#like Doctors Without Borders for example

[mirrorofliterature]

when people go like

'oh, the jedi couldn't intervene in tatooine because it was outside of the republic's jurisdiction uwu'

I'm like: do you think that's a good reason?

imagine if doctors without borders was like that. like, jedi is supposedly a non-government organisation/religious order. the good of the galaxy should not be equated to the interests of the senate and the problem is that it was.

the jedi order became corrupt when they became attached to the republic as an ideal, the senate, rather than the republic, the people

obviously, the jedi storming into somewhere like tatooine and leading a revolution would be an absolute disaster, as social change (particularly something as drastic as a revolution) needs to be bottom-up to be successful. but they could have done something. get a few jedi in contact with the slave underground, be allies and coordinators.

the jedi order loses its way because they sacrifice their morals, again and again, for the supposed 'greater good'. it's utilitarianism writ large.

a good discrete example of the jedi order's flaws is when they negotiate with the hutts for hyperspace lane access.

they know the hutts are slavers and crime lords. that's not a secret.

but, they need the hyperspace lanes For the War

the jedi order keeps peace, yes. peace for who? peace for the billions of slaves? their idea of peace seems to be to maintain the status quo, even as the status quo became increasingly toxic.

the jedi order choosing to accept the clones, choosing to fight the war, it was the easy choice. it was the wrong choice. it was the path of least resistance.

but does that make it right?

no.

think back to the delegate of 2000 meeting:

“The moral authority of the Jedi, such as it is,” Bana Breemu said, “has been spent lavishly upon war; I fear they have none left for politics.”

anyway the jedi should decentralise and help the people, not the Senate

[allthecanadianpolitics]

https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/trump-trade-war-vs-economic-war-1.7447927

“That would require a whole different level of coercion than what was unleashed Saturday — the kind usually reserved for America's enemies, as opposed to allies.

What does a full-blown economic war look like? Think sanctions, import and export restrictions, trade embargoes, theft of intellectual property.

While dismissing the impact of tariffs on American consumers, Trump made clear recently that he believes the U.S. can do without Canadian goods, including cars and milk

He said if "you get rid of that artificially drawn line," referring to the border, it would "also be much better for [U.S.] national security."”

I heard economic sanctions can cause death. Like for example in Iran, when they endure sanctions I heard a child wasn’t able or their doctors were not able to acquire life saving medical stuff. And it can cause a whole host of other problems too.

[astrae4]

CHAPTER TWO: AN UNWELCOME BRIDE | SHEN QUANRUI

FEATURING Zerobaseone’s Ricky as the son of Duke Shen, Prince Shen Quanrui and you as the daughter of Duke Han, Princess Han Y/N.

GENRE romance, angst, fluff | historical fantasy, supposed enemies to lovers, forced marriage, northern duke au

WARNINGS 1.8k words, non-gender neutral reader (reader will be using female pronouns/titles), forced marriage, and miscommunication.

NOTE thank you to everyone supporting me these recent months that I’ve come back. I’m so glad I came back to writing after everything that happened and am hoping you all love this upcoming series. You can expect chapter updates min. once a week because I’ve already prewritten most of it once more. Happy reading everyone!

MORE — previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

THERE WAS NO TIME LEFT for an afterparty. Just right before your first night, Prince Quanrui immediately got a message urging him to return to the North.

You didn’t really get the full story, but it seemed to be related to the wild beasts invading a town near the border. He had gone with his subordinates first to see the situation, and had told your attendees to have you leave the following morning. You parted from your father and brother early in the morning after hearing the news, taking the first train available that morning.

Whether the call would be a blessing or a curse, you choose to be positive for now.

Nevermind.

Everyone seemed to praise the bolt trains of the North so much that they forget to mention how nauseating it is to actually ride it. Fast? Yeah, for sure. Safe? You have to think twice. Long travels already take a toll on you normally, so this was basically a freeway to being bed-ridden for at least a week.

Thank goodness your personal doctor, Seok Matthew, had chosen to accompany you to the North. Without him, you would have definitely felt a lot worse than you do now.

Now. Right—now. Now, you are in the chambers of what once was your enemy, and now of someone you must pretend to care for. You had wished to at least make a good first impression to your subordinates, but your head was killing you by the time you left the train. This was how you ended up being escorted to your new chambers immediately, and also how you have been spending the next two days. Bedridden, with Dr. Seok and your personal attendants right beside you.

At the very least, you have met the head butler, Hanbin, and he assured you that no one bears harsh feelings for you just because you weren’t able to greet them properly. ( you weren’t so convinced, but you let it go in your heart to reassure yourself. )

A knock disrupts your thoughts.

“Madam, this is Hanbin, can I come in?”

”Oh—yes, yes. Please come in,” you rushed out, sitting straight and fixing your messy hair.

The door opens, and a sturdy bachelor walks in with your afternoon snacks. Three finger sandwiches and a pot of chamomile tea—despite the feelings going around your head, your stomach seems to agree with today’s choice of snack.

Hanbin placed down the dish as you watched him with uneasy eyes. He was nice—in fact, too nice. It didn’t feel right that a person of the duchy would show such hospitality to a bride of the enemy house, despite the “truce”. You kind of expected more hostility than whatever is happening to you…like—for example; someone “accidentally” spilling water on you, or combing your hair harshly, perhaps even someone giving you the evil eye.? ( you swear your paranoia was caused by the amount of evil step-mother novels you’ve read.. )

He seemed to sense the stare you gave, as he let out a cough, breaking your trance.

“Uh—is there anything you need, madam?” He asked awkwardly, throwing a funny smile.

“I’m curious about something, if that would be okay for you to answer,” You replied hesitantly.

“Oh, of course! How can I help?” He replied instantly, kind of reminding you of a puppy…

“When will my husband come back home?” I ask.

“Ah..” he seemed hesitant; you narrowed your eyes, “perhaps in two days.? I’m not so sure, madam.”

”..Alright.” I let out, “tell him to visit me once he does. I must speak to him.”

“Yes, madam.”

And when Hanbin leaves and the door shuts, the echo of your loneliness is met once more.

Two days pass, and you finally rise from bed, steadier than before. Your doctor assures you that you’re well enough to start moving around, and Hanbin—not quite hiding his relief—tells you in that gentle voice that your husband has returned.

You nod, brushing off invisible dust from your sleeves. Good, you think. You need answers. Not just about the household, or the expectations now hanging over your shoulders like lead chains—but about him. Your husband.

You don’t expect a warm welcome. That much, you’ve already let go of. But you do expect a meeting. A greeting. Some kind of acknowledgment. Any kind, actually.

So when you stand at the doors of his office—not your chambers, not a dining table, but his private space—and are told that “His Grace is occupied and unavailable,” your patience splinters.

( No one’s ever said no to you also, so that added to your annoyance. )

The guard—no, not Hanbin this time, someone else; tall with brown hair who introduced himself as Gyuvin—bows and repeats it with more formal stiffness.

“His Grace has requested not to be disturbed, Your Grace.”

Your Grace.

A title you never asked for, from a man you barely know.

You stand there a few more seconds, not moving, just breathing. Deep, quiet. And then, you turn.

…

Dinner is held in the eastern hall that evening. There’s an absurd number of candles, a quartet of musicians playing something soft and forgettable in the corner, and a long table that stretches too far for a dinner with just one attendee.

That one attendee being you.

You stare at the empty chair at the other end of the table. No second plate. No poured wine. No footsteps down the hallway. You wait ten minutes. Fifteen.

Nothing.

A maid comes near, asking if you would like the food reheated.

You inhale slowly to calm your anger, count to three, and shake your head.

“Tell Dr. Seok I may have overestimated my recovery today. I’ll turn in for the evening.”

Except you don’t go to your chambers.

You push open the door to his chambers.

The scent hits you first—cold metal, faint leather, something darker underneath. It’s a battlefield in here, dressed as a room. Sparse. Austere. Distant.

Prince Quanrui doesn’t look up right away. He’s standing by the dresser, shrugging off a bloodied cloak. The faint drag of his shirt across his shoulder reveals a flash of red—dried, but angry-looking.

You speak before he can say anything, tone snappy.

“So you are back.”

He stiffens. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“Is this how you greet your wife?”

“I told them not to let anyone in.”

“Well, they didn’t let me,” you say tightly. “I walked in myself.”

A pause. He turns, slowly. The moment your eyes meet, it feels like ice against glass—clear, cold, cracking with pressure neither of you fully understand.

“I just came from the field,” he says. “It’s not… sanitary.”

You scoff. “Don’t worry, I’m not that delicate.”

He says nothing to that. Instead, he crosses the room and begins unstrapping the belt at his waist—calm, impersonal. As if you’re a servant, or worse, a stranger.

“Are you avoiding me?” you ask.

He doesn’t even blink. “I’ve been busy.”

“You didn’t even come to dinner.”

“I ate in my office.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“I wasn’t aware I had to report to you for every schedule.”

You flinch. Then your jaw sets.

“Right. Of course not. Silly me, assuming a husband would want to dine with the wife he was forced to marry.”

That gets him. Briefly. He stills mid-motion, eyes sharp. “Don’t twist my words.”

“Then say them properly,” you snap. “If you have something to say—say it.”

Silence again.

You take a shaky breath. “I came here to try. I didn’t expect warmth, but I didn’t expect this. Being iced out. Ignored. Dodged like I’m the plague.”

He turns to you fully now, voice clipped. “Would you prefer I fake it, then? Smile and ask you about your health like we’re old friends?”

“God, I’m not asking for that either!” you burst. “I’m just—I don’t know—basic courtesy? The bare minimum? Something human?”

“I am being human,” he mutters. “I’m staying out of your way.”

“That’s not—!” You drag your hand through your hair. “You really think that’s what this is about? You hiding in your office is somehow a noble sacrifice?”

“I didn’t want to come near you like this.” His voice is low, almost too quiet. “Covered in blood. Smelling like war.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Why would that matter to you?”

He exhales through his nose. “Because you looked—fragile.”

“Oh, so now I’m fragile and dramatic.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

He runs a hand over his face. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re emotionally constipated!”

You both freeze.

“What?” he says, frowning—not getting the saying.

You cross your arms. “You shut down the moment anyone asks how you feel. You deflect, disappear, or grunt. I don’t even know if you like horses or not.”

He stares. “Why would you need to know if I like horses?”

“That’s—!” You give a strangled laugh. “It’s an example. gosh, you’re dense.”

“You’re the one storming into rooms unannounced and making everything personal.”

“It is personal! We’re married!”

“We’re political allies.”

Your expression falls. Just slightly. “Is that all you think I am?”

He doesn’t answer.

And somehow, that silence says more than he could have with words.

You swallow, hurt threading through your voice now. “You kissed me like you meant it.”

That gets him. His jaw tenses. His gaze flickers.

You take a step back. “Forget it. You know what? If you didn’t want this marriage, you could’ve said something before the wedding.”

He finally speaks, low and frustrated. “Do you think I had a choice?”

“No,” you whisper. “But you do now. You have a choice now, to decide what kind of man you’re going to be to me.”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Opens it again.

But the words don’t come. Whatever he wants to say is buried too deep, rusted over with years of silence and swords and frost.

You shake your head.

“I don’t need you to love me, Shen Quanrui. I just need to know you’re not going to treat me like a ghost haunting your estate.”

Still nothing.

You give him a last look, one filled with unsaid things.

Then you turn to the door.

Just as your hand touches the handle, he says—soft, almost bitter:

“I’m not good at this.”

You freeze.

A heartbeat passes. You turn your head slightly over your shoulder.

“Then learn,” you say. “Because I’m not going to live in this house as a stranger to my own husband.”

You leave.

And this time, the echo of your footsteps is the only sound that follows.

TAGLIST — @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @lonewolfjinji @teddywonss @khaelscafe @autumn583 @lvieee @cyberstephzz @cara-rey @cuntserver8000 @yujinified @lowcalmarlboro @moncheriesu @carat-rose @fairyytyunn @taerae-verse @peachyy-moon @kaywhyessssss @cheederzchez @hueningcry @renjuneoo @totalnieparksunghoon @kuromixheartzzz @nerezza1234567891-blog @dilucpegg3r @ohsunnyboy @iraa567 @k-p0p-4ever @slimeclimbtime @paradise-world @sparkcling @fremineth @chickenscoups @kpopandbookschild @soobmeongie @taerae-verse @bbangbies

NETWORKS — @k-films @k-labels @zumblrnet

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[nuppu-nuppu]

DONATIONS FOR GAZA

We have to help.

Every donation helps no matter how small so donate as much as you want to the charity of your choice to get a sketch. Just send me the proof you donated.

I’ll draw anything you want, a character, a friend, an oc, whatever you like.

Contact me through dms!!

Example charities:

palestinian children's relief fund

https://www.pcrf.net

unicef

https://www.unicef.org

Doctors without borders

https://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/what-we-do/where-we-work/palestine

Or other charities or gofunmes of your choice

[boiledkwamaegg]

Does Faenil has any history/lore with the Great War? At the time of Skyrim it had only ended 25 years ago so I imagine they were around for it but it’d be cool to know if they were affected or involved in it at all.

Okay hello again Mx. Schnauzer I'm finally answering this one because the last ask made me think about it and I'm starting to have Faenil's age and timeline figured out...

MASSIVE wall of text about wartime Faenil incoming, so I'm putting it all below a cut.

I need to study the lore of the war more, but I mentioned before that Faenil never left Summerset until they were forced to flee after fucking everything up back home, and this was when they were around 93 years old. The journey across Tamriel took around 5 years, so when they were eventually captured at Skyrim's border, they were 98. So the calculator is telling me that they were 73 when the war ended, and I'd say that was when Faenil was, although very briefly, perhaps at their peak when it comes to performance.

They never left Summerset because they were born and raised in luxurious nobility (but not without a lot of skeletons hidden in a lot of closets) and with their line of work being pretty stationary in nature, they never had any reason to leave. And honestly, when you're an aristocrat with a fancy office and fancy home, why leave the safety of the city walls only to die in war? There's no sense in that. They had everything they needed in Alinor and all the best equipment and resources were there. The people came to them if they needed their help.

But I do think Faenil had some controversial opinions in regards to the war that they couldn't say out loud. For example, Faenil definitely doesn't condone any sort of genocide, and as ignorant as they can be, Faenil doesn't discriminate, they're a doctor and doctors can't afford that. You don't have to be racist to be an asshole high elf! ☝️ But they were already too deep in the political cult bubble to properly do anything about it. But, uh... I'll get back to this later...

My point is: as someone working for the Aldmeri Dominion, they obviously did get involved in the war, but only kind of indirectly. Most if not all of their patients were high standing aldmeri officials that needed to be stitched up only by the best of the best, or had some other medical complications that needed immediate tending to, because the Dominion can't afford to lose such important people. And I mention Faenil being at the peak of performance by the end of the war because they had gained so much experience through the osmosis of it. And well, war means you get more patients. But Faenil was also very overworked and was basically held at gunpoint (destruction-staff-point?) to do their job. Non-compliance was out of question, but at least they got paid well and had all those servants in compensation... Yay?

But now we get to the funny part. Since Faenil disagreed with some of the Dominion doctrine, they were sneaky and evil about it in the sense that they killed a few important political figures that they disliked during surgeries, with the alibi that there was a weird medical complication that was out of their hands. For the most part, they got away with it, since it absolutely didn't happen often and most people around them knew nothing of medicine, but their reputation did indeed suffer. And uh, they most likely got some cool gnarly scars as punishment, but that's not a huge deal when you've been (half-metaphorically) put through a meat grinder all your life. I guess Faenil is based in the sense that they got the right idea, but they're going about it in their own fucked up surgeon way. I've also mentioned before that they had a little illegal underground organ harvesting scheme going on, and while they definitely didn't get any body parts through ethical means, most of the buyers were working against the Dominion. Something something sometimes you sell a poor prisoner's liver for the greater good.

But yeah, I think soon after the war ended, Faenil got burnt out from working too much and their mental health started to gradually plummet... Uh, very catastrophically. Re-emerging traumas and re-emerging addictions and such. The organ harvesting scheme became a bigger side gig, they got sloppy and less sneaky about it, they were horrible to everyone around them, and eventually this all just imploded in on itself. They only managed to flee at the last minute, lol. But I'll talk about that some other time.

[weirdhasanxiety]

Hi

This is an interest check for a Gaza art fundraiser I’m planning on doing, probably in June or July. I’ll be opening comms, all proceeds going to charities supporting people in Gaza/ those in Gaza directly.

Here are some examples of my art:

Payment won’t be done to me, but rather directly to a charity/charities/GoFundMe. (TBD (though I’m considering Doctors Without Borders and Muslim Aid USA, feel free to suggest other options)).

A photo of the donation + date and verification details(?) will do as proof. For anti-scam reasons, payment will be 50 upfront 50 final, all to the charity.(excluding shipping)

Please note that the client will need to pay the shipping fee to me for any physical pieces. (That’s the only money I’ll be receiving, though.)

Rough prices are as follows(USD):

Full piece(first 3 images): $85-120

Monochrome/Color gradient(following 2 images: $65-80

Lineart: $55-70

Doodle(last 3 images): $10-35

[hushimstressed]

Remember that there’s a strike this week to support Palestine. Stay home if you can and avoid shopping (especially ordering online) donate to charities like Doctors Without Borders for example, and spread the word about what’s happening in Gaza. We can’t allow ourselves to become desensitised to the genocide.

Free Palestine 🇵🇸

[dangermousie]

And now we know what causes her to seek vengeance and I find it so interesting because he doesn't kill her clan - he doesn't even kill her and the gamblers and courtesans (her BFF dies but it's because she was tortured before; she was not ordered executed, or even tortured after he took over.) But it makes so much sense for her character's idealism and absolutism and the fact that this is her first hero worship AND first love meeting a dose of realpolitik brutality.

When she sees him she hopes...

She tries to speak up...(side note, I love the irony that under the past king, they were tortured into a confession to implicate Jinhan and under Jinhan, their sin is that confession. Commoners really can't win...)

And his reaction. And her face at that OUCH!!!!

It is so interesting to me. Because he does what the assistant asked him (it's a return for the favor of betraying the minister of war) and they are all punished "severely" but - pretty impressively - as I said none of them are ordered to be executed; they are exiled for hard labor for 3 years and to get a whipping which sounds like a brutal amount of whipping but is still not death penalty (and is delayed until they get to the border so they have time to heal.) By the standards of a feudal society, it's a downright merciful punishment. (Yes, they had done nothing wrong, but in that society, being in the wrong place in the wrong time is a crime in and of itself.) This is Jinhan doing his patented thing - paying back favors when he has to but trying to minimize suffering while keeping within the bounds of what will not cause trouble. This is EXACTLY what he did in Qing - I mean he fought (!!!!) on the side of Qing in battles and made buddy-buddy with their royalty ie people he loathed (like he made buddy-buddy with assistant here) and he made things marginally better but he couldn't fix the injustice just mitigate it at the corners (he was able to make sure ransoms on captives didn't rise, but not that they were abolished.) He knows exactly what he can do and what he can't.

And ultimately, despite his cruelly abandoning words, if you look at what he does as opposed to what he says, the punishment they get DOES spare the courtesan's life - ie what FL asked for. Hell, they aren't even making her walk to the border, they are transporting her in a cart. She dies because she was tortured badly before; now she may have lived if she got a doctor, who knows - but at best, it's an indirect sort of thing.

BUT!!!! Here is where their difference in age, life experience, and personality comes in. He's done his best to keep all the competing factions satisfied but she's not a person who can think through that - she is terribly young, she's frighteningly idealistic and absolutist (she was willing to be tortured to death rather than say a false thing, her whole schtick with baduk playing itself was an example of it too.) And more importantly, she fell in love with him but not the real him, not truly, but this perfect paragon of selflessness and perfection she made him in her head. He's a good man and a smart man in an impossible situation, trying his best, but he's not a patterncard of perfection because nobody could be and survive. She herself earlier seemed to have understood that his actions when a hostage weren't a sign of betrayal but survival and making the best out of a terrible situation but when it comes to her and her friend, she's too personally enmeshed (understandably so) to allow herself to think the same. And so she vows vengeance.

The thing is - I think she had some sort of an idealized vision that he'd be able to save everyone and rule everyone without anyone ever wrongly suffering and it's impossible. In his position, she'd perhaps rather die than do what he did and take the throne (or compromise with assistant minister in terms of punishment or w/e else) but with that attitude, she'd have also died in Qing captivity and got a bunch of people killed or less of them freed due to higher ransoms. She is unable to compromise and he's nothing but compromises and it's a collision and I love it so much!

PS As far as we can see, the only people who came close to dying were her courtesan friend who died from prior torture and FL during her escape attempt.

PPS preview shows she will want to work with son of minister of war and ummmm that dude was one who allowed his dad to torture your friend so badly she eventually died. BRAINNNNNN PLS!!! But she doesn't feel betrayed by him I guess because she expected nothing.

[lesmisletters-daily]

The Bishop In The Presence Of An Unknown Light

Les Mis Letters reading club explores one chapter of Les Misérables every day. Join us on Discord, Substack - or share your thoughts right here on tumblr - today's tag is #lm 1.1.10

At an epoch a little later than the date of the letter cited in the preceding pages, he did a thing which, if the whole town was to be believed, was even more hazardous than his trip across the mountains infested with bandits.

In the country near D—— a man lived quite alone. This man, we will state at once, was a former member of the Convention. His name was G——

Member of the Convention, G—— was mentioned with a sort of horror in the little world of D—— A member of the Convention—can you imagine such a thing? That existed from the time when people called each other <i>thou</i>, and when they said “citizen.” This man was almost a monster. He had not voted for the death of the king, but almost. He was a quasi-regicide. He had been a terrible man. How did it happen that such a man had not been brought before a provost’s court, on the return of the legitimate princes? They need not have cut off his head, if you please; clemency must be exercised, agreed; but a good banishment for life. An example, in short, etc. Besides, he was an atheist, like all the rest of those people. Gossip of the geese about the vulture.

Was G—— a vulture after all? Yes; if he were to be judged by the element of ferocity in this solitude of his. As he had not voted for the death of the king, he had not been included in the decrees of exile, and had been able to remain in France.

He dwelt at a distance of three-quarters of an hour from the city, far from any hamlet, far from any road, in some hidden turn of a very wild valley, no one knew exactly where. He had there, it was said, a sort of field, a hole, a lair. There were no neighbors, not even passers-by. Since he had dwelt in that valley, the path which led thither had disappeared under a growth of grass. The locality was spoken of as though it had been the dwelling of a hangman.

Nevertheless, the Bishop meditated on the subject, and from time to time he gazed at the horizon at a point where a clump of trees marked the valley of the former member of the Convention, and he said, “There is a soul yonder which is lonely.”

And he added, deep in his own mind, “I owe him a visit.”

But, let us avow it, this idea, which seemed natural at the first blush, appeared to him after a moment’s reflection, as strange, impossible, and almost repulsive. For, at bottom, he shared the general impression, and the old member of the Convention inspired him, without his being clearly conscious of the fact himself, with that sentiment which borders on hate, and which is so well expressed by the word estrangement.

Still, should the scab of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil? No. But what a sheep!

The good Bishop was perplexed. Sometimes he set out in that direction; then he returned.

Finally, the rumor one day spread through the town that a sort of young shepherd, who served the member of the Convention in his hovel, had come in quest of a doctor; that the old wretch was dying, that paralysis was gaining on him, and that he would not live over night.—“Thank God!” some added.

The Bishop took his staff, put on his cloak, on account of his too threadbare cassock, as we have mentioned, and because of the evening breeze which was sure to rise soon, and set out.

The sun was setting, and had almost touched the horizon when the Bishop arrived at the excommunicated spot. With a certain beating of the heart, he recognized the fact that he was near the lair. He strode over a ditch, leaped a hedge, made his way through a fence of dead boughs, entered a neglected paddock, took a few steps with a good deal of boldness, and suddenly, at the extremity of the waste land, and behind lofty brambles, he caught sight of the cavern.

It was a very low hut, poor, small, and clean, with a vine nailed against the outside.

Near the door, in an old wheel-chair, the armchair of the peasants, there was a white-haired man, smiling at the sun.

Near the seated man stood a young boy, the shepherd lad. He was offering the old man a jar of milk.

While the Bishop was watching him, the old man spoke: “Thank you,” he said, “I need nothing.” And his smile quitted the sun to rest upon the child.

The Bishop stepped forward. At the sound which he made in walking, the old man turned his head, and his face expressed the sum total of the surprise which a man can still feel after a long life.

“This is the first time since I have been here,” said he, “that any one has entered here. Who are you, sir?”

The Bishop answered:—

“My name is Bienvenu Myriel.”

“Bienvenu Myriel? I have heard that name. Are you the man whom the people call Monseigneur Welcome?”

“I am.”

The old man resumed with a half-smile

“In that case, you are my bishop?”

“Something of that sort.”

“Enter, sir.”

The member of the Convention extended his hand to the Bishop, but the Bishop did not take it. The Bishop confined himself to the remark:—

“I am pleased to see that I have been misinformed. You certainly do not seem to me to be ill.”

“Monsieur,” replied the old man, “I am going to recover.”

He paused, and then said:—

“I shall die three hours hence.”

Then he continued:—

“I am something of a doctor; I know in what fashion the last hour draws on. Yesterday, only my feet were cold; to-day, the chill has ascended to my knees; now I feel it mounting to my waist; when it reaches the heart, I shall stop. The sun is beautiful, is it not? I had myself wheeled out here to take a last look at things. You can talk to me; it does not fatigue me. You have done well to come and look at a man who is on the point of death. It is well that there should be witnesses at that moment. One has one’s caprices; I should have liked to last until the dawn, but I know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be night then. What does it matter, after all? Dying is a simple affair. One has no need of the light for that. So be it. I shall die by starlight.”

The old man turned to the shepherd lad:—

“Go to thy bed; thou wert awake all last night; thou art tired.”

The child entered the hut.

The old man followed him with his eyes, and added, as though speaking to himself:—

“I shall die while he sleeps. The two slumbers may be good neighbors.”

The Bishop was not touched as it seems that he should have been. He did not think he discerned God in this manner of dying; let us say the whole, for these petty contradictions of great hearts must be indicated like the rest: he, who on occasion, was so fond of laughing at “His Grace,” was rather shocked at not being addressed as Monseigneur, and he was almost tempted to retort “citizen.” He was assailed by a fancy for peevish familiarity, common enough to doctors and priests, but which was not habitual with him. This man, after all, this member of the Convention, this representative of the people, had been one of the powerful ones of the earth; for the first time in his life, probably, the Bishop felt in a mood to be severe.

Meanwhile, the member of the Convention had been surveying him with a modest cordiality, in which one could have distinguished, possibly, that humility which is so fitting when one is on the verge of returning to dust.

The Bishop, on his side, although he generally restrained his curiosity, which, in his opinion, bordered on a fault, could not refrain from examining the member of the Convention with an attention which, as it did not have its course in sympathy, would have served his conscience as a matter of reproach, in connection with any other man. A member of the Convention produced on him somewhat the effect of being outside the pale of the law, even of the law of charity. G——, calm, his body almost upright, his voice vibrating, was one of those octogenarians who form the subject of astonishment to the physiologist. The Revolution had many of these men, proportioned to the epoch. In this old man one was conscious of a man put to the proof. Though so near to his end, he preserved all the gestures of health. In his clear glance, in his firm tone, in the robust movement of his shoulders, there was something calculated to disconcert death. Azrael, the Mohammedan angel of the sepulchre, would have turned back, and thought that he had mistaken the door. G—— seemed to be dying because he willed it so. There was freedom in his agony. His legs alone were motionless. It was there that the shadows held him fast. His feet were cold and dead, but his head survived with all the power of life, and seemed full of light. G——, at this solemn moment, resembled the king in that tale of the Orient who was flesh above and marble below.

There was a stone there. The Bishop sat down. The exordium was abrupt.

“I congratulate you,” said he, in the tone which one uses for a reprimand. “You did not vote for the death of the king, after all.”

The old member of the Convention did not appear to notice the bitter meaning underlying the words “after all.” He replied. The smile had quite disappeared from his face.

“Do not congratulate me too much, sir. I did vote for the death of the tyrant.”

It was the tone of austerity answering the tone of severity.

“What do you mean to say?” resumed the Bishop.

“I mean to say that man has a tyrant,—ignorance. I voted for the death of that tyrant. That tyrant engendered royalty, which is authority falsely understood, while science is authority rightly understood. Man should be governed only by science.”

“And conscience,” added the Bishop.

“It is the same thing. Conscience is the quantity of innate science which we have within us.”

Monseigneur Bienvenu listened in some astonishment to this language, which was very new to him.

The member of the Convention resumed:—

“So far as Louis XVI. was concerned, I said ‘no.’ I did not think that I had the right to kill a man; but I felt it my duty to exterminate evil. I voted the end of the tyrant, that is to say, the end of prostitution for woman, the end of slavery for man, the end of night for the child. In voting for the Republic, I voted for that. I voted for fraternity, concord, the dawn. I have aided in the overthrow of prejudices and errors. The crumbling away of prejudices and errors causes light. We have caused the fall of the old world, and the old world, that vase of miseries, has become, through its upsetting upon the human race, an urn of joy.”

“Mixed joy,” said the Bishop.

“You may say troubled joy, and to-day, after that fatal return of the past, which is called 1814, joy which has disappeared! Alas! The work was incomplete, I admit: we demolished the ancient regime in deeds; we were not able to suppress it entirely in ideas. To destroy abuses is not sufficient; customs must be modified. The mill is there no longer; the wind is still there.”

“You have demolished. It may be of use to demolish, but I distrust a demolition complicated with wrath.”

“Right has its wrath, Bishop; and the wrath of right is an element of progress. In any case, and in spite of whatever may be said, the French Revolution is the most important step of the human race since the advent of Christ. Incomplete, it may be, but sublime. It set free all the unknown social quantities; it softened spirits, it calmed, appeased, enlightened; it caused the waves of civilization to flow over the earth. It was a good thing. The French Revolution is the consecration of humanity.”

The Bishop could not refrain from murmuring:—

“Yes? ’93!”

The member of the Convention straightened himself up in his chair with an almost lugubrious solemnity, and exclaimed, so far as a dying man is capable of exclamation:—

“Ah, there you go; ’93! I was expecting that word. A cloud had been forming for the space of fifteen hundred years; at the end of fifteen hundred years it burst. You are putting the thunderbolt on its trial.”

The Bishop felt, without, perhaps, confessing it, that something within him had suffered extinction. Nevertheless, he put a good face on the matter. He replied:—

“The judge speaks in the name of justice; the priest speaks in the name of pity, which is nothing but a more lofty justice. A thunderbolt should commit no error.” And he added, regarding the member of the Convention steadily the while, “Louis XVII.?”

The conventionary stretched forth his hand and grasped the Bishop’s arm.

“Louis XVII.! let us see. For whom do you mourn? is it for the innocent child? very good; in that case I mourn with you. Is it for the royal child? I demand time for reflection. To me, the brother of Cartouche, an innocent child who was hung up by the armpits in the Place de Grève, until death ensued, for the sole crime of having been the brother of Cartouche, is no less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., an innocent child, martyred in the tower of the Temple, for the sole crime of having been grandson of Louis XV.”

“Monsieur,” said the Bishop, “I like not this conjunction of names.”

“Cartouche? Louis XV.? To which of the two do you object?”

A momentary silence ensued. The Bishop almost regretted having come, and yet he felt vaguely and strangely shaken.

The conventionary resumed:—

“Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the true. Christ loved them. He seized a rod and cleared out the Temple. His scourge, full of lightnings, was a harsh speaker of truths. When he cried, <i>‘Sinite parvulos,’</i> he made no distinction between the little children. It would not have embarrassed him to bring together the Dauphin of Barabbas and the Dauphin of Herod. Innocence, Monsieur, is its own crown. Innocence has no need to be a highness. It is as august in rags as in fleurs de lys.”

“That is true,” said the Bishop in a low voice.

“I persist,” continued the conventionary G—— “You have mentioned Louis XVII. to me. Let us come to an understanding. Shall we weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all children, the lowly as well as the exalted? I agree to that. But in that case, as I have told you, we must go back further than ’93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII. I will weep with you over the children of kings, provided that you will weep with me over the children of the people.”

“I weep for all,” said the Bishop.

“Equally!” exclaimed conventionary G——; “and if the balance must incline, let it be on the side of the people. They have been suffering longer.”

Another silence ensued. The conventionary was the first to break it. He raised himself on one elbow, took a bit of his cheek between his thumb and his forefinger, as one does mechanically when one interrogates and judges, and appealed to the Bishop with a gaze full of all the forces of the death agony. It was almost an explosion.

“Yes, sir, the people have been suffering a long while. And hold! that is not all, either; why have you just questioned me and talked to me about Louis XVII.? I know you not. Ever since I have been in these parts I have dwelt in this enclosure alone, never setting foot outside, and seeing no one but that child who helps me. Your name has reached me in a confused manner, it is true, and very badly pronounced, I must admit; but that signifies nothing: clever men have so many ways of imposing on that honest goodman, the people. By the way, I did not hear the sound of your carriage; you have left it yonder, behind the coppice at the fork of the roads, no doubt. I do not know you, I tell you. You have told me that you are the Bishop; but that affords me no information as to your moral personality. In short, I repeat my question. Who are you? You are a bishop; that is to say, a prince of the church, one of those gilded men with heraldic bearings and revenues, who have vast prebends,—the bishopric of D—— fifteen thousand francs settled income, ten thousand in perquisites; total, twenty-five thousand francs,—who have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good cheer, who eat moor-hens on Friday, who strut about, a lackey before, a lackey behind, in a gala coach, and who have palaces, and who roll in their carriages in the name of Jesus Christ who went barefoot! You are a prelate,—revenues, palace, horses, servants, good table, all the sensualities of life; you have this like the rest, and like the rest, you enjoy it; it is well; but this says either too much or too little; this does not enlighten me upon the intrinsic and essential value of the man who comes with the probable intention of bringing wisdom to me. To whom do I speak? Who are you?”

The Bishop hung his head and replied, <i>“Vermis sum</i>—I am a worm.”

“A worm of the earth in a carriage?” growled the conventionary.

It was the conventionary’s turn to be arrogant, and the Bishop’s to be humble.

The Bishop resumed mildly:—

“So be it, sir. But explain to me how my carriage, which is a few paces off behind the trees yonder, how my good table and the moor-hens which I eat on Friday, how my twenty-five thousand francs income, how my palace and my lackeys prove that clemency is not a duty, and that ’93 was not inexorable.”

The conventionary passed his hand across his brow, as though to sweep away a cloud.

“Before replying to you,” he said, “I beseech you to pardon me. I have just committed a wrong, sir. You are at my house, you are my guest, I owe you courtesy. You discuss my ideas, and it becomes me to confine myself to combating your arguments. Your riches and your pleasures are advantages which I hold over you in the debate; but good taste dictates that I shall not make use of them. I promise you to make no use of them in the future.”

“I thank you,” said the Bishop.

G—— resumed.

“Let us return to the explanation which you have asked of me. Where were we? What were you saying to me? That ’93 was inexorable?”

“Inexorable; yes,” said the Bishop. “What think you of Marat clapping his hands at the guillotine?”

“What think you of Bossuet chanting the <i>Te Deum</i> over the dragonnades?”

The retort was a harsh one, but it attained its mark with the directness of a point of steel. The Bishop quivered under it; no reply occurred to him; but he was offended by this mode of alluding to Bossuet. The best of minds will have their fetiches, and they sometimes feel vaguely wounded by the want of respect of logic.

The conventionary began to pant; the asthma of the agony which is mingled with the last breaths interrupted his voice; still, there was a perfect lucidity of soul in his eyes. He went on:—

“Let me say a few words more in this and that direction; I am willing. Apart from the Revolution, which, taken as a whole, is an immense human affirmation, ’93 is, alas! a rejoinder. You think it inexorable, sir; but what of the whole monarchy, sir? Carrier is a bandit; but what name do you give to Montrevel? Fouquier-Tainville is a rascal; but what is your opinion as to Lamoignon-Bâville? Maillard is terrible; but Saulx-Tavannes, if you please? Duchêne senior is ferocious; but what epithet will you allow me for the elder Letellier? Jourdan-Coupe-Tetê is a monster; but not so great a one as M. the Marquis de Louvois. Sir, sir, I am sorry for Marie Antoinette, archduchess and queen; but I am also sorry for that poor Huguenot woman, who, in 1685, under Louis the Great, sir, while with a nursing infant, was bound, naked to the waist, to a stake, and the child kept at a distance; her breast swelled with milk and her heart with anguish; the little one, hungry and pale, beheld that breast and cried and agonized; the executioner said to the woman, a mother and a nurse, ‘Abjure!’ giving her her choice between the death of her infant and the death of her conscience. What say you to that torture of Tantalus as applied to a mother? Bear this well in mind sir: the French Revolution had its reasons for existence; its wrath will be absolved by the future; its result is the world made better. From its most terrible blows there comes forth a caress for the human race. I abridge, I stop, I have too much the advantage; moreover, I am dying.”

And ceasing to gaze at the Bishop, the conventionary concluded his thoughts in these tranquil words:—

“Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are over, this fact is recognized,—that the human race has been treated harshly, but that it has progressed.”

The conventionary doubted not that he had successively conquered all the inmost intrenchments of the Bishop. One remained, however, and from this intrenchment, the last resource of Monseigneur Bienvenu’s resistance, came forth this reply, wherein appeared nearly all the harshness of the beginning:—

“Progress should believe in God. Good cannot have an impious servitor. He who is an atheist is but a bad leader for the human race.”

The former representative of the people made no reply. He was seized with a fit of trembling. He looked towards heaven, and in his glance a tear gathered slowly. When the eyelid was full, the tear trickled down his livid cheek, and he said, almost in a stammer, quite low, and to himself, while his eyes were plunged in the depths:—

“O thou! O ideal! Thou alone existest!”

The Bishop experienced an indescribable shock.

After a pause, the old man raised a finger heavenward and said:—

“The infinite is. He is there. If the infinite had no person, person would be without limit; it would not be infinite; in other words, it would not exist. There is, then, an <i>I</i>. That <i>I</i> of the infinite is God.”

The dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice, and with the shiver of ecstasy, as though he beheld some one. When he had spoken, his eyes closed. The effort had exhausted him. It was evident that he had just lived through in a moment the few hours which had been left to him. That which he had said brought him nearer to him who is in death. The supreme moment was approaching.

The Bishop understood this; time pressed; it was as a priest that he had come: from extreme coldness he had passed by degrees to extreme emotion; he gazed at those closed eyes, he took that wrinkled, aged and ice-cold hand in his, and bent over the dying man.

“This hour is the hour of God. Do you not think that it would be regrettable if we had met in vain?”

The conventionary opened his eyes again. A gravity mingled with gloom was imprinted on his countenance.

“Bishop,” said he, with a slowness which probably arose more from his dignity of soul than from the failing of his strength, “I have passed my life in meditation, study, and contemplation. I was sixty years of age when my country called me and commanded me to concern myself with its affairs. I obeyed. Abuses existed, I combated them; tyrannies existed, I destroyed them; rights and principles existed, I proclaimed and confessed them. Our territory was invaded, I defended it; France was menaced, I offered my breast. I was not rich; I am poor. I have been one of the masters of the state; the vaults of the treasury were encumbered with specie to such a degree that we were forced to shore up the walls, which were on the point of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver; I dined in Dead Tree Street, at twenty-two sous. I have succored the oppressed, I have comforted the suffering. I tore the cloth from the altar, it is true; but it was to bind up the wounds of my country. I have always upheld the march forward of the human race, forward towards the light, and I have sometimes resisted progress without pity. I have, when the occasion offered, protected my own adversaries, men of your profession. And there is at Peteghem, in Flanders, at the very spot where the Merovingian kings had their summer palace, a convent of Urbanists, the Abbey of Sainte Claire en Beaulieu, which I saved in 1793. I have done my duty according to my powers, and all the good that I was able. After which, I was hunted down, pursued, persecuted, blackened, jeered at, scorned, cursed, proscribed. For many years past, I with my white hair have been conscious that many people think they have the right to despise me; to the poor ignorant masses I present the visage of one damned. And I accept this isolation of hatred, without hating any one myself. Now I am eighty-six years old; I am on the point of death. What is it that you have come to ask of me?”

<i>“Your blessing,”</i> said the Bishop.

And he knelt down.

When the Bishop raised his head again, the face of the conventionary had become august. He had just expired.

The Bishop returned home, deeply absorbed in thoughts which cannot be known to us. He passed the whole night in prayer. On the following morning some bold and curious persons attempted to speak to him about member of the Convention G——; he contented himself with pointing heavenward.

From that moment he redoubled his tenderness and brotherly feeling towards all children and sufferers.

Any allusion to “that old wretch of a G——” caused him to fall into a singular preoccupation. No one could say that the passage of that soul before his, and the reflection of that grand conscience upon his, did not count for something in his approach to perfection.

This “pastoral visit” naturally furnished an occasion for a murmur of comment in all the little local coteries.

“Was the bedside of such a dying man as that the proper place for a bishop? There was evidently no conversion to be expected. All those revolutionists are backsliders. Then why go there? What was there to be seen there? He must have been very curious indeed to see a soul carried off by the devil.”

One day a dowager of the impertinent variety who thinks herself spiritual, addressed this sally to him, “Monseigneur, people are inquiring when Your Greatness will receive the red cap!”—“Oh! oh! that’s a coarse color,” replied the Bishop. “It is lucky that those who despise it in a cap revere it in a hat.”

[songsformonkeys]

Get to know your moots!

I didn't actually get tagged but I saw @fromthedeskoftheraven had done this and it looked like fun so I wanted to answer these questions too 💖

What's the origin of your blog title? I don't fully remember the exact reasoning behind it. But I used to have an old writing blog that was called wordsforbananas so maybe it was just a twist on that?

OTP(s) + Shipname: Jayvik is my latest OTP crush. I'm also very fond of Steddie and Stavier. For some reason, I can't think of any ship OTPs that are actually canon atm. It might be because the slow burn fan in me often loses interest a bit once the characters actually get together unless the creator has a clear plan how to keep their relationship interesting beyond the pining.

Favourite colour: Orange and green

Favourite game: I adore the Unlocked! games. It's like a fun escape room in a box.

Song stuck in your head: Messy - Lola Young. I saw a video of a cartoon cat singing it and the lyrics of the chorus fit surprisingly well. So now I've been singing it all week.

Weirdest habit/trait? I'm trying to think of something but every weird habit that comes to mind is just very mild on the weird scale. Like sometimes eating carrots like a corn on the cob or preferring fake plants to real ones in my home. I like for my friends and loved ones to pick out my perfumes so I can think of them every time I wear them, but I don't think that counts as weird.

Hobbies: Reading, writing, sewing, daydreaming, secondhand shopping for cool clothes, building lego, and a bunch of other stuff that catch my attention for a week or two before I move on.

If you work, what's your profession? I work at a hospital. Mostly with pain management and gastrointestinal issues.

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be? I'm quite happy where I am now. But if I were to switch, I would probably want to work with Doctors Without Borders.

Something you're good at: I used to be quite good at archery but I haven't done it in a bit so not sure if I still am. I think I'm pretty funny, and I tend to stay calm in a crisis.

Something you're bad at: Cooking. Horribly bad at that. And I have no patience when it comes to waiting for things that excite me. I am also a world-class procrastinator.

Something you love: My family and friends.

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: This might make me sound like a bit of a gossip, but I love talking about people. Not in a mean-spirited way. Just catching up or talking about cool stuff they've done. For example, I love listening to my mother tell me about what the people back home have been up to (even the ones that I barely know) and telling her about what's new in my friend's lives. It makes me feel connected to people even if they're not physically close.

Something you hate: small-mindedness and when people get judgemental over things that are harmless.

Something you collect: Fandom trinkets, cosplay outfits that I rarely have an occasion to use, clothes, pretty stationery, and anything that'll make my home cozy.

Something you forget: ...is it ironic that I can't think of anything atm. I think I usually have an okay memory.

What's your love language? I never know if this means how I show love or if it's how I want to receive it so I'll answer both. I show love through Touch (but don't always like it when others touch me) and words of affirmation. And I feel the most loved when others give me words of affirmation (hello praise kink) or acts of service. It makes me feel taken care of and loved.

Favourite movie/show: Favorite movie: The Fall. Favorite show: too many to count. Currently, I really like Arcane.

Favourite food: Sushi

Favourite animal: Cats

What were you like as a child? A bit of a loner sometimes. Not very shy but just introverted. I loved reading and spent a lot of time doing that. I was very responsible and looked out for my little sister and her friends a lot of the time. I had one close friend that I hung out with. We watched Disney movies and baked cookies.

Favourite subject at school? Any language subject. I also really enjoyed PE because then I could run around and play sports with my classmates and I was decent enough at most sports. Hated long-distance running though. Found it boring and pointless. Still do.

Least favorite subject? Math probably. I did not like that there was a definitive answer to things and that I couldn't talk and bullshit my way to the right answer.

What's your best character trait? I think I'm a good listener and a loyal friend. And I like that I can usually make people laugh.

What's your worst character trait? I think I can get a bit distant sometimes. Especially when people message me. There's something about being available at all times through my phone that just rubs me the wrong way and I think the messages sometimes become a reminder of that (even if there's rarely any pressure from the person messaging me that I have to reply right away). And I know that sometimes I take that too far and wait too long to reply.

If you could change any detail of your day right now what would it be? I'd like to find a way to procrastinate less. I find it sometimes keeps me from doing stuff I would really enjoy.

If you could travel in time who would you like to meet? My great-grandparents on my mother's side. They seemed like such badass and fun people, and I've heard so many stories about them.

Recommend one of your favourite fanfics (spread the love!): I am absolutely in love with the Sweet Series by @oonajaeadira. It has excellent writing, Javi G, an amazing reader character, and all kinds of softness. Anyone who loves Javi will LOVE this series.

I have seen plenty of these post floating about on my dash so many of you have probably already done this but if you see this and haven't, think of this as me taggging you :)

[upon-lavender-hills]

I have questions regarding the post you made to answer redpiece99's question. They asked if Urasawa killed Grimmer because he didn't know what to do with his character. Very interesting post, by the way. In your opinion, Grimmer's death was a bad idea. Why? And what else did you not like about Monster's ending?

Sorry for taking so long to answer.

I have actually been asked a similar question before, but I couldn't find it in me to write a reply back then. It's a loaded question with a loaded answer. A very long, probably somewhat controversial answer, but I'll try. I am trying to force myself into speaking more on the internet, anyway. On the side note – I haven't revisited Monster for a while, so some of my facts might be off.

As to why I think killing Grimmer was a bad idea – in my opinion, it was a lazy solution, and lazy solutions are disrespectful to the audience, hence, a bad idea. I loved how, throughout the course of Monster, Urasawa kept leading all these different plot lines, like strings that were supposed to tie off, or lead to something meaningful, or interconnect in the end. But in the end, it felt like he just dropped most of those strings. It felt pointless, having followed all that. Grimmer's death felt like one of those strings.

I honestly don't even know where to start off and how to explain it. The most harmless example – before I finished Monster, I read some fanfiction. And in one work I read that Tenma became a member of Doctors Without Borders, and Runge started teaching at the Police Academy. And I thought that it was hilarious. I thought that the author just got this super silly headcannon out of nowhere, and it was very out of character. You can imagine my surprise when I found out that it was canon.

Now, Runge teaching at the Police Academy, I can kind of embrace that. Maybe he decided to calm down, settle in and have a life where he spends more time with his family, although I kind of find it hard to imagine. I used it in my own fanfiction, too, this idea fits into that imaginary scenario where Runge develops attachment for Grimmer, and in order to have a more peaceful life with him he decides to settle for a safer job. Risk free, safer job = higher probability of longer and safer life. It makes sense. Same works with the family concept.

Now, Tenma becoming a Doctor Without Borders member, that does not make sense to me at all. I refuse that reality. He does not HAVE TO become a Doctor Without Borders. He would NOT leave Dieter with a literal criminal or, like, whomever, just to live that lifestyle. It's not his lifestyle, and it's not his personality. He would not abandon a child who's already been abandoned and abused. In the end, Urasawa made Tenma into a travelling doctor just so Tenma would have an excuse to visit Johann from time to time. And to meet Johann's mother in the meanwhile.

And really, that's the main problem. Johann is Monster's main problem. Him and his dumb issues, dumb excuses, dumb personality. That's a whole other topic. Concerning this topic, the 'why I think Monster's ending was bad' topic, there are two main reasons for me that concern Johann.

Johann should not have survived the gunshot.

Johann cannot and shall not be excused, especially by means of blaming his mother.

Why on earth would Runge make Tenma save Johann? Why did Tenma obey, when the exact same thing got him into so much trouble in the past? Just so Urasawa could once again point out that all lives matter, and then deliver that special little idea that maybe, in a way, Johann is innocent, and then add that cute little plot twist of Johann escaping the hospital? Because, why was Johann kept in a normal hospital, anyway? It's not like he has poisoned a bunch of people the last time he was there, right? It's not like he committed an uncountable amount of crimes, so he should be kept in a prison hospital, right? And the trauma Johann encountered, man... so much trauma... like that time his mother gave Nina away to Bonaparta, and Nina had an absolute dogshit experience there, and then Johann appropriated Nina's trauma. Because he didn't know whom his mother actually wanted to sacrifice. What if it was him, idk?

Like, okay. He had to dress up as Nina so that his mother wouldn't know whom she was giving away. A creature trying to survive, alright, I get it. Still not a trauma. And then he killed a bunch of people. Just because. But he also has a split personality, where he's good. But he kills for absolute destruction. Because he's a monster. And he's kind of like a little kid. And he dressed up as Nina again to frame her, just like he framed Tenma. Very manipulative. But the dress he wears, it's like his mother's, when she decided which one of her kids to give away. And Johann, he just want to watch the world burn for some deep philosophical reason, but he's also kind of sweet, and he's diabolically clever, but also a baby. See what I'm talking about? It was so hard to follow this character, at least for me. And I guess it's a fun character concept – in concept! I hated the realization.

And I don't even want to talk about how it was lightly hinted that Johann became the way he is because of his mother. He did not become anything, he was. He is worse than just a psychopath. And there were enough of these funny allowances throughout the Monster that I was kind of closing my eyes on, like Grimmer's son dying because his father didn't smile at him quite right, and then Grimmer's wife left him because he didn't grieve quite right, and every Bonaparta-programmed kid having very serious problems with relationship and families just because they weren't showing their emotions quite right – that's not how it works. A lot of people don't show their emotions quite right, and they still have relationships and kids. Or how Johann possess this special kind of eugenics-bred charm, the magical charm, I would say, and he actually might be possessed by demons or maybe he's actually the devil, who knows. All that – alright, I'll bite. Not the Johann justification part, and all the Johann-related plot holes. Nina turned out just fine. I don't understand why we couldn't have a proper good ending where Johann finally got what he wanted himself – a bullet in the head, Tenna tried his best to raise Dieter without that DWB shindig, Runge kept being a detective because, by that point, that's what he is... it would be good if Grimmer stayed alive, too.

Concerning that, in the ending, why did Runge, Suk and Vardemann got together to give a hearfelt speech before Grimmer's grave, on some kind of anniversary? Where did they bury him? Are they friends now? I guess they are. They were working together on clearing Grimmer's name and became friends, I guess? It feels absurd. Everything feels absurd.

tl;dr: I think Monster's ending was absurd, out of character, and despite the strange sugar-coating, it is a bad ending. It's like covering rotting meat in a confectionery glaze. It's inappropriate, and, in my opinion, not in Monster's spirit. For me, it ruined the whole work.

[fdelopera]

Hey. You're more than free to ignore this comment, I understand. But I wanna say, I'm happy I was able to find your blog. I was able to donate money to help Palestine's citizens, but I also got a refresh on Jewish history since I studied it in college, and how I can help out those around me due to the up coming threats of Neo-Nazism.

I am rather sorry you and others are being targeted like this right now and it's not right. Please stay safe and stay strong out there.

Thank you so much for your message. I truly appreciate it. Messages like yours give me hope.

THANK YOU for taking the time to learn about Jewish history. Jewish history, Jewish tradition, and Jewish cultural memory are sacred to Jewish people. We remember to know who we are.

Here is my masterpost about Jewish history. I recommend that EVERYONE read it.

THANK YOU also for donating to help the Palestinian people. I hope that others will learn from your example. Instead of choosing ignorance, you chose education. Instead of choosing hatred, you chose selfless giving.

I encourage everyone who has the urge to harass and attack Jewish people to instead transform that toxic, hateful energy into something that actually helps the Palestinian people.

Jew-hatred does NOTHING to help Palestinians — when you engage in Jew-hatred, you're actually HURTING Palestinians by delegitimizing the Free Palestine movement. When you attack Jews and spread Jew-hatred, all you're doing is putting the lives of Jews around the world at risk.

Put your money where your mouth is and donate to charities and organizations that are on the ground in Gaza, helping the Palestinian people. Whatever you can afford to give. Even $5 goes a long way. The organizations that I recommend are:

ANERA

Palestine Children's Relief Fund

Doctors Without Borders

[lilithprincessofdarkness]

Hey, do me a favor and look up "human trafficking scam center". Then donate $100 to doctors without borders or similar instead of falling for scam asks on tumblr.

I am completely aware that there are scammers here on Tumblr pretending to be Palestinian.

$100 woah I don't have that money! I'm a very poor woman, and I only donate a small amount a month.

The only problem I have with Doctors Without Borders is that Israel, at the moment, is not allowing any aid into Gaza. So if I donate to Doctors Without Borders, they are unable to help the children in Gaza right now, until Israel allows aid into Gaza again. I heard there's going to be some kind of Gaza Fund run by Private American Cooporations, but it has not happened yet.

My dear, I am very well aware of evil humans scamming people. But there are ways to safely donate to the Palestinians and other people with legit charities here on Tumblr.

For example, this person is very well informed on which Palestinian charities are scams or not. She has a list of legit users who are Palestinian:

Like any charity you need to research before you donate, and by the way, most people who are scammed are good people with good hearts and good intentions to help someone in need.

You shouldn't be rude to kind people, I understand where you are coming from, and I am mature enough to see through your emotionally fuelled ask.

The best advice I can give is if you really want to protect people from scammers, don't be so aggressive when you speak to people. It comes off as emotional, unintelligent, and uninformed. Emotional responses always come off as uninformed and uneducated information. Someone might not believe you because your response sounds emotional exaggerated even if it is true.

Also, next time you want to save someone from being scammed instead of telling someone to do research, provide sources for them to back up what you are saying. Just an emotional response isn't going to do your cause justice unless your goal here was to just be an asshole to me. Which is an emotional intention, nothing based in intellect or fact.

There are good people who are getting scammed don't treat them like they did something wrong for caring. Get mad at the scammers, not the ones who were scammed.

[isagrimorie]

Does anyone else have examples of Janeway doing some inventive tactical maneuvers?

I want to do a gifset of Janeway doing them. What I have so far:

Basics, Janeway's tactics against Kazon-Nistrim-- it was a pretty great tactic and would've worked too, if not for the sabotage. (Teamwork plan but the timing was pure Janeway. Nerves of steel.)

Year of Hell, part 1 - Voyager only had 11 torpedoes left and had four deployed like mines.

Critical Care - Has Voyager drop out of warp without warning and then tractor-beam a ship evading them. (Although Chakotay suggested it, teamwork!)

Flesh and Blood, part 2 - Voyager is in no condition to fight against two Hirogen ships and must locate and rescue B'Elanna and the EMH Doctor. Janeway decides instead of wasting resources-- she lets the Hirogen do what they do best and find the rogue holograms, and hide Voyager in the blindspot of one of the Hirogen ships. The moment Hirogen ships drop out of warp Janeway had Voyager attack the Hirogen ships to disable them. And succeeds despite failing shields.

I'm still hunting for times Janeway does unconventional ship-to-ship battles.

But listing these things down and remembering Janeway's amusement at Chakotay's so-called 'innovative' battle strategy. It turned out Janeway already knew what they were, and tells Chakotay that trick wouldn't have worked with her.

She said this in season 1 but after all this, I believe her.

Again makes me wonder how a Science Officer who ranked up to Command got all this tactical experience.

We know she has some experience in brutal ground combat during the Cardassian border conflicts but why was Janeway the one chosen to hunt down for Maquis?

In DS9 we know not just anyone was tasked to hunt down for erstwhile ex-Starfleet officers turned Maquis.

[charmsponies]

I know I’m not that big of an account at all. But I still wonder if I could use my voice to make any difference, even if it is small.

I would like to encourage people to donate to support Palestine. There is an active genocide happening there right now, and I think you should do everything you can to educate yourself about it and support the Palestinian people.

So: I am opening Pony Related Commissions for people who provide proof that they have donated to one of the charities providing aid to Palestine!

(It’d be great if you could donate just for the purpose of doing so but I figure of I can bribe some people into donating with pony pictures thatd be great.)

Here is a list of resources if you would like to read more about the topic and educate yourself better about the situation:

Decolonize Palestine (A collection of resources to educate people who want to know more about Palestine)

A video if you don’t understand the history leading up to the current situation

This website has an easy list of things you can do, it can help you in emailing your representatives (which really only takes a few minutes), looking into protests, ect.

BDS Movement (Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions)

Free resources and ebooks related to Palestine

Here is a list of some places where you can donate:

Palestine Direct Action (Taking action against Israel’s arms trade)

Doctors Without Borders (Providing Medical Help)

Anera (Providing food and hygeine kits to people in Gaza)

MAUSA (Providing medical aid and food)

Gaza Emergency Aid Fund (Providing emergency aid, food, and other supplies to those in Gaza)

UN Relief for Palestine Refugees (helping refugees from Palestine)

Palestine Legal (Helping protect activists rights)

And way more, here are some links to some other places you can donate to support Palestinians.

If you want a pony commission from me, There isn’t a minimum amount, you should donate what you can. As little as a dollar or a huge amount, what matters is you’re doing what you can to support Palestinians. All you have to do is provide proof of an actual donation in a dm (like a screenshot of a receipt) and I will draw you a pony request! Here is an example with an email receipt i got when I donated:

Any generation, either offical characters or ocs are allowed, whatever you want. I will even do simple backgrounds (depending on the complexity). Here is an example of my pony art:

[disasterarea-podcast]

Hi, all! Just wanted to throw out an updated list of the requests for the podcast, including the newest ones submitted. A few people have asked about possible submissions and whether they would count, so if you’d like to make it official, the donation links are Paypal at disasterarea AT mail DOT com, on Venmo at disasterareapodcast, on Cashapp at disasterareapod.

If you made a request and it’s not on the list, feel free to remind me so I can add it. 😊

If anyone would like to do something for Christmas in the name of the podcast, now is an excellent time to donate to Doctors Without Borders, especially considering the multiple serious conflicts going on in the world right now. MSF takes care of people in need to countries under war and disaster regardless of their “side,” so they’re an excellent place to give.

If anyone wants to buy anything specifically for me, I do have an Amazon wishlist: https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/1W7G38ECKNG8S?ref_=wl_share . I’m only throwing this out there for the hell of it — it’s, like, 90% mini-dollhouses. It’s kind of hilarious.

And I just want to wish all of y’all a low-stress few weeks coming up, no matter what you celebrate. I hope for happy days for all, but I’d just like everybody to have at least one moment where they can rest, breathe, and not worry about bills or presents or the news so you can all reset and not break down. For example, my ass will be firmly settle into a movie theater seat with a bag of popcorn and a large soda to see “Die Hard” on the big screen for Christmas.