more modest fabrics. It gave the appearance of reserve and shunning luxury, though Brighid knew that such facades were shallow and merely for show. The room was also slightly too warm, and they had left her to sit alone for slightly too long. An obvious slight with a clear message. She would wait without refreshments and alone until the Lady of the house deemed fit to see to her. It was a sloppy, obvious ploy that disinterested Brighid. If she didn’t already know all she needed to about Arelle, this would tell her everything. When the swish of skirts reached her ear, Brighid schooled her expression into one of wide-eyed interest. She was, after all, a poorer relation. And she should show appropriate fascination at the well off presentation of her richer relatives. “Dearest cousin, please forgive me for leaving you waiting. Oh come now, let me see you.” As Arelle swept up to her, arms extended, Brighid was already moving to her feet. She had to lean over to kiss the air next to her hostesses cheek and Arelle clasped her upper arms, holding her at a distance to look her over. A scathing bit of scrutiny that could come across as flaying to anyone with perhaps a bit more tact. “Oh you're just as statuesque as that brother of yours. The things I’ve heard about Sharlayan cuisine must all be lies!” Brighid smiled sweetly in the face of the dig about her height and her weight, lowering herself to the couch with a quiet laugh. This would be unpleasant.

One sided small talk filled the air for nearly a bell as they snacked on excessively iced biscuits and tiny flavorless sandwiches. The tea was so floral that Brighid idly wondered if it was actually just Arelle’s preferred perfume - the same that had doused the letter that Silvestre had kept secreted away inside his shirt. She paid half attention while pretending at being engrossed, letting her mind settle on the reason she was here. The memory of Silvestre’s clear embarrassment - his shame - pricked in her mind like a thumbtack on a map. A precise moment in their short history that served as a true point of catalyst. Brighid liked to think of herself as removed from the troubles of others. Able to look upon things clinically, unaffected by base emotions. But Arelle Dzemael’s unwanted advances had harmed someone undeserving of the attention. Silvestre had felt trapped as a pawn of someone who intended to use their influence and status to get what they wished out of him for whatever reasons and he suffered for it. As he’d explained his predicament, Brighid had felt a curious coil of emotion. One which she hadn’t yet had time to study. She’d been furious. Not with Silvestre of course, certainly not. Lady Arelle held that honorable distinction of being the target of Brighid’s ire. And now here she sat not two fulms away from the woman, sipping her tea and listening to her prattle on. There was a lull in conversation as Arelle availed herself of a biscuit and Brighid set her tea down. She clasped her hands in her lap and turned to face the other woman, a pensive expression on her face. As intended, Arelle latched onto the look immediately - a fly honing in on ripe carrion. “My dear I do apologize. I’ve spoken so much that I’ve entirely neglected the reason you’ve come. Obviously something ails you…” Brighid only made a slight show of discomfort, smoothing her hands over the pale ruffles of her dress. She kept her fidgeting to a minimum so as to not overdo it, then leaned forward ever so slightly. “No… no, not ails me. I… it’s merely that I heard a rumor. And rather than ponder over the truth of it I decided to see it set straight immediately. I respect you far too much you see. To believe every little tawdry…” She silenced herself with a little gasp, glancing away briefly. For her part, Arelle was ensnared. The idea of gossip revolving around her was coeurlnip to her ego. The lady leaned in, nodding encouragingly. “Oh of course, of course. I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But please, tell me what has you so concerned and I’ll gladly set  things straight.” Brighid nodded and looked back, smiling meagerly. “Yes, thank you. It’s simply… I’ve heard that you have… intentions. Towards a young man of a lesser house. Of course that would be your prerogative! I’ve no interest as to what you do in your own time in your own home… it’s just that… well you know certainly that my father is doing poorly. I returned from my studies to help care for him but even in his condition he’s still determined to hear of what goes on in this city he loves. He consumes every slip of information that comes his way and I only wish to be able to ensure him that these rumors are entirely spurious…” She allowed herself a moment of pleased indulgence as she watched color drain from and then flood Arelle’s cheeks. The other woman sputtered for a moment, unbecomingly, before indignant anger surged across her face. “Well I suppose it serves me right for thinking Morianne could keep her mouth shut on a…” She silenced herself immediately, cutting a suspicious look to Brighid who was blithely reaching over to select a biscuit, showing no sign whatsoever of having heard a word that had been said. “I did reach out to the young man, but only out of a sense of business stewardship. With the Restoration continuing apace, my family is looking to invest in opportunities further outside the city as well. I mentioned this to my friend who clearly decided to misinterpret my intentions.” Brighid had to give her credit for a swift recovery - though she suspected that line about investments was something the lady must have practiced before. Still she looked shaken. Her anger barely restrained. Messy. “Oh that is a relief to hear.” Settling back in her seat with her biscuit she nibbled on it, a napkin carefully cupped to catch crumbs. “My father was concerned you see. About appearances. He holds your husband in such esteem - he really is his favorite cousin. And though he would not discuss the details with me - and I hope this is not tasteless of me to say - I believe that love he holds is reflected equally within his will. But my father - Halone bless his darling heart - could not possibly abide the thought of at all associating with such a rumor. Even in his death.” She took another moment to enjoy the ashy tone of Arelle’s complexion while lightly dabbing crumbs from her own lips. “I’m so glad I’ll be able to tell him that it’s all falsehoods. He will be relieved.” Using her adopted father’s poor condition to frame a lie to dissolve a blackmail was perhaps in truly poor taste. But as Arelle gave her assurances and spent another half a bell clearly flustered and speaking on about the acts of largesse that she had performed towards the less fortunate, Brighid could only think about the other name that had been slipped. Morianne de Haillenarte wasn’t as easily reached, but Brighid had no intention of letting the attempted slight go unanswered. With half an effort paid to Arelle’s continued blathering, Brighid let herself be appeased. She wouldn’t be fully satisfied of Silvestre’s safety until the ‘invitation’ had been recanted, and there did seem to be more to the situation than there appeared to be at first blush. But she would see it through to a completion. Then and only then would she allow herself to wonder about her own determination in this matter. Why was this so important to her? Why did she feel so viciously protective of a man she had known for so small a period of time? Thoughts to consider later. For the time being she drank her tea and continued her inane conversation. Next to consider was Lady Morianne. Only after that was dealt with would she allow herself to confront the thoughts and curiously strong emotions that came unbidden when she spoke to and of Silvestre Vigneaux.

[keeroo92]

My Brother’s Pain

For @dmcgenweek Day Three - Grief/Sleep

Takes place after the events of DMC5, before the epilogue scenes.

Vergil hated the Underworld.

Why?

Well, for starters, it was always so bloody cold. The chill of it set him on edge the instant he and Dante had crossed over. The familiar icy caress reminded him of his other visits to Hell. He knew from experience if he made it back to the Human Realm, it would take at least a week to feel warm again.

Second on the elder Sparda’s list of reasons to hate Hell was the smell. Every plane had a distinct odor to it, but there was always an undercurrent of wilting roses. Ever since his first “visit” he’d hated the fragrance of roses. By itself, the scent wasn’t worth noticing. But when you mixed in the plane's aroma they had landed on, it was abhorrent.

Wilting roses and wet canine. Only in the Underworld.

Add to the mix of unpleasantness the fact that demons attacked every ten minutes, and Vergil lacked the ability to imagine a worse location to find himself.

And Dante’s here, too. Ugh.

Regardless, he had a job to do, and Vergil would not allow failure to wound his pride. He allowed himself the luxury of wrinkling his nose in distaste as he flicked the Yamato to the side to expel the demon blood coating it, sheathing the blade in a single, fluid motion. Dante didn’t bother. His idiot brother absorbed his own weapon back inside his body without cleaning it.

“C’mon, Verg. Let’s get this done.”

Vergil scoffed, his long legs bringing him to his brother’s side within three strides as the man in red walked toward their goal; the Qlipoth.

“My sentiments exactly, brother.”

Gazing at the tree filled Vergil with shame. He struggled to believe how foolish he’d been to think summoning this monstrosity to the Human Realm would bring him greater power. How naïve to imagine he could somehow become stronger by splitting himself in half. No, his desperation had borne that idea; it didn’t bear further thought.

His new plan was to observe Dante and decide for himself if his methods might cause his own strength to rise if adopted. It was a strategy he’d never considered, but knowing the life his brother led and taking into consideration what his human half had experienced, it was worth exploring. Perhaps the answer was to indulge both sides of himself, as opposed to just the one.

Even if his assessment proved incorrect, it would not be difficult to eliminate the man. Not considering how many demons were nearby waiting to rip him apart. Utilizing them would be child’s play.

The two men reached the Qlipoth within mere hours. There was no change in the lighting to mark the passage of time, leading Vergil to believe this was one of the Realms without sunlight. One where despite this, instead of the land being eternally shadowed, it was eternally bright.

Sleep would be a challenge.

A challenge to face later.

Vergil followed his brother to the bottom of the tree, the pair of them drawing their blades together to destroy the last remnant of his idiocy.

The Qlipoth fell easily to their combined might, a great crash marking its descent as it struck the ground. Once the rumbles subsided, Vergil once again sheathed his blade with care while Dante absorbed his own.

“Well… that’s that,” Dante commented.

“Indeed.”

“Guess we should find somewhere to rest for a bit.”

Vergil hummed his agreement, his cold eyes already scanning the environment for potential sites. Because they were in the Underworld, the Qlipoth hadn’t vanished upon being destroyed. Some of its limbs met nearby in a passable approximation of shelter. It still left one side open to attack, but it was an advantageous find, regardless.

“I’ll take first watch,” Vergil announced as he led his brother to the somewhat sheltered spot. Dante shrugged, peeling off his crimson jacket to curl up underneath it. He used one of the sleeves to cover his eyes and soon enough he filled the air with his restful snores.

Alone at last.

Vergil made a point to sweep his stern gaze across the horizon every few seconds, keeping vigil as was his duty. Yet as his eyes fulfilled his responsibilities, his mind wandered.

He couldn’t help but wonder about Nero. His son. He wasn’t sure how to describe his impression of that fact, his emotions too out of practice to recognize. His very bones informed him Dante had spoken the truth; he knew the boy was his. Yet there was no sense of ownership or urge to claim him.

I suppose I no longer have that right.

He’d made so many mistakes, so many errors in judgement. A twinge of unfamiliar discomfort made him shift uncomfortably as he dwelled on his many failures. He tried to find the language necessary to describe what he felt, but lacked the terminology. This, by itself, was alarming. Vergil prided himself on his vocabulary, always having a word ready for any -

“Mom…”

His eyes shot straight to Dante’s as he mumbled. The sleeve of his coat had fallen away at some point, letting Vergil stare in confusion as his brother writhed in the grip of his nightmares. His twin’s brows met and his teeth showed in a pained grimace.

Dante has nightmares?

“Mom… stay with me…”

Vergil turned away, redirecting his focus through sheer force of will. He envisioned a wall between himself and his brother, one that sound lacked the means to penetrate. He clenched his jaw in frustration as the echoing cries of his brother’s pain intermittently interrupted his musings. His thoughts drifted to their mother, of course. If Dante’s nightmares reflected reality, then it seemed she had left him behind as well.

A rush of understanding and sympathy did its best to overpower him, but he brutally grappled it into submission. Even if Eva left Dante behind, his life was still so different from his own that he didn’t merit kindness.

“Vergil… find Vergil…”

Dante’s muttered words sent Vergil reeling. He must have misheard his brother’s ramblings. For a moment, Vergil maintained his vigil. Yet his curiosity refused to abandon his thoughts and soon enough he edged nearer to his brother. He heard the low moans between the muttered expressions, his own name mixed alongside their mother’s in a cacophony of woe. He stepped closer, now standing mere feet away to listen to every word that escaped Dante’s lips.

“Mom… come back… too late…”

Vergil froze, not daring to draw breath as he listened. He tried to assemble the puzzle pieces into a coherent image, but without more information it was a fool’s errand.

Suddenly Dante’s eyes opened. He instantly spotted Vergil crouched beside him and grimaced, sitting up hurriedly. At first, Vergil considered playing it off somehow, making an excuse. Yet something inside him proclaimed its distaste for the idea. Instead, he sat alongside his brother with a sigh, his form rigid.

The silence stretched on as the two brothers both searched for the right words to bridge the vast gap between them, each for their own reasons. Vergil spoke first.

“I didn’t know you had nightmares about Mother.”

Dante nodded, his white hair hiding most of his expression as it shifted from the motion.

“Of course I do. What a clusterfuck that was.”

Vergil hummed in agreement, unsure how to navigate these treacherous waters. He wanted to know what happened, what Dante had seen. Needed more information regarding the night that left their family shattered. He cleared his throat.

“I miss her, Dante.”

His counterpart looked at him through his hair, probably assessing the truth in his words. Vergil’s chest felt tight as he watched his brother’s expression soften, his pain reflected in his twins gaze as their eyes met for what felt like the first time in understanding. He focused on him, maintaining eye contact despite the overwhelming urge to look away.

Dante broke first, shifting his body to hide his face as he sniffled. Even as Vergil scoffed at the sign of weakness, another part of him wanted nothing more than to lay his arm across his brother’s shoulders and attempt to comfort him. The opposing urges clashed within him in a storm, resulting in him not responding whatsoever.

“I miss her too, Vergil.”

Warmth on his knee made Vergil glance down to spot Dante’s hand resting there. He stared blankly for a long moment, unsure how to proceed. Upon considering it, he could not deny that the contact felt… nice. He wondered when he’d last allowed someone to touch him, but nothing recent came to mind. Dante withdrew his palm, leaving Vergil to puzzle over his mixed reaction. He asked the question he longed to find answers for to give himself another moment to process.

“What happened that night?”

To his surprise, Dante responded.

“She… she hid me in their closet and… went to look for you. I heard her scream but that’s all I know.”

Would she have survived if I’d been there? Was her death my fault?

Vergil bit his lip to stop it from trembling, fighting to conceal his emotions. They swirled within him in a whirlwind. His anger, his regret, his childlike sadness and his grief. He took a halting breath, his shoulders twitching as he withheld a sob.

“It’s okay, Verg. Let go, I’m the only one here and you can kill me later, anyway.”

Vergil glared at his kin intensely enough to melt glass, the mere suggestion of displaying his pain for anyone to see abhorrent. Yet even as he held his angry stare, a tear slipped out and rolled down his cheek. Dante sighed, rolling his eyes at Vergil’s insistence on self-control. He leaned closer and wrapped his arms around his brother, awkwardly pulling the man into a hug. It was clear from the look on his face he expected to Vergil to stab him for it.

Vergil steadfastly remained rigid, his staccato breathing the only outward sign of his grief. Once again, some foreign corner of his being longed to return the embrace. Another portion of his being wished for nothing more than to see Dante with the Yamato embedded in his belly. Yet he did neither.

“I’m not letting go until you either stab me or hug me,” Dante muttered stubbornly.

I’ve stabbed him before and it’s gained me naught. Perhaps it is time for a different approach?

As he said, I can always kill him later.

Vergil raised his arms with reluctance, wrapping them around Dante with a clenched jaw. Somehow, returning the hug made it more difficult to hold in his pain, and all at once it became too much to bear. He shook under the force of his need to control himself, unable to do anything to halt the erosion of his restraint.

Dante patted his back, and the dam disintegrated. Vergil transformed into a pathetic mess of sorrow as his tears dripped down his jaw, his shoulders and chest heaving from the strength of his sobbing. He could feel his heart burning in his rib cage, the low ache he had grown used to evolving into an agony so soul wrenching he couldn’t remain silent.

His own frailty disgusted Vergil as he howled at the still bright sky overhead, expelling as much of his pain as possible with the power of his voice. Dante released him as the sound echoed, cringing from the volume. Even without his brotherly hug, Vergil found control unattainable. He angrily succumbed to the tide of misery within him, riding out the storm until it blew itself out.

At long last, he returned to himself. He felt like a wrung-out towel, devoid of moisture or coherence in the wake of his episode. His limbs were heavy, eyelids swollen and raw from the tears he’d scrubbed away. Only a faded ache remained of his previously tortured heart. He leaned back against the Qlipoth they sheltered beneath, taking deep breaths to calm himself further.

Dante stood, threading his arms through the sleeves of his coat.

“Get some sleep. My turn to keep watch.”

Vergil hastily searched for a response, some arrangement of words to reassert his strength. Yet what escaped his lips did nothing of the sort.

“Thank you, brother.”

For more than taking watch.

[deflect-daily]

Getting to know your monkey mind

tldr: Spending several days in sensory deprivation, alone, with just the monkey in your head is extremely hard but teaches you a lot about yourself and how your brain functions. Misery is universal. Everything always changes and passes away. The causes of suffering are attachment and aversion. It's fruitless to get upset about or attached to something that will pass away eventually. Befriend your inner monkey.

The things I learned during a 10-day Vipassana course

1. How to fart very (!) quietly

2. That men are far more creative than women when it comes to building armchairs and thrones with meditation pillows

3. A ten days meditation course somewhere in the German outback would be a perfect setup for a horror movie.

Jokes aside.

The thoughts and realisations that one has during a Vipassana course and in the time around it, can easily fill an entire book (as Tim Parks shows in "teach us to sit still"), so please excuse me, if this text is a little long.

For the ones who do not know what Vipassana meditation is, please click here or here. There are a lot of reviews, stories, lessons learned out there (e.g. here, as well as at least a dozen YouTube videos on the topic) - go check them out if you feel like it.

I did a course following the teaching of S.N. Goenka. These courses are pretty much the same all around the world if you do it in one of the > 200 centres: the sound and video files, the timetable, the quality of the food and the fittings of the rooms. Even though, the setup does not change, the experience is always unique, so much as even one person taking the course several times will have a different experience with different insights each time.

So, where to start?

I want to first quickly summarize the basic idea of what is taught during the course (the cause of suffering) and then dig into a few aspects that I found particularly interesting: the parallel of meditation and psychedelics and the influence of meditation on the perception of pain.

The cause of suffering

Disclaimer: I don't believe in the existence of a non-physical thing as "a soul" – a non-substantial entity that exists independently of physical matter and/or that can be transferred from one physical body to another through reincarnation - but I clearly draw a distinction between the conscious and the unconscious parts of your brain. Within the Vipassana teaching, the believe in reincarnation is extremely important, as to explain why suicide will not save you from suffering.

According to the teaching, there are some basic principles:

1. Misery is universal - all humans suffer.

2. Everything constantly changes - every experience, every condition, passes away eventually.

3. External information enters the brain through our senses and immediately causes a physical reaction (change in heartbeat or breathing, feelings of heat or cold, pain, comfort, or any other physical sensation).

4. this physical reaction is subconsciously perceived and interpreted as "good/pleasant" or "bad/unpleasant" and this information is transferred to the conscious mind.

5. The conscious mind only receives this already processed external information - an evaluation of what is going on outside and reacts with attachment or aversion.

6. This leads us (humans) to constantly jump from aversion of unpleasant experiences to attachment to pleasant experiences and back.

7. Since every pleasant situation passes eventually, the attachment to it leads to suffering. And since unpleasant stimuli will always appear (and disappear), the aversion of these leads to suffering as well.

If this sounds weird to you, this jumping from attachment to aversion and back can be explained by checking out a typical Saturday morning:

You lie in bed and don't want to get up, because it's comfortable (attachment), but then you get hungry and want to get rid of this unpleasant feeling (avoidance), then you probably overeat because the food tastes so good (attachment) and you start complaining about your aching stomach. Your partner makes some nasty comments about your eating habits which hurt, and you get mad (avoidance). To leave the situation, you go on to the next step of taking a shower. The shower is warm and comfortable, and you don't want to leave it (attachment). You step out of the shower; the air is fresh and uncomfortably chilly, and you quickly start to rub yourself dry with a towel to get warm again and so on and so on.

Of course, nothing is wrong with what's going on during these first hours of a Saturday morning. This is just an example of how deeply rooted the evaluation of situations into the categories of "pleasant" and "unpleasant" is.

This is exactly, what one is confronted with during a Vipassana meditation course - the constant habit of your mind seeking pleasure and avoiding discomfort without any possibility to change the situation you’re in for the duration of the course.

The effects of sensory deprivation

10 days without vocal or non-vocal communication, without books, music, entertainment, sports. Reading and writing was forbidden as well as performing any sexual activity or a change of environment by leaving the area around the centre. This means a strong sensory deprivation that appears to be rather extreme in contrast to our "modern life" that's overflown by information and distraction. The only stimuli that one encounters are occasional walks on the area of the centre, two meals a day and a lot of tea. On top was the fact that the only real "me-time" than one gets are the 15 minutes locked in the bathroom while taking a shower. Everything else: sleeping, eating, meditation and recreation outside is shared with others.

Usually we are used to immediately distract us when things get uncomfortable: We check our phone as soon as we are bored for 5 seconds at the bus stop, we prefer watching a movie when we should actually study for an exam, we quickly get mad at the people in front of us in the queue at the grocery store because they are so f***ing slow. We get easily irritated by others, we never truly experience boredom, and we never check what’s happening within our bodies because we’re so focused on the outside world.

As soon as one is forced to shift the focus towards the inside of the mind and the body, one realizes this voice that's constantly talking.

The tasks during the meditation are quite simple: focus on your breath (1st day), focus on the area of your nose and upper lip (2nd day), focus on the area of the upper lip, feeling the touch of the breath (3rd day), leading this focus from body part to body part starting from head to feet and back (4th to 10th day). But this becomes incredibly hard when your mind constantly jumps from one thought to the other like a monkey jumps from branch to branch. This voice that keeps on jabbering consistently is able to talk you into anger, paranoia, lust and most importantly, into the conviction that what you do right now (sit on the floor and try to focus on your breathing) is definitely and absolutely unbearable.

Whenever the voice talks, one usually automatically follows it and within seconds, the focus is drawn far away from the breath or the physical sensations and after a few moments to minutes, one realizes what just happened and tries to pull the attention back to the task of observing the breath, just to notice a few moments later that the mind is following the prattling again and so on and so forth. This becomes very frustrating and I personally experienced the task of pulling your focus back without getting mad at myself as incredibly hard and very exhausting.

But this is exactly what meditation is all about: Learning how to keep your mind focused, learning how to notice subtle, changing sensations within your body, and most importantly: observing everything that’s happening while remaining equanimous.

 Besides leading me into frustration about my incapability to keep up my focus, the sensory deprivation had the following effects for me:

Improved vision, hearing and sense of smell. I missed my partner equally as I missed time alone by myself. I also missed small interactions with others – a smile, a gesture, a soft touch of comfort when you see that someone else goes through a rough day.

And after a few days, I felt the strong urge to express myself through writing, which is quite interesting because normally I spend more time consuming other people's content than producing anything myself. This urge is the reason why I’m writing this blogpost right now.

Now, I wish to dig deeper into two more specific aspects, that appeared particularly interesting to me.

It’s a psychedelic experience

Don't get me wrong: I'm far from calling myself “experienced” with psychedelics. I don't know very much about the different substances, their effects on the brain or the vast variety of experiences they can trigger, but I took LSD a few times and I know some stories told by more experienced people, so I guess - keeping my psychological background in mind - it's valid that I claim the following:

One major task of our brain is to filter the incredible amount of information we encounter every moment. This is very important, because it allows us to function in an otherwise constantly overwhelming environment. It's important for the brain to be selective about the information that reaches conscious awareness. Psychedelics, to some extent, turn off these filters which leads to an increased sensitivity towards stimuli and changes the way these stimuli are processed in the brain. This is also the reason why it's rather exhausting to take psychedelics - the mind has to process a lot more input than normally.

What happens during meditation is the following: The sensory deprivation and the focus on the observation of physical phenomena on the surface of or within the body (breath, heartbeat or sensations like tickling, warmth, cold, itching, pressure, pain or whatnot) enables the conscious mind to perceive the otherwise suppressed "random noise" that is constantly produced by the sensors of the body. This random noise occurs for example through spontaneous action potentials produced by neurons. Action potentials, necessary for the conduction of information are stochastic phenomena. With every stimulus the probability of the formation of an action potential increases, the stronger the stimulus, the higher the probability. For a notable sensation, many action potentials have to happen at a time. From time to time, action potentials happen, even without the presence of a stimulus which leads to a sensation without an actual cause - random noise. This happens within the sensory cells as well as in the neurons that conduct the information to the brain. This noise is subconsciously suppressed and normally not perceived by the conscious mind. The same goes for sensations in body parts that are not important to being consciously payed attention to at a particular moment. For example, there is no necessity to feel the pressure of the seat on the back of my thighs or the sensation of a slight coolness in my feet while I'm focused on talking to a person or writing this text right now.

The conscious (and non-judgemental) observation of these usually supressed sensations within the body means, as mentioned above for psychedelics, basically turning off the filters of the brain.

When you close your eyes, you never see just pure blackness. Your brain constantly produces shapes, colours, patterns, movements or entire pictures which you can observe if you watch closely - again - they are just random noise. From day 3 or 4 on, whenever I went to bed at night, as soon as I closed my eyes, I had visual sensations that reminded me a lot of what my brain created on LSD: I saw fractals, bright colours and moving structures that made it hard for me to fall asleep. Also, my sleep was heavily disturbed. Sometimes, I could not tell apart whether I just woke up in the middle of the night or whether I just got out of a meditation session. This felt exhausting, like there was a lot for my brain to process. But despite this somehow disturbed sleep, I felt awake and alert during the day. S.N. Goenka claimed, that a regular meditation practice reduces the amount of sleep needed and there seems to be scientific evidence that this is true.

What is pain?

According to the International Association for the Study of Pain, pain is "an unpleasant sensory and emotional experience associated with actual or potential tissue damage or described in terms of such damage". This definition is outdated for several reasons (please check out the website for further details) and currently under review. The newly proposed definition is as follows: Pain is "an aversive sensory and emotional experience typically caused by, or resembling that caused by, actual or potential tissue injury".

In my opinion, both definitions do not sufficiently explain the experiences that one might have while sitting on the floor meditating. Pain accompanies the entire experience of a 10 days course. For some it's the back or the butt, for others (like me) it was mainly the knees that drove me crazy because they almost constantly hurt very, very badly up until the point where the pain was still there in the morning after 6 hours of sleep.

But it wasn’t as simple as that. One part of the meditation practice is to closely observe so called "gross" sensations like pain very closely for 1-2 minutes and check if any other sensation can be identified. One quickly notices that the simple "my knee hurts" sometimes turns into a far more differentiated "in this part of the knee, there’s pressure, in another spot, there’s heat in addition to the pain and in another part, a throbbing pulse within the tissue can be felt" and so on. And, from time to time, just by simply putting the focus of attention onto an are in a muscle or limp that's screaming with pain, the pain goes away. It simply vanishes. It's like these moments, when a crying toddler is asked " what's the matter? " and immediately stops crying, maybe out of confusion, maybe because of the realisation that there was actually no reason to cry after all.

Physiologically, this does not really make sense. But, according to the theory behind the Vipassana teaching the cause of suffering is not the sensation itself, but the interpretation of the sensation, the judgement of "good/pleasant" and "bad/unpleasant", as described above.

What does this mean, that at least some pain or unpleasant sensation can be "thought away"? Sometimes, this effect can be explained by relaxation because tension can cause pain. But apparently, there’s more to it than just the capability to relax in uncomfortable situations.  

It is scientifically proven that people who do meditate regularly have a higher tolerance for unpleasant feelings like pain induced by thermal heat (I have no access to the full article, but here’s a talk by Kelly McGonigal about the paper). Non-meditators showed a stronger activity in “evaluative regions” (prefrontal cortex, amygdala and hippocampus) than meditators. Meditation practitioners however showed reduced activity in these “evaluative regions”, but higher activity in brain regions like the insula, the anterior cingulate cortex and the thalamus, that are “primary pain processing regions”. This means that meditation practice enables the decoupling of the sensory and the evaluative component of a painful stimulus.

A very good and vivid example for a person who practices exactly this effect which leads to almost superhuman powers is Wim Hof, also known as “the Iceman”. He developed the so called “Wim Hof Method” that is a combination of breathing exercises, meditation and exposure to cold temperatures and he broke several world records, including hiking past death-zone of the Mount Everest in shorts and sandals without oxygen supply, running a marathon in the Sahara desert without drinking water and sitting in a container filled with ice for almost two hours without his core body temperature being lowered. He’s an impressive person and if you haven’t read about him yet, I encourage you to do so. His method can be performed by everyone and results can be seen immediately.

So, what is pain? I don’t know. But these examples show, how big the influence of our mind is on the way we perceive the world around us. Far more is possible than we usually think. We might not have an influence on all the things happening to us, neither good, nor bad. But we do in fact have the chance to learn how to deal with them differently and thus not only become calmer but also happier, healthier and able to experience things beyond what we thought is possible. It’s worth a try.

 Let me try this again: The things I learned during a 10-day Vipassana course

1. I cannot change the people and situations around me, but I can change how I react to what I encounter. My reaction has an impact on myself. If I let any situation make me angry, I do harm to myself and might harm others.

2. It’s not realistic to expect my mind to be able to focus on something as simple and “boring” as my breath for 10 hours straight when I usually train my brain to constantly think of a million things at the same time, always have an overflowing schedule and a cluttered room as well as a cluttered mind. I first have to calm down some aspects of my life before I can calm down on the inside.

3. I learned to be compassionate with myself. I understood, why my mind acts the way it does and I started to befriend my inner monkey.

Recommended to watch:

A video about meditation and “flow”

A Ted talk about pain and mindfulness meditation

A vice documentary about the Iceman Wim Hof

Recommended to read:

Becoming the iceman by Wim Hof & Justin Rosales

Happiness – A guide to developing life’s most important skill by Mathieu Ricard

[hansptacek]

Hiiii ! Guess who is it ??! Yeah... Since I'm not in anon mode, that question is highly ridiculous... Anyway, glad to see you here ! Tell me... 9 (Favourite place to be), 18, 17 (Favourite person?), (Talents?) and 31 (Something that disgusts them?). Etienne seems like a great caracter...

Ooh hi there Clé!! I'm so happy you asked 😆😅😂😂 and yes thank you for saying that. I love my Étienne so much too! I feel bad for not updating for awhile, my life just keeps getting more and more hectic and now I finally feel back to normal (mostly) but yes! Let's get to it!! 

Here's my OC from Falling For Stars Fanfic: Étienne Calvet (played by Adrian Sahores).

...

9. Favourite place to be.

Étienne has an old soul. He likes to be surrounded by books. There was always something comforting about the smell of old paper and wooden oak. His favorite little bookstore was on 27 Rue Censier in Paris. The little antique design make it look distinct and felt somewhat comforting. The best part was that not many people knew of this little store and so Étienne didn't feel the need to hide from the public since the average customer and passerby was around their middle ages. It felt nice for him to just be himself and to read to his heart's content, his own little world. 

17. Favorite Person?

(Étienne thinking about someone special at work 👀)

It is true that Étienne loves his mother and sister very much and is well loved by everyone in his life...And yet due to recent events in his life. For the sake of no spoilers, let's just say... He's never felt this way before and Lucas is a total hot guy magnet. And Étienne can't help but be intrigued by him. (Like mec, tell me your secret?? How are you getting all these models coming after you?? (I'm the writer and I don't even know😅😵👌)

18. Talents?

Besides, writing. I would say Étienne has really good skills in playing the trumpet and is very good at playing sports. He's especially skilled in tennis and soccer. Since his parents wanted him to be an athlete when he was younger. If he really wanted to, he could have made it to the national championship for men's tennis but he was more passionate about writing. And the modeling gig was a favor for a friend which eventually became a full blown career as he got more companies offering for his visage. Not that Étienne minded as much but he wished he was seen as more human than for beauty. And even more so, Étienne was a master in the kitchen in the kitchen. He loved trying new recipes and experimenting with food and it always turned out for the better somehow? (Why does this guy seem like the perfect man? Hmmm 🤔)

31. Something that disgust them?

Étienne is a sweetheart, he would be the last one to ever voice his disdain or discomfort for anything since he tries to appease everyone. But he does find mushrooms and oranges to be strange and unpleasant. Also, he can't not stand loud noises. He had an ear injury when he was younger that caused his eardrums to become more sensitive instead of losing hearing. It was strange and Étienne tried his best to adjust to his life as he tried to lessened the noises. Especially when he used to play the trumpet. But it all worked out in the end since he was content with the sounds of his keyboard typing and gentle white noise in the background as he would sit in his office, writing all day. Other than that, Étienne is a person of patience and can take a lot of jabs before he had to speak up on it, stubbornness was his one of his vices. 

...

Thank you for asking me! Best wishes! 

[altherei]

What It Will Cost

((Content warning: this story contains brief but moderate violence and mentions of blood.))

***

He hadn’t meant to upset her, truly. When Darsamane had called his daughter down to visit, he had hoped to catch up, to express his worries, and if nothing else just.. plant the seed that maybe, just maybe, someone else could take up the mantle she’d given herself. He hadn’t anticipated how hot-headed he would become, but in the days that followed their argument he found he wasn’t surprised by it. The loss of Arathaer so many years ago had stung, but to some degree not as much as it could have. While Darsamane and his wife had worried for the two Farstrider boys, they knew that death in battle was always a risk. So when word reached them he’d fallen to Amani skirmishers, it was a terrible wave of grief that swept over them, but not one entirely unexpected.

But Eldwin’s death had been. At times now, Darsamane found himself cursing his own methods of raising his children. Perhaps if he’d taught them to be cowards, to respect authority over justice, maybe neither of those two boys would’ve enlisted.. maybe they’d still be alive. Maybe his wife wouldn’t have fallen to grief. And perhaps his youngest, his only daughter, wouldn’t be so proudly standing against an entire world at war, telling it ‘no, enough’. Those thoughts soon passed though, and lead him to feel only disgust with himself. What father wishes cowardice on his own children? He should feel pride, he thought. And he did. But more than anything else, he felt fear. Burying two children was enough- burying his wife was enough. He’d meant his plea to Altherei with every fiber of his being: please don’t make me have to bury my little girl, too.

He tried to follow the work of the Outreach closely, what little was made public. He knew she’d purchased land because Maelus had kept him in the loop, but he didn’t know too much more. Even if she had a small army with her- which he knew she didn’t- it wouldn’t be enough to assuage his fears. It was part of a parent’s duty to worry, after all, and while he somewhat regretted he’d passed on that trait to her, there was something deeper gnawing at him lately. Some sense of impending doom. It kept him up at night, and lingered in his thoughts throughout the day. It was tortuously non-specific, leaving him with no real idea if he feared the conflict between the Horde and Alliance was about to ramp up, if another of his children were now in mortal danger, or if he was simply so tired and weary of everything that it was finally starting to sink in just how bad things had become.

What had made matter somewhat worse was this: several days after his ill-fated argument with Altherei, Darsamane had started to get the sense he was being shadowed. It was little more than a passing concern at first, meeting unpleasant stares or the occasional brief jeer when in the city. He was somewhat outspoken about the war, himself. A man of science, he made no attempts to hide what the data made quite clear: constant, unchecked war was unsustainable for the planet and her people. He was well-used to dirty looks by now for saying the obvious. He learned several wars ago that the public wasn’t often fond of the truth.

But this was different, somehow. There seemed to be no real extended moment of peace where he could sit down, enjoy a cup of tea or a book, and not be quietly convinced there was something- or someone- there. Every little odd noise caused his ears to flick up sharply, even if it was naught but a breeze pushing a few leaves against the kitchen window. Even his sleep lately had been punctuated by strange, immobius fears that he could never place once he woke. Something was not right, yet he could point to no evidence to prove it. And ever a man of logic and science, he was able to at least partially convince himself his worries were simply getting the better of him.

It was after a relatively calm night, one largely free of night terrors, that he was slated to take a research trip. His group was one of many races, all fairly-well scattered about the globe, but when any made even something close to a noteworthy discovery, they all convened to discuss it, dissect it, and see what could be done with it. Sometimes it was a wash (usually it was), but other times there would be nuggets of useful data and information they could take back to their respective homes and continue to study. It was slow work, but ultimately their goals were noble and slow progress was better than none.

So it was one of these such discoveries that prompted a gathering of those like minds, this time the location had been set for Hillsbrad- not an ideal location per se but it was what was fairly easy to get to for the lot of them. It did mean passing through Tirisfal and Silverpine- what was left of them, anyway. Darsamane knew it wasn’t the safest route, but it was the quickest.. and besides, he was hardly a man of note. A thorn in the side of some pro-war fanatics, but little more than that. If they hadn’t tried to string him up or even bother to spit on him up to now, he thought it unlikely they’d do so now. And so, after a brief letter was penned to Altherei and her brothers alerting them he’d be out of town for a week or more, the trip began.

And largely, it was uneventful. He took a wide berth around what was once Undercity, keeping his mask on well until he’d made it to the border of Tirisfal and Silverpine- with blight, one could never be too careful. Even then, his passing into Silverpine was unremarkable, and he kept largely to himself even when passing by the usual undead patrols. It was only once he’d passed by the Sepulcher and was nearing the ruined wall of Gilneas that the creeping feeling of being watched slowly began to return. He halted his hawkstrider, and there was a brief skidding noise that ceased. He started to walk again, and he could hear quiet but distinct footsteps behind him. A few more moments of this and the old elf came to a slow, easy stop before speaking.

“Is there something I could help you with? I may be an old elf, but these ears still hear quite well,” His voice was soft and the words spoken with a bit of a breathy laugh, even if something didn’t feel quite right.

As he turned, he saw a decently-armored forsaken, clad largely in leather and some chainmail, approach from under a tree’s shadow. He was hunched, like all the rest, but what Darsamane couldn’t help but notice was just how completely he was covered- his elbows, his knees, fingers, toes- all of him but a bit of his rotted face was covered in clothing or armor. The forsaken slowly pulled a cloth bandanna away from his lower jaw- metal and screwed into the top jaw- to speak in a guttural rasp.

“.. I’ve been.. following you.”

“Yes, I noticed. For some time, I’d imagine- not just this little sojourn.” Came the reply.

The forsaken plodded forward. “.. Are you familiar with the Outreach?”

The closer the undead drew, the more little details Darsamane noticed- particularly a lack of obvious weapons. Despite this, Darsamane’s suspicion remained. He would be the first to admit he held no small amount of prejudice and wariness toward the forsaken, and it had only been amplified with Sylvanas’s recent actions as Warchief. He chose his words carefully, settling on a lie.

“The Outreach?”

“Come now,” The forsaken gave a brief laugh, though it sounded more like an odd rattle in his throat, “I know who you are. Darsamane Darkwind, the man soldiers love to hate,” He grinned, and while it should’ve been disarming, it was not.

“And yet I don’t know you,” Darsamane replied calmly, still atop his hawkstrider even as the forsaken motioned for him to come down to converse more readily. He held up his gloved hands, palms out.

“Forgive me- you may call me Marne. I.. do apologize if my shadowing has.. ah.. brought you discomfort. We forsaken are not… looked upon kindly, lately. Regardless of our own personal feelings.” He admitted.

Darsamane paused, considering the words. “You stand in opposition to Sylvanas?” He asked.

“You could say I find her methods.. distasteful. She tries, but… she does not speak for all of us.” The forsaken dipped his head, coughing once into a fist. “I can never be sure these days who.. who would prefer to see me returned to the grave before I can speak my piece.”

The old elf’s brows furrowed, and while he could feel his own prejudices chewing at his gut, his conscience prodded him forward. He slowly slid off his hawkstrider, dusting his hands together a couple times.

“You and those who think like you share that fear. It seems even disagreement is tantamount to treason these days,” He offered.

“Which is why.. I ask about the Outreach. It is your daughter’s project, yes? I’ve.. I’ve seen the flyers. I’m just.. not sure if I’d be welcomed,” His voice fell, as did his glowing yellow gaze.

“It is, and.. one that.. while I’m proud of her for being brave enough to lead.. as a father, I’m terrified. But.. if you find all this war as distasteful as you say.. I don’t think she would turn you away. Your people may be judged harshly by the actions of Sylvanas but.. I know my daughter. She tries not to be like the rest.” His expression twisted into a pained smile- one that Marne seemed to pick up on.

“You don’t seem proud- just terrified.”

Darsamane frowned. “I taught her those things- instilled those values in her. But now it’s those values I fear could get her hurt, or.. or worse. And … and I can’t bear that thought.” He admitted softly.

Marne was quiet for a time, gently rapping his fingers along the glove of his opposite hand.

“Do you think she’s afraid for herself?”

“.. I’d hope she is,” The elf spoke quickly. “She isn’t a fool. She knows there are plenty who would see her as a traitor, who would be happy to bring her harm just because she thinks there’s a better way. But.. if she is afraid, she doesn’t show it. She doesn’t let it stop her.” A small, fond smile crept back onto his features.

Marne was silent again, a low rumble from somewhere in his throat the only sound. He paced a little, turning his back to the elf to peer down the old path in Silverpine. “.. Traitors should be afraid,” He said simply.

Darsamane’s blood ran cold, “.. What did you say.” His fists clenched, but he’d barely gotten the words out before Marne spun on him, a brass-knuckled fist striking him square across the jaw and sending him sprawling on the ground. Marne spat just shy of the old elf’s face, delivering a powerful kick from steel-toed boots to his gut.

“I said traitors should be afraid,” He repeated icily. “Or are your ears not as good as you claim?” He hissed, and kicked Darsamane again.

The wind was forced from his lungs, and he wrapped an arm around himself as best he could despite the searing pain from what was no doubt a broken rib or two. He could feel his left eye swelling shut already, but tried to get to his knees all the same. Strangely enough, Marne let him. His breathing came somewhat like a wheeze with the swelling of his face, and he eyed the undead with a mix of betrayal, anger, and confusion. The hawkstrider, startled by the noise and the row, backpedaled and took off into the forest.

“I don’t understand- you said you stood in opposition!” He spat blood onto the cobbled road.

“I said I found the Banshee Queen’s methods distasteful, old man.” He rumbled, “She’s too soft.”

“Too soft-,” He almost laughed, “She burned the World Tree!”

“And she should’ve BLIGHTED it!” Marne hissed, lifting a boot to kick Darsamane in the face, sending him onto his back.

“None should’ve been allowed to escape that damned piece of kindling, and those who think this world can ever see peace without the annihilation of the Alliance are traitors to the cause!” He hovered over Darsamane, who was clutching at a broken, bleeding, and swelling nose.

“If you lay a hand on my daughter, I swear by the Sunwell I’ll-” He wasn’t permitted to finish the sentence before one gloved hand pulled him forward by the collar of his robes, while the other came down in a brutal jab.

“You’ll what?” Another punch. “You can’t even fight back! You pathetic old man!” He cackled, spittle flying into Darsamane’s face. The old elf reeled, but his gaze remained steely.

“You won’t win. Your types never do.” He snarled.

Marne stopped after the third punch, but whether it was because he was choosing his next words carefully or because Darsamane’s had struck a rare chord was anyone’s guess. But judging by the creeping smile that came over Marne’s face, the latter had never been an option. He pulled Darsamane close enough that the elf could smell the rot in his mouth- after all, there was no breath to be had. He tried not to gag.

“Oh, but we will. We play the long game.” He set the scientist back a few inches, only to slam the back of his head into the cobblestone with a disturbing crack. Darsamane hissed, and before he could speak Marne was upon him again, a foot pressed hard against his already broken and aching ribs.

“It’s such a simple equation- what a pity a man of your alleged intelligence can’t figure it out, Darkwind. Killing her? That achieves nothing. Killing her makes her a martyr, and inflames tensions and makes a mess of everything.” He leaned into his boot, prompting a wheeze from the brutalized elf.

“But killing you? That’s demoralizing. Her brother paid for his own treason with his life- your life will pay for hers.” He lifted the boot and brought it down in a heavy stomp, which sent blood and spit from Darsamane’s mouth as he curled onto his side in an instinctive effort to dull the pain.

Marne moved to hover in front of the man, kneeling down to glower at him with enough glee to send a shiver up any sane man’s spine.

“And in the end? She will learn that her actions will cost her everyone she loves. One by one, until there are none left. At some point, she will realize that her dream of peace has a cost even she won’t be willing to pay forever.”

Darsamane snarled, forcing a cocky grin to his broken face. “Except I know who you are. You’ll be found, tried, and pay for your crimes.”

“I won’t get away with this,” He echoed sardonically with a cackle. “Marne is not my name. But it wouldn’t matter anyway.. you think you’re the only one who hits the books, old man? A dagger in the back is quick and efficient, but I much prefer to see you waste away while your brain swells against your skull. You don’t know who I am at all…” He stood slowly, and Darsamane’s breathing quickened- a man all but staring his end in the face and finding himself now without recourse or power to stop it.

“And should you be lucky enough to wake up before you die, you won’t remember me anyway.”

A final swift kick was delivered to the center of Darsamane’s face, whipping him in the other direction on the path. No sound came from the elf as he lay a crumpled heap on the bloodied cobblestone path- the same path his own daughter had walked with Kalomar just weeks before. Marne put his ear to the man’s body- still breathing, but haggardly. No doubt he’d be read some form of the riot act for not ensuring the man’s death, but they’d see the point of it soon enough.

Wiping his gloves and boots clean, he quickly found and dispatched a feral worgen, scratching its claws along the unconscious elf before smearing some of its blood and fur on himself and ‘hurrying’ to the Forsaken Front to find the nearest band of guards. Feigning concern, he quickly pointed down the path.

“Hurry- hurry! An old sin’dorei man was ambushed by a feral worgen- he needs medical attention!”

The few guards that did manage to care enough (largely about a returned worgen threat) to traverse down the path would find Darsamane lying in a pool of blood and spit- alive, but just barely. He was rather unceremoniously carted back to the Front, and when it was determined they lacked the services and skills needed to ensure his continued survival, it was an undead mage who seemed to take pity on the ailing man. With little word spoken, he opened a portal to Dalaran, ushering those carrying the stretcher forward. They returned soon after without the stretcher or the man, and the portal was closed. Let the living handle their own- it was better than the dead trying to save the life of a man now hanging by a thread.

By the time anyone of importance could return to further question the lone forsaken who’d made the report, he was long gone. Instead, Marne watched from the shadows of a tree-lined hill with a sadistic smile and low chuckle. Slowly, the bandanna returned to cover his lower jaw, and he slipped into the darkness.

[foxofthedesert]

RQ OUaT FF | OGA: Ch. 12

Chapter 12 – A Deal with the Dark One

A sharp knock on the door startles Regina out of a grief-induced stupor. The heavy haze blanketing her consciousness is a remnant of the self-flagellating she did over her role in Red's current predicament. She cannot recall much that has happened since Victor departed beyond the initial waves of illogical guilt that battered her into submission, reducing her to little more than a useless, shriveled lump of anguish.

Sometime during her restless inactivity she had managed to wrap around Red, almost as if she were subconsciously trying to climb inside her wife's body to wrench her soul back to its rightful place. It hadn't worked, obviously. Red remains stubbornly imprisoned within the curse, oblivious to the world which continues to rotate heedless of her absence. Meanwhile Regina's world felt as if it had screeched to a grinding halt. At least the physical contact helped to soothe her oversensitive nerves. She had been on the verge of disassociating before her stampeding emotions mercifully ran out of steam.

Tired of being the victim of a sorrow she cannot seem to escape and feeling somewhat more composed, she gingerly disentangles herself from her wife. Sitting up requires just as much caution, as she does not want to to jostle Red needlessly. That her efforts go unappreciated is beside the point when Red is so helpless. Treating her body with the utmost respect while she is incapacitated is the least Regina can do, really.

With a prolonged groan, Regina rubs at her eyes and takes a tremulous breath just as another louder knock sounds. It echoes through the room as if a mallet is being utilized rather than a fist, and is immediately followed by a familiar male voice calling out, "Your Majesty, may I come in?"

Ignoring the visitor for a moment, Regina swings her legs to the side and then shuffles out of bed. Cognizant of her compromised equilibrium, she rises slowly to her feet. The journey to being vertical is made more unpleasant by the relentless pounding of her head. No doubt the condition is a symptom of the misery that is her constant companion being compounded by the alarming drain to her energy reserves from the confrontation with Zelena. The good news is that she is accustomed to working through blinding migraines as she has done so many times in the past; for Red, she will endure any discomfort for however long she must. There is no pain on earth that could keep her from doing whatever is necessary to save her wife.

"Enter," she calls out after a moment, her voice scratchy, but loud enough that the person who had asked her permission hears and obeys. When Victor Frankenstein steps through the opened doorway, Regina arches a sable eyebrow. "What is it, Victor?"

"You said to return in two hours," he tells her as he steps into the room.

Regina stares at him, hardly able to comprehend the passage of so much time without her being aware. It had honestly felt like minutes.

"Has it been two hours already?" she asks after a moment.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Victor replies, eyeing her with concern that Regina dismissively waves off.

"Don't look at me that way. I'm fine," she says, then takes a deep breath and smooths a hand down her twice rumpled clothing. She'd been so distraught, she hadn't thought to change into something more suitable. Deciding to amend that oversight, she snaps her fingers and arrays herself in a dress befitting her mood, solid black, trimmed in jagged and vicious embroidery the color of rich red wine. She is no longer a wife in mourning but a Queen on a mission, a killer set loose upon the world after enduring seven years of solitary captivity. She feels dangerous all of the sudden, and wishes that Zelena would show her verdant face so that she can peel it off and have a Hallows Eve mask made of it.

Seeming to sense the change in her attitude, Victor stiffens. "Of course you are, my Queen. I, uh...I consulted some of my more esoteric tomes, but uh..." he shuffles a bit, looking nervously at her, "I am sorry to report that I didn't find anything of pertinence."

Regina arches a brow and then returns to Red's bedside where she perches in the same position she had been in earlier. Although she is feeling stronger and more confident, she still needs the proximity, needs to be close enough to see and hear that Red is still breathing and feel the warmth of her skin indicating blood is still flowing through her veins and thus her heart is still beating.

After picking up Red's hand between her own and depositing both in her lap, she looks back up at Victor. "And what did the herbalist have to say?"

That snaps Victor out of his tentative posture. His eyes gain a little bit of spark that gives Regina a renewed hope. "She was actually quite a useful resource. She hadn't heard of any such tree, nor had she been to Oz. However, she confirmed my theory about the likelihood of the antidote being found in the vicinity where those trees grow or from other parts of the trees themselves. I think we may have a viable course of action to pursue."

Regina actually smiles, and it feels like the first time she's managed one in weeks. "I believe you are correct, my dear Doctor." But then her smile evaporates as she realizes there is no sense putting off the inevitable. "As encouraging as your news is, I want to consult with Rumple before I make preparations for an excursion to Oz. Time is too precious for any to be wasted. If he can narrow down the search parameters, it is worth the risk to parlay with him. Would you agree?"

Although Victor seems surprised that she has asked his opinion, to his credit he does not voice it. Instead, he nods reluctantly. "Unfortunately, I do."

Reluctant is not a strong enough word to describe how little Regina wants to do what she has to next. She hasn't seen her old teacher in so long, she has almost forgotten the dread that is always associated with calling upon his name. None prey more gleefully and mercilessly upon those in dire straits as the Dark One. Were there any other alternatives, she would take them. But there aren't. She is desperate and in need of information she firmly believes only one person can provide.

Drawing Red's hand up, Regina presses her lips against the back and deposits a reverent kiss there. "I'm doing this for you, my darling," she whispers against the feverish skin. She is somewhat relieved to feel Red's pulse thrumming through her pronounced veins. "I know you find Rumple to be distasteful after all he's done. I wish there were another way..."

Red's poor opinion of the Dark One was solidified when Regina confided to her about life as a young Queen. Isolated from her home and family, reeling from a loss that fundamentally changed who she was as a person, she was forced to adapt to a new situation that felt more like a living hell than the paradise of wealth and influence her mother viewed it as. Upon learning how Rumplestiltskin preyed on that despair, had wielded it like a yardstick to guide her one step at a time towards the inviting darkness just over the horizon, Red swore that if she ever encountered the man in person she would rend him limb from limb. And she almost made good on that promise.

Rumple has visited the Dark Palace exactly once since Red became her lover. One afternoon around the Autumnal Equinox, he showed up unannounced with his typical dramatic flair. He had just learned about her relationship with Red and was hoping to gain an advantage in their ongoing game of tactical manipulations. Instead, he was caught unawares by an enormous werewolf at the height of her strength. The instant he fully materialized, Red pounced. He could not even twitch a muscle or recover his wits enough to toss her away with his magic before razor sharp teeth clamped around his throat, ready and willing to separate his head from his torso. Against her better judgment, Regina stepped in before blood was shed, knowing that Red was no match for Rumple under less favorable circumstances, and that Rumple had learned his lesson. Foremost, loathsome as he was, she was reluctant to erase a resource of such invaluable experience, skill, and knowledge. Red thought that was a ridiculous reason to let a potential threat to them walk away. In retrospect, Regina's restraint proved all too sagacious – here she was, years later, needing his help.

What if I had let Red kill him that day? With whom would I have to deal in his place? The thought turns her insides cold. There are individuals whose objectives are far less...gray...than those of the Dark One, individuals who do not just bend or skirt the rules and conventions of civilized society but utterly eschew them in favor of unfettered chaos and pure evil. While she cannot argue against Rumple being a devious, self-serving, manipulative bastard, he is at least a devious, self-serving, manipulative bastard who honors his bargains – and, most importantly, with whom she has a lengthy history. Better to deal with the devil you know...

In any case, after almost having his head separated from his neck by an overprotective werewolf, the Dark One avoided confronting Regina whenever Red was in the vicinity. He braved doing so when she was alone only a handful occasions in the meantime, and never since the last visit three and half years ago while Red was absent visiting her grandmother in the White Kingdom. Still, Regina occasionally gets the distinct feeling he is watching them carefully, methodically plotting his revenge and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His unnatural interest in her has yet to wane, and though she has yet to figure out why that is she has no interest in broaching the topic at present. There are far more critical matters at hand.

"I swear," she continues, now rubbing her cheek against Red's limp palm, "if there were any other options available, I would pursue them rather than risk inviting him here. But there are none, so I have no choice. Please forgive me." After another gentle kiss, this time to the pulse point of her wife's wrist, Regina carefully replaces Red's hand back at her side and then stands.

Without bothering to warn Victor, she strides into the center of the room, hands on her hips, and sternly beckons, "Rumplestiltskin! I, a desperate soul, summon thee. Heed my call at once if you are interested in a transaction."

A puff of purple smoke immediately fills the center of the room right in front of Regina, and she watches with sharp eyes as her former mentor materializes in front of her.

"Why, I thought you'd never call on me again, dearie," he says, voice trilling merrily. "You must be very desperate indeed. If I didn't know better..."

"Save the canned speech, Rumple," Regina interrupts curtly. "I asked you here to make a deal. But before we go any further, I would know whether or not you can deliver what I require from you."

His entire being perks up at the opportunity to strike up a deal. He has been looking for a way to finagle her into one for a very long time, but before this she'd had no reason to haggle with him. All she had wanted was Snow White dead, and that was something she felt more than capable of accomplishing on her own. All the same, he was right before when he said she is desperate. Effectively, she has been backed into a corner with no escape route save the most excruciating one. His awareness of that makes him all the more dangerous. There is no one who exploits vulnerability with as much flamboyant finesse as Rumplestiltskin.

"A deal you say?" His unnatural, disconcerting eyes glitter in the orange light cast from lit candles nestled in brass scones lining the walls. "I'm already intrigued. What is it, in particular, that you are after?"

Regina hefts her skirts to her ankles and steps close to the imp an entire continent has feared for far longer than she has been alive. Rumplestiltskin's reign of terror has lasted centuries, and though she would have preferred it to have ended long ago, she finds herself grateful it has not. The countless others currently suffering from an ill-advised deal stricken with him are inconsequential when she presently requires his expertise.

Once close enough that their noses nearly touch, she glares down her nose haughtily, relishing in the fact her impractically high heels lend her a slight height advantage. As per usual, the display of dominance does not perturb him in the slightest. Both know who has all the leverage here.

Regina, as usual, is simply too proud to back down. "Knowledge is what I seek," she answers, hands at her hips wearing her best imperious expression. She gestures toward him with a mocking smirk. "Although I am unsure the subject is one upon which you are well versed. It would be a pity if my summons were to prove futile."

Rumple tuts a sound of disappointment. "Preposterous. As you well know, I am aware of almost everything that goes on in this world and have access to much of its history. I doubt there is any related topic with which I am unacquainted."

"Ah," Regina interjects, waving a taunting finger, "but my inquiry does not relate to this world. I am after information about another one altogether. A place called Oz."

The mention of that name causes Rumplestiltskin falter, and his shock is so evident that he cannot deflect fast enough for it to escape her notice. Interesting, she thinks, filing that unexpected reaction away. Something about Oz in particular disturbs him and she would love to know what that is.

Dark glittering eyebrows draw together, and he averts his eyes momentarily before responding. "Oz you say?" His taps his chin as if in thought. A distraction meant to feign disinterest. It doesn't work. Frequent exposure to his mannerisms and tics means Regina can see right through him, and he knows it. He cuts piercing eyes back at her. "Whyever would you want to know about that ludicrous place? Planning a vacation in the near future?"

Rather than give him a straight answer, Regina snarls and draws up to her full height. "That's my business, not yours. Just answer the damn question."

Her response seems to please Rumplestiltskin, which alerts her to having revealed a sensitive spot. Picking at those, she knows, is a specialty of his. After all, he had prodded at the weeping wound of Daniel's death until spreading out into a yawning chasm that resisted all attempts to close it. She hates him so much in that moment that it is a minor miracle that she keeps her temper in check. And it is for Red's sake alone that she bites her tongue. She cannot afford to give him an inch to play with.

Grinning smugly at her obvious anger, the Dark One maneuvers around her to stand at the foot of the bed upon which Red rests. Victor stiffens at his approach but does not move, instead choosing to stand his ground in the space between the bed and Rumple. Apparently his first instinct is not to protect himself but the only person who has ever made a concerted effort to befriend him. His action, though futile, earns him a sizable portion of Regina's respect. If Victor is willing to place himself in so precarious a position for Red's sake, she is also willing to try and move past her old hurts involving him. That is, if they all get out of this mess alive.

"So nice to see you have landed on your feet, Victor," Rumple greets. "I wasn't sure you'd ever crawl out of the bottle after that wee mishap with your monstrosity of a brother."

"I had help," Victor says gruffly, keeping himself wedged between Rumple and Red. The way he cuts his eyes down at Red for a split second does not go unnoticed.

"So the mutt dragged you from the depths by the scruff of your collar, eh?" Rumple says, wearing a mocking grin that turns sinister when it shifts over to Regina. "Seems she has a penchant for rescuing those on the verge of drowning." He chuckles with satisfaction when Regina's entire frame coils up as if a rattler about to strike. "Say," he then gestures toward the bed, still inordinately pleased with himself, "this summons wouldn't have anything to do with your Queenling's precarious predicament, now would it?"

For a moment, Regina fears he has already figured out what happened, and for a variety of very sound reasons. Not the least of which is how he might be planning to utilize the situation to his benefit. There is no end to what he could get away with by using Red's condition to force her into a far worse negotiating position than she was envisioning had she not been so unforgivably stupid. It was an amateurish mistake to have summoned him to her in the very same room as her cursed wife.

Perceptive as usual, Rumple latches on to her insecurity with frightening speed. "I couldn't help but notice the werewolf's condition upon arrival. I am the master apothecary, Regina, as you well know. I can detect a well-brewed sleeping curse a mile away, even one so cleverly modified as this one appears to be."

Regina shoots a warning glare at the beast who took a broken girl in a gilded cage and transformed her into a remorseless killing machine. How foolish she was back then to ever trust he wanted to help her! And now here she is again, inviting him back into her life, ready and willing to surrender her very soul if that is what it takes to get the information she needs. Red is dying and Rumple is holding all the cards, which means that for all intents and purposes she is at his mercy. Which he knows, and is enjoying lording that over her far too much if that smarmy smile and nefarious glint in his eyes is any indication.

That Rumple hates Red only complicates an already near untenable situation. Not only does she not fear him, but she has been systematically severing the ties between the Dark One and his former pupil. That his influence on Regina has all but vanished earned Red a place high up on his list of enemies. Plus, and for whatever reason, Rumple seems to genuinely fear the wolf, which would work to Regina's advantage were circumstances more ideal and Red was capable of defending herself. Sadly neither is the case, as the situation is about as grave as it can be and the wolf is trapped in a living purgatory just as surely as her human half. Regina would not put it past Rumplestiltskin to exploit this opportunity to neutralize Red for good if it meant getting his hooks in her once again.

"I won't bother lying about the situation. It is as you say," she tells him, narrowed eyes issuing a threat which she then audibly reinforces. "But if you're thinking about using her condition to your advantage, think again. I am warning you right now: if you try to harm her or use this to gain any sort of influence over her whatsoever, I will kill you."

Regina deliberately leaves herself out of the equation. Since discovering Red in her present state, she has always been cognizant on some level that she may have to trade her life to secure Red's. She had told her father as much not much more than three hours ago. Nothing has changed since then. What she is not willing to barter with is Red's life or freedom. Everything else is ultimately fair game. Rumple does not neat to hear her say that though, as he probably has already figured that out, and even if has hasn't she most definitely is not going to clue him in.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. I have no desire to muzzle that overly excitable furball of yours." Rumple's expression was meant to convince her that assessment of his intentions is absurd. It isn't.

The spindly wheels turning behind his eyes did not go unnoticed. No doubt he was mentally attempting to manufacture an outcome that would get rid of the thorn in his side that was once called the menace of Perrault – Perrault being Red's hometown – and who is now affectionately referred to by the locals as the Big Bad Wolf. Time, Regina realizes, is running out for this deal to not cost her everything, meaning she has to act quickly lest he formulate a plan that might hinder the goal of summoning him.

But then he takes her completely by surprise and promptly switches directions. "I must say, I detect a note of familiarity in this magic. Tell me, who is the responsible party?"

Drawing a ragged breath, Regina lets it out slowly. As much as she doesn't want to talk about this, she has to. The chance of learning something of value is too important to pass up. And besides, it's better than having to issue further threats to curtail his unacceptable interest in Red, which no doubt would only have stoked the coals of his own capricious and volcanic temper.

"My half-sister, if she's to be believed," she answers. "According to what I was able to glean, my mother gave her up shortly after she was born."

Again, Rumple is blindsided, and this time, Regina has no choice but to press him when he is off balance. Judging by his subtle flinch, he knows or at least knows of Zelena.

"You've met her, haven't you?" she asks, stepping closer.

"Unfortunately, I have had the displeasure of making her acquaintance."

The disquiet obvious in his reply further frays Regina's already thin nerves. If the Dark One is apprehensive about her sister, was all that bluster about how powerful she was not really bluster at all? If so, what impact might that have upon the mission to save Red? Should they have to square off again, would she have a chance, even were she able to access whatever reservoir of magic enabled her to win their previous scrum? Regina doesn't know, which is bothersome to say the least. One thing is certain, though, Rumple's apprehension regarding Zelena is doing her confidence no favors.

"How is it possible that you know Zelena? Did my mother tell you about her?"

Rumple shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "She did not." Turning away from the bed, he steps back around Regina and into the center of the room. Crossing one arm across his chest, he tucks the elbow of her other arm around it and then grasps his chin with his hand. As he contemplates how to respond, he gives it a few slow strokes. Once decided he says, "Before I began your training in earnest, your...sister traveled to our realm using an enchanted pair of slippers. For a time I pinned my hopes upon her becoming my protegee and had hoped to mold her into a sorceress capable of greatness beyond imagination."

This information startles Regina. She'd always thought she was his first choice. "Why didn't you?"

"Because she is an impetuous creature wholly ruled by her emotions." He frowns deeply, creasing his face in a way that makes him appear even more inhuman. "Zelena is utterly incapable of compartmentalizing. She was not raised by Cora as you were to master her turbulent feelings. They were a constant distraction from her studies. That, and...well, other reasons I'd prefer not to think about." He trails off, expression further souring, the smacks his lips as if something truly awful was lodged in his mouth. He then shivers, brushes a hand down his leathers, re-straightens his shoulders and the odd moment passes. Now recovered, he adds, "I terminated her apprenticeship when I realized she would never take to formal education. She was a mite displeased with that decision, but what could she do? I am the Dark One, after all." A manic giggle is punctuated by a twirling finger. "A click of her slippers later and she was gone, back to Oz to sulk, no doubt. Never heard from her since."

The truthfulness of Rumple's appraisal of Zelena is beyond doubt. In their brief duel, Regina had clashed with a woman who was convinced that she was superior in every way and yet completely lost control when her plan began to unravel. There was only one conclusion for Regina to make: her sister was unable to adapt to unexpected variables being introduced in the heat of conflict. Regina has seen that same phenomenon so many times on the battlefield, when a commander or soldier's failure to acclimate to the shifting dynamics of combat enables a nearly defeated foe to snatch victory from the greedily slobbering jaws of defeat. Emotional people such as Zelena depend on meticulously constructed stratagems to ensure their victories, and when those plans are executed without a hitch, they are virtually unstoppable by conventional means. But when order gives way to chaos in the heat of battle as it is wont to do, such individuals lack the creative coping mechanisms to churn out split second decisions that stave off disaster. Catastrophic failure is almost always the result.

This glaring character defect gives Regina a distinct advantage if she is mindful of it during her next encounter with Zelena. Improvisation is something she excels in, and she is going to have to exploit that ability if she wishes to defeat a sorceress who not only is unarguably powerful but has proven herself capable of scheming up intricate plots with multiple angles all moving at the same time. Regina is more of the type who subscribes to the philosophy best described by some of Red's folk, who would say, zuerst nachdenken, which means 'act first, think later.' Or as Regina's paternal kin might put it, tomar el toro por sus cuernos – that is, take the bull by his horns. In this case, that tendency to leap then look works to Regina's favor. The element of surprise is likely to be key in any future encounters between her and her loony half-sister. Their respective approaches dictates that she cannot afford to meet Zelena on the field of her sister's choosing. To do so would be courting almost certain disaster.

There is one perplexing question pricking at the back of Regina's mind, though. Even when fueled by True Love, Zelena was able to equal her in terms of raw output. Which leaves Regina to wonder: if they are indeed sisters, why does Zelena seem to possesses such vastly superior natural energy output and reserves?

Curious from a purely professional standpoint, she raises a sable brow at her old mentor. "If Zelena and I both inherited our magical talent from our mother, why was she able to nearly best me when I was resisting her with the most powerful magical force known to man?"

Rumple gives a disapproving tut. "Who said you both inherited your magic from the same exact source?"

"I just assumed..."

"Didn't I teach you never to assume?" Rumple interrupts, tone as snidely chastising as when she was a novice. "Your father could not be taught to summon a grain of sand. But Zelena's? Now, there's a chap who had potential. So horribly tragic he squandered it. He could have been a great sorcerer if he had an erudite benefactor such as myself. Or hadn't been mastered by the easily distracted head between his legs. I suppose in that way, he is rather like his bastard of a daughter." When Regina makes a noise of utter disgust at the tacky comment, Rumple giggles gleefully. "Oh, don't act like a prude, it doesn't suit you," he then trills, merry at her discomfort. "Also...a bit hypocritical from what I've gathered. Rumor is you have that wolf of yours howling almost every other ni—"

Having heard quite enough, and blushing furiously with Victor as an audience, Regina stops the discussion from getting any further afield into matters neither of the men in her presence have any business being privy to.

"Alright! I get it! Just..." she sighs and pinches her nose before continuing, "just get to the point."

"Spoilsport," says Rumple, entirely too pleased with himself. "The point is...Zelena was born to parents who were both naturally gifted with magic. There is also a wild ingredient to her I've not quite been able to figure out. Perhaps due to the vortex that snatched her out of this world and delivered her to Oz? Hmmm..." He wiggles a bit restlessly, clearly perturbed by this mystery he apparently cannot solve; one of few that Regina is aware of, which makes her sister all the most interesting – and frightening. And then as quickly as he zoned out he is back in the present. "Anyway, the result of these...elements…means that she is far more inherently powerful than you ever dreamed of being. Why, she was using magic while she was still in diapers whereas it took you a week to master a basic conjuration as an adult! You are your father's daughter. Aren't you, dearie?"

Regina bristles at the blasé delivery of that particularly sharp barb, and again when he smirks triumphantly at her outrage. Pride, her worst character flaw, swiftly provokes her to anger when she is being compared unfavorably to anyone – particularly other practitioners of magic. Too much was sacrificed in obtaining mastery of the dark art to be seen as the lesser of anyone other than her centuries old instructor.

"Posture all you want," Rumple continues without allowing her to retort, "but I assure you that your only advantage in this quarrel will be your ability to out-think her. And that is precisely why she struck at that which is closest to your heart."

Which is nothing Regina had not already concluded. "You say am I not her equal," she counters, still seething about being ranked lower on the magical totem pole than her batshit-insane sister. "And yet I defeated her in a fair fight. Had she not fled, I would have killed her this afternoon."

He shrugs as if that minor victory meant less than nothing. "Be that as it may, escape she did. I assure you, she most certainly will return. And make no mistake, when she does she will be much better prepared." He glances over at Red and then back at her, his eyes full of scathing accusation. "Your mother tried to warn you, Regina, as did I. Love is weakness. Zelena is using your love for that girl to destabilize you. You may have won the battle but the war is far from over."

He is wrong, she thinks, remembering what her love for Red had enabled her to do. A fight she surely would have lost to her much more powerful sister, if Rumple is to be believed, instead became a conspicuous statement. Not only that she is willing to do whatever she must to restore Red to life, even if that means she must expend herself in the effort, but that she is motivated by something Zelena cannot comprehend, something cosmic and primordial that can inspire superhuman feats that otherwise would be impossible. To diminish that, to diminish love, as weakness is nothing short of folly.

Crossing over to Red's beside, she takes her wife's hand and grips it tightly. The alarming heat from fevered skin seeps into her cold fingers, bringing her warmth and reminding her that while Red may be terribly ill, at least she is still alive.

"What you call weakness is in fact the very opposite," she then states with a boldness only experience can produce. "As it turns out, you and mother were both wrong. Horribly wrong. My love for that girl is what gave me the necessary energy to overcome Zelena. Because love is strength. It is wealth beyond measure. It is a weapon that no sword can deflect and which no shield of steel or magic can withstand. It is power of such infinite and majestic grandeur that the gods themselves, should they indeed exist, would kneel before in awesome reverence. For you see, Rumple, True Love doesn't just break curses. It creates miracles."

"So you are wholly given over to delusion then," he says, unconvinced, and judgmental. "True Love is powerful, yes, but inherently unpredictable. You cannot rely on it to win your every battle. Training, experience, and natural propensity matter much more in the unpredictable environments of open conflict. If I were you, I would heed this freely given advice. For when Zelena returns, she will not hold back. There will be no hesitation, no petty theatrics. Playtime is over, dearie, and when she is prepared to engage you again it will take more than what you and your Twue Wuv can muster to stop her."

When Regina starts to object, he raises a hand, eyes imploring her to listen to reason. "She hates you more than anything else, and yet she displayed no intentions of killing you earlier. That should tell you something. She wants you to suffer."

"I know," Regina replies, gritting her teeth together. "She said as much."

"Then do you not see the danger you face? She has likely been plotting this scenario for years."

Regina frowns dismissively, causing Rumple to scoff at her unwillingness to heed his warnings. She knows he is aggravated by what he would describe as willful ignorance.

"As I had been plotting Snow's demise," she retorts. "But the fruits of all my scheming went to naught the moment I met Red. Let Zelena come, let her irrational envy and malice be what compels her to try and destroy me. If Red has taught me anything, it is that love can overcome hate."

"You keep mentioning the love you share with the werewolf, that it is True Love. But tell me: if that is indeed accurate, why does she remain asleep? Has hatred not won a great victory already?"

"No, it hasn't! True Love's kiss did work, but Zelena somehow already knew what Red and I shared, even before I did. And while you are correct that she remains asleep, she is also alive, and that is the reason I asked you here. Victor and I have a plan to counter Zelena's curse."

"Oh? Color me intrigued. Pray tell!"

That Rumple seems particularly interested now that she has mentioned that True Love's kiss has not broken this particular curse is an extraneous source of worry for Regina. She knows why. Were he to gain such a recipe, he would surely utilize it for some nefarious purpose. And though she wants him to remain ignorant of Zelena's clever modification to the sleeping curse, she feels there is no alternative but to enlighten him. She only hopes her decision does not come back to bite her in the ass.

"During our discourse," she tells him, "Zelena taunted me that I could not break the curse with True Love's kiss. She added a rare ingredient to her curse, one found only in Oz high in the mountains surrounding the Emerald City. There, a tree grows which sprouts leaves immune to all forms of magic. She ground it up and mixed it into the potion she used as the base for the curse, thus infusing it with a protection against being broken by any counterspells, even the most potent of all. I must know: have you heard of this tree? And if you have, is there an antidote? If I do not find one, Red will die, for Zelena also modified her curse to draw its energy from its host body. It is killing her already, albeit slowly..."

"Well, this is certainly quite the quandary you've found yourself in," Rumple says, echoing her own thoughts. "Zelena's ingenuity is truly impressive."

"To hell with her ingenuity! I didn't ask you here for commentary on my sister's prodigious fluency with magic. I want you to answer my questions!" She heaves a frustrated sigh when Rumple raises a glittering eyebrow, and changes tract. Her temper never did get her anywhere with him. But there is one weakness that she knows Rumple has aside from his precious maid. "As I stated earlier, I am prepared to make a deal in exchange."

"Because of how desperate you are – and you are so deliciously desperate – I am sorely tempted to extract a high price from you for this," he replies, clearly interested in the carrot she dangled so temptingly before him. But then he goes and surprises by refusing the inroad to her life she just offered. "However," he says, hands steepling beneath his chin, "I will grant you this one allowance. Not just because you were once my most promising pupil, but because I share in your enmity for your deranged sibling. For once, we have aligned interests. So, to answer your questions, yes, I know of this tree, and yes, there is an antidote. However, it will not be easy to procure."

Regina is sure her expression reveals how stunned she is at Rumple's apparent act of mercy. She is, of course, immediately suspicious and wants very much to press him further about his stated reasons for this unexpected gift. But as he so aptly put it, she is desperate, and at the moment cannot bring herself to care about his motivations. If he was willing to forgo his general fare, then she was all too happy to embrace this stroke of good fortune.

"What is the antidote?" she asks, her tone reflecting how essential the answer is.

In response, he tilts his head and studies her in that reptilian manner that never fails to set her teeth on edge. He then gives her an uncanny grin. "Bark from the same tree from which the leaves grow will do the trick. There is a recipe to concoct the potion that you will need to obtain elsewhere, as I do not know it offhand."

Regina's eyes narrow pointedly. "If you don't know how to make the potion, how do you know the bark will work?"

He giggles at her skepticism, finger twirling in the air as he sings out his reply. "Let's just say that I know someone, who knows someone, who knows that said reagent will in fact counteract the protective magicks currently preventing True Love's kiss from breaking the curse."

Regina sighs, aggravation at his antics close to overriding her gratitude for the boon he just extended to her. "I'll just have to take your word on it, I suppose," she says. "Still, I don't understand the difficulty in obtaining bark from a tree. Seems easy enough to me. I know how to reach Oz already, and once there, it is only a matter of locating said tree, which should be no problem if I conduct a brief investigation. A little gold will loosen the lips of the locals, and if not, other means of persuasion will."

"Ah," he replies with a flourish of eccentric movement, "but it is not that simple. I can tell you already that the grove in which the tree grows is no ordinary place. It is a sanctuary tucked high in the mountains beyond the Emerald City. The climb is treacherous enough that only the very hardy attempt it outside of pristine weather, which is unusual as bitter cold and snow blanket the precipice most of the year. And once you reach it, you will find it protected by a gate that only the pure of heart can open and pass though."

Regina's countenance falters and she stumbles back a pace at the devastating setback. Scaling the mountain would be difficult; she is no avid climber like Red. All the same, she is sure that if she had no other choice, she could do it. Losing a couple fingers or toes to frostbite would be a small price to pay to save Red. No, it is the last part of Rumple's warning that has her heart stuttering.

Can nothing ever be easy? How am I supposed to get into a place only accessible by the pure of heart? By any generous definition, that is not her. At her most unsullied by the evils of the world, she was never the picture of an idyllic lady. Her development of a temper did not coincide with Daniel's death. Ever since she was a child, she has been hot-headed, stubborn, combative, and quick to unleash an acerbic wit and sarcastic tongue. The young woman who so heroically saved a princess on a runaway horse was far from perfect. She is fairly certain that even back then she could not have opened the gate.

But then she thinks of her sister, who had managed to obtain leaves from the tree for use in her nefarious scheme.

"How did Zelena gain access then?" she poses. "She is as far from innocence as I am, if not more."

"Your sister is like you in more ways than she is not," he tells her, quirking his eyes over to Red, heavy innuendo in them. "Like you, she is...fluid in her preferences. After departing the Enchanted Forest and returning to Oz, she chose a partner whose heart was unsullied by darkness – a fellow Cardinal witch by the name of Glinda, of the purest character. If I were to wager a guess, it would be that Glinda retrieved the leaves for her, probably under duress. You, however, do not have such an innocent soul at your disposal. One who is not under the thrall of a curse, anyway."

Tears pricking at her eyes, Regina turns away. The cure feels so close, right at the tip of her fingers. Traveling to Oz, to the mountain north of the Emerald City, and scaling it to reach the summit will be no problem with her powers. But she cannot open the gate. Her heart that was once pure has long since been irreparably tainted by the darkness. Now, though it is healing slowly through Red's ceaseless love and limitless devotion, it is a lump of black with streaks of red that fight and claw for what little purchase they have. Her past has been a ghastly specter looming over her shoulder the entire time she and Red have been together, and now it is preventing her from saving the one person who is able to restore her to even a similitude of the person she once was.

Red, her sweet Red. The light of her life, the very beat of her heart. Regina cannot bear to be the reason her wife dies, cannot fathom having to bury another True Love. What will she do if Red passes from the circles of this world solely because she failed her most crucial test? Because she folded under the strain of her greatest moment of crisis? How will she face herself each morning knowing it is her fault that the woman she loves more the life itself is dead and buried, cold and rotted in the grave? And that is precisely what will happen. A certain self-righteous individual will never permit her best friend's remains to be defiled by dark magic, even that which is meant to preserve the dearly departed from the corrosive processes that break down everything which has expired. No, like she always does, Snow will...

It is that thought that strikes Regina like a vicious slap. The accursed name of her greatest enemy reverberates in her mind like an unending echo that collides with her earlier remembrance of rescuing a certain princess in distress from a potentially deadly equestrian accident. Snow White. Snow White. Snow White. Snow White, the helpless little girl whose naive affections for Regina got Daniel killed. Snow White, the insufferable child who smothered Regina with unwanted attention. Snow White, the bandit princess who arose from the ashes of her smoldering life to become a Queen in spite of Regina's best efforts to the contrary. Snow White, the blindly loyal and eternally optimistic brat who never gives up on anyone, even on the woman who'd spent her nearly every waking hour either plotting to murder her or executing said plots. Snow White...the people's champion, the epitome of goodness, the pure of heart.

Suddenly, Regina knows exactly what she has to do.

"Snow," she breathes, and all eyes in the room capable of seeing turn toward her, mystified by the mention of that name. But it doesn't take long for the two highly intelligent men to make the connection.

"Why, such a splendid idea!" Rumple trills after a moment, bouncing up and down merrily and giving a delighted giggle. "Besides little old me, you always were the most clever person I ever met, Regina. By recognizing and accepting that your beloved's salvation rests in the hands of your mortal enemy, you have once again reaffirmed the wisdom in choosing you over your sister."

"But will it work?" she asks, knowing that it will, but needing to hear it confirmed by an outside source.

Rumple nods. "Yes, Snow White will most certainly be able to open the gate and pass through. The question is, will she be inclined to render assistance?"

"To me? Hell no. For Red…?" Regina does not even need to think about it.

There is little Snow will not do for Red, up to and including playing nice with Regina. For pity's sake, the woman had purposefully avoided her best friend for upwards of a year after Regina and Red became a couple. The distance was certainly not because Regina demanded that Snow stop visiting Red in the tiny village that straddled the borders of their respective kingdoms. No, she had done so of her own volition because she knew Regina's disapproval put Red in an uncomfortable position and she did not want to come between them. Red's happiness came first. It is the one thing Regina and Snow have always been in agreement about.

"For Red," she then adds, "Snow would follow me into hell itself. She will help."

"Then I suggest you waste no time. Your lady love does not have long enough for you to dilly-dally."

"How long does she have?" Victor asks, sounding less concerned by the science behind what is happening than ever before.

"Less than a fortnight, I'd wager," Rumple tells them both, knowing Regina is asking the same question with her sharp gaze. "No doubt that means you'll rush off to Oz at the first opportunity. But you must be wary, Regina. Zelena will oppose your efforts at every step. She possesses ready means of traveling between realms and will no doubt follow you there to prevent you from obtaining the bark."

Regina snarls angrily. "Let her. She can die in the same mud she mucked about in as a child."

Rumple rolls his eyes in annoyance at her petulant response. "Do not let your pride deceive you, dearie. Zelena is not to be underestimated. In terms of mortal magicians, her raw power is unrivaled. Had she taken to my training, she could have become the greatest human sorceress to live since the great Morgan Le Fey. And in her own world, she will act with impunity, for it bows at her feet."

"Well, I will neither bow to her nor will I fear her. I fear only one thing: losing my wife. Nothing else matters to me besides saving Red. If I die in the process, I have lost nothing, for if I fail and she perishes from this curse, I have no intention of sticking around to mourn her. I will crush my own heart after I see to it that she is properly laid to rest."

"Regina!" Victor protests, but Regina holds up her hand to forestall his complaints.

"You won't repeat that to anyone, Victor," she says. "No one can ever discover how vital she is to me. She is already an all-too-enticing target for my enemies. I will not risk giving them even more reason to lash out against me through her. So you, my dear Doctor, will keep your mouth shut or else you'll be deprived the use of it altogether. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," he replies through thinned lips. She raises a brow. "Yes, my Queen, I understand," he corrects, almost tersely. "Although I'd point out you already admitted that vulnerability to an enemy."

Victor is unhappy with her, she can tell, but she doesn't care. She meant what she had said and is fully prepared to make good on her intentions. Thankfully, so long as Red lives there is no reason to dwell on such morbid thoughts.

"True," she says, "but he won't say anything because his silence will be part of our deal. Isn't that right, Rumple?" Turning her eyes on Rumplestiltskin, she finds him eyeing her in a way he never has before, as if he is seeing her for the first time all over again. "What are you staring at?"

For a moment, he says nothing, just studies her with those discomfiting eyes that are able to discern so much more than they should. But then he shakes his head. "Nothing. Just surprised is all. Never thought I'd see the day the Evil Queen loved someone more than herself."

Regina straightens her back and runs a hand down the sides of her dress down past her hips. "The Evil Queen would not. But I am not her anymore. I haven't been in a long time. I'm just the Queen now, just Regina – I have left that miserable wretch behind for good. I lost myself once because of you and my mother, but never again, Rumple. Never again! I will live out the rest of my life with Red at my side or I will join her in the grave. I refuse to entertain any other options. Now, tell me you agree not to speak of this as part of our arrangement."

"Very well. I agree," he says, seeming to accept her terms. Regina wonders why he'd done so without argument, but at the same time dismisses her concerns in favor the crisis at hand. Rumple was a problem for another day. And besides that, in all the time she's known him, he's never broken a deal. Never.

"Excellent." Regina gives him a curt nod, then clasps her hands behind her back. Her eyes narrow into slits. "Now, before we part ways, there is one final matter we must discuss. I am curious as to what your reasons were for rescuing Jefferson from Wonderland?"

Rumple levels her with a reptilian smile. "Heard about that, did you?" He glances Victor through sharply narrowed ophidian eyes, causing the Doctor to shift uncomfortably.

"Of course I did," Regina says, drawing his attention back. "You can imagine why I am concerned about this considering my...complicated history with the Hatter."

Rumple dismisses her concern much as she had Victor's earlier, with an idle wave of the hand. "Oh, pish posh. There's no reason to worry, dearie. I only retrieved our mutual acquaintance because I am hunting for a particularly elusive fairy who can help me locate someone else – someone I've been searching for a very long time."

Through a medium she doesn't wish to reveal to him for their own safety, Regina has been let in on the very old secret as to whom the Dark One is looking for. Though in the interest of keeping this vital deal in tact, she decides not to pursue the information further. If Rumple is after his long lost son, his attention will be elsewhere, thus she has no reason to get involved. Or to care at all really. Especially if he's going to be teaming up with a fairy. She would rather spoon her own eyes out than spend a single second in the presence of one of the loathsome gnats.

She gives a disaffected sigh. "Well, then, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I will require Jefferson's help to get to Oz. I can't have you whisking him away the second you leave."

"Again, your fretting is pointless," says Rumple. "I've already got what I needed from him. He's all yours."

Regina claps her hands, as glad to a potential problem has been averted as she is to be rid of her old teacher. "Splendid. I suppose that satisfies my curiosity. I'm done with you now."

Unused to being so casually dismissed, Rumple stares at her for a long space, his own curiosity piqued. Regina meets his eyes, unwilling to give in an inch. She has got what she wanted from him without having to sacrifice her soul. That's a win in her book, and one she isn't willing to have stolen out from under her by entertaining the sly imp for any longer than is necessary. Best to get him the hell out and get along with the business of saving Red. For all their sakes.

"In that case, I wish you luck with your endeavor," he says, apparently having made no headway with whatever conundrum was rolling around in his warped brain. "Just remember, this favor was a one time gift. Should the occasion arise that you require my assistance again, it will cost you. Dearly."

"That's perfectly fine with me," she returns, smiling sardonically, "because I hope to never see you again. For my part, this is goodbye between us. Our business is concluded. Never return to my kingdom, and in return I give you my word that I will leave you and your little maid to do...whatever it is you two get up to in that dank, creepy dungeon you call a castle." She shudders for show, causing Rumple's brow to furl in offense.

He takes a few seconds to mull over her offer, but being the pragmatist that he is, settles quickly upon the most efficient and beneficial decision. She is effectively giving him unchecked reign in territories that do not fall under her sovereignty, and that is a deal too good for the Dark One to pass up.

"I accept," he says, and then conjures a scroll on which to etch their contract into perpetuity. Not one to be outdone, Regina beats him to the punch by summoning her own, and then with a wave of her hand, draws up a concise agreement without the fine print that tends to tilt all contracts into Rumplestiltskin's favor. When she presents it to him, he takes it without a word, appearing almost proud at her for having got the better of him one last time. He signs the document and then returns it with a flourish. "Well, I suppose this is goodbye then."

"Yes, it is," she says without emotion as she magicks a copy of the signed contract. As she presents it to Rumple, she is internally screaming at him to leave. Time is wasting and she has no affection left for the man. However much she had once trusted him and relied upon him, looked up to him even, his machinations have proven themselves to be wholly selfish. She does not believe for a moment that he ever felt any genuine affection for her beyond her usefulness as a pawn subject to his insidious designs. Now she is simply returning the favor. And it feels so damn good that her lips curl up smugly. "Goodbye, Rumplestiltskin. May we never meet again."

He tilts his head, serpentine eyes gleaming mysteriously. "Farewell, Your Majesty." And then in a puff of purple smoke, he vanishes, gone – she hopes – from her life forever. It is a monumental weight lifted off of her chest.

After rolling up the contract, which she knows he is incapable of breaking lest he find some unforeseen loophole, she passes it to Victor. "See that this finds its way to the Royal Archives and then send for Snow White. Tell her she is to travel here immediately and that she and her companions will have safe passage into the citadel. Tell her it's urgent, that Red's life is at stake and she is not to dilly dally. Dispatch one of the ravens, it will find her swiftly and she will not refuse a message from any creature with feathers and wings."

Victor does not hesitate to accept her orders. "Right away, my Queen."

Swallowing her pride has never been one of Regina's strong suits, and she's not about to start accustoming herself to the taste of it now. All the same, as the door slams shut behind Victor and she stumbles on shaky legs back to her wife's bedside, she chokes down the acrid bile that fills the column of her throat.

Snow White. It just has to be Snow White. Really, if the situation weren't so dire, she might laugh herself sick at the height of irony she now finds herself confronting. Once again, so many years and murder attempts later, she is going to have to trust that insufferable blabbermouth with the life of her True Love. The universe truly is devoid of compassion. That, or it simply hates her with a fervor that defies quantification. She cannot quite decide which, not that it matters when what is most important to her is lying here inert, being slowly drained by a pernicious curse that ought instead to be afflicting her.

Regina glances down at Red, eyes flooding with tears for what seems like the thousandth time in the past few hours. Her feeling of persecution seems so trivial in the light of an innocent such as Red being condemned to such an unnaturally cruel fate. If Snow's help, loathsome at it is, can help deliver the cure to spare Red from an eternity of suffering, who is she to deny it? Or even abhor it? Though it may rend her heart to pieces and test her self-control to the breaking point, she will do what she once swore she never would. She will let Snow White back into her life.

"I promise, my love, I will save you," she says, then lowers herself down to resume her perch at Red's hip. She takes her Queen's hand and peppers a series of kisses against the back, fingers, and knuckles. "No matter what I have to do, no matter who I have to trust, no matter who I have to beg. No matter who I have to kill. I will fix this. I won't give up until I'm dead or you're awake. I swear it on my love for you, and that's the highest thing I possess upon which to base an oath."

In one final gesture of devotion, she leans across Red's body and gives her one final kiss. She can't know, but as she pours her love into it, she hopes with all her might that Red has heard her. In her heart, she believes she did and that Red won't give up either. She has to keep fighting. She has to hold on. The alternative is unthinkable.

[jane-ways]

Scion of Kings, Chapter 4

Well, this is it! The last chapter (for now...I don't think I'll be able to put away this Gil for good). I know this is a quick turnaround, but I knew what I wanted to write and the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone (and I wanted to finish the story before going on vacation). Special thanks to @ecthvlion for betareading.

Lastly, my very talented friend Ian was kind enough to take a commission of my Gil! I think he looks very handsome - check it out and give it a reblog here!

Thank you all for joining me on this journey! This was my first ever fic, and it's been so wonderful to read all your comments and get your support. You guys make this worth doing :)

Read it on the Silmarillion Writers’ Guild and AO3.

Maedhros sat at his old desk, made for him when he reached the age of ascension and became, according to the laws and customs of the Eldar, an adult. He had always been tall, and even then, when he still had a few inches left to grow, the desk had been a little short for him. But like all things of one’s youth, it had become part of the fabric of life, the slight stoop it forced him into as natural a part of writing as breathing.

But how does one pick up the threads of an old life, its pattern no longer familiar to the fingertips? In Himring, Maedhros had commissioned a new desk, more suited to his height and station in life. It was the desk of a king, a warrior, fit for sealing and stamping and making the fate of the world, not of a boy-prince composing treatises on rhetoric in the warmth of his mother’s house. He no longer knew the stoop he had forced his shoulders into, sitting at his old desk in a life he no longer recognized.

No muscle memory to weave this new world, then.

Maedhros sighed. He rolled his shoulders in discomfort, and organized all he would need: several sheaves of paper, an inkwell, a quill, a nib sharpener. Laying them all out in a neat grid before him, he considered his options. He had to tell the lad, of course—he laughed at himself, then, breaking his own train of thought. “‘Lad’ indeed,” he said to himself. “He’s High King and here I am calling him a lad.”

The last time Maedhros had seen him, of course, he really had still been a lad, small and cold and frightened. But even then, there had a been a strength in the boy’s eyes, a steady burning—not of hatred, or even judgment, but of the will to live. (Secretly in his heart of hearts Maedhros had envied that fire even then.)

He had held the boy close, wrapped him in his cloak and rubbed feeling back into his limbs. An unexpected surge of affection had coursed through him, then, the memory of many brothers and cousins who as children long ages ago had cried in his arms. Briefly, he had considered taking the child with him. But how could he have damned a child to such a life as that? How could he have been so selfish as to risk more violence—a last retribution against the heir of Dior from his fallen brothers’ followers?

So Maedhros had let him go—called him Starlight after the fire in his eyes and sent him to the last place in Beleriand the boy might be safe. He had thought of Gil-galad often, especially after the twins had come into his life, wondered what sort of man he was growing into, what sort of education he was receiving. If he was happy.

It all fell into place, then. Maedhros had never been one for over-deliberation; once the path cleared before him, he followed it with as little to-do as possible. The words already laying themselves out in his mind’s eye, he set pen to paper.

To Gil-Galad, from Maedhros.

Greetings, my lord. I thank you kindly for your letter, and am glad to learn of Elrond’s success in court, and in friendship. You seem like a good sort of person, and he speaks very fondly of you. In another life, I think, had had things been different, I would have been very fond of you as well.

It does me great honor to know that you hold me in such regard. I am not sure what I have done to deserve it—

‘No,’ Maedhros firmly reminded himself. No self-pity, no guilt. These were, as his mother often reminded him, unhelpful emotions. And he knew this; he remembered the cocoon of loathing he had once tangled himself in. In a fit of exasperation, Fingon had once yelled at him, “It’s not good enough to just stand there and say, ‘I’m sorry, I’m terrible;’ you have to do something about it! You have to stop being terrible and actually start making amends!” He had been right, Maedhros supposed, although it was a feat easier said than done. But what was this strange second life if not a chance to rid oneself of the easy familiarity we all have with the more unpleasant parts of ourselves?

“Here’s to mending,” Maedhros murmured, lifting his quill in a mock salute.

—but it is welcome nonetheless. There is no delicate way to put this, and so I shall say it right out: being your father would bring me no end of pride, but the honor is not mine.

You doubtless wish to know the story, and although I have debated with myself over the potential harm telling you may do, you seem a man of steady constitution, and I believe it is your right to know. I will try to relate the matter as factually as I can, but I beg of you to forgive whatever bias remains.

You were born Eluréd. Dior was your father and Nimloth was your mother and Doriath was your home. You had a twin brother, Elurín, and a sister, Elwing. You know what became of her. And so Elrond your dear friend is also your nephew and your heir, a fact which I hope may bring you some measure of peace. Of you and your brother I shall now relate.

When my brothers and I sent word asking for—well, I suppose demanding is really the correct word—the return of the Silmaril and heard nothing in return, I hoped that Dior would at least expect an attack and evacuate Menegroth. This was not to be, and when Dior slew my brother Celegorm, a few of his followers, blinded by hate and rage, retaliated in the cruelest way they knew how. They took you and your brother—Elwing they could not find—and left you in the woods. Your intended fate you can imagine.

When I heard what they had done, I slew them and went searching for you. It was the dead of winter, and the woods were treacherous with snow and ice and things that are not spoken of in the Blessed Realm. When I found you, you were huddled in the hollow of a dead tree, barely alive and crying for your brother. He lay at the bottom of a nearby ravine with his neck at an angle. He was surely dead, and you would have soon joined him had I not found you then. I warmed you, garbed you in my own cloak, and sent you to the one place I hoped would remain safe. I told no one but the messenger I sent you with, a woman long in my service and whom I had trusted with my own life more than once. She died at Sirion, and thus with me our secret passed beyond knowledge into the West.

Maedhros paused there, releasing a deep breath he felt he’d been holding for thousands of years. So now he had explained that facts. But how could he ever explain? How could he justify the panic that had gripped him, covered in his little brothers’ blood, as Gil-galad’s tiny, half-frozen body curled in tight against his own? In that moment he had been pierced by the distinct feeling, as cold and clear as the winter sun above, that seeing this child to safety was the only important thing in the whole of Arda. What other justification was there, besides—“I did what any father would have done”?

Forgive me for what I did. You have, it seems, forgiven me for Sirion, but if you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me for Doriath, at least forgive me for concealing your identity. I feared for your life if my brothers’ followers learned that you lived. I feared they would try to complete what their compatriots had started, either before you reached Círdan or when you reached manhood. I feared, I suppose, that if they knew, if you were found out, you would be running all your life. I sometimes wondered if I made the right decision.

But when Gondolin fell, and the mantle of High King passed to you, I knew there was no going back. I could not risk open rebellion while your reign was still young and fragile. Then—

Then the Oath had awoken again, and Sirion was burning before Maedhros knew what he was doing. In Elrond and Elros, despite his initial reticence to keep them, he had recognized the chance to start over, to do things right this time. To repair a little of the damage he had done. But all too soon came war like even Maedhros had never known before, and the Oath clawed at him, shredding him apart until it was there was nothing left of himself and the Oath was all that remained. Of the end he remembered little but a pain so strong it numbed and a gaping maw in the earth to match what he felt in his heart.

—it was too late. But I do not think there is any harm done by a small reinterpretation of the truth that heals instead of harms. Perhaps it was fate, a little tweak in the fabric of history, or perhaps Námo really does have a sense of humor. You were born to be king, after all. And as it so happened, we Noldor had need of one. It seems you have done a good job of it. Were I your sire, I could not be prouder.

Here Maedhros stopped again, making to sign the letter. But it still felt incomplete. He turned Fingon’s old words over in his mind anew—it’s not enough to say you’re sorry. You have to make amends. Maedhros thought of the little boy he had once cradled in his arms. It had been the first time he’d held a child in centuries. What choice would he make now, if he had to do it all over again, knowing what he knew?

I have been told that guilt without action is a selfish emotion. That it turns our thoughts inwards, rather than out towards the world we must seek to repair. I think, when I found you, for a brief moment I was able to transcend that guilt. I saw clearly that the duty of your protection fell to me, and me alone. I felt then what I felt for my own foster-sons when I sent them to stay with Círdan—I wanted to spare you the doom we had wrought for ourselves. Perhaps it is a strange sentiment, but not, it seems, unwelcome by you.      I was good with children, you know, what with so many little brothers and cousins to look after. I think I was not so bad with my own sons. You are grown now, but I think perhaps there is still a chance to do right by you, as I did by them.

Besides, there are not so many kings of the Noldor from whom you could have inherited that silver hair.

I wish you every happiness to be found in Middle-Earth—would that I could have known your new world, and shared those joys with you. If you will have me, it would be my honor to be called

Your father,

Maedhros

[ironjohnredcognition]

The Directing mind

h/t @afx626

In all of these occasions, you are summoning impressions in your mind and then reacting to them as though they were real.

The Stoics taught of the ton hegemonikon ("directing mind") as an entity unto itself. Aurelius established it as being the uppermost authority within the mind. The important thing about this is that the mind contains the directing mind, and other things, which could be called lower faculties — such as impressions.

He did this often. If something in your mind that is not your directing mind should be in discomfort, he said, that is its concern. (Paraphrasing.)

One of the main "powers" granted by Stoicism is that you begin to realize that your mind is not one monolithic thing, but many components that interact. (Prescient of them. There isn't one modern neurologist who would dispute this.) Moreover, your Directing Mind is free to disagree with other parts: not merely to repress them and lie to itself about how the feeling doesn't exist, but to acknowledge that it is there, and incorrect.

The sense of nervousness you speak of isn't "you." It isn't correct just because you feel it. The only reason you take it for granted is that you never learned how to do otherwise.

Imagine this: You feel nervous, and instead of recoiling and getting your heart rate up, you merely interpret it as a signal. You don't let your thoughts run away; if dire predictions arise in your mind, you quiet them down so that they don't distract you. Now you can think a little more clearly.

It's hard at first, so you start with something easy. It's easier to dismiss your anger over the supermarket not having your favorite Lunchable than it is heavier matters, so you practice on little things like that. And when you check out, if you stumble with your words and feel silly at the cash register, you remind yourself on the way to the car that your stumbling has already been forgotten by the cashier, who has already heard fifty people misspeak some word today, and will hear the same thing many more times before the sun is down. The sense that other people are intensely interested in your every tiny mistake is, I'm happy to report, largely misguided, and not worthy of the trust you invest in it.

Over time, you try this technique — this deliberate, conscious granting or withholding of assent (agreement) to your impressions — and you get better and better at it for larger and larger troubles. You find that things that troubled you to no end don't seem so severe as they did before.

Ultimately, an impression (like "the cashier thinks I'm a dork") is a tool to be used, not an oppressive phantom to run and hide from — and certainly not to be mistaken for a guaranteed fact about reality. If you think the cashier thinks you're a dork, so what? (Even if it is true!) Does it change how you use the credit card machine or how you push your cart through the doors?

"You are just an impression. You have given me (the Directing Mind) information. That is your purpose, and that purpose is now complete. What I do with that information is not your concern, but mine. Isn't that why you gave it to me in the first place?"

Essentially, you are de-automating processes that have been running automatically, so that you can retrain them with better information and strategies.

There is no thought in your mind that doesn't owe you an explanation for why you should think it instead of some other thought. Remember that.

A tenet of Stoicism is that most of what we think and do is unnecessary.

An impression says, "I wish I had these capabilities I had before!" Then you dwell because for some fucked up reason our minds are set up to allow us to think that dwelling is a subset of "doing something useful," which it isn't.

You have already had the thought that you wish you had your former capabilities. This thought was worth having at most one time. Every time you re-think it, you tell yourself what you already know, without surfacing any new useful information.

Maybe you can do something about this, and maybe you can't. I suppose the place to start would be to try to recognize when it's happening, and see if you can't prevail upon yourself to replace that thought with another.

When an ancient philosopher — I forget who, might have been Diogenes — was getting old, he fell; and on this, he chastised the ground: "Don't be so greedy! You'll have me soon enough!" He didn't fight it, so it didn't seem to make him nervous.

It's hard for me to give more specific advice because I don't know what you have to work with, and my best advice is to talk to someone who knows what the hell they are talking about, like a psychologist who specializes in TBI.

If you can't afford that, I — a person who does not know what the hell he's talking about — would suggest observing these things, learning how to predict their arrival, and allowing some part of yourself to say, for example, "Ah, Mr. Hyde is nearly here again. I should preemptively go sit somewhere quiet until he has left me, and then I can go about the rest of my day." Or, "I can't remember... Probably won't be able to for a few hours... I'll write it down and come back to it later."

I would not tell myself that I have accepted it. I would be more interested in observing evidence that suggests to what extent I have perhaps accepted it. It isn't a light switch. Acceptance comes in gradations.

You really, really ought to know a few things about the architecture of your brain. That can clarify a lot.

Paul Ekman (Emotional Awareness), Gerald Edelman (Wider Than The Sky: The Phenomenal Gift of Consciousness), and many and others have written a lot on this subject. I can't type the entire contents of those books into this post, but I can give you a somewhat crude synopsis.

A few inches behind each eye is a brain structure called an amygdala. This is often cited as the "fear center" but that's like naming a gallon after a single drop. Amygdalas generate emotions, but they also play a part in facial recognition, recall of the social relationships between people, and many other processes. The amygdalas also have the distinction of terminating the olfactory nerves directly, and are naturally involved in smell.

They are not considered to be a part of the conscious mind, but they wield massive influence over it. One of their main activities is to write information directly to the prefrontal cortex. They have a generous amount of bandwidth and access with which to do this. (They have to because part of their job is to save your life during emergencies.) The primary route into the PFC (and functionally the conscious mind) is the amygdalofugal pathway.

The amygdalas are also privileged to early access to sensory data. They can "see" and "hear" things a fraction of a second before your conscious mind becomes aware of them. When you recognize a relative the very instant you see them, without any delay whatsoever, you have your amygdalas to thank. They are also capable of seizing control of your PFC and issuing mandatory commands. If you've ever found yourself dodging (or directing your car) around an extreme and sudden hazard, with unusual agility and clarity, and almost feel you're not the one doing it... yep, that's your amygdalas.

The amygdalas can write an impression directly into your conscious mind. It will arrive seemingly out of nowhere, and usually without context. Their advantage is that they're optimized for extremely fast reaction, and because they have early access to sensory data, they can get the drop on your conscious mind.

But...

Your conscious mind can also form its own impressions. It's a fraction of a second behind the amygdalas, but it does have one advantage. When you have a behavior you want to modify, you can train yourself to "smell it coming." There is always some series of triggering events, and these can be consciously detected and intercepted. If your PFC steps in before the amygdalas take control, it has a chance to assert itself. With adequate practice, it can get quite good at this.

Now you have a very rough, basic framework for understanding the fundamentals of where impressions come from, and how they can be managed — what it means to manage them, "behind the curtains." What the wetware is actually doing.

One of the corruptions of the Directing Mind mentioned by Marcus Aurelius is "this thought would be superfluous."

You can't dismiss certain unpleasant impulses, like anxiety. They nag at you. Good! That's supposed to happen! What's missing is this:

Interpret the unpleasant impulse as a signal (and nothing more!) that something is not quite adequate.

Figure out how to remove the impulse's reason for firing in the first place.

Once the impulse has fired, you can acknowledge it and do something about it. "You want me to do something? Fine, I am scheduling two hours tonight to work on this." The part of your unconscious mind the impulse came from wants it to be addressed, just like an impulse indicating thirst comes from a lower faculty that will be watching to see whether you appear to be moving toward water, and will flog you more and more aggressively if you do not.

That which originated the impulse is looking for either immediate action or reliable future action. That action must be predicted as having an optimal chance of success. If these conditions are not met, the impulse will not leave you alone — unless you have trained yourself to dissociate from it, which is really not a good idea. The impulse is a tool to be used; or if not useful, refined or repudiated. It is not something to be hidden from.

This is one of the pitfalls of Stoicism. "What is outside my mind is nothing to it" doesn't mean you ignore your problems. It just means you don't let them get on top of you, or forget the best use of your mind, or have an unrealistic expectation of what life will give you. There are concepts of "preferred indifferents" and "unpreferred indifferents." If the outside world was completely meaningless, there wouldn't be two kinds of indifferents.

It may be that you interpret the impulse as spurious. "I already set aside time for this. Why are you bothering me again?" Or, "The impression behind this impulse is based on a previous understanding of my relation to the world, but I have internalized a better one now... so what am I supposed to do with it? You must have come to me purely out of habit." Or,  "I already failed at this thing, and it's obvious that I should try that thing instead. Why are you motivating me to work on an obsolete problem? What is the useful output?"

There is no thought in your head which is immune to interrogation. All thoughts must be able to answer: "Why are you useful? Why are you the best thought for me to think right now?" "Ah, but I feel anxious!" "So what? I'm already doing all I can."

[sid-the-super-tramp]

How To Stop Puppy From Biting Me

Many new puppy owners experience puppy biting and, when you have kids in the family, it can become somewhat challenging to handle a “very cute” puppy that is running and biting the kids. Rough and nipping Play is a puppy's regular behavior. They use their mouths when puppies play with each various other. For that reason, puppies normally want to bite or "mouth" hands during play or when being petted. With young puppies, this is rarely hostile behavior in which the intent is to do injury. Probably you can grab some puppy attacking tips from the following web content.

Stop Puppy From Biting Me

My puppy bites individuals when she gets all thrilled, playing or not. Not viciously however it injures the majority of the moment. Exactly how do we obtain her to quit? I'm so delighted you asked this question. Pup mouthing is a Stop Puppy From Biting Me Not just is it normal, it's also extremely crucial. Before I give you recommendations on just how to stop it, I intend to clarify to you why it's happening to begin with.

How To Stop Puppy From Biting Me?

Before trying to stop, let’s understand why your puppy is biting?

I think, that before you look into the "exactly how to quit it", it's crucial to initially recognize why your pup is doing all this attacking If you know why then maybe you will certainly be extra patient and also understanding with your puppy. There are numerous reasons so let's check out The Socialization duration of a puppy begins when it is birthed as well as continues up until the 14th week old-- all with their littermates and also a mom. During this moment they deal with socializing-- points like bite restraint,( they find out by thru their clutter companions when they bite too difficult) just how to check out body language, as well as typically get along. Young puppies that are taken on or marketed and also given to owners at 8 weeks of age lose out on 4-6 weeks of essential socialization.

Aggressive puppy biting

See your young puppy's actions around areas where there is food. Early indications of aggressiveness in young puppies consist of being controlling over playthings and food. Is your young puppy protective of his food bowl? Just how does he or she grumbles or complexity as you stroll by their food bowl while they are eating? Do they roar or snap when you reach for their food bowl, even if it's vacant? Do they seize deals with or food out of your hand? Does your puppy roar, lunge, or snap, as you try to get a gone down piece of food? Are they protective of the trash container? In various other areas of your home, does your young puppy insist a case to any type of detail furniture pieces, such as a bed, sofa, or chair? Is your puppy controlling of playthings or various other things, especially products that might belong to your children? How does the young puppy act when somebody, particularly somebody they do not understand, walks right into your house or enters an area? Does the young puppy respond differently when an unknown youngster involves the house? Does the puppy exhibit an unusually high prey drive, by chasing as well as nipping at anything that is moving? Do they over-react aggressively to playful teasing, unexpected activities, being awakened from a deep sleep, or when being dealt with? Or are they unwilling to be touched? Watch how your young puppy reacts to various other dogs and also puppies. Does your pup try to control other young puppies or grown-up pets? That kind of very early hostility requires to be suppressed right away with training.

Bite Inhibition: Teach Your Puppy to Be Gentle

During the socialization period, if they are still with their littermates they often tend to learn rapidly How mild to bite. Young puppies generally find out bite inhibition throughout have fun with other young puppies. If you see a team of pups playing, you'll see a lot of chasing, striking as well as battling. Puppies also attack each other around. Every now and then, if a puppy is a victim of the unpleasant bite, they will stop having fun. The offender is usually shocked by the yelp as well as likewise stops playing a minute. However, quite soon, both puppies are back in the game. With this type of interaction, pups discover to regulate the strength of their bites so that no one gets pain and the play can proceed without interruption. They can likewise learn the same lesson from individuals if pups can learn just how to be gentle with each various other. Pups must additionally learn to enjoy the company of people while they are young. According to the leading dog instructors and also behavior experts Dr. Ian Dunbar “Your Most Urgent Priority is to socialize your puppy to a wide variety of people, especially children, men, and strangers before he is twelve weeks old. Well-socialized puppies grow up to be wonderful companions, whereas antisocial dogs are difficult, time-consuming, and potentially dangerous. As a rule of thumb, your puppy needs to meet at least one hundred people before he is three months old. Since your puppy is still too young to venture out to dog parks and sidewalks, you’ll need to start inviting people to your home right away.” Here's the situation: At some time in your dog's life, you can accidentally go down something heavy on your dog or step on them or do something that might surprise or cause your pet discomfort. Like a reflex reaction, your canine may whip around as well as put his or her teeth on you. Making the effort to educate your puppy correct bite inhibition can indicate the distinction between some saliva left on your hand where their mouth was vs a trip to the nearby emergency clinic (and also possibly the euthanasia room for the pet dog ...) In those moments, it doesn't matter how wonderful or well-trained your canine is-- bite inhibition is muscle mass memory, as well as they either, have it or they do not.

Giving proper feedback for puppy biting: how to teach Bite Inhibition

When teaching a young puppy just how to be gentle with their mouth, make use of a technique called Three Strikes, You're Out-- when your pup places his/her teeth on your skin as well as applies excessive pressure, you provide three possibilities:. The very first time it happens throughout a play session, that's Strike One. Usually, let out a loud yelp, draw hands away, pause play session for a few secs, ask the pup to 'sit', and after that resumed play.When the puppy applies excessive stress once again, that's Strike Two. Let out a louder yelp, stand and reverse for a couple of secs or perhaps even get out of the playpen. Won't go out of sight. After a few secs, Ask puppy to sit and then return to play.If young puppy uses also much stress once again for the 3rd time-- Strike Three.. go and also leave the space out of sight as well as playtime is over. This shows your puppy that biting ways of losing your playmate.Once your pup is being gentler with his/her teeth, you can begin being much more sensitive. If your pup even presses with the tiniest amount of pressure, wage the Three Strikes, You're Out strategy. Even if it does not hurt, make-believe that it does. This instructs your pup that people are extremely delicate! And that they require to be extremely cautious. When your pet is being so really mild with those teeth, you can begin teaching them to not utilize their teeth on your skin in all. Instructing them behaviors like a 'target' or reinforcing them for putting their mouth on or around your skin without using their teeth whatsoever is an excellent idea.

How to Stop puppy biting forever?

Substitute a toy or chew bone when your young puppy attempts to attack.Offer plenty of brand-new and also interesting toys so that your puppy will certainly have fun with them instead of gnawing on you or your apparel.Supply lots of opportunities for your pup to have fun with various other pups as well as with other adult dogs.The instant you feel your pup's teeth touch you offer a high-pitch yelp. Right away stroll away from him. Disregard him for 30 to 60 secs. Leave the area for 30 to 60 secs if your puppy follows you or continues to nip as well as the attack at you. After the brief time-out, return to the room as well as smoothly resume whatever you were performing with your pup.A method to speed up the process with a puppy that is figured out to attack is to place Cheez Whiz, or peanut butter (make certain puppy has no chance of licking an allergic child after the training session) on your fingers. A young puppy will lick due to the fact that this is the most effective means to obtain the treat. You can after that combine in the sign "kisses".Be patient as well as understanding. Spirited mouthing is normal actions for a puppy or young canine.

Other helpful ways to reduce puppy biting

Stay clear of swing your fingers or toes in your pup's face or slapping the sides of his face to entice him to play. Doing these points can really urge your young puppy to attack your hands and feet.Do not dissuade your young puppy from having fun with you in general. Play develops a strong bond between a canine and also his human family members. You wish to educate your puppy to play gently, as opposed to not.When he mouths, avoid jerking your hands or feet away from your pup. This will certainly urge him to leap ahead and also get at you. It's far more reliable to allow your hands or feet to go limp to make sure that they aren't much enjoyable to have fun with.Slapping or hitting pups for playful mouthing can create them to attack more challenging. They generally respond by playing more strongly. The physical penalty can also make your young puppy worried about you-- as well as it can even trigger real aggression. Avoid scruff shaking, whacking your pup on the nose, sticking your fingers down his throat and all various other penalties that might hurt or terrify him.

Do pups outgrow biting?

Why do pups nip as well as bite? Since they are teething, pups bite to obtain focus as well as. Almost all puppies will grow out of it naturally by the age of 6 months. It is really important not to obtain frustrated as well as turn to making use of punishments or improvements which might harm your relationship with your puppy later on. Read the full article

[myaekingheart]

Had more bizarre dreams again. One last night which was perhaps the weirdest, and then four a few nights back that I jotted down but never actually got to documenting. I’ll start with last night’s, though, since it’s still fresh in my mind.

Night of 6/9: *Also: It is very, very important to note that this was 90s Hugh Grant we are talking about here. That’s crucially important. I had a dream about Hugh Grant which hasn’t happened in ages and is the bulk of why this was so goddamn fucking uncomfortable. In the dream, he owned this really fancy movie theater and he had this really luxurious apartment. I remember being in the apartment before anything. Everything was black and dark wood and glass, very sleek and sophisticated. I remember roaming around trying to figure out where the fuck I was meant to go. I think I was trying to find the bathroom, and I found one but he was inside of it so I walked around and found another door into a bathroom at the other end of the hallway, only to find that it was a second door into the same bathroom. I was about to walk inside but then I saw him standing there with his back turned to me (and a flash of his ass oh dear god) and quickly retracted my decision. I don’t remember every single specific thing but there was another scene in the bedroom. Nothing sexual, but he had a large bed with a dark wood bed frame, and it was overlooking this giant movie screen. I was about to climb into bed with him and who I swear had to be Jan from The Office when I realized I still had my contacts in and had forgotten to pack my eye care stuff. It wasn’t forgetting my glasses that was a problem so much as not having anything to put my contacts into was. I expressed this to them which then prompted Jan to tell me that she had a spare contact case and some contact solution I could borrow, so I thanked her and went back into the bathroom to remove my lenses. After that, the scene shifted and suddenly I was walking around the lobby of the movie theater downstairs with Hugh Grant. He was talking about it saying stuff I wasn’t really paying attention, because all I could think about was how deathly terrified I was as I have always taken issue with movie theaters and these were, quite frankly, something else. The hall leading into every theater was sloped with bright, obnoxious lights on the ceiling and big double doors and it overall looked like a classic Hollywood death trap, honestly. But I couldn’t fight it. He pulled me into one of the movie theaters and I was stunned. It was huge. The ceilings were ginormous, the screen was ginormous, the seats were weird. There were padded benches in the first two rows and then I guess regular seats in the back. A fat woman in the first row looked at me while the trailers were playing and said something like “The fuck are you scared for? It’s just a big room with a screen” in this rude, gravelly, mouth-full-of-popcorn voice. After this everything kind of started to fade out but I was left with the crawling, unnerving feeling of being in Hugh Grant’s realistic dream presence. I feel like to fully understand the scope of why this is so weird for me requires some backstory. Hugh Grant was, like, my first crush for absolutely no goddamn reason. I don’t even know how the fuck it happened but I was legit three or four years old and I guess I must’ve seen him in a movie or something? I remember going to the library and checking out his movies, like 9 Months (because I also had a fascination with pregnancy and childbirth as a kid—still lowkey do) and Notting Hill. I was embarrassed about it, like when my mom connected the dots she used to tease me by mimicking him saying “oopsie daisy” in Notting Hill and I would fucking freak the fuck out. I had this very distinct dream as a child, too, where I was in a white, brightly lit room like a dressing room and I met him and he towered over me and I was so unnerved and just everything about anything Hugh Grant just…I cannot function not so much because I still think he’s attractive but because that childhood panic and weirdness is still there. Because let’s face it, when you’re three or four and you get your first crush, or at least if you’re anything like me, it’s this weird sensation where you think you’re legitimately sick and every time you look at this person, you feel this bizarre and uncomfortable feeling where you think you’re simultaneously going to explode like a firework and vomit everywhere. So yeah, because of the childhood bullshit, everything and anything Hugh Grant just brings back all of that unpleasantness and it’s gotten to the point where if he’s ever in a movie that my mom happens to turn on at any point or whatever, that sensation immediately floods back and I have no choice but to leave the room and hide until it’s all over because I just cannot fucking handle it. So yeah, this dream was…I feel like I need a shower to wash off all this mucky, uncomfortable feeling but at the same time feel like I’m gonna feel watched if I get naked, if we’re gonna be blunt about it.

EDIT: Because I am a self sadistic prick and decided to look at trailers of Hugh Grant movies now, everything makes a little more sense because for some goddamn reason, yesterday or the day before I could not get this quote of “I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy asking him to love her” out of my head and I could not for the fucking life of me remember where it was from but now I know and I’m kicking myself because apparently my subconscius knew and decided this was probably the best way to remind me so there’s that. That’s real fucking fun. Thanks, brain. Appreciate you, too.

At least my dreams from the other night were far palatable, if not also a little strange.

Night of 6/6 Dream Number One: I was in the frozen food section of a generic grocery store, probably a Walmart. There was a kid having a temper tantrum on the floor about orange juice, I think? I don’t know, this is not the first time I have dreamt this exact same scene before so I’m pretty sure that’s what it was. I walked away with my cart, and on a display shelf where there should’ve been clothes (because it was the clothes section), instead there was a shitty taco making station with weak heat lamps, questionable ground beef, rubbery soft taco shells, and just plain shredded cheese. There was hardly anything there, as in people had eaten most of it, so it’s a mystery as to why they were drawn to something so disgusting. Like damn, if you want tacos that badly just go through the drive-through at Taco Bell.

Dream Number Two: This was the weirdest of the four dreams. I was in a large room with windows all along the one wall and a long row of yellow pleather recliners facing the aforementioned windows. They were those old recliners with uncomfortable metal frames and yellowing padding that’s poking through scars in the fabric from having been used for so many years. Like the kind of thing you see in the booths of old diners. My boyfriend was laying on one, and I was either sitting or standing next to him. There were dust particles floating in the air, and everything was tinted a moldy yellow. It’s presumed this was supposed to be part of some of dingy hospital because I distinctly remember my boyfriend was there for asthma, and they kept having to hook him up to breathalyzers like when he was in the hospital for real a few months back. On the recliner next to him was a small blonde kid, I think it was a boy in blue denim overalls, who was autistic. There were a handful of women standing nearby I guess trying to give him speech therapy, urging him to say the word “charm.” They were repeating it over and over again, slowly, putting emphasis on every sound in the word so it came off almost foreign. The kid, however, was not having it. He was squirming and kicking and screaming, he wanted nothing to do with any one of them or anything. I think at one point my boyfriend leaned over and said something to him and maybe he calmed down a bit? I don’t know. All I remember is that at one point during all this commotion, my boyfriend started freaking out, not in the “I’m so frustrated with this kid” way which would’ve been far better but the “My body is going into shock and I’m on the verge of death” way like he started spluttering and his body started seizing and I started panicking and screaming and doctor’s started running over and it was quite frankly a ginormous mess and I’m insanely shocked and horrified thinking back on it.

Dream Number Three: This one is simple and stupid. I dreamt that I was in my bathroom with my childhood best friend and we were standing in front of the mirror getting ready. I just remember standing there as we were talking, watching her straighten her hair and babble endlessly about God knows what and thinking to myself, “Damn, some people really don’t ever change.”

Dream Number Four: This last dream was perhaps the second weirdest of the night. I was on the same college campus as I’ve seen in previous dreams, especially in the dream I had the night before this one (where I was met with someone strongly resembling an old friend on a bench waiting for the bus). This time, however, I was in an auditorium style classroom and I was freaked. Because, as you can probably guess, auditoriums give me the same anxiety that movie theaters tend to. So basically, you can’t take me anywhere. But anyways, I grabbed a seat at the back of the room which was the highest up you could go but also the closest to some glass double doors and had an overhanging ceiling that was at average height, both of which helped to ease my discomfort a bit. I was there for a final exam, which didn’t help the nerves. There was a kid there sitting nearby, maybe one row in front of me, who I cannot stop associating with the word Kanye, like my brain as it was narrating all of this (as it sometimes tends to in my dreams) said he was a former classmate I had in real life who resembled/was like Kanye West. I have never had a classmate like Kanye West, unless my brain is vaguely referring to a kid from middle school whose only resemblance is probably skin color, diction, and weed, but still. Either way, there was a kid “Kanye” in the row in front of me and for some reason, he handed me this squishy eyeball replica. It reminded me of this one that I got as a kid at Disney World. I was outside the Haunted Mansion and I had walked into a pole and bonked my head really hard. A nearby street vendor noticed and gave me a free squishy eyeball toy as big as my fist to help me feel better because I was three years old wailing and screaming and in pain. The eyeball in my dream was basically exactly like that, except more like a real eyeball in manufacture but not size. I remember sitting there pulling it apart while I was waiting for the exam to start. I think it was the lens that I reached, or whatever that small, hard, marble-like thing in your eye is (or maybe this is different for humans considering the only experience I have with dissecting eyeballs is in the form of a squid) that I began pressing in my hand, into my palm and between my fingers, and in a way it almost helped me feel calmer. Which is really morbid now that I think about it. Like yeah, sure, this makes total sense: “I’m feeling anxious so I’m gonna start squeezing this piece of eyeball around in my hand so I can feel better!” Like no, Amanda, shut the fuck up, that’s disgusting. But that’s also where this dream ended so I guess I’m leaving this on a morbid note, then. Oh well?

[kindergarchy]

Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality Without Religion

It was a balmy weekday night and the two of us were sitting by the rooftop pool. We talked about death, about Singapore, where to go next in life. He said that he does not believe in anything but would like to believe that his grandmother is at some safe place beyond this planet. “It makes it easier,” he stared into the abyss. I do not deny that. Religions, make-beliefs: They make life easier. How could they not? Everything else is fleeting in life. But I still call majority of them a delusion… Something comforting that you cannot prove or disprove. Do I call these beliefs false? No, but it does not make them any truer. I’m simply not ruling out any possibilities. I’m just saying I don’t know. My reasoning is simple: To blindly believe despite the absence of evidence (except some inconsistent afterlife stories told by near-death survivors and holy books whose truth value is deemed to be inherent, ie it declares itself to be true that’s why it must be true) seems to me like an insult to human mental faculties. Why don’t I simply reject all religions or Gods proposed by them? Because absence of evidence does not mean evidence of absence. Maybe I’ll drive myself at a different conclusion as I dig deeper. But now I’m saying that I don’t know. Despite this explanation, I’m aware that this confession that simply acknowledges my not knowing would offend some even in this era.

If you can’t move past any discomfort possibly caused by that first paragraph, you can give this book a skip. If you find yourself at the other side of the spectrum, there lies another challenge. A big chunk of the first part of the book is spent on emphasizing the key difference between bogus spirituality and legit aka scientifically-backed spirituality. I think it is a tad overdone but I can understand the necessity. In the world where spirituality gains a difficult reputation in the science and/or atheist communities, there is a need to go an extra mile in order to gain credibility before presenting your arguments and their supporting evidence. And yet despite his effort, many still dismiss Harris’ attempt to illustrate the benefits of keeping in touch with your spirituality.

Not all religions are made equal: this statement makes its echoes at the beginning of the book. It’s not a secret that Sam Harris loathes Abrahamic religions almost equally, but mostly he criticizes the doctrines promoted by them. Many would consider his criticism offensive and loaded with prejudice, but I personally think his assessments are fair practice at gaining a deeper understanding on major religions. Putting all religions under the safe blanket of “all religions necessarily teach the same good things” or making a sweeping generalization like “the religions are peaceful, it’s the people that cause trouble” - I think, is an oversimplification. It seems harmless to make this assumption, but in reality the resulting damage can be significant.

I have long argued that confusion about the unity of religions is an artifact of language. Religion is a term like sports: Some sports are peaceful but spectacularly dangerous (“free solo” rock climbing); some are safer but synonymous with violence (mixed martial arts); and some entail little more risk of injury than standing in the shower (bowling). To speak of sports as a generic activity makes it impossible to discuss what athletes actually do or the physical attributes required to do it. What do all sports have in common apart from breathing? Not much. The term religion is hardly more useful.

The same could be said of spirituality. The esoteric doctrines found within every religious tradition are not all derived from the same insights. Nor are they equally empirical, logical, parsimonious, or wise. They don’t always point to the same underlying reality - and when they do, they don’t do it equally well. Nor are all these teachings equally suited for export beyond the cultures that first conceived them.

Making distinctions of this kind, however, is deeply unfashionable in intellectual circles. In my experience, people do not want to hear that Islam supports violence in a way that Jainism doesn’t, or that Buddhism offers a truly sophisticated, empirical approach to understanding the human mind, whereas Christianity presents an almost perfect impediment to such understanding. In many circles, to make invidious comparisons of this kind is to stand convicted of bigotry.

The common ground between religions, according to him, is that they are “addressing the same reality”. They provide views of “consciousness and the cosmos that is available to the human mind.” But when we look deeper, their paths start to diverge. The main difference is religions’ views on self transcendence: Abrahamic religions are dualistic whereas Eastern ones are not. When you “become one” with God, depending on which school of faith you adhere to, you are either enlightened or bound to be exiled. The idea of self-transcendence is one of the major focuses of the latter part of this book.

This difference has also allowed the author to cherry-pick “useful” elements of Buddhism practices, and honestly I could say that his approach to spirituality is the closest to mine at the moment. I believe that a clarity of mind will have a profound impact on quality of life, and that you can separate spirituality and religion. The former has been repeatedly proven empirically over the years, the latter is more of a personal attempt at having a better shot at well-being in life without the forced “truths” some religions require their true followers to wholly believe in.

He starts out by pointing out that the majority of sources for happiness are impermanent. Either they are impermanent in their existence - relationships fail, money comes and goes, recreational substances wear off - or in the duration of happiness derived from attaining them. People often cite possessions and material beings as major sources of happiness, and yet we know that we all have this human tendency to get bored at the speed of lightning. This is a widely known truth, and it’s discomforting. Spirituality, according to Sam Harris, provides an excellent alternative to attaining a healthier state of mind in the way that: 1) It does not depend on external factors, and hence 2) It is more stable and less fleeting. A comparison with stoicism crossed my mind upon reading this part.

Our minds are all we have. They are all we have ever had. And they are all we can offer others.

Being a neuroscientist, his approach is refreshing in a sense that he seems pretty committed to his venture into the glimpse of self-transcendence - which is often neglected even by those who believe in this experience, including me. He often travels halfway through the world to spend time with the gurus, which has helped his self-transcendence-related practices.

His occupational background means the gurus and their practices (even, as we read further into the book, his fellow scientist) are not exempt from close scrutiny. Being aware that the spirituality world is prone to abuse (the scheme of enlightenment programs that begs you for more and more money as you become closer to reach the final stage of enlightenment is not an alien concept, at least in this part of world that I’m living), Harris does not hesitate to reveal the dark side of enlightenment. He is also constantly critical of the various methods, pointing out the shortfalls and recognizing the fact that there are no perfect gurus or methods, only better ones (spoiler: Dzongchen is one of his favorites). Fortunately, according to him, the impossibility of attaining perfect enlightenment does not translate to futility - we can reap the benefits even just by trying.

Lastly, Harris talks about substance use. He mentions that the use of certain substances, in particular psychedelics, is ethically neutral - I am of the same opinion. He believes that it can show (not tell) you things you otherwise are unable to see/feel/experience, but it can also send you to a bottomless pit of despair. Unprecedented magic vs a full-blown, terror-filled psychosis. Their huge benefits do not mean that everybody should try them:

I have two daughters who will one day take drugs. Of course, I will do everything in my power to see that they choose their drugs wisely, but a life lived entirely without drugs is neither foreseeable nor, I think, desirable. I hope they someday enjoy a morning cup of tea or coffee as much as I do. If they drink alcohol as adults, as they probably will, I will encourage them to do it safely. If they choose to smoke marijuana, I will urge moderation. Tobacco should be shunned, and I will do everything within the bounds of decent parenting to steer them away from it. Needless to say, if I knew that either of my daughters would eventually develop a fondness for methamphetamine or heroin, I might never sleep again. But if they don’t try a psychedelic like psilocybin or LSD at least once in their adult lives, I will wonder whether they had missed one of the most important rites of passage a human being can experience.

I highly recommend the book, I think the topic of spirituality is never an easy one and often emotionally loaded. To glimpse it through the eyes of a rather wise neuroscientist helps make it a detailed and precise introduction to spirituality, detached but not cold. It is not a sin to want to believe in something more than the physical world - but it is better to do it in a way that is further from a comforting illusion. It is true that some negative emotions are often our brain’s way to tell us to solve problems or deal with certain situations, but we can try proceed to go for the solution without being accompanied by the unpleasant reminder. My friend might have to come to terms with his grandmother’s death, but he does not have to trick himself into believing that she is in a safer place now. Sam Harris might say that she simply ceases to be. Call me lazy or cowardly or skeptical or trying to play it safe, but for me it remains unchanged that I simply do not know.

PS: I also recommend this article from Big Think: http://bigthink.com/robby-berman/4-things-you-can-do-to-cheer-up-according-to-neuroscience