#partially to be out of the house for a significant length of time to do a solely fun set of activities (specifics unknown)

[ourceliumnetwork]

turns out chronic disability means you're disabled chronically. more shocking news at 11.

[that-writing-raccoon]

TL;DR- I agree but think this is more second draft advice than first draft advice.

I dabbled in the publishing world in a literary agency for a while before I decided it wasn’t for me, and this post kind of threw me ngl. Not because it’s wrong, but more because how it’s phrased.

Not to toot my own horn, but I was well liked by the agents I worked for and was asked to stay on past my initial tenure because they liked my work ethic and insights. This isn’t me trying to brag, more give myself some credibility for everything I’m about to say.

I can confidently say that word count didn’t matter all that much. That’s not to say it didn’t matter at all, (we were given general expected word counts for different genres), but it wasn’t a make or break qualifier like it’s made out to be in the above post for the agency I was in. If a manuscript could answer ‘yes’ to the questions “Is this good? Is this engaging? Do I think this has potential?” then it often made it through all the rounds and received an offer of representation. This included manuscripts we got that were 80k or above, even if we thought they slagged in places.

The problem that tanked the majority of manuscripts that made it past the query stage or partial stage (our partials were the first three chapters of your manuscript) was pacing. Many manuscripts that were a little too long and dragged in some places were more likely to be passed if overall the story was good than manuscripts where the story felt too fast or rushed. With the former, it’s easy for the agent to say, “Hey, we love your manuscript, but before we take it on, could you try cutting out x,y,z because of a,b,c reasons.” With the latter, authors need to add more to their story or do more significant rewrites before it’s ready to be taken up by an agent, much less an editor. We’d do weekly sit downs where we’d talk about all the queries and partials and fulls, and manuscripts being too short/too rushed was one of the reoccurring reasons why they were given almost unanimous Nos; those that said Yes did so with the admittance that the pacing was bad but they liked the concept of the story.

I will say I agree with not wanting to read something that’s 150k to 500k, especially if it’s not fantasy or sci-fi. We still would read it until we lost interest, and usually the advice would be to self-edit and cut some stuff out before trying again.

While 50k is a book, every genre has a range, and the min of 50k is more for young adult and romance. If you read the requirements for publishing houses or independent agencies, they tend to give the range they’re looking for, and they all vary with their minimums and maximums.

My general advice is to write as much as you need to to finish your story, celebrate yourself for your hard work, wait a bit, then create a copy and start editing, including cutting stuff out. Don’t start worrying about word counts or other requirements until you’re in your self-editing phase or else it’ll get in your head, and you’ll end up with a rushed manuscript that requires a lot of work and drafts before it’s ready to be sent to an agency. But please for the love of god self edit a few times before sending it to anyone. It will help you so much.

As for the Harry Potter example, I can also confidently say that every manuscript takes forever to be picked up, no matter how good it is. Trying to get your book published is like trying to apply for jobs. It gets depressing really quick, and it happens to most manuscripts regardless of length. You can get passed on purely for not following query or submission instructions regardless of how good your work is (and yes this can include word count requirements). The key is to take constructive criticism, roll with the punches, persevere, EDIT YOUR WORK, and keep writing.

Something I see a lot on writeblr, and various other places, is people celebrating hitting something like 150k (I've seen people celebrating 500k, or HALF A MILLION) words. Unless you're a vet author, plan to self-publish, or are literally as good as a NYT bestseller (Hint, you're likely not) you shouldn't be writing books of that length if you expect to go the traditional publishing route. Even in Fantasy, which is notorious for being really long door-stoppers, most traditional publishing places and agents won't accept anything over 80k unless it's REALLY REALLY good.

"But, Dill," I hear you say, "Percy Jackson and Harry Potter are hundreds of thousands of words each."

They are the exceptions in every way. Harry Potter took literally YEARS and dozens of attempts to find a publisher that would even consider it. Let that sink in for a moment.

While you can argue that publishers are out of sync, they are the ones that decide to publish your novel. It might not be fair that they decide to publish by word count in addition to other stuff, but shelf space is valuable, and a door stopper can't fit as many copies on the shelf. And they are in the business of selling books.

If you plan on literally never publishing it, or going the self-pub route, write your doorstoppers. But if you plan on going the traditional route with an agent (Which is STRONGLY recommend you get one if you go traditional) you need to play by their rules. Write something shorter.

Keep in mind that 50k words IS A NOVEL and not everything has to be the length of War and Peace.

[stevenbasic]

"Let’s chat,” Olivia had said, after directing me to sit. She watched as I did, then smiled, and then turned to look around the room, my small office.

Olivia was a friend of my wife, new, for maybe the past year. I’d only met her a handful of times, at the house and at a couple functions. Though Sheryl always spoke highly of her, how much fun she could be, she always struck me as a bit aloof, even a bit haughty. Maybe she just doesn’t like me, I’d always found myself thinking. And here she was, in my office, looking around like she owned the place. How had she gotten involved?!? I’d figured her as a slightly strange loner of a woman, just a suburbanite friend of my wife - though apparently I’d underestimated her...

Olivia slowly began to step around the room, inspecting the texts I had in my bookshelf, running a finger up and down the spine of my PDR. Olivia was maybe a few years older than Sheryl and me, but she always looked amazing. Tall, red-headed and curvy, she must have been drop-dead gorgeous in her youth. But she’d been single her whole life, as far as I knew. Childless? Honestly, I didn’t know that much about her, only what Sheryl had told me…and I have to admit I probably hadn’t been listening.

“You have some nice old books here,” she said, casually, pulling Loewy’s Textbook of Medical Ethics from the shelf, cracking it open. Apparently she was a physician, and a PhD as well <tweak image?>. Had Sheryl ever mentioned that? I remembered chatting with her at the house a few times, when she’d come to have a glass of wine with my wife. That we both practiced medicine never came up was weird. In honesty, though, I’d probably never spoken to her more than a few minutes at a time, always being shooed away to leave the two ladies to their girl talk.

As I watched Olivia thumb through the book, my eyes did a quick up-and-down of her stunning figure. I remembered one summer day at the house, after having been dismissed by the women, going to spy on her and Sheryl from the upstairs window as they sunbathed by the pool in the backyard. My view down Olivia’s black, one-piece bathing suit had been phenomenal, and I’d found myself furtively jerking off to the sight of her big white breasts. Still semi-thick down my leg, I grabbed myself under my desk and gave myself a squeeze. Jesus her tits and ass are both big.

“So, uh, Olivia,” I began, still watching as she returned the book to its shelf, slowly turning on her heels to saunter around the room and inspect the degrees I had hanging on the wall, “You’re a physician?” Eyeing her body in her black blouse and tight, knee-length skirt, I continued to marvel at her curves, and squeezed myself again. Nnnnnff. Though she was soft with some years, good genetics and probably some time in the gym kept her in really great shape. “What speciality?”

“Oh, I was research, mostly,” she answered, reaching out with one finger to touch, possessively, my medical degree, wipe a line of dust off the top of its frame. She was not, obviously, all that keen on being too forthcoming, or even just plain friendly. Hopefully she didn’t realize I was, under my desk, slowly rubbing myself through my pants to the sight of her broad hips.

I did remember, however, now that she’d mentioned the research, something Sheryl had said, about how Olivia had made her money, a biomedical start-up years ago. But supposedly that had been in the past, and she spent her time in politics now, managing the campaign of some female candidate. If I recalled, Olivia had come from a political family, and had fallen into the role naturally.

She was now nonchalantly looking through a pile of file folders I had on a cabinet. So, I found myself thinking, even as my dick grew harder for her, if she’d never really practiced, clinically, and had been away from medicine for this long, what on god’s green earth qualified her to be our ‘Clinical Director’??

“So, Olivia,” I found myself asking, thinking I was lightening the mood, boldly cracking some ice, “are you my boss now?”

Her bluntness shocked me.

“Yes in fact I am,” she said, plainly, turning now to face me, “Sheryl and I both are.” The light from my window caught her eyes, reminding me of how it had done the same to Melissa’s just a few minutes earlier. Olivia’s green eyes, though, seemed to absorb the sun into themselves, like magic, glittering gems. It intensified her gaze, pulling me in with a sudden intimacy that grabbed me by the loins. “We are your superiors.”

<gulp>

Abruptly cowed, I let go of my now-throbbing erection, afraid that I might erupt in my slacks. I tried to find words, thinking I should say something in defense, something snarky to assert myself, but my voice was caught in my chest.

“Melissa will handle administration, I’ll guide the clinical staff,” Olivia continued in explanation, seeing I’d been properly unnerved and releasing me from her gaze. She began to stroll towards my desk, again, looking at the anatomy chart I had hanging on the opposite wall. “The MA’s, the nurses and clinicians, they’ll all report to me. You included.” I was thankful, again, that I wasn’t standing. She’d be so much taller than me. Wait what?!?

So I, apparently, was now to be just another clinician? This couldn’t stand!  ”What will I do?” I asked, speaking too quickly, hearing the petulance in my own voice, “What will be my title?”

Olivia fought back a satisfied smile and answered me as she approached the chair in front of my desk. “Oh, you’re still a partial owner,” she said, now trying to reassure me of my continued significance, as diminished as it was, “but a title? You want a title?” She sat down, now, across the desk from me, and thought. “Hm,” she decided, “You can be ‘Lead Clinical Physician’. Will that work?”

”I’m the ONLY physician!” I blurted.

To that, Olivia laughed. Tolerantly, she continued. ”How about you just be you?” she offered, with a smile meant to placate me, a glimmer in her eyes that once again reminded me of Melissa, “You worry about seeing patients, you make sure you do what you need for the Evolution study.” Obviously she knew that I was upset, that I’d felt belittled and sidelined. She sat up straight, and went on seeking to soothe me. “You'll have plenty of help,” she said, “I’ll make sure everything runs smoothly here, that patients are getting the care they need.”

Speechless, I felt humiliated. Cast aside, all but mothballed. And, lest we forget, by women.

“Oh, c’mon,” Olivia laughed, reaching her left hand across the desk, laying it palm-down in front of me, “Yes, I’ll be your Clinical Director, but it’s just a title. You all know what you’re doing.” She had her eyes on me; I looked down at her hand, the emerald she wore on her ring finger. It was striking. ��I won’t even be here most days,” she assured me, “I’m so busy with the election. You’ll barely see me.”

Feeling a wave of sadness overtake me, washing away whatever ire I’d still held, I continued to look down at her ring, her large, well-manicured nails. What did she want, with her hand there? For me to hold it? Maybe I should…

She waited for me to speak, to say something. Saying anything, though, to me seemed like I would be acknowledging the facts, as would taking her hand. Inaction, passivity, was easier. It could be a silent signal that I was unhappy with the new changes.

I heard her draw a deep breath, let it out in frustration.

”Okay, fine,” she huffed, a new edge in her voice, “What is it? Do you feel emasculated? Hm? Is that it?”

I looked up at her in shock, feeling my lip quivering.

“Good, you deserve it,” she said plainly, continuing, sitting back and straightening her shoulders, “After the way you made Sheryl feel all these years, with the affairs, you should feel emasculated. What sort of man does that, acts like that? So childish…” Her green, gleaming eyes were spitting poison, now, in obvious solidarity with her friend, my wife. I had to look down, back at her hand, the stone in her emerald ring.

“My god, after all she’s done for you?” she continued, unrelenting, “She’s supported you from the beginning, built you this nice, comfortable life while she worked ten times as hard as you. Even in the face of all the other women, the girls you fell to through the years, she’d had faith in you, that you could change.”

I squirmed in humiliation, knowing she was speaking the truth, but disbelieving it myself. How had I done this, let myself become this person? And, Jesus, how could I still be getting harder?! What the fuck is wrong with me?!? The green jewel on her finger glittered back, but gave me no answer.

“Well, you’ve proven it, you've proven you can’t change,” she spat, “So we’re going to change everything around you, change ourselves.”

I was shaking, under her diatribes, defenseless. I felt the strength in her voice, the conviction. Olivia was determined, had become a powerful person through her talents and hard work. I felt like a worm.

“Yes, we’re all working to improve ourselves, while you just do…nothing,” she said, “We’re getting better, smarter, stronger. You’re going to have to just sit there and watch while we all grow around you.”

My breath was coming fast, I was trying to keep myself from groaning or, good god, whining. My cock continued to harden, throbbing against my thigh. Goddamnit why didn’t I jerk off this morning?? I still stared at her hand because I was afraid if I looked up at her face or god help me her tits I would come right there, explode into my pants.

She had paused.

“Are you looking at my ring?” she asked, her voice softer now. Laid out on the desk between us, her hand flexed, long fingers straightening to show off her jewel. “It was my mother’s, she wanted me to have it,” she told me, as I looked at it, admiring it’s rich green beauty. It really was impressive. “It matches my necklace.”

At that, my eyes were finally drawn up, away from her left hand as her right had come to her chest, the neckline of her blouse. I watched as she undid a single button and revealed inches of white, creamy cleavage and a necklace with a green, matching stone. The jewel was huge, spherical, the size of a human eye, nestled just above her big breasts. I tried my best to keep my eyes on it and not let them fall into her cleavage, but couldn’t fight what felt like an unseen force secretly moving my hand back to grab my cock through my pants. I was speechless, though I heard myself emit a little moan of admiration.

“What's wrong?” Olivia asked, an amused interest in her voice, “You like looking at my necklace?”

“It’s…” I began, gazing at the green stone, seeing how it, like her eyes, seemed to capture the light in the room, “…it’s beautiful.” It seemed to gaze back at me, from right above the deep valley of her soft, inviting cleavage.

“Thank you,” she purred. She stretched her arm out closer to me, turning her hand over on the desk in front of me. “Now, take my hand,” she said, a new, patient charity in her voice.

“w-what..?” I managed.

“Take my hand,” she repeated, and I watched my own free left hand place itself in hers, my right hand still covertly wrapped around my shaft, intermittently squeezing it, stroking it, pressing it into my thigh.

“And now, back at my necklace,” she directed, with composed sympathy.

“o-o-Olivia..?” I peeped. My eyes were now up at hers, pleadingly, but as she drew a deep breath I couldn’t do anything but drop my gaze back down to her chest. The green stone had dropped a fraction and now lay just between the uppermost swells of her breasts. It had captured my eyes with its own. “oh, god…” I heard myself say.

“shhhh…” she whispered, indulgently, “C’mon. This shouldn’t be a surprise.” Her chest began to rise and fall with slow, purposeful breaths, the bulges of her breasts swelling to  embrace the green jewel, and then fall away again. “We’ve surrounded you with eye candy so far, and here I am. Another tall, bosomy woman in the office for you. So…just enjoy.” Another deep breath, breasts enveloping the stone, and then dropping away. I’d begun to slowly stroke myself under the desk, and didn’t have the force of will to stop. “It’s been nice, hm? Having all these girls?” she continued, allowing herself a girlish giggle, “And I’d always noticed the way you look at me when I’ve come to see Sheryl. I knew you were a physician, a smart, respected guy. But it made me think of you as so…”

Another deep breath, and the stone all but disappeared.

“…small.”

I fucking whined.

Olivia smiled. “But that can be all water under the bridge,” she offered, her voice warming generously, “I think you and I can have a nice, professional relationship. Between Melissa and I we’ll make sure you’ll be well taken care of, by all your women.”

Somehow, I was able to tear my eyes up off her chest. “n-no…Olivia…that’s n-“

“What? Isn’t that every man’s dream?” she asked, doing something with her free right hand, some movement, “To be surrounded by a harem of young, beautiful women, doing everything, taking care of all the details?”

“n-no..but, y-…yes but…” I floundered, as a quick something changed in the air. I looked down, to my left, and on the desk was a piece of paper. Had that been there before? The whole time? Melissa must have left it.

I looked down at it, even as I still brainlessly rubbed my cock. It was a short statement, something for me to sign. It was on our company letterhead. I read the first few sentences in a fog, my mind really only realizing the purpose of the agreement when I reached the final phrase:

“…cedes all authority to and acknowledges the authority of Olivia M. Henders, MD as Clinical Director of Far Horizons Medical Associates.”

Her left hand had left mine; her right was handing me a pen.

“We’re going to ask you to step back from your responsibilities at the hospital as well,” Olivia explained, trying to hide the satisfaction in her voice as I mindlessly signed the paper, “Vida can handle your rounds, she and Morgan and Karen can take over your admitting privileges.”

“w-what..?” I asked, weakly protesting though I barely understood what she was telling me, more focused now on my hand rubbing away at my cock.

“After what happened this week, yesterday,” she continued, taking the pen from my hand, “the new Chief Medical Officer at the hospital called us. She suggested the leave of absence.” She took the paper, inspected my signature. “Until you get your health back under control.”

I’d heard about her, the new woman at xxx. I’d known her for years as a physician. She’d risen in the ranks, administratively, finally landing the top job and had already removed some of the old-time guys from the hospital staff. So now it was no surprise she wanted me gone, too.  But..if I didn’t have hospital privileges…?

“b-but…no…” <stroke stroke stroke> Jesus I just need to fucking come

“It’s a done deal already,” Olivia said, looking down at the mug of warm milk Melissa had made for me, “the board of directors has spoken. It’s what we want.”

“w-we…?” <stroke stroke stroke> oh god don’t tell me.

“Yes, it’s so exciting,” she said, eyes back now watching mine, which had fallen again to her bosom and its green stone, “the first all-female hospital board in the state. Including myself…and Sheryl.”

Suddenly, it all became clear. This was Sheryl’s idea.

Shit. <stroke stroke stroke><faster faster faster>

“She sends her best, by the way,” Olivia smiled as she watched me. Did she see my eyes flutter, as my climax began to grab me? If she knew what was going on below the table, only a slight curl to her lips gave it away. “You really should sign those divorce papers…”

She pushed my mug towards me, as I exploded in my pants.

“…and drink your milk.”

==========================

Many thanks to my brother-in-arms TopographicSociety for his help with the image, giving Olivia her necklace.

[riversofmars]

Here it is! Dark Eyes: "The Traitor" enemies to lovers AU in three parts, let's gooo 😬

In the Absence of Moral Absolutes

Summary: The Dalek occupation of Nixyce VII is absolute, the colony-world has had to bow to its oppressors. While living conditions are dire, med-tech Liv Chenka does her best to look after the injured and preserve life. She has become an outcast, seen to be working with the Daleks. Particularly the last remainders of human resistance - the Soldiers of Last Resort - take an unfavourable view of her. The feeling is mutual as Liv condemns their methods that have started spiralling out of control. As tensions rise, Liv finds herself clashing with resistance fighter Helen Sinclair. (Rating T)

Part 1

It was raining. Again… or was it still? It was impossible to tell that time of the year. Helen Sinclair pulled her coat closer around herself. She was soaked to the bone and shivering but she tried her best to ignore her discomfort. She was leaning against the wall of the partially destroyed building on a street corner in the city centre. There was nothing significant about it, it wasn’t distinctive in any way. Most street corners looked similar, most houses lay in ruins. There wasn’t a roof left in the entire city, which, during storm season, was a real nuisance. In reality it was more than a nuisance of course: it was a disaster. Most people were in poor health from malnutrition already, pneumonia would only be the icing on the cake. Helen chose not to let her mind go down that path any further. If she allowed herself to fully comprehend the destruction and hopelessness around her, she would fall into deep despair like so many others had. She couldn’t allow herself to do that, not when there was work to be done. The fight for Nixyce VII wasn’t over, as much as the Dalek conquerors believed it was. It would never be over while there were still living breathing humans willing to fight.

Helen watched from the corner with keen eyes. Up in the square ahead, a Dalek communications tower had been erected. It was an impressive construction, much more advanced than anything else in the city. She checked the time on her wristwatch and observed the Daleks whizzing into and around the structure. Not much longer now , she noted. It was late, most humans were off the streets and safe in their makeshift homes. As safe as anyone can be under Dalek occupation, with freezing rain and biting winds and no roofs left, starving because the rations were barely enough to keep anyone alive , Helen thought bitterly. There was nothing left for the colonists but painful existence. She drew a deep breath, watching intently. It was the perfect time to strike. Part of her looked forward to seeing the Dalek structure burn, some warmth at last, but she was growing anxious too. The human workers should have been sent home long ago but so far none had emerged from the structure.

Helen’s attention was drawn away from the tower by the sound of approaching footsteps behind her. No-one should be out and about this time of night, let alone be coming here , she thought. Despite the heavy rain, she managed to make out a figure, human, for sure, female most likely, judging by size and shape. She was shorter than Helen herself, wearing a large dark coat on a slender frame, and as she approached, Helen spotted a medical kit that hung from her shoulder. Nowhere else in the universe would that have served as an unmistakable identifying marker, on Nixyce VII, however, it was all the identification needed. Helen squared her jaw.

“Ah Dr. Chenka,“ she regarded Liv Chenka with a cool smile as the med-tech peered out from underneath her heavy hood, shoulder-length hair sticking to her damp cheeks. She straightened herself up and clench her jaw as well upon noticing Helen in her way. Helen spotted the discontent in her eyes and wondered if hers had been as obvious in the way she’d snarled her name. She didn’t know the woman, not really anyway, not personally; but of course she knew of her. Everybody did. “I think you’d better get out of here,“ Helen said as a matter of warning.

“Have we met?“ The med-tech asked with no small measure of annoyance. She grabbed the strap of her bag tightly, the gesture that betrayed her tension.

“No. But it would be in your best interest to get out of here,“ Helen retorted with a glance at her watch. Nearly time . A look back to the square told her that, still, no humans had exited the building. Helen felt her heart sink. That was not how it was meant to go, but sometimes, there was a price to be paid to take them a step closer to victory; at least that was what her superiors liked to say. Her movements must have been suspicious because the other woman seemed to clock on immediately.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you,“ her voice was laced with distaste and disappointment. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? How much worse you’re making things? What are you up to?“ She glanced past her to the communications tower.

“None of your business, run along home.“ Helen barred her way. She couldn’t allow her to interfere which was exactly what she was known for. Liv Chenka, the Dalek Collaborator, the Traitor. She seemed to already suspect what was going to happen and, if Helen allowed her to pass, there was every chance she would warn them. Briefly Helen thought of the people in that tower but she tried to block out her remorse, her conscience. This was war , she reminded herself. And there will be casualties on both sides. Helen had received her orders; instructions from the Hawk himself. They were the Soldiers of Last Resort and she could not allow the notorious med-tech to interfere.

“You’re not… you can’t!“ Chenka exclaimed when realisation appeared to dawn on her. She tried to push past but Helen grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her back.

“What do you think you’re doing?“ She snapped.

“What do I think I’m doing?!“ The med-tech echoed incredulously. “Trying to stop you from hurting innocent people!“ She jabbed her finger at her accusingly.

“Stay back, the Daleks will see you,“ Helen threatened, putting herself in between the interfering woman and the square ahead. “If we blow up that tower, it’ll black out their communications in this whole area!“ She wasn’t quite sure why she was telling her that, why she was justifying herself to the Traitor of all people, but she did. Perhaps it was also to remind herself of the value of this operation and of the ends justifying the means.

“There are humans working in there! Innocent bystanders, you can’t be serious!“ Chenka yelled in disbelief. Her eyes darted past her to the tower. Helen could virtually see the gears turning in her head, she was trying to work a way out of stopping what was going to happen. Helen knew it was far too late for that anyway.

“They should be sending them home for the night,“ she tried a more reasonable approach but could already tell the med-tech wasn’t buying it. She wasn’t stupid. That she knew by reputation and could see immediately in her bright, inquisitive eyes.

“Daleks don’t care for working hours! Three people have collapsed from exhaustion in there, that’s why they called me!“ Chenka snapped.

“There is nothing we can do now. Just be glad you’re not in there,“ Helen shot back. She could imagine the Hawk would be quite displeased when he found out they could have gotten rid of the Traitor too, but Helen couldn’t have let anyone walk in there, not even her. Her heartbeat quickened with anxiety. She was still hoping the workers would leave the building but with every passing second that seemed less and less likely.

“Yes we can!“ The med-tech exclaimed. “You can stop this! Otherwise, I’ll-“

“You’ll what?“ Helen interrupted her sharply and stepped into her personal space, hoping to intimidate her. “You’re gonna warn the Daleks? Is it true what people say about you then?“

“I will not stand by when innocent people are getting hurt!“ Chenka growled, who, despite being a lot shorter than Helen, cut a confident, determined figure.

“Innocent people are getting hurt every day, the only way we can gain our freedom is if we fight back. By any means necessary!“ Helen insisted and the other woman laughed bitterly.

“By any means? Are you listening to yourself?!“ She shook her head in disbelief and gave her a strong shove. “You’re just as bad as them!“ Helen stumbled back a couple of steps, surprised by the anger and determination behind her actions. Rage, perhaps even more burning than the med-tech’s, rose inside Helen at the comparison. How dare she? We’re nothing like the Daleks. We’re trying to free this world from their oppression and do what other people are too scared to do!

“Careful, Med-tech. Think about your next words very carefully,“ Helen spat, she was in no mood to be lectured. She had her own conscience to deal with already, she didn’t need that self-righteous know-it-all making it harder than it already was.

“Or what?“ Chenka’s voice was just as venomous, but she didn’t continue their sparring match, instead, she seized the opportunity of having knocked her back. She surged forward, past Helen and shouted: “EVERYBODY GET OUT OF HERE, THERE IS A-“ She didn’t get the opportunity to finish her warning, even as the Daleks turned towards the noise, Helen grabbed her. She pulled her back around the corner and slammed her up against the wall, out of sight of the Daleks in the shadow of the building. Chenka gasped and winced as Helen held her there, hands on her collar and using her body weight against her. The med-tech dropped her medical kit and tried to push her off.

“Shut up!“ Helen growled, dreading the Daleks would come and check what the noise had been about.

“HELP!“ Chenka yelled and Helen pressed her hand over her mouth to silence her.

That was when it happened: The explosion was deafening and any Daleks that had turned their way suddenly had something far more pressing to deal with.

“NO!“ The med-tech struggled against Helen’s grip, wild with anger and distress.

“Traitor!“ Helen snarled.

“Murderer!“ Chenka bit back but stopped fighting. She seemed to accept she was too late and Helen felt regret, just for a moment, for seeing the resignation and desperation in the med-tech’s eyes. More lives lost. She loosened her hold on her as cries for help sounded from the explosion site. Human cries.

“At least let me try and help. The damage is done anyway…“ Chenka’s voice was bitter and the look in her eyes damning, full of accusation and hatred.

“Fine.“ Helen let go of her and she was secretly glad for the way out. She couldn’t hold her gaze. She gave her a shove into the direction of the street corner, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of control in their exchange. “Run along, Dr. Chenka, back to your masters.“

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,“ the med-tech retorted bitterly, she took a step back towards her but only to pick up her medical kit. Then without another word or a glance back, she hurried towards the destruction.

“Maybe not…“ Helen mumbled to herself once the med-tech was out of earshot. “But I’m gonna find out…“ She turned away and made her way down the street in the heavy rain, trying to block out the cries behind her. She couldn’t be seen there, she had to get away, but her conscience weighed her down with every step. She cursed Liv Chenka and the haunting look of accusation in her eyes. They were pretty eyes too, the colour of the ocean and just as deep, and they wouldn’t let her go. She felt as if she was being dragged to the bottom of that ocean, choking on rainwater and guilt, as she hurried away.

——

Everything hurt when Liv Chenka returned to her home. If you could call burned-out ruins of a house with plastic sheets for a roof a home, she thought bitterly. The rain had only gotten heavier throughout the night. Her muscles ached from the cold and from the gruelling work she had put herself through. For hours she had been pulling people from the rubble of the explosion, looking after those she could save and having to give up on even more. The Daleks had been on hand too, but they had been more concerned with assessing the damage to their operations and their soldiers, rather than looking after their slave workforce. It had taken a long time for help to arrive. Nixyce VII didn’t have much left in the way of emergency services, but she had kept going until they got there. Hours later, all Liv wanted to do was build a fire and curl up next to it, hoping the plastic sheeting would continue to ward off the heavy rain, so she could get a few hours of fitful sleep.

She wiped her face, ridding herself of a mixture of rain and tears, as she stepped into the shelter of the one room she had fixed up. Most of the rest of the house was uninhabitable but she had done alright with what used to be the living area. It was damp and cold but for the time being the makeshift roof was holding. Liv took a deep breath, dropped her medical kit on the floor and then stalled in her tracks. A figure was sitting on the worn down sofa in the darkness.

“You again,“ Liv’s voice was rough from the cold and from crying. She recognised the female resistance fighter immediately. She didn’t know her name and she didn’t care to, but she certainly wouldn’t forget her face any time soon.

“This is nice…“ the blonde commented sarcastically, looking around the room and Liv balled her hands to fists.

“What are you doing here?“ She demanded to know, her voice sharp. How dare she come into my home? How does she even know where I live? Liv’s mind was reeling. If that was a display of how well-informed the resistance were of her whereabouts, she was surprised they hadn’t sought her out to intimidate her before. Or better yet, kill me , she thought bitterly.

“I thought there would be some perks to working for the Daleks but this is just pathetic,“ the blonde carried on, ignoring her question.

“Can I help you with something?“ Liv was growing impatient. She was tired and exhausted and in absolutely no mood for games.

“Maybe,“ the blonde answered cryptically, fixing her eyes on her. Even in the darkness, Liv could make out the steely blue, recalling how her eyes had shone with anger and fierce fire during their previous encounter. Her gaze was piercing.

“Hate to break it to you, nearly beating me up on a street corner is not the best way of ensuring my cooperation,“ Liv shot back sarcastically and averted her eyes. She picked up her kit again and walked over to the table where she placed it with more care.

“Turns out we want you to help us,“ the blonde said after a moment of ominous silence.

“Fat chance of that!“ Liv laughed before even allowing her words to sink in. Quite the turnaround of events for one night.

“Yes, I don’t like it either but I was told you’re our best chance and since we’ve already met…“ She carried on and Liv cut in:

“Since we’ve struck up such a firm friendship?“ She snarled.

“The Hawk sent me with a proposition,“ the blonde carried on and Liv huffed, rolling her eyes, but still, she continued: “A chance to prove that you’re not the traitor everyone thinks you are. I advised against it and told them about tonight but they didn’t want to hear it.“ She seemed unable to resist the quip.

“Sounds like your opinion is held in high regard indeed,“ Liv mocked in return. “Could be that outstanding decision making you displayed earlier.“

“Nothing bad, nothing destructive, just… help us out with some information,“ this time, the messenger wasn’t distracted and cut to the chase.

“And why would I do that?“ Liv crossed her arms in front of her chest. She leaned against the table, waiting for an explanation. She had no desire whatsoever to work with the Soldiers of Last Resort in any way. Of course she wanted the Dalek occupation to end but at the moment she couldn’t see a way of accomplishing that and she couldn’t condone the methods of the resistance fighters. As a med-tech she was always on the side of life. Human life. She would do whatever it took to preserve that.

“Because you want the Daleks gone. Isn’t that right?“ The blonde pressed on and Liv rolled her eyes.

“Of course I do!“ She couldn’t believe she even had the nerve to question that. Public opinion of me really is low these days , Liv realised, but she had never given two hoots about what people thought of her. Just so long as she could face herself in the mirror - even if it was a broken one, hanging off the wall by one nail - she would be alright.

“Well then, what’s the problem?“ The resistance fighter asked.

“The problem is that I don’t trust you. You only make things worse, you’re irrational, ill-prepared, people die when-“ Liv started but was interrupted before she could launch into a full-scale tirade.

“Help us be better prepared. If you want to protect people, prevent something like earlier, then help us.“ It was a valid argument, Liv couldn’t deny that.

“How do I know that - if I did help you - what I tell you won’t end up hurting more innocent people?“ She had to ask regardless, contemplating the proposition. “And what if the Daleks find out? The only reason why we even have any semblance of medical supplies is that the Daleks know I will stay impartial so if suddenly-“

“Then don’t get caught,“ the blonde interrupted her.

“I’m a med-tech, not a spy,“ Liv shot back, full of apprehension.

“You were a soldier too, though, once, isn’t that right?“ The other woman got up from the sofa and stepped closer. “Space Service?“ She tilted her head, looking Liv up and down and the med-tech felt herself tensing up under her piercing gaze. She gripped the edge of the table behind her firmly to stop herself from fidgeting.

“I was a medical officer,“ she retorted.

“In uniform. That makes you a soldier. You know how to take orders, right? Just do what we tell you, and you won’t get caught.“ The blonde stepped into Liv’s personal space.

“You still haven’t told me why I should trust you,“ the med-tech countered curtly. She tried her best not to let her proximity rattle her but her heartbeat quickened regardless.

“Have I not got a trustworthy face?“ The blonde raised her eyebrows at her, almost playfully and Liv laughed bitterly at her vaguely flirty tone:

“You have a pretty face, doesn’t make you trustworthy. Do you really think I’m so easily distracted?“ She challenged and to her surprise, the other woman was more than willing to take the bait.

“If I wanted to distract you, I could,“ she stated, leaning a little closer, adjusting the collar on Liv’s coat that she had grabbed her by some hours ago.

“I don’t doubt it,“ Liv retorted and her voice was a little more shaky than she would have liked. She cursed herself. Her loneliness was getting to her. She could only hope the other woman took it as her playing along with her game, simply giving as good as she got, rather than an indication of her state of mind.

“Think about my offer?“ The blonde hummed, tilting her head.

“You haven’t even offered me anything in return,“ Liv pushed past her, away from the table, regaining her personal space and confidence.

“The prospect of having our planet back isn’t enough for you?“ The blonde looked around.

Liv rolled her eyes and gave a huff.

“What would you want in return?“ The resistance fighter carried on, leaning against the table as she flashed her a triumphant smile that was both teasing and seductive.

“Nothing. I want nothing from you,“ Liv snapped, more firmly than the situation demanded, unhappy with herself for letting the conversation get away from her.

“Shame,“ the blonde hummed victoriously. “I’ll be in touch. Have a think. I hope you don’t get too cold alone at night.“ She gave her a wink and made for the door, leaving Liv stunned.

When the door fell shut, Liv let go of the breath she had been holding and it came out as a sob. She was nearing the end of her tether. Exhausted she dropped onto the sofa and buried her face in her hands. She took a small measure of pride in how she had conducted herself, how confidently she’d acted, how sharp her responses had been, how well she had kept herself together. Now that she was by herself again there was no need for such pretence. She took a moment to collect herself and work through her emotions. The night had been too much but that was no different from every other day. Every day she thought she’d reached her limits and somehow, the next day always pushed her even further. Every day was a new test of her resolve. Liv was so very tired but she couldn’t allow herself to break. No yet. Not while there was still good to be done, people to save.

Slowly, she peeled herself out of the soaking coat and got up to drape it over a chair. She pulled on a thick jumper but it did very little to warm her. The cold had sunk into her very bones. There was no electricity, no heating. In order to get warm, fires had to be built the old-fashioned way. One of the first things Liv had done when the reality of life under Dalek occupation had set in was to gather all sorts of wooden furniture she could get her hands on. It was piled high in the far corner of the room. She had also managed to build a wood burner, which was far more efficient and safe than lighting a fire in the middle of the room. She dreaded to think how other people lived that were less practical with their ideas.

She crouched in front of the small oven and built a fire, lighting it with an old laser scalpel. It wasn’t suitable for its designed usage anymore but it still ran hot enough to ignite a fire. Liv thanked the Goddess for small mercies while dragging her mattress closer to the fire and draped her one blanket around herself. She tried her best to block out her discomfort, her hunger and the cold as she closed her eyes, settling down for the night.

She wondered how much longer they could carry on like this. Someone had to do something. She contemplated the words of the blonde resistance fighter, considered her offer, and how nice it would be to have someone warm her in the dead of night.

[mxpseudonym]

Just Good Business III

Pairing: Tommy x Reader

Reader Gender Expression: She/Her pronouns, “wife”

Summary: Reminding Tommy that he didn’t marry a fool was the greatest thing to happen to your bedroom.

Length: 1650 words (allegedly)

Warnings: 18+, sex, hints of rough sex, cursing, and as usual, underlying tones of forced/arranged marriage

A/N: There’s a forehead kiss and a sprinkling of Dom!Tommy in here for your patience! I am pretty sure I’m going to have this be a total of five parts. Part IV may not come right away because I’m in the middle of a WIP though.

Part I | Part II | Part IV

Reminding Tommy that he hadn't married a fool set several things in motion. First and foremost, you and Polly managed to successfully persuade your husband into conducting family business, not that it was hard. You knew London quite well, and one glance at the Eden Club's books had you asking Arthur if he could count to ten. Much of the above-board dealings in London were now your responsibility- properties, charities, and a social life that allowed you to see your friends more often.

Unfortunately, this meant regularly making the trip to Birmingham for the family meetings you'd been avoiding. It wasn't so much the meetings as it was Birmingham itself. One has no great hopes of Birmingham, as they say. However, there was a significant consolation that made it all worth it. 

Tommy Shelby, in action, turned you on. 

Actually, it was one of many things about Tommy that turned you on. With Tommy's guilt out of the way, you saw him around the house more. He came to bed, albeit late, nearly every night, and you got at least two breakfasts out of him a week. Along with finding that Tommy was much funnier than he let on when he wasn't talking about work, you also noticed that you had much in common. Tommy was as stubborn and prideful as you were. After six months, you still credited happenings between you with a desire to conduct good business- and business was excellent. Stubbornness, pride, your appetite for adventure, and Tommy's addiction to risk resulted in one shameless, exciting sex life.

You'd had partners before. Why deny yourself the world's physical pleasures? But while none could keep up with your desire to find and push boundaries, Tommy had mastered it. You thought you'd have to ease him into it, but it really just took you asking, "What are you going to do, Thomas? Spank me?" while bickering to get you on the same page. 

Not that Tommy wasn't enjoying himself as well. He'd met his match in his back talking, neck biting, hair pulling new wife he could hardly bring himself to say no to. What was coming to work late more often or your hands down his trousers while driving the Bentley in the grand scheme of things? 

So at the Birmingham family meetings, there was something about the way he was no-nonsense when he firmly told you where to sit and give updates when asked. If you were both being honest, while you loved taking orders from Tommy in the bedroom sometimes, you were on the fast track to giving them too. For now, you watched with thighs pressed together, and bottom lip pulled between teeth as he commanded the room. 

After Arthur wrapped up the meeting, you'd meant to mingle with your sister in law, but were quickly distracted. Ada didn't need to follow your gaze to know what was stopping you from listening to a word she said. 

"Good god, stop staring at my brother like that," Ada pleaded. You looked at her only long enough to say, 

"I almost wish I could say I was sorry." You had just caught Tommy's eye and smiled. "He can be quite good looking." 

"Ugh, okay, he's coming over here. I'm going to find Finn," Ada scoffed, then all but ran away only to have Tommy replace her.  

"Can I help you?" he asked, amusement evident in his voice. You chuckled and looked up at him.  

"You're already spoiling me, Mr. Shelby. What more could I ask for?" 

"I'm sure you have a list," Tommy said. You plucked his cigarette from between his fingers and took a pull.  

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Should I make you beg for it?" 

"I don't beg," you said, defiant as ever. Tommy rolled his eyes but moved closer. You could feel the warmth of his wool suit, and it matched the heat that was rising to your cheeks. 

"Then what do you call what you were doing the other day in my office?" Tommy asked. You thought for a moment then smirked. 

"Minding my manners. Please and thank you, Sir," you said, making him laugh. 

"Oi, stop flirting on come on," John yelled in partial disgust from where the family was gathering near the door. 

"Yeah, yeah, we're coming," you shooed him. You gave Tommy a knowing look as you grabbed your bag to join the group at the Garrison. 

"Gonna tell me not to get any ideas?" He asked. 

"Of course not. Get as many ideas as you can from here to that pub." You pointed a stern finger at him. 

"Yes, ma'am." 

Tommy had long given up trying to get a grasp on what to expect from you. 

"God only knows what's going on up there," he'd say while tapping your temple. 

But nothing surprised him more than your absolute willingness to have him any time, anywhere. 

"Skirts hike up for a reason, Thomas," You once told him in the stables. Tommy had yet to find a good enough argument against that, so here you were, shushing him through breathy laughs as he almost tumbled into you. 

It was a busy night at the Garrison, and it wasn't hard to leave your group to find the back room. Now you were pressed up against a shelf that wasn't nearly sturdy enough. Tommy's pants were unbuckled in a hasty moment, and your knickers were pulled aside, and you were both stifling your moans. 

"Oh god, fuck, Tommy, how do you always feel so good?" You asked, your grip already in his hair. He groaned at the question and thrust deeper.  

"You're the one always warm and wet for me, aren't you?" He squeezed the flesh of your bottom, making you moan. He quickly relocated you further into the dark and onto a crate. "Such a naughty little thing I've got on my hands."  

"Just the way you like it." You bit his ear as you played with fire. His thrusts got hard and deep, earning more high pitched moans from you until he pressed a hand over your mouth. He kept his grip firm, just how you liked and spoke in your ear. 

"I'm giving you what you asked for with all of these people just out there. Do you want them to hear you?" He leaned back to see you nod. Of course, you did. Tommy shook his head as he chuckled. By the sound of your yearning moan, he just knew you were pouting beneath his palm.

"I know love, but when we get home, you can be as loud as you want. You can let the maids hear you, what was it? Minding your manners for me. How's that sound?" You accepted his counteroffer with a nod and was rewarded with Tommy moving his hand. He relished in the smeared lipstick that was now on your chin before adjusting his grip on you. 

"Now, be good, and stay quiet for me." 

Tommy had to give you credit for carrying out your version of quiet. You forfeited your usual words of encouragement and panted hotly in his ears, a whimper or moan periodically coming forth.  

"Tom," You pleaded his name under your breath. His grip tightened around your waist, and you knew it would bruise, which only shoved you that much closer to the edge.  

"That's a good girl," he praised you, knowing what it did to you. In this case, it made your thighs tighten around him. "So good, you can tell me where you want it. Should I make you walk around with me all over your face?" 

He felt you shiver and swallow a moan that came out like a sob. His thumb reached between them, and it only took a few circles of your clit to send you over. 

"Oh fuck," You bucked against him as you came. Tommy's eyes squeezed close while you kissed his neck. It was truly incredible, you had to admit. You knew he was close and you had to decide. "In me."

"In you?" He repeated, not fully registering anything as he got closer. 

"I want you in me, Tom. Please," you said again. You kissed him, then pulled back to look in his eyes. "I'm begging you." 

You loved watching him come undone. Even in the low light, you took in his parted lips, creased brow, and flushed cheeks. He rested his forehead against yours for a moment before you pulled away and began putting yourselves back together.  

"I'm excited to go home if you keep your word," you said, leaning against the crate while Tommy pulled out a cigarette. 

You quietly smoked and thought about how strange this was. Before it was sprung on you, being married was something you hadn't expected anytime soon. Being married to someone you actually enjoyed was a fate every woman you knew hoped for but knew not to anticipate. And here you were with both a marriage and an enjoyable husband. 

"What's wrong?" Tommy asked, tossing away his cigarette. He brought his hand up to stroke your cheek, but you caught it and observed the silver band around his finger instead, running your thumb over the metal. 

"Do you like this?" Your eyes lifted to meet his. "The ring?" 

The ring, the marriage, what was the difference? He smirked then turned his hand, interlacing your fingers. 

"So much that I think there must have been a mix up of fortune. A better man should have it, maybe." He said, then kissed your forehead and started towards the door. "Come now, I think I'll let you walk around with me dripping out of you for at least a half-hour."

"I may just have to give you a proper thank you on the ride home then, Sir." 

Tommy expertly ignored questions about his whereabouts from his brothers and knowing looks from his sister, all while holding your hand. You smiled to yourself and thought, 

I have a crush on you, Tommy Shelby. 

--

Tommy Tag List: @soleil-dor; @amysteryspot​

JGB Series Tag List: @biba3434

[avengerscompound]

Small Gods: Lost Objects - 1

Lost Objects:  A Thor Fanfic

Lost Objects Masterlist | More Small Gods

Buy me a ☕  Character Pairing:  Thor x F!Reader

Rating:  E

Word Count:  1831

Warnings: Angst, PTSD, Grief (smut on series)

Synopsis: Thor has lost a lot in a very short period of time and he’s worried about losing himself too.  He goes to the one person who understands loss.

A/N: Reader is a minor god. 

Chapter 1

Thor was lost.

He had been for a while now, though it was hard to measure.  Partially because he had lived such a long, long time and most of it had gone by without much disrupting his enjoyment or general world view and then all at once it was just one thing after another and he couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath.

Perhaps it had begun to lose himself back when his father had first banished him to Midgard.  He had certainly felt lost for a while there, but usually, he looked back at that as the start of finding who he truly was.  Becoming worthy of Mjolnir and meeting Jane had been so significant, even when he had been forced to destroy the Bifrost and watched his brother fall to what he had thought was his death, Thor has still felt himself.

After that, it was one thing after another.  A barrage of pain and loss and he couldn’t keep up with it.  His mother, his brother, his relationship, his father, Mjolnir, his friends, his planet, his brother again, half of the universe, more of his friends.  Somewhere in all that loss and grief and guilt, he’d lost his direction and that core feeling of who he was, and he didn’t know what to do so he could stop feeling all this pain.

Then, in one single moment of clarity, he thought of you.

Midgard was not a world of gods.  Gods would visit, of course, Thor himself favored the small blue planet, but the line between science and magic was large, and rarely were gods born on the planet.

Yet sometimes the magic would seep through.  Maidardians liked to pray even when they didn’t know they were.  They would wish for certain things or give worship to them.  If enough did, then a god would be born.  They were minor deities and rarely held much power.  Yet they served their function and grew with the population's devotion.

None were prayed to quite as often as you.

You were not an easy person to track down.  Thor knew that he had to find you in the last place he looked or else it would be not at all.

So he started at the finish.  Going to the last conceivable place on the planet you might find a minor deity and announcing loudly that he would give up looking after trying the small cabin on the side of the hill.  Just as he put his hand on the door handle it swung open and he was greeted by you.

Along with the cable knit sweater that was three sizes too big, spotted with holes, and frayed at the hems, you wore a pair of jeans that were obviously someone’s favorite but based on the fit, that someone was not you.  You had a pair of mismatched socks on your feet, a single fingerless glove on your left hand, and a ring on every finger on your right, most of them the engagement variety.

You looked up at him and smiled.  “Thor,” you said warmly.  “Are you lost?”

He smiled, trying to put on the brave face he wore for everyone.  He was strong after all.  The strongest Avengers.  If he showed weakness, then he’d be someone who wasn’t Thor, the god of thunder.

“Yes,” he said.  “No.  That is… maybe.”

You stepped aside and he ducked his head under the door frame and entered your cottage.  It was impossibly large inside what had seemed like a tiny building.  It was cluttered in the sense that a hoarder who hadn’t left the house for fifty years except to bring more things in, is cluttered.  There were stacks of parcels that were addressed to other people, baskets full of socks that lacked a pair, toys, and pacifiers that looked sad and weathered, bowls sat on top of every flat surface full of jewelry in many shapes, sizes, and styles.

Thor wound his way through until he found a couch.  It had seen better days and he had to move a one-eyed teddy bear to take a seat.

“Can I get you a drink?  I have tea or coffee?  Not much else I’m afraid,” you offered.

“Coffee,” Thor said.  He wasn’t sure he really wanted it, but he was grateful for the opportunity to get his thoughts in order.

The sound of you puttering around in the kitchen was the only sound at all.  Thor thought of all the things he had lost and exactly why he had come here.  When you returned he still wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say.  You handed Thor a mug.  It was black with the silhouette of a penguin on it with the words ‘LINUX, open mind, open-source’ written on it.  You had a teacup, it was floral and had gold around the rim.

“The coffee is Kopi Luak,” you said as he took the mug from you.  “It was confiscated in New Zealand customs and ended up here.”

“Kopi Luak?”  Thor asked.

You shook your head and sat down beside him.  “The beans are passed through the stomach of an animal called a Civit before being harvested and roasted.  I can’t say I approve of the process, but I am limited to what passes through here,” you explained.  “Now, what is it you’ve lost?”

“My brother…”  Thor said, the word coming out quickly like it was determined to jump its place in his mental queue.

“Oh, Thor,” you said, putting your hand on his.  “I deal with lost things.  People?  They are above my jurisdiction.  The prayers for lost people are more for your realm than this one.”

Thor sagged and put his cup down.  He ran his hands through his hair the pain and frustration he felt almost overwhelming him.  “There’s been so much.  Too much.  My whole family.  My friends.  Asgard is gone.  I don’t know where to go or what to do.  I feel lost and I don’t know how to find my way back out.”

You took his hand.  His large palms dwarfed yours.  “Thor, I am a minor god,” you said.  “What you have been through is awful and if I could help I would, but I deal in socks and loose change.  Your identity is yours.  You still have it.  It’s here -“ you touched his forehead and moved your hand to his chest just above his heart.  “- and here.”

Tears pricked Thor’s eyes and he wiped them away in frustration. “I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”

“That I can understand too well,” you said.  You wrapped your arms around him and very gradually he let himself sag into your arms.  “You are very young,” you said quietly.  “It is a large burden to carry.  Can I give you some advice?  I can’t promise it will be good.”

“Please,” he said, his voice cracking with the desperation he felt.

“Grieve, Thor,” you said.  “It isn’t weak to love people.  It isn’t weak to feel pain at their loss.  Let yourself have your sorrow.  Feel it.  Let it out.  I am a god on a planet of mortals.  I have lost more than has ever come to me.  They were your parents and your brother.  Your friends.  Your home.  You loved them all and now they are gone.  That is terrible.  It’s terrible, Thor.  They didn’t deserve that and neither did you.  Grieve.  Feel sad.  Cry.  Wail.  Scream.  If you don’t experience your grief, you lose more of yourself than you can possibly know.”

“I am the strong one,” Thor said.  “I can’t show such weakness.”

“There is nothing weak about experiencing your emotions,” you said gently, your fingers tangling into his hair and massaging his scalp.  “Besides, who do you need to be strong for now.  It is just me here, everyone else is gone.”

He wrapped a large arm around your lap and he started to cry.  It started small and silent, his tears just running down his cheek as he pressed his face into your lap.  Soon he was crying in big wracking sobs.  He cried for his mother and his father.  He cried for Loki.  For Jane.  He cried for Heimdal and Fandral and Volstagg.  For Asgard, the home where he grew up and had so many happy memories.  He cried for the people he couldn’t save and for the ones he did that he let down when he didn’t have the strength to lead them.  He cried for dwarves on Nidavellir and for Mjolnir the weapon they had forged him and was like a friend in of itself.  He cried for Natasha and Tony.  And for the fact that one day he would lose all the rest too.

You held him, never once telling him to quiet.  You just let him cry in your arms, your fingers moving over his scalp and caressing his hair.

As the tears slowed and then stopped he felt a strange sense of relief.  He didn’t feel better, but lighter perhaps.  He sat up and wiped his eyes.  “Thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for,” you assured him.  “Come; there is something I have which might interest you.”

You got up and he followed after you.  You led him past more parcels and piles of letters.  They started to appear yellowed with age and as he wound through the room the artifacts got older too.  Barrels of spice and coins from countries that no longer existed.  Looms of silks that had been damaged by saltwater.  You stopped at a table.  It was remarkably bare except for a piece of velvet draped over a small pile in the middle.  You lifted the plush fabric and revealed a pile of broken metal and what was clearly the handle of Mjolnir.  He knew it better than he knew himself. The length that was too short due to Loki’s meddling.  The intricate scrollwork on the cap that held the leather strap he used to keep hold of it.  The dark wood with the silver swirling up its length.  It was his hammer, broken but his.

“Each time you prayed that it could be returned more of it came to me.  There is still some missing but if you want you can stay.  Pray for it at night and I think together we can repair it,” you explained.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”  Thor asked as he ran his hand over Mjolnir’s handle.

“It would be an honor,” you said, putting your hand on his shoulder.  “It’s been a long time since I’ve had company and it’s never been from someone of your status.”

He turned and looked at you, a frown forming on his face as you smiled up at him.  “I am not a king.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” you said.  “But if you believe it is, then you are one step closer to finding what you’ve lost and I guess I can help after all.”

// NEXT

[morganas-pendragons]

Light | Wrecker

This is #1 of at least half a dozen or more fics I am gifting my Twitter kids for Christmas! I wanted to give back this year, and so I decided to write some things for characters I haven’t really tried anything for yet. Regardless of that, I hope you enjoy! 

I played around with the clones ages for this considering we don’t know how old The Bad Batch is - like with Rex physically looking like he’s in his twenties but not actually being so. 

This reader is a mom to the clones and uses she/her pronouns - exactly like the type in my headcanons - and she happens to have a favorite... 

***

This was supposed to be a no strings attached type of job. The Kaminoans had recruited you, a simple human, to be a caretaker - of sorts - for the hundreds of babies that occupied their nurseries within the cloning facilities. 

  “There’s no point in forming attachments, Miss. Soon enough they’ll be handed a gun and told to go play war.” 

Yeah. Well. You intend to give these children as much love as you are physically able, and that all starts with the first gaze you set upon one of the clones in the back of the nursery with the mutation. 

He’s among 3 others who are specifically mutated for purposes you are not privy to know as a civilian. That doesn't matter. You pass through lines of cradles and approach the four in the back, peering over the side to gaze into the wide and vulnerable eyes of the largest baby. 

  “Hello, sweet boy.” You murmur, grinning as he coos happily at your voice and lifts his arms upward for you to sweep him upward and into your warm embrace. “You’re stunning. I bet you’re going to be such a big, strong boy!” 

The baby’s response - despite only being old enough to hold himself upright in your lap - is only to clap joyfully and pound his tiny hands against your legs. 

Big, strong boy. You’re gonna change the world. I just know it. 

Wrecker, Age Four 

His brothers named him Wrecker. It’s fitting, given how much larger he became then the other clones, but you’re too attached to the boy to leave Tipoca City at the time that the Kaminoans have asked you to.

  “Buir!” You’ve been moved to the rooms in which they house the clones who are toddlers, and the first thing you see upon waking from your nap is a child sprinting as fast as he’s able to launch himself into your lap. “You’re awake!” 

You beam and press a kiss to his forehead. “Hi ad,” You whisper, peering over his shoulder as he wraps his arms around your neck and buries his face in your shoulder. “Something you need to tell me? I gotta go take care of your brothers.” 

  “They gave me a name today!” He says, and your eyes widen as you gaze at his three brothers who stand before you. 

  “Only because he nearly broke Viper’s nose!” 

You raise an eyebrow and gently pry Wrecker away from your chest. He’s definitely larger then the other clones despite how young he is, but he’d never use his size and strength for violence. Never. Your son is soft, innocent. He’s good. 

  “Wrecker, what’s-” Your gaze snaps back to the clone with the darker hair who then replies to your query with Hunter. It’s a fitting name. “Hunter, talking about?” 

That’s the same day you learn that the clones who will eventually make up the spec-ops team known as The Bad Batch are fiercely protective of each other. They must have learned it from the person who protected them. 

Little to the knowledge of most people, you took these four clones - the special ones, the ones who got the stares, the ones who got picked on and bullied by their brothers - under your wing. You saved them. 

And in turn they save each other. 

You are so proud to be Wrecker’s mother in that moment as he hastily recants a story of how he almost broke Viper’s nose simply because he was bullying Crosshair. 

  “Ad,” You ruffle his hair and beam with pride as you wind your arms around his body. “I am so proud of you.” 

When Wrecker climbs into bed that night, the words he never hears from his trainers and superiors rings in his mind as he burrows under the thin blanket the Kaminoans have given him and his vode. 

  “I am so proud of you.” 

As he falls into sleep, he dreams of his mother. A home, a family, and a mother standing in the kitchen unit - who gives him real food, real food he likes and he’s allowed to eat that tastes salty and sweet and sour and he’s so excited to have it - who treats her son as if he’s the whole world. The whole galaxy. 

Wrecker, Age 10 

The day he returns from a training mission with the rest of Clone Force 99 is the same day you have your first real battle with panic. According to what Crosshair and Tech tell you upon return, Wrecker was injured in a way that leaves him partially blind and with significant scarring. 

You’re terrified. He and the rest of the Batch have already had a difficult time integrating themselves in with their brothers to the point where they’ve taken to calling the non-mutated clones regs and now only associate with each other. You don’t particularly care much about that anymore. As long as they’re looking out for each other. 

When Wrecker is released from the medbay, you search the cloning facility for your son until you find him in the quietest room - the nursery - with his back against the wall and his chin resting on his knees. His face is scarred. His eye is cybernetic. 

Maker, you love him. 

  “Wrecker,” Hunter had warned you about approaching him - claiming he’d become hard of hearing with the explosion that had injured him - and had brought up a fantastic idea with Tech’s help that you were going to initiate as soon as he was ready. “Ad.”

Your son lifts his eyes to meet yours. 

  “Buir,” He replies softly, always so careful to not disturb the babies who lay in their cradles around him. “Did you need something?” 

You tilt your head and sit in front of him, parting your legs and resting your elbows against your knees. Wrecker watches you intently as you do so. He’s always been perceptive - not as much as Hunter, but enough - and with the lack of his sight, he’s having to rely more on his limited senses. 

  “Do you see this?” You take your fingers, press them all together, and rest them against the bottom of your chin before moving your hand forward. “This is sign language. It means thank you. It’ll be an easier way to talk to your vode when you can’t hear them so well. Is that something you’d be willing to learn?” 

He nodded and frowned. “I’m gonna miss blowing stuff up.” 

You reach outward, brush what remains of his hair away from his eyes, and repeat the sign for thank you and you’re welcome. He watches your hands mimic the movements before repeating them for you to see. Wrecker does them perfectly. 

  “Don’t worry.” You murmur. “You’re gonna get to blow stuff up again. I promise.” 

Your only response is his smile. It’s more than enough. 

Wrecker, Age 12  (Set during S7) 

'Сause you are loved You are loved more than you know I hereby pledge all of my days To prove it so

After a while, the Kaminoans have had their uses for you. Your services are no longer required and so you are sent back to the boring home world that you have barely stepped foot on since being sent to Kamino to be the caretaker to infant clones. 

Your experience with the formed Grand Army of the Republic is what gets you into the military, has you trained, and eventually what lands you on Anaxes. 

Though your heart is far too young to realize The unimaginable light you hold inside

  “Ma’am,” Cody’s voice rings out from behind you as you stand in the hangar bay, arms crossed over your chest with your eyes on the horizon as if waiting for the arrival of a ship. “I’ve cleaned your blasters. Just how you like them.” 

You turn to acknowledge the Marshal Commander and smile softly at him. While you spent much of your time with The Bad Batch on Kamino, the greater majority of the Commander Batch and the younger clones have considered you one of them for quite some time. 

  “Thank you Kote.” You murmur. He nods his acknowledgement and before he turns back to Kenobi, lays a hand on your shoulder and says something about the arrival of Clone Force 99 for a mission they’re assigned to do with Rex. “What?” 

The less then graceful landing of the ship known as the Havoc Marauder signals their arrival. You don’t dare move. It’s been too long since you’ve seen them, seen him, and you want to value the moment while you can. 

I'll give you everything I have I'll teach you everything I know

They had never really known the lengths you went to in order to protect them - to protect him - and give him the life, the childhood, you felt he deserved. The Bad Batch had still had it rough, but your gentle nature upon meeting them had impacted them significantly. 

  “The Calvary has arrived!” 

The first thing you see is the personalized armor. You are not the slightest bit surprised they threw in all their effort into ensuring their armor - out of the entire army - was the most notorious. Not to mention that as someone who watched them all grow up, you can see each of their personalities within the way they’ve painted it. 

Then you see him. It’s unmistakeable that it’s Wrecker considering how much taller and broader he is then the rest of The Bad Batch, but it’s not him that notices your presence first. 

It’s Tech. Ever the perceptive, constantly absorbing as much information as able, constantly recording everything, who sees you standing in the hangar and nudges his brother in the midst of speaking to Rex and Cody to point you out. 

  “Mom?” Cody asks skeptically, followed by a gasped “Buir? That’s the buir I never got to meet?!” 

Kix is laughing hysterically at the way Jesse guffaws upon realizing that you are the infamous mother to the clones, but only these four and specifically Wrecker, but the way your heart swells when Wrecker notices you standing there far outweighs the reactions of all the other vode around you. 

Instead of a greeting, Wrecker does one thing. He sees you, beams like the sun lives deep within him, and very promptly tosses you upward to sit on his shoulders. He looms over all his brothers. That doesn’t stop him. 

Oh... oh, that boy has not and will never change. 

With every heart beat I have left

I will defend your every breath

Bonus: 

  “I get to blow it up? The whole stinking thing?” Wrecker asks, to which he then looks to you with wide eyes. “You made a promise!” 

You smirk and pat Anakin’s shoulder as you pass him. “Oh, I know I did.” You reply. “Anakin is keeping up on my promise for me.” When Wrecker begins to take the detonator, you turn to the Jedi and meet his gaze. I’ve been promising him this since he was old enough to know how to blow things up.” You coax him into fully handing over the detonator to your son. “Go on. Make his year.” 

Admiral Trench’s cruiser explodes in a cloud of sparks behind The Havoc Marauder. 

[agathaharknes]

yennaia + gamer au

This was supposed to be three sentences and definitely not crack but I just had to... sksjsjssksjjs.

Yennaia prompt: Gamer AU.

LINK TO ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN IN THE REPLIES.

Word count: 1.8k+ Pairing: Yennaia. Rating: T.

Tissaia really had no idea why she was doing this. Perhaps to appease Rita. Perhaps because her addiction to nicotine had worsened over the course of one year of a bloody Continent-wide pandemic and she was loath to use her credit card every time she needed a new pack of cigarettes. Perhaps she was going through a midlife crisis to cope with the fact that being the Chancellor of Aretuza College was already stressful enough without half the generations there trying to fool her subordinates into thinking cardboard replicas or even mannequins counted as attendance or simply because the rest of the Board of Governors (Stregobor) couldn't differentiate between what could be said through an email and what required her to clean her entire house so the background of her call was pristine.

Her controller vibrated in her hands, (Why, for the love of the Gods, couldn't that setting be turned off?) her knuckles turning white from gripping it so strongly. "Oh, for fu- heaven's sake." There, she had been ambushed. Again. A funny and wholly unexpected thing happened, though, one of the users turned on her companions, offing the lot of them with clean headshots the brunette definitely couldn't pull off in the span of twenty seconds.

"Uhh..." What does one say when your virtual saviour just betrayed her entire party on a whim and was being cursed at obnoxiously loudly and vulgarly for it?

Yennefer ignored Sabrina calling her names that absolutely applied to her and her hormonal reaction to a lovely blue-eyed MILF the likes of which she had only seen in her dreams. "No thanks needed, love. I was getting tired of seeing you frown like someone had keyed your car every time you got killed. A pretty thing like you should only have cause to smile." Oh, Gods, now she sounded like a creepy old man that lived in his mum's basement. Great. Good job. Her Social Studies major was an absolute hit. Fuck her life. Fuck Oxenfurt College. And fuck Sabrina's witch-like cackling while she was at it. "Name’s Yennefer." She choked out miserably.

Tissaia scowled at her laptop. Hackers. Amazing. This was the best day of her new normal life. "Mind telling me how you broke through the most expensive antivirus in the Continent, dear? Because now I really need a refund." Now she also needed to contact Aretuza’s IT team on a Saturday night, because she was not about to mess any further with these blasphemous machines, thank you very much.

Wait, what? "That wasn't me... You left your camera on." The woman legitimately squealed at that, her oversized jumper sliding down her left shoulder and exposing just a glimpse of her collarbone as she pinned up her hair into a bun with... were those pens fashioned as swords? Oh, bugger, this was so not the time to get turned on! "Are you alright?" Mercifully Sabrina, Renfri and Phillipa were already accosting someone else, else she was sure the brunette would've completely lost it, more than she already was doing, anyways. "Hello?" No answer.

Tissaia was fishing for her boots when she started ranting, “Oh, don’t you worry! I’m fine! Just dandy! This is exactly how I wanted my life to go.” She motioned with her hand to the space around her. “I wished for nothing more than dealing with complete morons from nine to six, five days a week, whilst trying to make sure my sanity doesn't desert me.” Biting her lower lip for a moment she began checking that the ends of the laces were the same length when she pulled them up. “Running right after to my local grocery store to buy more instant meals that are probably going to give me cancer in five years if the bullshit articles my mother keeps sending me-”

Yennefer had told herself she wasn’t going to allow this wasn’t going to get any creepier than her misguided comment but she still had a gift code for that nice liquor store which conveniently had retailers popping up every six blocks everywhere for the last few months, especially in Thanned isle, only Gods knew why. “This bloody succubus of a twat that is my best friend has been forcing me to constantly use this cursed game by changing the password for my email and then Aretuza’s server and then-” Bingo. One text to Philippa and they had her IP address, with a mortified Triss already calling Jaskier since she was the only one that had managed to get a decent scholarship at that posh college.

This was her future wife who was about to jump from a bridge from the looks of her and they just had to do humanity a great service by saving her from herself and from sobriety.

“Can you believe that tosser? I am a lesbian! I spent my teenage years clad in flannel until my girlfriends staged an intervention kind of lesbian! Yes, Vilgefortz, I will sue you for harassment in the workplace and I will blacklist you. No, Vilgefortz, I don’t want to break quarantine to go on a date with you and I definitely do not want your disgusting cologne anywhere near my-” Tissaia’s head shot up, her doorbell was ringing and she pinched the bridge of her nose, reaching for a new, disposable, mask.

“You stay right there.” She threatened the girl, who had the most beautiful violet… Perhaps she really ought to let Coral get her a therapist. It rang again. “Gods-damn-it.” She thought.

Her plan was going marvellously. She would only have to sleep with a knife under her pillow for a few weeks for blackmailing Sabrina (Who honestly hadn’t the slightest talent to pass off plagiarism as a sudden stroke of genius in her final project without her aid.) into going along with this. The blonde was lighting the candles around the monitor without trying to burn her hair off and had given away her best bottle of cheap but still good wine for the cause. Thanks to Renfri and her frankly psychotic, owl obsessed, girlfriend she already knew what she would be replacing her trauma-ridden last name with! Splendid!

The brunette shut the door on Jaskier’s face after taking the brown paper bag from his hands, spraying the bottle of vodka inside it with so much disinfectant that it dripped down onto her carpet. Taking off her gloves and disposing of them, she grabbed a knife from the counter and ignoring the annoying blue light that came from the kitchen table, “Oh, shit. You’re soulmates. I’ll tell the rest of the girls we’re all fucked.” Tissaia cut off the upper part of the glass in one smooth hit, like Calanthe had taught her when the then teacher could still be considered fun by her groups of friends.

“Shut up, tiddybug!” She heard Yennefer sing-song.

Feeling like being crass the blue-eyed woman took a rather large swing directly from the bottle. Sitting back down, she sighed. Yennefer took a dignified sip from her wine; she could do balanced when her significant other to-be needed to let loose. “Did you like the bottle? It has good reviews from… wait a minute… apparently several alcoholics who don’t know what a budget is.”

Tissaia’s face paled. “I thought you weren’t a hacker.” The woman muttered. She didn’t fancy getting kidnapped and… No, no, no. Fucking Rita. What was the cost of moving, again? If she slept four hours less a day and split her cleaning time in two she could probably trade this house for Stregobor's in-

“I am not!” Yennefer cried. Bloody hell. “You just mentioned that you worked at Aretuza and-” Sabrina had probably started a group call and Phillipa was indeed hacking into her computer to save her arse. The Redanian was currently writing a script for her to follow. “Your username in the game is your surname. My friends and I tried to get into that school a few years back and I do remember that the Chancellor is a woman and that her last name is de Vries.” Her username wasn’t her last name, it was actually something that suggested she was an Ice Queen of the highest order. Queen Elsa from the movie Frozen would be intimidated kind of Ice Queen.

“Everyone is aware the highest-ranking members of the faculty live in chalets near the castle, pardon, the building.” True. According to Triss, that was a part of their contract that if unfulfilled prohibited them from working there ever again. To Yennefer that seemed borderline cruel, forcing them to be available at all hours like circus animals for juniors that didn’t deserve their spots.

“My best friend is a student there and she knows which one is your home because she wants to eventually be a teacher.” Partially true. Until that day came, Triss, like any rational individual, avoided the Chapter’s Village like the plague lingered inside, and wouldn’t be caught dead there unless she had to stop Sabrina from doing something stupid because of the anarchist phase she was going through. Jaskier was an acquaintance of hers of sorts because Triss had tutored his boyfriend Geralt in Biology and being daddy’s boy, he knew which one was Tissaia’s house because he had almost gotten expelled like fifteen times.

“I honestly just wanted to do something nice for you, you sounded like you needed it and… I know quarantine hasn’t been lifted once in Temeria since it all started.” Philippa wrote then that she would probably make for a decent actor without flashing her breasts to the audience every five minutes. She pursed her lips and replied in the mock post-it note to fuck off.

“I… I… Thank you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed- I’m sorry, darling.” Her pale cheeks flushed at the term of endearment that slipped her tongue and Tissaia bowed down her head, red-painted nails caressing the glass bottle almost reverently. “Say, why don’t you tell me what your email address is and I send you my mobile via chat? The explosions in the background aren’t that, uhm, comforting to listen to when I’d much rather be hearing your voice.” Should she have looked up she would have seen the smile that threatened to split Yennefer’s face. “Only if you want to, of course! I- what am I even saying? Never mi-”

“No! Wait!” She placated. Sabrina squeezed her shoulder as she went to retrieve her phone charger, offering her a genuine smile. “I’d love to.”

“Okay.” Said Tissaia, an awed sound leaving her throat when blue finally meet with lilac. Gods, she was drop-dead gorgeous. Rita could have whichever bottle, all the liquor she wanted from the school’s cellar for indirectly enabling this.

Was one week a proper enough courting period to then buy the engagement ring? Or should she just have Philippa get her the best, costliest one from that jewellery eshop they all liked through some minor fraud that would take her like half an hour at most, today? “Good.” Yennefer de Vries had such a nice ring to it.

[mcfanely]

A Powerful Treasure

Archive of our Own

A new enemy has surfaced in Ninjago, but before his plans have even properly come to light, before much is even significantly known about the man; the ninja are attacked in the Monastery. They all get out unscathed, more or less, but when they can’t find Cole...

7488 words

There were times when Cole woke up in the Monastery and forgot where he was. It seemed to just be a fact of life, especially when that life included being a ninja and most of the time going from place to place in a mad rush to prevent the whole of Ninjago from being destroyed. So waking up to brief confusion as a soft orange haze of light managed to bleed through his closed eyelids was nothing new to the Earth ninja. He must have been in the bunk room on the Bounty, and unfortunate shifting in his sleep along with a perfectly angled ship had meant that a direct ray of sunlight was destined to go into his eyes as soon as he opened them. 

No matter where he moved his head, nothing seemed to help it other than an arm thrown haphazardly over his face to prevent the light from coming in. 

Then, over the course of a few seconds, it occurred suddenly that he didn't even remember boarding the Bounty the day before, nor he didn't remember going to sleep either. The process of getting ready for bed, it was the same every night. A few hours of relaxation and watching TV, maybe some games, late night training if Cole felt like it and his body didn’t ache, then he'd climb into bed and wake up to his alarm the next day to get ready for morning practice. 

In fact, Cole didn't even recall having dinner that night. He remembered that Zane had started cooking, because everyone had set up shop in the dining room because they were researching… Something. 

Something important, something that was a pressing matter. Something that Cole had no reason to have forgotten, but that wasn't the only thing he was blanking on. 

A good portion of the previous day, a sheer blank slate in his mind. 

Cole shot up sharply in bed, the quilt falling off where it had been tucked in around him and off the edge of the bed. Though the white cotton sheet getting dirtied on the floor wasn't the biggest of his problems in that instance. 

It was what he was wearing, and the fact that he didn't own anything like it. They were simple clothes, a white t-shirt and trousers that seemed to be made from the same material, all the way down to the threading used to hold it all together. It looked like spools of sheer gold to the naked eye, so thin and sewn so carefully that each pass looked far too delicate to even touch. 

He was barefoot, legs now crossed beneath himself as he sat up, staring down at his new get-up with a building sense of confusion and honestly, unease. 

That wasn't even half of it. The next thing that Cole's sleep filled eyes were drawn to were the multiple golden necklaces adorned around his neck. The clothing in itself wasn't the best, the low cut shirt was nothing he'd ever choose to wear, but jewellery? And so much of it? Necklaces of varying sizes, with varying styles. Some with more of a chunkier design, interlaced with embedded gems, some that shone blue and deep purples, even some crystals that were clear and perfectly cut were set in their own golden casts, resting heavy around his neck and cold against his skin.

Cole couldn't help but grimace slightly at the sight, and partially at the situation he'd woken up to. His mind was still groggy with sleep, as it was every morning before he'd properly woken up, but sometimes a large enough shock was enough to force his mind into gear. That's exactly what he got when he looked up, the drowsy side of his brain telling him all he was going to see was his bedroom and nothing more. 

Nothing more. 

That wasn't what he was met with, and the sharp mental slingshot he experienced when what his eyes met didn't correlate with what he'd thought he was going to see made his mouth drop open. 

"Holy crap." Cole whispered as his eyes graced over the room. 

Not his bedroom, not the Bounty. 

He was alert and on edge in mere seconds, shuffling to the edge of a king sized four-poster that was definitely not his own, his eyes flicking between every inch of the room he found himself in. Cole had no idea where he was. 

The room was huge by bedroom standards, it was wide, circular in shape as if it had been crafted to fit into a tower, or the outer edges of a palace, because that's the first thing the Earth Master thought as he took in his surroundings. 

Everything was varying between shades of near opalescent whites and solid and sheer golds. There were bookcases full of old tomes lining one wall, their pages cracked and wrinkled with time, use, and most likely exposure to the sunlight leaking into the room. The walls stood tall, almost twice the height than those in a regular house, the white finish patterned with ornate golden curves and flurries, some crafted and guided to form the shape of flowers, some budding and some fully open with their petals spread wide; some formed leaves and stems, climbing up higher and higher in an ornate mural to nature. Each stroke seemed to be hand painted to perfection, not a single aspect out of place. The other walls had the same treatment, towering high and covered beautifully with art. 

There were chairs dotted around the place, carpets and cushions set out in an organised fashion over the wooden boarded floor, a table with a small stack of what seemed to be notebooks and an assortment of pens and pencils beside them. 

Then, just to his left, there was the most elaborate window Cole had ever seen in his life. It stretched floor to ceiling in an arched pattern, twin golden frames curving up and meeting together just before the ceiling began, and a single pane of fitted glass had been oh so carefully slotted in between. An incredible and astounding feat of craftsmanship, only emboldened by the curtains draped down the sides, long enough to collect and bunch on the floor in what nearly seemed like a treasonous act. The golden fabric was almost opaque, doing no significant job of keeping the sunlight out. They were there for futilities sake; serving no purpose other than to look nice in the room and that was it. 

Cole stepped just a bit closer to the window, his bare feet tapping lightly on the wooden boards as he neared the looking glass which currently only displayed the world outside as a layer of blue with multiple different blankets of clouds dotted over the skyscape. 

That was all he could see before he was halted in his step half-way between the bed and one possible way outside, by a force that held his arms back and almost tripped him in his step. 

The situation he was in changed in that single instant, from a clear sense of uncertainty and wariness of waking up in a completely unknown environment; to immediately being on edge and alert for any possible dangers that could be shrouded in the room that seemed to be built for royalty. 

All Cole could do was stare back towards his bed, specifically at the floor, and wonder how he hadn't noticed it before. Maybe it was the shock of the room, or overall being thrown into the new situation, but it had now become something much more threatening. 

Lengths of chains were stretched out over the floor, thick links that dragged and scratched with each movement Cole made. Stretching from seemingly some hidden point under the bed over to where he was standing, only then lifting off the floor and reaching up to where they ended, welded neatly onto a set of ornate cuffs that sat tightly around his wrist. How had he not noticed them, how had he not realised--

Chained… I'm chained down and the first thing I notice is the damn room?

Cole found himself staring down at the metal, moving his arms and legs and watching as the four individual lengths of chains shifted with each movement, as if those objects themselves were driving home the fact that they were in fact locked around his wrists and ankles in a present and heavy weight. The chains themselves were bulky, but the cuffs were a whole other thing. They stretched half way up his forearms and Cole couldn't find the seam where the clicked shut, nor a slot for a key to open them up. 

They seemed to be one single piece of metal all the way around, they shifted and turned when he moved but they didn't do much else. Mere millimeters away from cutting off circulation to his extremities, and for a way to keep him captive in that one room they had no business being as elegant as they were. Reflecting the sunlight of what occurred to Cole as an ending day, the bright yellows that had cascaded through the window faded further and further into the depths of orange that indicated an oncoming sunset, it gave the cuffs a glow to them. Warm and soft, a sheer oxymoron. The surface of them was etched with light grooves, interspersed with an inset obsidian black stone. 

Cole was around five minutes into pulling on the chains, the clang of metal hitting the ground and then being pulled taut to within an inch of its life resounded around the previously quiet room; when he realised the black rock was Vengestone. The cuffs dug into the skin at his wrists, leaving deep grooves and reddened skin in its wake, and whilst his strength was great even without his elemental abilities, even if he had his powers something told him that these chains weren't going to give so easily. 

"Come on, come on! Break! Please break, please--!" 

It was when blood was drawn that Cole decided to stop, a red line manoeuvring its way down the palm of his hand and his index finger to drip silently onto the floor. 

Cole followed suit, sitting down against the side of the bed and just allowing his head to droop forwards. It wasn't in defeat, he wouldn't allow it to be in defeat, he wasn't giving up already. When the pain in his arms subsided he'd just try again, and again afterwards. 

Again until he either broke the chains, or pulled the deadbolt out from where it was embedded in the concrete wall underneath the bed. 

He just had to wait for his muscles to stop aching before he started up his onslaught on the chains again. The brief respite from activity gave him some time to try and resolve the gaps he had in his memory. 

There was a large blank section, starting the day before, as he'd just sat down at the dining table with a brand new and far too large book on Ninjagian Lore and Power, entirely reluctant to open it up even though he did enjoy reading. There was a vast difference between reading for pleasure and mandatory reading, and Cole knew which one he preferred. 

Then there was nothing, an empty space in his memories that must have been extensive since he was sure it had been at least a day since he'd been walking the halls of the Monastery. Though the more Cole tried to discern what fitted into the gap, what had occurred that had ended with him waking up in an unknown room who-even-knew-where, chained down, the more the answer eluded him. 

Cole grit his teeth, closed his eyes, and tried to find something. Anything. He'd sat down with a book, gone to open it-- nothing. 

He'd sat down with a book and opened it, then nothing. 

Always nothing. 

"Why don't I remember..?" Cole mumbled quietly to himself, his hands fisted tightly at his sides. "Why is everything blank, why can't I think?" He wasn't talking to anyone in particular, but he needed to vent his frustration some way. 

All he needed was one thing, one memory! Anything that would just give him something to work with. 

That section remained carefully blank. 

The room he was in had no reason to look so nice, the mattress at his back shouldn't have felt so soft. It was a cage, no matter what it looked like. The chains around his wrists didn't have enough slack to let him reach the window so they definitely didn't reach the door on the opposite side, it was a gilded cage fit for royalty. Far too lavish. Nauseating almost. 

There wasn't anywhere in Ninjago like it, at least no place that Cole could think of off the top of his head. 

All the golds and light pouring in from a giant window provided a rolling and extensive view of the fading sky. Then, looking at himself, he realised with startling clarity that he fitted the theme too with what he was wearing. Whites and golds, even the vengestone chains followed suit. 

He knew he wasn't getting them off any time soon, but he could definitely make himself feel better. Starting with the golden cords around his neck, lacing his fingers around them and yanking until either the clasps broke or the small chains splintered. They ended up thrown at the opposite wall, landing in a broken and heaped mess, flecks of metal and inlaid gems clanking and bouncing out over the floor as the ruined jewellery landed. Cole then moved on to the bangles around his wrists, twisting and distorting the thin metal until they gave in to strain and broke. Again, discarded in their own wreaked pile. 

He was about to move onto the shirt, hands poised to start tearing at the seams and tearing the fabric when the click of a lock quickly drew his attention to the door of the room. 

Cole was on his feet in an instant, his arms drawn up and in front of himself in a defensive position. As the door swung open he stood his ground and readied himself for whoever or whatever was about to step inside. 

Whether years of fighting against less than human entities in an effort to prevent the destruction of Ninjago, a man who looked just a little bit older than himself walking in hadn't been what Cole had anticipated; but an enemy was an enemy. 

He was the one in chains, that man was not. There was an all too present imbalance but that didn't mean that Cole was at a disadvantage. All he had to do was wait for him to step closer, when they were close enough and if there was enough slack on the chains then all it would take was a well timed and solid strike to the side of the head and the man would go down. Clearly, the man had a key to the door, so he'd probably also have something for the cuffs too. 

Though with the distance, all Cole could do was stand his ground, stare down his captor and demand some answers. 

Only to be completely thrown off by the first words that come out of the guy's mouth. 

"Ah, my treasure wakes." 

The man proceeded to advance further into the room, closer to where Cole was standing and besides his better judgement, besides the plan he was going to enact just a few seconds ago, the ninja took a few steps back to maintain the distance between the two of them. The words, the almost honey-sweet lilt to them, the way the man's voice made the hair on the back of his neck and his arms prickle. He was on edge in an instant, uneasy, and the look held in the man's eyes as they just seemed to trace over his body was anything but calming. If he was at all bothered by the broken jewellery, he wasn’t letting on. 

His eyes were a deep yellow, and not just the cornea, but the entire thing. Almost like a buffed tigers eye gemstone had been dropped into each of his sockets. The man was dressed regally too, flowing robes in vibrant shades of purple and interspersed with golden trim, shoulder length jet black hair clashing sharply with the pale pallor of his skin. There's a crown on his head too, and Cole realises that within the intricate pattern of gold, a yellow veined piece of vengestone was suspended in the centre. It almost looked to be floating. 

Still, he was advancing, and Cole's legs coming into contact with the bed frame forced himself to halt his own retreat. He liked to think he was tall, but as the man stopped just in front of him, there was enough of a height difference that it forced the Earth Master to cast his gaze upwards. 

"I've been waiting for you to wake up, you were asleep for a lot longer than I'd anticipated but alas, here we are." The man gave a small smile, and Cole's expression blanched as he felt the man's fingers wrap lightly around his left wrist. It was more than easy to bat them away, the motion accompanied by the clank of swinging chains. That rejection didn't seem to perturb the man, who just continued with what he was doing, this time lifting one hand and threading it into the strands of Cole's hair. 

One warning, that was enough, but the instant he felt the grip tighten in his hair was the point at which the man was solidly shoved away. There was a light stumble, and Cole's brows were furrowed in indignation, his own hands up in between the two of them to act as a barrier. It hadn't taken much strength to get the guy to move away but the hand yanking at his hair as it was dislodged left a low hum of pain in his temple. 

"Don't touch me." He ground out, his fists clenched tightly. He wasn't going to stand there and be handled by a stranger as if he was just something to be admired. That was what he saw in the man's eyes, what he read in his expression even just after a few seconds. Initially, he'd hoped that the assumption was mistaken, but the actions and words? 

"I get that I'm a prisoner, but that doesn't mean I'm taking your crap, you touch me again and I'll break your face." Cole spat. 

Only to be met with a light and jovial laugh. "Ah, as stoic as your element. I knew there was a reason I picked you." the man spoke, something new and entirely unreadable floating in his eyes, "You're not a prisoner, Cole."

Cole didn't allow himself to bristle at the fact that the man knew his name, most people did nowadays, so he just lifted his wrists and the chains moved with them, his expression shifting carefully to neutral, "Sure, because I definitely don't feel like one."

The man nodded, as if he didn't get the joke. Or maybe he did, he just wasn't going to humour him with the sarcasm he'd tried to use. There was a brief moment when the room fell into silence, only for the man to break it quickly by crouching down and picking two loose loops of chain in his hands, rolling the golden links over in his palm for a brief second as he looked over the glinting metal. "Exactly." 

Then he tightened his grip and pulled in one fluid motion. Cole's arms were yanked forwards first, the chains dragging the cuffs with them only caused him to stumble forwards and forcibly bridge the gap he'd just made between the two of them. His hands were pulled down to his side by the unyielding chains grasped in the man's hold. 

It was embarrassing, but any other feeling was quickly overtaken by the situation as a whole. He hadn't even noticed what the man had been doing before it was too late, he hadn't even spared a second glance when he'd stooped to lift the chains, Cole hadn't even thought twice about what he'd planned. He'd just watched it all play out like an idiot. 

He twisted his wrists in the shackles, pulling upwards against the opposing strength but whoever that guy was, there was no contention of who was stronger in that situation. He simply held the chains in one hand by his side, preventing Cole from lifting his arms to any significant degree. 

They were chest to chest, the man's face crooning down to his own with an all too soft expression, "You're my guest. You're safe here." 

The unnerving calm of the man's manner was opposed by the seething vitriol that the Earth Ninja managed to muster as he glared back. Their faces were mere inches apart, solid yellow eyes boring down into his own. 

Again, like before, he felt the man's free hand lift into his hair, looping a longer strand around one of his fingers. There wasn't time to take in the discomfort that came with the light touch as Cole shook his head to dislodge the hold. 

This time, it didn't do much good. The hand was there again, fingers carding through like before. 

He wanted nothing more than to deliver on the previous promise of breaking the guys face, if it meant just getting him to let go and go away, but with his hands pinned down and no way to manoeuvre out the situation at hand, he forced out a heavy breath and decided on a much more logical approach. If all options are exhausted, go from a different angle. 

If he couldn't break the man's hold, he'd talk. Get more information, try and fill the gap in his memory. Stall for time and find an opening. Something.

"I'm not a guest, but if I'm not a prisoner, then what am I?" Cole questioned, forcing himself to keep his face neutral as he felt the strangers hand tug lightly on the back of his hair. "Why am I here?" 

The man gave a chuckle, his hand blessedly dropping away from his hair only to get the ghost of fingers caressing lightly over his cheek. Then when he felt the full warm touch cupping the side of his face, Cole couldn't keep the repulsed look at bay as he tilted his head as far as he could in the other direction. 

There was a sudden flash of irritation, but that quickly quashed under a careful sigh as if he'd never been phased to begin with. Though it was preceded by a glowing glare in his eyes, the different scars that Cole could now see cleaved through the man's hair, leaving present but healed grooves. Then there was the grin, the all too white smile and the sharpened canines that he could see now that they were far too close quarters, "That's not of any importance, you're here now and that's all that matters."

In that instant, unannounced, memories came flooding back. 

The rumours that he and his brothers had heard about a travelling sorcerer. A man, passing from village to village who generally stayed on the rural outskirts of Ninjago. Whether it was to stay under the radar or something else, any and all pertinent news tended to find its way to them at one point or another. 

An unknown man who would charm the locals and spend a few days at each new location, for then to simply raze the area to the ground and move on. 

He'd disappear for a few days and then crop up again, seemingly as bedraggled as he had been that very first time the man had shown his face. No trace of the kindness the previous villages had expressed to him, no gifts of fresh clothes to replace the worn ones that were practically falling from his body. He would just stay, wreak havoc, and then move on. With each new village, the end result seemed to get worse and worse. It started with harvests being culled, vast fields of rice rotting and dead. Then, homes had been targeted. Old, dried wooden beams weakened with rot and mould that worked its way from the inside out until the houses collapsed. 

Every time the ninja had heard of this mystery man being in a certain area, all they constantly arrived to find where displaced lives, ruined livelihoods. But always too late. They all helped in any way they could, clean-up crew, basic first aid, collected as much information they could, then like every other time before that they just returned back to the monastery with nothing more than a feeling of uselessness. 

It had taken their collective force around a week to figure out who this wandering destroyer was, and Sensei Wu had been fairly insightful even if what he had provided had been a bedtime story he'd been told of in his youth. It was exactly the man they'd been searching for. 

A powerful sorcerer by the name of Acacius had used to travel the land during the time of the First Spinjitzu Master. A wanderer. He'd go from place to place, areas of power as Sensei Wu had dubbed them, and drain it all dry. Then move on to the next place. He'd done it for decades, terrorising people and elemental masters alike, draining life away from lands, destroying crops, removing life forces. Apparently when a story was told by the man who had split apart a continent and created a realm, there was no moral or warning, just information and a true tale. Either way, it was also a pretty dark bedtime story. 

The story ended as most did, with the heroes triumphing over evil. Though it wasn't anything large or garish, it was resolved quietly. 

The First Spinjitzu Master had finally caught up with this incredibly powerful sorcerer, this creature twisted on stolen power and a near incandescent drive for more, and had locked him away. Where? That hadn't been important to the story. Apparently vagueness ran in the family. 

Cole remembered listening to the story before picking up a book on ancient lore, flipping straight to the back and to the index of the tome, tracing his finger carefully down the letters until he found Acacius. 

Before he'd even focused properly on the list, the front gates of the Monastery had ruptured inwards, followed by a sheer cascade of energy that had ricocheted through the halls and blown all their written notes clean off the dining table and onto the floor. 

They'd all grabbed their weapons and headed to the courtyard of the Monastery in seconds, facing a man-- Acacius, no longer dressed in rags, no longer lying to appeal to the good nature of caring people. He was standing tall, back straight, a wicked grin on his lips which only seemed to widen further when both Lloyd and Wu had stepped out to face this ancient enemy.

Cole remembered that they'd fought. They'd fought and fallen, been batted into the stone walls encasing their home and watched as different sections fell down and crumbled around their brothers, who proceeded to get up and join the fray again with no second thought to injuries. No one could seem to get close enough to the sorcerer, charging at Acacius with unrelenting synchronisation though all the while he continued to laugh about how it had been so easy to find them. 

Creation and Energy, both in one place? It's almost easy pickings, I could sense you from miles away!

The voice was deep, it vibrated through Cole's core with the power the words alone exuded. It was clear how the man had been able to hold his ground, however briefly, against the First Spinjitzu Master. 

It promptly became a fight to protect Lloyd and Sensei Wu and the power they both possessed. Only it didn't end like that. 

Cole was the only one who'd managed to get some form of a significant hit in. He'd shuck the ground with a light stamp of his foot, and the fissure that had split the inlaid stone of the courtyard was enough to cause a mere second of distraction for the sorcerer. 

He'd charged forwards, and had kept going even as Acacius had locked eyes with his own. His legs were already moving and there was already so much momentum, all Cole needed to do was commit and swing his hammer. The attack wasn't his best, and with a last minute shift from the sorcerer, it left him swinging that bit too wide. Initially, he'd thought it would miss in its entirety, yet the weighted metal had scarcely managed to clip the man's jaw enough to throw him off balance. 

In the following seconds, he had felt a hand pressed to his forehead, and the world had flickered to black. 

Then he'd woken up. 

Cole couldn't help but stumble at the sudden flood of information, the gap in his memory all too quickly blazed with missing images and memories, enough that the abrupt movement had caught both him and his captor- Acacius, off guard. 

It took one step back and his legs clipped the edge of the bed frame, the obstacle only caused him to fall backwards onto the mattress. Though he recovered quickly and used that short moment to put more space in between him and the sorcerer, pulling his wrists and yanking the chains until all the slack that he had was now on his side of the bed and couldn't be used by the man as a immobilisation tactic again. 

Acacius, who hadn't shifted from where he'd been standing beforehand, had a large grin plastered over his face. His gaze seemed almost soft, almost caring even; it only served to make Cole shudder. 

"I visited your home to gain more power." He explains after a short moment of quiet, his gaze resolutely fixed on where Cole was standing, Acacius almost seemed annoyed at the bed between them, "So many elemental masters in one place, it was like a buffet." He took a deep breath in, his eyes closing. It was almost like he was being chided for the circumstances that had led the man to their home. Not that there had been any feasible way to find out in such a short space of time that Lloyd and Sensei Wu would be at risk.

Why he'd decided to change tact and take him instead, Cole wasn't sure. If there was power, as much as he hated that he even thought it, Lloyd was the logical pick. Though between any one of his family and himself, if he knew that they'd end up locked and chained in the room he was in now, staring back at a powerful sorcerer with an unknown plan and newfound freedom after being imprisoned; Cole was glad it was him in that situation. 

"But then I saw you," Acacius continued, "And my plans changed just a little. I've always liked you Earth Masters, you see." He kept his gaze on his captive as he took a short step to the side, one that Cole mirrored in the opposite direction. The sorcerer seemed amused by the reaction. "You have a lot of power, sure, nothing comparable to Creation or Energy but you're definitely up there. You can direct energy, just like I can. I'm sure you can make nature flourish with just a small nudge," He says, it's more of a question than a statement, and Cole almost answers before he caught himself and closed his mouth again. "My power decreased vastly over my… Many decades being imprisoned, but you. You can help me." 

At that, the short step the man had taken previously turned into a stride as he circled around the bed. Cole had both feet on top of the mattress in a second, intent on cutting over to the other side but a hand clasped around his wrist halted any significant plan of getting away. He should have moved faster, but what the sorcerer was planning, it had him stumped. His power didn't redirect energy, it made the earth shake. Sure, maybe plants grew around him, grass seemed to be greener in his presence, but that wasn't energy, that was just his element. That short moment of being lost in thought was a moment too much. 

He was dragged from the bed with a yelp, his back shoved sharply against the wall and the grip on his wrist tightened to a near bruising hold that made him grit his teeth against the pain. 

Acacius was hemming him in, more so than before. With the wall at his back there wasn't anywhere he could retreat to, and with the bed to his left and his captor looming too close to his right he was well and truly backed into a corner.

"Think about it," He hummed in a whispered tone, "With your power, you can move energy around more freely than I can. Maybe only to plant life and through the earth currently, but given time, you can learn to transfer it to me." Cole simply stared, was he really giving away what he was planning? That he just wanted more power, and a constant supply of it? That Cole could help with it and that was why he'd taken him? Why his powers were locked down with Vengestone instead of being drained away at the hands of this power hungry ancient being? 

Trapped where he was, listening to Acacius liking the sound of his own voice, Cole scoffed loudly in the face of the man who was standing far too close, far too in his personal space. It was uncomfortable and he wasn't a fan of being pulled around by his wrist and chains as if that was what it took to have a civilised conversation. There was no being civil about anything, so he wasn't going to be polite in return. There wasn't much that was going to stop him from throwing a wrench into his plans, being spoken down to was more than enough to develop a solid dislike of a person, though before he could say anything along the lines of no, that's never going to happen. You have about two days before my brothers find me and you, and then less than a week until you're imprisoned again. 

He had faith, and the speed of which they reacted to a situation increased tenfold when someone they cared about was in danger. 

"You're so beautiful." 

Cole froze in place, his eyes widening just a fraction at what he'd just heard. It was said with a quiet sigh, the warm puff of air just beside his face. He grimaced, pushing himself back into the wall to just try in vain to get further away from the man. The situation had taken a turn, a very dangerous turn. 

"... What?" He questioned, his voice carefully measured. It gave nothing away, though he was sure his eyes were being windows to his soul. He could feel the tenseness in his body, the rush of adrenaline through his muscles. 

Cole felt the grip that was latched around his wrist move down to his hand. His mind was moving a mile a minute, trying to figure out what he'd missed about his current circumstances. Usually prisoners were taken in order to give said person no other choice but to carry out the demands of their captor, or outright refuse and await rescue, whatever the repercussions may be. He had been taken prisoner because of his supposed complimentary power to the sorcerer, but he could clearly see that wasn't the whole story. Was this supposed affection the driving force behind everything, or was it all part of some larger plan in place? 

There must have been so much more to it, there had to be. 

Or maybe there wasn't. Maybe his powers and how they could apparently be used was the added bonus in this situation.

Cole took in a sharp breath, and solidified his gaze, "I don't care what you think, or what you want from having me here, but I'm not helping you with anything." He spat out. 

Acacius lent forward, his voice close enough to Cole's ear that he shuddered, leaning away as much as he could. He forced himself to remain calm, ignoring the man's advances in favour of staring at the door that was just left hanging open as if tempting something he couldn’t have. Outside, there seemed to be a corridor that went off in either direction, but even if he could get out of the sorcerer's hold, he still wouldn't be able to leave. Not with the chains. 

He really was counting on his brothers this time, placing faith in the fact that they would find out where he was, that they'd come barging in, breaking down the door and freeing him. He needed them to come in at that very moment. The silent hope that they'd walk in any second depleted as the seconds ticked by. 

"The great thing is, Cole, I don't need you to be okay with helping me increase my power." Acacius pulled back just a little, his solid eyes dancing slowly over Cole's face, as if looking for something, or waiting. 

"When we're married," He started, and Cole felt a lead weight drop down in his stomach, but before he could say anything against it, laugh, roll his eyes, lash out, anything at all, Acacius continued on as if what he was saying was completely normal. "I'll get to keep you all to myself. Your power will be mine to wield, and mine alone.” His voice was so carefully measured, “I don't need you to agree to my plans, I just need to keep you here for a few more days. What did you say, two days ? And your friends will be here? You'd better hope you're correct, my sweet." A thumb was stroked carefully over his cheek. 

Cole saw red in an instant, and closed in against a wall or not, mind still reeling and trying to take in and just compute what he'd just heard; he could work on instinct when everything else failed. Instinct brought a hand up, balled tightly into a fist and whilst the impact that was made between his knuckles and his captors nose wasn't anything to shout about, the clank of the chains being permeated by a shout of pain and what was hopefully the crack of cartilage was music to Cole's ears. 

The action was over before he'd even realised what he'd done, but the aftereffects were a sight. Acacius collected himself off the floor from where he'd fallen backwards, hands held resolutely over his face to presumably stem the blood flow and conceal a broken nose. 

Cole wasn't smiling though, his heart was racing, his teeth were clenched as he stepped closer to his captor. 

"My power isn't yours to use!" 

The Earth Master dropped down into a fighting stance, his gaze set on the sorcerer as he got up. Yet, when he stood up straight and moved his hand away from his face there wasn't the pouring line of red blood dripping from his nostrils that Cole had anticipated. It was black, flowing like ink from a quill, dripping off his chin and staining the floorboards below. Surprisingly, there was no anger in the man's eyes, just an unusual admiration and to Cole's disgust, a fondness that was now clearly at the surface. Teeth were bared in a small grin, the black blood staining his teeth when it found its way into his mouth. 

He'd fought worse enemies before, and he'd inevitably do it again in the future. This man… This thing, he would just be another name on an ever growing list. Cole tilted his head until his neck popped lightly, then clenched his knuckles until those joints followed suit. He was at a disadvantage, but he wasn't going to lose this fight. 

His anger just spiked sharply with every second they stared at each other. "You can't make me do anything. I'm not marrying anyone, I'm not helping you with your energy addiction and I'm not just going to sit back and do nothing!" 

Acacius seemed to be taking all the time in the world righting himself, starting with tugging on his waistcoat to flatten the crumples back down, to pulling a pure white handkerchief out of a hidden pocket to wipe at the black ooze still falling from his nose. It didn't do much, only serving to smear what was there, but he didn't seem too bothered by it, nor the blackened stains that had fallen onto his clothes. No, his attention was stoically set on Cole. 

He didn't take a step forward this time, almost as if he was treating his prisoner like a frightened animal, which he wasn't. Though he was fairly predisposed to fight back in an instant should he feel at all threatened. Cole hadn't moved out of his fighting stance, and wasn't going to any time soon. That was clear. 

"You must be pretty exhausted, with all this thinking and worrying." came the man's voice, softly spoken over the space that had formed between them. 

All that was gained in return was a raised eyebrow and a scowl.

Acacius spread his hands carefully, and Cole could have sworn that the man’s eyes seemed to flicker with an all too sudden yellow glow. 

There was a minute step closer, the sole of the sorcerer's shoes clicking against the wood as he said, "You don't want to fight me, perhaps some sleep will do you some good."

The effect was instant, the words… They seemed to resonate so deeply, cascade around the room in a reverberating wave until they met Cole's ears, crashing down and enveloping his mind in a sudden and palpable haze. 

His arms dropped from their defencive stand, hanging loosely down at his sides. His eyes followed suit, eyelids growing heavy in mere seconds, the drag of sleep so instant and all encompassing that he'd never felt such sheer levels of exhaustion in his life. 

It felt wrong. 

"What-- what did you do..?" Cole questioned, his words slurred and drawn out, his tongue heavy in his mouth. The question was quiet, whispered, and broken by a large yawn that came up from nowhere. 

He could feel his body shutting down, any drive to fight the man that was stepping closer had all but faded out of existence. He didn't want to fight, he could even keep his eyes open. All he wanted was to sleep. 

Cole's legs were the first to buckle, but he didn't hit the ground. Acacius was by his side in an instant, one arm weaved carefully around his waist to support his weight and keep him more or less upright. The other hand came to rest on the back of his head, guiding it until his cheek was resting against his captors shoulder as his eyes fluttered, his mind trying to force himself to stay awake. That small part, struggling to keep cognitive thought running through his sleep laden mind. 

"I just helped you, my sweet." Was the reply, the voice flowing past the fog in his head as if it wasn't even there, trying to keep wakefulness at bay. Acacius's voice was clear, perfectly so. The clearest thing in the whole room. "I can't have you worried, you see? Constantly alert for any opportunity to escape, ruining my plans, you don't want that, do you?" 

Cole finds himself tuning in to the sickly sweet voice, his head shaking in a silent no against the man's shoulder, before he caught himself, his mind snapping back to reality, but a second was enough to drive himself to speak around the forced slumber. 

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" there was a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite there. The hand on his head moved lightly, fingers carding back and forth through his hair in a rhythmic fashion. Cole wanted nothing more than to reach up, drag the touch away and beat the guy until he was a blackened grease smear on the floor, but he couldn't make his body move. 

He could just feel it relax more and more, the tenseness of his muscles falling away as his body collapsed, resting fully against the sorcerers chest. 

"Sleep, my treasure.” The voice almost echoed around his head, the words blanketing, all-encompassing. “We will be wed before the week is done. You're safe here, this is the best place you could be." 

His eyes slipped closed, body slumping entirely in the man's hold, breathing slowed in the throes of the forced rest.

"Sleep."

Cole's mind finally gave in. 

-

[mobius-prime]

162. Sonic the Hedgehog #94

Okay, okay. I know. I know how many of you just put your heads down on the table in complete exasperation. I get it. But just stick with it. Bear with me here. I had the same reaction when I first read through the comics - the reaction of why the hell does a Sonic the Hedgehog comic have a back to school episode?! - but in the end, it does tie further into previous points I've made about Sonic's character as well as the state of the war. That said, Spaz, what the hell happened to Mina up there? Why does she look… like that? Sonic and Tails look totally normal but Mina looks like she was dragged straight out of some badly drawn early 90s anime that only aired once in Japan and was never even officially subbed because it was so low quality. I know you're a better artist than that, Spaz, we've seen your work before! Come on!

New Order

Writer: Karl Bollers Pencils: FRY Colors: Frank Gagliardo

So right away, we've jumped forward a month and a half from last issue. That's one hell of a time skip, especially for a comic that doesn't usually do big time skips.

Of course, Sonic is not at all happy about being confined to Knothole. We’re talking about a character whose entire personality has always revolved around being able to run free and fight back against anything threatening his friends, who's now stuck hanging out in his room all day. Worse still, the entire time he's been in Knothole, he hasn't seen Sally once, having been prevented from seeing her by a combination of his house arrest and her royal duties. He still finds himself thinking about her, however, and she in turn has been thinking about him.

I honestly really like the use of Art Mawhinney's art to indicate that she's looking at a photo from when they were younger, given that his cartoony style contrasts with the more anime-like style that the comic has been going for lately. Also, while it's great that Sally has her family back at last, it's still concerning that they've been monopolizing 100% of her time lately so she hasn't had any time to see her old friends, even though they live in the same village. Sonic has also found his mind preoccupied with thoughts of the Overlanders he failed to save, who are still stuck inside Robotropolis for the time being, with shadow-bots enforcing nighttime curfews on them and keeping a close eye on their activities. Colin, exploring the palace, finds his brother working on something in the lab, and in the interest of keeping his dealings secret Eggman overenthusiastically invites him, along with Agnes and Hope, to spend some time together as a family. Hope, to her credit, seems very suspicious of Eggman, officially making her the smartest Overlander here despite being only fourteen or so (at least, the wiki has extrapolated that age from the dates of other significant events like the Great War and the length of the first war against Robotnik, though I'd personally put her at more like twelve). Eggman, to deflect from questions concerning how much he's changed over the years, asks Colin to describe why he and the other Overlanders were apparently just hangin' out in space for the past ten years.

Really, this entire interaction seems like something that should have happened right after the Overlanders' first entrance into the city, not six whole weeks afterwards, but eh, whatever. Anyway, Sonic finds himself unable to sleep properly the night before starting school, and gets irritated when Tails teases him about Sally being in looooove with him and wanting to get married in the future. The next morning, they find themselves roughly awakened by an earthquake, and immediately spring into action, falling right back into their routine as heroes.

At least Sonic is still able to keep his heroic actions up even when confined to the village, eh? In Robotropolis, Eggman visits Snively in his prison cell, and Snively begs not to be roboticized for being caught out after dark. Eggman agrees, in return for his loyalty of course, as well as zipping his lips about Eggman's true intentions for the Overlanders. He even decides to give Snively a little more incentive, in the form of a promise of revenge against his father Colin for not recognizing his brilliance all those years ago…

After breakfast, Sonic and Tails meet up with Bunnie and Rotor. Amy, if you'll recall, is still back in Mercia with her cousin Rob, and interestingly, Antoine isn't part of the crowd heading to school at all, suggesting that by now he's past high school age, making him the oldest Freedom Fighter. Sonic is concerned and disappointed that Sally is nowhere in sight, and reluctantly parts from Tails to go to his own class, since Tails is with the younger kids. However, back in Robotropolis, Hope has found herself becoming too suspicious of Eggman to ignore her concerns any longer…

Uh oh, Hope, you may have seen something you weren't supposed to see… better get back to safety before Eggman finds out about that and silences you. Tails is heading toward his class with the other kids when he realizes he's lost his bookbag somewhere, and in retracing his steps to find it, he suddenly finds himself confronted by the ghostly image of Athair, who tells him that he's needed as the Chosen One immediately and teleports him away, to the bafflement of a watching turtle in the hallway. Sonic gets to his class, and Mina is happy to see him there, thrilled that they're sitting near each other. Bunnie arrives as well, but when Sonic tries to introduce her to Mina she only gives her a cold "howdy," her mood suddenly turning quite chilly. And then, their teacher arrived, and class begins…

So this is what I was talking about before. We've already been over in previous issues how when it comes down to it, Sonic and the other Freedom Fighters are child soldiers who have never known a day of peace in their life. At least back when Robotnik was thought to be defeated permanently and the king was trying to get the kingdom back to a state of relative normality, Sonic was able to partially come to terms with the idea and find happiness in being able to settle down with his family. But now, the kingdom is back in a state of active war, and here he is, the spearhead of the resistance, forced to stay out of the conflict and learn physics and algebra in a standard high school setting. It's obvious that it's getting to him in a big way. We sort of end up stuck in this strange position where on the one hand, yeah, children and teenagers shouldn't have to be the ones on the front lines of a war, and should get a chance to just act their age and have a childhood, but on the other hand, Sonic the legitimate war hero is now stuck in Knothole with his hands tied, twiddling his thumbs while everyone else, even the others his age and younger (remember, he's the only Freedom Fighter on house arrest), are free to go and do whatever they like. It doesn't even seem like anyone has had the idea to try and get the Sword of Acorns back from Eggman, even though that's what started this whole mess. Honestly, I just feel bad for him. Once class has finally ended - after one hour of agonizing boredom for Sonic - he and Bunnie approach Nate, asking why they haven't seen Sally at the school yet. They're shocked to hear that she is instead receiving private lessons at the castle, only further isolating her from everyone else…

The Best Laid Plans…

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Rom Lim Colors: Frank Gagliardo

Unlike the previous story, there's no time skip at all between last issue and this one - I'm just going to presume, honestly, that the disappearance of the Floating Island is an event that happened during that time skip, and the main story has only just caught up to it, because otherwise the timeline makes no sense. Nic is surprised to find Nack returning to her without Knuckles in tow, but is quite pleased when he tells her they got their money and a bonus to boot, and can wash their hands of the whole affair. As they leave, they remember that they left Charmy and Saffron further into the woods, but decide not to worry about it, as in the end, what can a couple of little bees do? Charmy and Saffron, meanwhile, begin to realize that they've been left alone, and immediately spring into action, hoping they can reach Knuckles before anything bad happens. Unfortunately, that's not really in the cards, as Knuckles has already been hooked up to the Chaos Syphon, with another echidna linked in on the opposite side, presumably to act as a conduit for the energy being sucked from Knuckles so it doesn't just explode into the air. At least, that's what I'm assuming, because it doesn't really specify, but this echidna does become important later on, so I figured I should mention him. Gala-Na again offers a weak non-apology for what she's about to do, before ordering the syphon switched on.

So, this is torture. This is just straight up an actual torture scene. Gala-Na is knowingly, willingly, torturing a sixteen year old because she's afraid of the power he wields despite him not even asking to be born with it in the first place. If anything, Locke should be the one facing punishment for what he's put Knuckles through, but of course, we know Penders would never let that happen. Knuckles starts screaming uncontrollably, and to the shock of the echidna onlookers, begins trying to resist the power of the syphon, making Gala-Na worry he might actually break free. The other echidna on the receiving end of the energy also begins to feel the pain, yelling that he thinks he can't handle any more, and while the others try to encourage him to hang in there, Charmy and Saffron happen upon the awful scene. As Knuckles finds himself actually reduced to begging for it to stop through gritted teeth and Gala-Na gives another "apology" to her "young friend" (can you guys tell how much I hate her? Is it too obvious?), Charmy and Saffron dive in towards the operators, hoping they can stop the syphon before Knuckles gets hurt too much more. Of course, this is Penders writing, so he can't resist throwing in another weird, stilted 90s feminist comment somewhere.

Earth to Penders: women don't actually talk like that. Also, oh yeah, remember that whole "flight mode" thing where apparently bees can turn small or big as they please? I almost forgot about that, but I guess that's what's supposed to be happening here. With the device shut off, Knuckles breaks free of the syphon, but only seems more powerful than ever, with his irises replaced by pure white eyes, and as everyone watches he disappears in a flash of energy. Gala-Na, aghast that her plans seem to have only made things worse (GEE, YOU THINK, GALA-NA?), tries to contact the weasels once again before they get out of range, but they witnessed the entire thing from the air and refuse to get involved any more than they already have, leaving a horrified Gala-Na to stand over the now-unconscious echidna on the receiving end of the energy, wondering what to do next…

[tomasorban]

RECOVERING THE ANCIENT LIGHT AND AMRITA OF THE VEDAS - PART I

In February of 2016, eight months before Thea’s (Patrizia Norelli-Bachelet’s) passing, I began receiving a download of information regarding the role the Vesica Piscis and its 432,000ʺ measure plays in the recovery of the Sanatana Dharma or Eternal and Universal Truth of India’s ancient seers. In that download the Vesica Piscis revealed itself to be the long-forgotten geometric basis of the measure of the Hindu Yugas (Ages) and soon after revealed itself as the long-forgotten geometric basis of the mythology of Vishnu’s Avatars. The 432,000ʺ measure of the arc of the Radius and Vesica Piscis within the circle is demonstrated to the right. This arc of the Radius and Vesica Piscis measures out precisely 120° or one-third of the 360° circle. As Thea discussed in The Gnostic Circle , 120° = 120° x 60′ x 60ʺ = 432,000ʺ  (seconds of degrees of arc). 

Though Thea clearly laid out this math of the Circle and its connection to the measure of the Yugas to the radius of the Sun and to the measure of the Rig Veda, she did not connect these sacred measures to the form and measure of the Vesica Piscis. The download I began receiving in February of 2016 began with a dream-vision that presented the importance of seeing the Vesica Piscis as the geometric key of the interconnected 432,000-base measures that Thea had discussed in her writings. The radius of a circle can of course be of any length but it is of profound significance that the 432,000 measure of the Sun’s radius in miles is equivalent to the 432,000 measure of the Vesica Piscis in seconds of degrees of arc. This equivalence demonstrates ancient knowledge of the eternal triadic law of the Radius, Vesica Piscis and Circle, where in the eternal pair of the Radius and Vesica Piscis establishes the perfect division of the Circle (and hence of the Earth’s 360° Year) into three. When I first told Thea about what I was seeing about the Vesica Piscis, she responded:  

Lori, please write a full piece on this for the [Aeon Centre of Cosmology] website and relate it to the Core of the Chamber wherein the Vesica is central to its most profound revelations. You could quote [The Tenth Day of Victory] on this. Bring it all together. The Vesica is ancient and sacred. Show how with the descent of Supermind these ancient truths are ‘all made new’.  – Thea, 27 February 2016

Forty years before this download began, in March of 1976 the Vesica Piscis had already revealed itself to Thea as an important key of Supramental Gnosis. She saw that this geometric form was the occult geometric basis of the central Globe and Pedestal positioned at the core or heart of the Mother’s (12-pillared) Temple, equivalent to the 12-month Vedic Year (Vedic Sacrifice/Yajna) of the ancient Rishis, now known throughout the world as the Tropical Zodiac or Solar Year. With this geometric key Thea was given a greatly expanded understanding of Sri Aurobindo’s Supramental Yoga and Descent as recorded in Thea’s books

The Tenth Day of Victory, Volume Two, Book One and The New Way, Volumes 1&2

. Knowing this I was compelled to explore and bring forward whatever else this ancient and sacred form wanted to illuminate. By September of 2016, what had begun in February as an article had grown into a 180-page book presenting what I had learned thus far about the Vesica Piscis as the geometric basis of the Indian Yugas (Ages) and the mythology of Vishnu’s Avatars who are well-known throughout Indian lore to be responsible for protecting and reestablishing Eternal and Universal Law or Truth (Sanatana Dharma) from Age to Age [Yuge Yuge] on Earth. These discoveries were important and mind-altering in their own right, but as I would soon come to learn, I had only just scratched the surface of seeing the role the Vesica Piscis played in Vishnu’s re-establishment of Ancient and Eternal Law in our current Age of Aquarius.

On 2 October 2016, seven days before Thea’s passing, while hiking along the snake-like curves of a dry river bed near my house, I was given the additional knowledge that the Seven Rivers of the Rig Veda are symbols of Seven Vesica Piscis which flow through the circle of the Zodiac. The power of this unexpected knowledge was like nothing I had ever experienced in my life. It was like a lightning bolt that instantly and irrevocably altered my entire consciousness. It incinerated certain veils that had been in place and instantly integrated, revealed and connected things in my individual field and in the global field that I had never understood or directly experienced as connected. I was born or release out of a certain sheath of ignorance that I had been living in my entire life, giving me a higher and clearer perspective and experience of my existence and raison d’etre. The moment I was given this occult key of the Rig Veda, it not only instantly began unveiling the veiled symbolism of the Vedic Rishis along with the veiled symbolism other ancient mythologies, it also instantly unveiled and woke up a dormant core of my consciousness.

I could see that Thea’s seeing of the Vesica Piscis as a key of the Mother’s Temple and of the Supramental Descent was not only vitally important in and of itself, but it was also a precursor of what the Vesica Piscis was meant to further unlock and unveil in our world. With this geometric key (a veritable Easter Egg hidden within the gnosis of Ancient Seers), one can begin to see through the occult symbolic language of Vedic Lore which is the womb of many myths and symbols across the world. In other words, the Vesica Piscis is a key of dismantling modern humanity’s ignorance of its own ancient symbols, myths, languages and lore. It is simultaneously a key of the harmony and unity consciousness that is to be established in the Aquarian Age.

It is an infinite marvel to me that the contraction of Thea’s passing served to bear forth the Vesica Piscis as a crucial key of recovering Vedic Gnosis in our world 90 years into the Age of Aquarius [2]. I am still a bit stunned to be the person this key was unveiled to, giving me the unexpected responsibility to bring it forward in the world. Along with the inherent wonder of seeing that my life’s very strange adventure was all secretly moving towards the recovery of a geometric key of ancient gnosis and with it the mathematical basis of mythology, also has come the inherent daunting challenge of introducing this ancient key of hidden sacred knowledge to a world of people whose entire field of consciousness is built up upon ignorance and distortion of the sacred knowledge of the ancients.

I wrote Geometric Keys of Vedic Wisdom as the knowledge was descending. I wrote it giving as much context as I could so that the recovery of this ancient key and the circumstances of how it unfolded would be communicated and recorded for whoever in the present or future will be able to understand and utilize this Vedic key born forth through the collective supramental yoga of Sri Aurobindo, the Mother and Thea. One never knows how many days one has left on planet Earth, so did my best to lay it all out and let the proverbial cat out of the bag regardless of who would or would not follow along with this supramental plot. I like to think that I have many years left to better unpack and convey the importance of the recovery and release of the Vesica Piscis as a key of Ancient Gnosis the year and week of Thea’s passing, but if not, the book should give sincere students of supramental yoga and students of ancient wisdom, sacred geometry and sacred science all the information they need to begin to appreciate and utilize this key to unlock all that it is intended to unlock, illuminate all that it is intended to illuminate and harmonize all that it is intended to harmonize in our consciousness and in our world.

At present I must admit that I feel a bit overwhelmed by the responsibility given to me because I feel the immensity of all that needs to be unpacked regarding this particular key or seed of gnosis. I often remind myself to give up the silly idea that I am the Doer and trust that all is unfolding as it needs to despite all human foibles. I know that just as the seed of any life on Earth unfolds itself in Time according to its own preset indwelling plans, so will this compact seed of gnosis unpack its full nature and its full treasure in the course of Time. When I am surrendered to what has happened and to how the Supramental consciousness-force has already organized its own progressive victories in the world, and will continue to do so, I feel blissfully content and infinitely grateful for what was basically dropped into my lap, or rather into my head, the year and week of Thea’s passing and for all that it has already illuminated, even if some portion of what it has illuminated is what at present appears to be a veritable Mission Impossible of getting others to see, understand, appreciate and utilize this key. This knowledge has been lost for so long that most people have zero context to understand what I am presenting. The current reality is that few people are open to deconstructing and defragmenting their own partial understanding of the spiritual or religious symbols, mythologies, words and ideas that they have inherited or adopted from people who have long lost the golden thread of the Sacred or Divine Truth of the Ancient Seers.

Thea worked hard for over four decades to reestablish the long-forgotten Zodiacal context or basis of the Rig Veda and of the Yugas, which most concerned with India’s ancient heritage and traditions continue to ignore. I am now given the even-further-out-on-the-same-limb task of reestablishing the Geometric basis of the Zodiac, Rig Veda and Yugas. I have attempted to accomplish this task in my book by demonstrating that the Vesica Piscis simultaneously functions as building block (i.e. foundation stone) of the Zodiac, of the Yugas and of the Rig Veda. As I have discussed in the first pages of my book (and in the image above), it is not a random coincidence that the measure of the Rig Veda – said to be 432,000 syllables – is equivalent to the 432,000ʺ measure of the arc of the Vesica Piscis within the Circle. In truth,

the 432,000-syllable measure of the Rig Veda functions as the key to its contents

. It is an absolutely brilliant method of hiding a decryption key, reflecting the gnosis of the macrocosm being equivalent to the microcosm. The macrocosm in this case is the full count of the number of syllables and the microcosm is the syllable itself, which from what I can see, is a veiled reference to the Vesica Piscis in the Rig Veda.

Upon what [imperishable] syllable of holy praise-song, as twere their highest heaven, the Gods repose them, Who knows not this, what will he do with praise-song? But they who know it well sit here assembled.  ‒ Rig Veda 1.164.39, tr. R.T.H. Griffith

I follow her [the Cow] who hath four feet with devout observance. This by the Sacred Syllable have I measured: I purify in the central place of Order….  ‒ Rig Veda 10.13.3, excerpt, tr. R.T.H Griffith

In their commentary on Rig Veda 10.13.3, Stephanie W. Jamison and Joel P. Brereton wrote, “the poet seems to make explicit the equivalence of his particular ritual speech and Speech in general by claiming to make a single syllable the equivalent of Speech herself.” From what I have learned, the Vesica Piscis IS the imperishable (eternal) Sacred Syllable, equivalent not only to the Goddess of Speech (Vak) sometimes depicted as the (Holy) Cow, but also equivalent to the Holy Word, Holy Thought and to the Holy Hymn throughout the Vedas.

SHE is also the Goddess of Wisdom (Saraswati)

. In the following verse, the Radius is depicted as the Sage Soma (a name of Agni), and as the mover of speech, and lord of Holy Law who is robed [clothed] with the words of hymns. Speech, words, hymns, holy law, as well as the seer’s prize, commandments and weapons are all herein veiled symbols of the Vesica Piscis.

[Soma] sends forth ([his] speech), the prizewinning seer seeking to win the prize, finding his commandments to be his weapons.” ‒ Rig Veda 9.35.4, tr. Jamison & Brereton [modified slightly, utilizing R.L. Kashyap’s translation of this verse]

With the words of hymns, we clothe Soma. He is the purifier and the mover of speech. … O lord of Dharma [lord of Holy Law], all the persons are supported, by your law of workings. (You are) the purifier and the, lord of riches. – Rig Veda 9.35.5-6 excerpts, tr. R.L. Kashyap

It must become widely understood, especially throughout India, that the 432,000-syllable measure of the Rig Veda actually POINTS TO the Vesica Piscis as the geometric key of its symbolic language, and as the geometric key of the Kali Yuga as well. The measure of the Vedas and of the Yugas must both be seen in conjunction with the 432,000ʺ (120°) measure of Vesica Piscis within the 360° (3 x 120°) Circle or Year. Without understanding this geometric foundation stone, or sacred syllable of the Ancient Rishis their gnosis will remain largely sealed (and unusable) to the masses. Continuing upon this trajectory of misunderstanding, India’s spiritual light will remain veiled and open to all manner of misinterpretation, mismeasure and misappropriation. The reverse is of course equally true as well. With a restored understanding of this Holy Word, Thought or Sacred Syllable, India will be able to repossess and restore its Ancient Light and accelerate the process of purifying the distortion and dis-integration that has naturally ensued in the absence of this occult key.

Who will have eyes to see the hidden truth contained in the Rishis’ words?

This is a question the Rishis inherently posed all throughout their riddled hymns. Sri Aurobindo in various ways called for the restoration of the secret truth of Vedic symbols, in order to uplift India from the eclipse or darkening of its own Spiritual Light.

We Indians, born and bred in a country where Jñana [Knowledge] has been stored and accumulated since the race began, bear about in us the inherited gains of many thousands of years. ...But it is a dead knowledge, a burden under which we are bowed, a poison which is corroding us, rather than as it should be a staff to support our feet and a weapon in our hands; for this is the nature of all great things that when they are not used or are ill used, they turn upon the bearer and destroy him. – Sri Aurobindo, Bande Mataram, CWSA, Vol. 6, p. 81

Sri Aurobindo wrote this in 1905. Over a hundred years later this problem still applies to India, but it equally applies to the pervasive ignorance throughout the world whereby religious and spiritual symbols have lost their original core truth and thereby become corrosive (both on an individual and collective scale), void of true unifying, harmonizing and sustaining gnosis. Sri Aurobindo’s voice continues to ring out as a call to the soul to rise out of the thick shell of tamasic ignorance which darkens and sickens our being and our world, creating division and cacophony and preventing us from realizing our inherent capacity for harmony and unity consciousness.

The importance of the recovery and release of the Vesica Piscis as a crucial occult key of ancient gnosis is lauded in thousands of ways throughout the Rig Veda, especially as the purifying release of the Seven Rivers which conquer the hardened ignorance of the world, equivalent to the apocalyptic release of the Seven Bowls or Vials of St. John’s Revelation. The quest to find, and the actual finding or recovery of this key is found not only in the Vedas and in St. John’s Revelation, but also in in many of our world’s mythologies including the Arthurian mythology of the quest for the immortalizing Holy Grail, the Greek mythology of the release of the fountain of wisdom by the winged-horse Pegasus, the Christian mythology of God or Jesus dispensing the Waters of Life, and the Zodiacal mythology of the Aquarian Water Bearer pouring out the waters of universal truth upon humanity from his Water-Jar. The Sanskrit name for the Water Jar and for the sign of Aquarius is one and the same: Kumbha. This Kumbha and the waters it contains are equally symbols of the Vesica Piscis and the release of these waters is equivalent to the release or revelation of the eternal form and measure (the eternal geometric law or Sanatana Dharma) that these sacred symbols actually symbolize. Below are two mirroring instances of ancient hymns lauding the release of God’s divine waters. The first is from the Old Testament Bible and the second is from the Rig Veda. Readers should keep in mind that the Rig Veda precedes the Old Testament by thousands of years.

[God] split the rocks in the wilderness and gave them water as abundant as the seas; he brought streams out of a rocky crag and made water flow down like rivers. ‒ Psalm 78.15-16 Old Testament, NIV

[The God Indra] who knoweth well all human actions hath with his eager Friends let loose the waters. They with their songs cleft e'en the mountain open …. He smote away the floods' obstructer, Vrtra; [He] sentest forth the waters of the ocean …. When, Much-invoked! the water's rock [Indra] cleftest, Sarama showed herself and went before thee.  ‒  Rig Veda 4.16.6-8, tr. R.T.H. Griffith

In these verses, both the waters and the rock (or mountain) which encloses them are symbols of the Vesica Piscis.  The act of cleaving of the rock by God/Indra symbolizes of the way the radius splits the Vesica Piscis (aka the rock) in two halves. The importance of the finding and release and these rivers, floods or waters from their rock (cave or mountain) is abundant in the Rig Veda and is also mirrored in St. John’s Revelation, not only in the pouring out of the Seven Bowls or Seven Vials, but also in the discussion of the Lamb’s (aka the Hero-Son’s) victory.

For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; he will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes. ‒ Revelation 7:17, NIV

He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” He said to me: “It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. To the thirsty I will give water without cost from the spring of the water of life. ‒ Revelation 21:5-6, NIV

In the Rig Veda this Hero-Son of God is Agni, also known by hundreds if not thousands of other names, including the “ray of intuition”, and as the Son or Child of Waters or Floods. As I have discussed at length in my book, in geometric terms, this Son and many other masculine heroic figures or God’s are symbols of the Radius of the Circle. The Radius simultaneously forms the Vesica Piscis and is born in it. The radius is the Skambha (upholding pillar) of the Vesica Piscis (Kumbha). One fascinating example of how this mythology spread far beyond India in ancient times is the Pueblo Native American mythology of a virgin mother who surprisingly gets pregnant by absorbing some clay from a water jar she is making, and subsequently gives birth to a water jar (kumbha) which behaves like a boy. In time, the Water Jar Boy accidentally breaks the water jar in which he is contained and he becomes a real boy who then sets out to find his father. He finds his father dwelling in a spring. In this story the Boy inside the Water Jar is a symbol of the Radius dwelling within the Vesica Piscis, just as the Divine Son of the Rig Veda is often depicted as the Hidden One, dwelling in secret within the waters, or as robed in waters. In the Pueblo mythology the boy finds his father secretly dwelling in the waters, just as he himself was secretly dwelling within the Water Jar.

In Rig Veda 9.96.19-20, this Divine Son or Hero is a “Hawk seated in the bowls”, and a Bull who “[flows] to the pitcher” and “[passes] into the beakers” [tr. RTH Griffith]. In Rig Veda 9.87 the Rishis sing “let our pious one rest in the pitcher”. I don’t know what kind of sense can be made of these verses without knowing that the ONE (the Divine Male Hero) who rests and flows within in the bowl, beaker, pitcher, etc. is the Radius who rests and flows within the Vesica Piscis and within the larger container of the Circle or cycle of the 360° Vedic Year. The following verses demonstrate similar veiled descriptions of the radius’s position in and movement within the Vesica Piscis (i.e. the “vessels that are full of fatness”).

Born in old time as finder-out of treasures, drained with the stone, decking himself in waters, Warding off curses, King of all existence.... Flow onward, Soma … enrobed in waters…. Settle in vessels that are full of fatness, as cheering and most gladdening drink for Indra. … Pour the rain of heaven, While thou with rivers roarest in the beaker. ‒ Rig Veda 9.096.10-14, excerpts, tr. R.T.H. Griffith

The waters feed with praise the growing Babe, born nobly in the womb, the seat of Law. ‒ Rig Veda 1.65.2, excerpt, tr. R.T.H. Griffith

In addition to the symbols of the rivers, waters and vessels, the Vedic Rishis also depicted the sacred and eternal (immortal) form of the Vesica Piscis as the divine weapon and treasure of the Vedic Gods and Heroes, as the Sage’s Holy Word, the Priest’s Sacred Song, the Divine Inspiration or Thought of the Seer, the Goddess of Wisdom, the Daughter of God, the Dawn of Light, the Cow of Light, the Light of Heaven, the Womb, Mother and Robe of the Divine Hero-Son, the Bliss of the Gods, the Strength of the Gods, the Nectar of Immortally (Amrita), Soma Wine, and as the Cave, Hill, Mountain, Veil, Covering or Beast (Dragon) hiding the divine treasures (i.e. occult secrets) of the Gods and the Human Seers. The list goes on and on and on of how the ancient Vedic Seers and seers of other ancient civilizations celebrated and veiled their gnosis of the Vesica Piscis as an occult key of sacred wisdom.

One way this key of gnosis is conveyed and preserved in Indian lore is via the tale of Vishnu turning into a woman (Mohini) in order to retrieve “the pot of Amrita (an elixir of immortality) from thieving asuras (demons), and [give] it back to the devas (gods), helping them retain their immortality.” [3] Vishnu as Mohini tricks the Demons and gives the immortalizing nectar only to the Gods. What she pours out of the Kumbha [pot] to the Demons is simply water conveying no special powers or wisdom; but to the Gods she pours out and delivers the Nectar of Immortality which is the long-awaited divine prize generated by the Churning of the Milky Ocean, said to take a millennium to produce. Given that this Amrita turns out to be a symbol of the eternal form, law and measure of the Vesica Piscis in the Rig Veda, I imagine that the time frame for its generation should be an entire Yuga ‒ 8,640 years, spanning the stretch of one Vesica Piscis through the 25,920-year Precession of the Equinoxes [4]. Certainly, this Amrita of the Vedic Rishis and Gods has been lost in our world for much longer than one millennium. I was not aware of this Mohini lore when I wrote my book, but it fits in perfectly with what I wrote therein regarding Vishnu’s recovery of the Vesica Piscis as a key of Eternal Truth (Sanatana Dharma) of the Rishis in our current Age of Aquarius.

The extreme manner by which the Vedic Rishis simultaneously lauded and hid the role of the sacred geometry of the Vesica Piscis in riddle after riddle in the Rig Veda naturally begs the question why would ancient sages go to such elaborate means to hide or occult this geometric key of sacred gnosis for thousands of years and simultaneously celebrate its eventual recovery. It appears to be their way of preserving and transmitting of higher gnosis through whatever period of time it would take for humans to be developmentally mature enough to receive it, mature enough to begin to see the Oneness amidst the differentiation of material creation, of race, of language, of myth and of symbol.

I cannot and will not pretend to fully account for the reasoning of the ancient Seers, but what is fully apparent is that the Radius and Vesica Piscis are eternal and universal forms which function together as the basis of sacred geometry. They function as an eternally wedded pair. Together with the Circle, they establish the divine measure and hence the Divine Law [Sanatana Dharma] of the Ancients. They measure out and establish the set laws of the Vedic Year (aka the Zodiac); and they also form the triadic basis of our world’s 9-base (3x3) number system. It also appears that the Vesica Piscis was considered by the Rishis to be the building block of language and of music, given that the Vedic Seers referred to the Vesica Piscis as both as the Holy Word and the Holy Song (Hymn) of ancient sages, forefathers and priests. Many of the symbols of the Vesica Piscis mentioned above are listed and explained in Geometric Keys of Vedic Wisdom but what I have presented here, and in the book, truly feels like just the tip of the iceberg. Much remains to be illuminated regarding the Vesica Piscis’ role as the Seers’ Weapon of Truth, capable of conquering and dismantling modern humanity’s profound ignorance of its own words, numbers, symbols, languages, and myths which is intimately tied to our ignorance of our own ancient history. This ignorance inherently creates division and prevents us from functioning sustainably and harmoniously in our present, which of course threatens our future here on planet Earth.

The current situation is such that people across the world have become unconsciously, irrationally and often violently attached to religious words, ideas, dogmas and superstitions that they have inherited from generations of people who had long-lost, or never had real access to, the original sense of their sacred ideology because it was intentionally veiled by the ancient seers. Our civilization’s core toxic narratives are founded upon the dual disasters of a collective fragmented state of consciousness and several millennia worth of compounded linguistic and symbolic misunderstandings of veiled sacred teachings. As unlikely as it may sound to many, the Vesica Piscis is a crucial key to healing from this world sickness. In the hymn below, the Vesica Piscis is simultaneously discussed as Amrita (the Nectar of Immortality), the Waters and the healing balm/medicine.

[Amrita] is in the Waters in the Waters there is healing balm Be swift, ye Gods, to give them praise. Within the Waters ‒ Soma thus hath told me ‒ dwell all balms that heal,  and Agni, he who blesseth all. The Waters hold all medicines. O Waters, teem with medicine to keep my body safe from harm, So that I long may see the Sun. Whatever sin is found in me, whatever evil I have wrought. If I have lied or falsely sworn, Waters, remove it far from me. ‒ Rig Veda 1.23.19-22, tr. R.T.H. Griffith

This immortal geometric key unlocks the unified sense of our world’s ancient symbols and thereby sheds much needed light on the thick crust of misunderstandings that plagues and perpetuates the divisive mental-egoic consciousness. In St. John’s Revelation, as well as in the Vedas, the pouring forth or revelation of the truth of this key is portrayed as an epically purifying event, cleansing (i.e. healing) the world of its darkness. It has definitely functioned as a purifying and clarifying Light of Truth in my own consciousness, it remains to be seen how the recovery of this purifying and clarifying Ancient Light of the Rishis will extend into the world’s consciousness.

The core download of the Vesica Piscis’s revelations descended into my consciousness in the span of 9 months, from 7 February to 7 November 2016. It is notable that on 11 November 2016 the movie Arrival was released. My mother told me that I had to see this movie because she recognized it was connected to my work. In the movie, twelve extraterrestrial ships (each looking something like half an egg or half of a Vesica Piscis) appear on Earth and the female protagonist is tasked with deciphering the circular language of the aliens who inhabit the ships. It turns out that coming to understanding the alien language alters and transforms human consciousness, resulting in an expanded consciousness of Time. In India such an expanded consciousness or higher perception of the dimensions of Time is called Trikala Drishti, indicating an illumined three-fold vision of Kala or Time (Past, Present and Future). By the end of the movie, the protagonist proceeds to teach this consciousness-lifting language to the world. What I found most notable was that whereas the movie’s plot involved the language and symbols of a gnostic alien race, the symbolic language of Earth’s ancient Rishis actually functions this way. The ancient language of the Rishis must be understood in terms of the Circle (and in terms of cycles of Time), and coming to understand this circle-based language does expand and transform our limited human consciousness of Time and Space towards the Trikala Drishti of the ancient Rishis.

Thea was really the first person in our modern age to recognize this transformative function of the Vedic system of gnosis, whereby the Vedic Sacrifice or Year (and the symbolic language they use to convey it) contains in itself a Supramental and Unified Consciousness of Time and Space. The recovery of the Vesica Piscis as a decryption key to this circle-based language and field of gnosis can only serve to help those who are drawn to learn to utilize the Rishis’ gnosis to uplift their own consciousness of Time and Space, which will in turn enable great advances in human consciousness. So the good news is that humans don’t have to wait for aliens to arrive and give us the keys to higher consciousness. Anyone who chooses to do so, can participate in the restoration and renewal of the eternal and universal consciousness of the ancient Rishis in our own day and age. Many keys of this restoration and uplifting of consciousness have already been reestablished via the Supramental Yoga of Sri Aurobindo, the Mother and Thea. Now it’s just a question of who will use these keys and what new treasures of consciousness will be brought forth which will further contribute to the transformation of life on Earth towards its higher or divine potentials.

Click HERE to read Part II.

© Lori Tompkins

[roses-and-grimoires]

Relationship & Courting antics Asks: 1-30. *whistles innocently and strolls away* >.>

Lol! Fine @thedarknesssings, you troll. *crackles knuckles* Let’s do this.

Cutting for length:

♥ Do they seek out love or let it find them? Are they even interested in romance?

Idris is a complete and utter romantic, so yes, he is interested in romance. Though, interestingly, he doesn’t tend to actively seek out love; most of his relationships he’s rather… fallen into. For someone who likes to pretend that they are confident and unflappable, he is rather shy when it comes to making the first move.

♥ When they have a crush on someone, how do they let them know?

Oh, Idris is so bad at this. The poor guy is both deeply romantic and wants someone to share that part of his life with and deeply afraid of rejection. He tends to be nicer to them, for starters, and will leave them gifts like flowers and the like, as well as doing favors for them. If those don’t work he might escalate and do some sort of grand romantic gesture.

♥Tell us about a time they were rejected.

Back when he was attending the Scolasticate he had a crush on a another student. It didn’t go well for him; she was a noble and he was a bastard without any claim to title. When he did try to ask her out he was very soundly rejected without her giving him a second thought.

♥ Do they spend a lot of time in the courting stage or attempt to get to first base as fast as possible?

Courting. Idristan really needs that connection with someone in order to feel safe enough to drop his guard and actually enjoy a relationship.

♥ Do they wait to be intimate until after marriage or break all the social rules?

Oh, he definitely doesn’t wait until after marriage, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that he breaks all the social rules, but rather is aware of them and knows how to dance at the edges of them. After all, it’s fun to have people speculate about what you, a proper, upstanding Ishgardian might have been up to and know that they have no proof.

♥ Do they have open or closed relationships?

He used to be fairly strictly monogamous, but has soften a bit on it (partially thanks to being around some friends). The whole idea of an open relationship is honestly a bit new to him and he’s still trying to figure out how it all works.

♥ How do they feel about polygamy?

He’s overall neutral on it. He doesn’t really think it’s for him and definitely doesn’t get either Miqo’te culture at all, but he also truly could not care less what other people are doing. It’s Not His Problem.

♥ Are they loyal to their partners?

Oh, absolutely. He would go to war for them (and arguably has…).

♥ Are they patient with their partners?

More than most people. Which, to be fair, in his case is a very, very low bar to clear.

♥ Do they include their partners in most aspects of their life?

This is something he’s bad at. The fact of the matter is, Idristan is involved in a lot of things, from mercenary work to Ishgardian politics, and they’re not necessarily things he can bring people into (especially before they all blow up in his face). He’s trying to be better, but there’s only so much he can really do there.

♥ Do they make an effort to find someone with similar views, be they political or moral?

Absolutely. He could never be with someone who considered him sub-human or who couldn’t accept his heretic past or some of his current actions (which are very dubiously legal). Fortunately for him, the groups that he spends the most time with don’t tend to keep such people around for long (with one or two notable exceptions…).

♥ Do they seek to find a partner purely to further the bloodline and name, is it for true love, or is it for pleasure alone?

Mostly love, with a bit of pleasure thrown in. While his family name is very important to him, he is under no delusions that it is to anyone else. And while he might like children at some point, right now it isn’t a major priority for him. He’s content to enjoy how things are now.

♥ Do they sleep in the same bed/room as much as they can or do they sleep separately?

As much as they can. Touch is incredibly important to Idristan so he likes just being near those he cares about. Plus it helps him sleep better; having company is often better than being alone when the nightmares strike.

♥ Do they make it a point to eat at lease one meal a day together with their partner, or do they do as they please?

Idristan makes a point to eat with Solenne when he can, since that means that he knows that she’s had at least one decent meal. When he can’t do that, he trusts the cook he hired to see to it. Granted, a lot of this is because he knows how wrapped up in work she can get, as well as not trusting her to cook. At all. (And with good reason).

♥ Do they enjoy talking to their partners before going to sleep or is it straight to dreamland?

Typically straight to dreamland I think. Granted, a lot of that is because Idris often uses tea blends to help him sleep and ward off nightmares.

♥ Do they have at least one bonding activity they devote to doing with their partner exclusively?

Idristan and Solenne are both very good dancers. I think there’s been more than a few nights where they’ve just put on music and danced, or else went out to some high class party and utterly dominated the dance floor.

♥ What sort of characteristics or quirks draw them to someone?

A sense of humor. Since his own tends to drive people away, anyone who actually returns some jabs is automatically more interesting to him.

♥ Do they have a ‘type’?

Very much so. Idris needs people who can challenge him, who will stand up to him and banter with him. He appreciates wit and intelligence, someone who knows how to take care of themselves, and who is maybe just a bit dominant and unafraid of saying what they want. Elezen is a plus.

♥ What was their first impression about their partner/person they are courting?

Idristan’s first impression of Solenne was... quite an interesting one. He ran into her while she was essentially possessed. By the end of their meeting he had realized that she was in trouble and, of course, set out to try to help.

Ghost was a bit more low key in comparison. He noticed hoe good looking he was, of course, and how quieter he was compared to Marius, but sharp.

♥ How did their relationship start?

Idristan and Solenne’s began after a long, long period of mutual pining. The reason for this was because Idristan didn’t want to start one with her because he was fairly sure he was going to die (or worse), but... things got bad and Solenne managed to convince him that it was better to take advantage of the time he had. He’s very glad she did.

Idristan and Ghost I’d say properly got started after Idristan got shot during a Covenant mission. Ghost came to check on him, Idristan was honest, and Ghost offered to share aether with him, annnd things went from there. It probably helped that Idristan apologized for implying that Ghost is a monster that should be killed.

♥ What was the most romantic time they had with their partner?

I think it would have to be the time that Idristan and Solenne went down to the beach to dance under the moonlight. Especially that first time. That was special.

♥ Tell us about a sacrifice they made for their significant other.

While Idristan feels like his home will always be Ishgard, he knows how important Gridania and the Shroud are to Solenne. And so he bought the two of them a little house there.

♥ Do they apologize to their partner even if it wasn’t their fault?

No. While he is better with his partners than most people, he still has some difficulty apologizing even when he needs to, let alone when he doesn’t.

♥ Will they lie for the sake of their significant other’s happiness?

To a point. He mainly sticks to lies of omission, since he knows very, very well that he can’t get away with lying outright to Solenne. And even then he tries to avoid it, both because she can usually tell and because it doesn’t tend to work out for him.

He has bent the truth with around Ghost and is currently keeping quiet about some other things so as to not alarm him, but that’s less about his happiness and more because he would likely try to stop him if he knew what was going on.

♥ If they could choose their partner again, would they choose the same person?

Oh, absolutely. He deeply loves Solenne and would do anything she asked. If anything he would have wanted to run into her earlier; it might have saved both of them a great deal of pain.

He’s not quite there with Ghost yet, but he deeply cares about the thief. He’s going to do everything he can to protect him and to not abuse the power that he’s given him over him.

♥ What do they love most about their significant other?

Idristan loves Solenne’s confidence. She is someone who knows what she wants, how to get it, and has the stubbornness to know that she will get it. He absolutely adores that and has the highest respect for it. He is more than happy to help her with her ambitions.

As for Ghost, he loves how surprisingly tender and protective he can be. He feels safe around his thief, like he can completely drop his guard, and that’s not something that he can say about many people. And it’s not something that you’d necessarily expect from Ghost, so that makes it all the more special, as if it’s their own little secret.

Honestly... there’s some overlap here. Idris has a type and it seems to be confident people who are not afraid to get some blood on their hands.

♥ Have they had dreams about their partner/the person they are courting?

Oh, absolutely. All sorts of dreams. Some of them are quite pleasant, others he probably couldn’t describe without blushing. And some nightmares as well. Having something happen to the people that he cares about is one of Idristan’s biggest fears, especially if he is somehow involved (which, considering he has accidentally almost killed Solenne once, is not an unfounded worry).

♥ Do they understand their partners/person they are courting’s feelings without them having to say anything?

Yes. Despite how grumpy and curt he is around most people, he is actually very empathetic and good at reading people, and that goes especially for people that he cares about and has taken an interest in. While he’s missed a few things and has a few blind spots, on the whole he usually has a pretty good general idea.

♥ How do they express their love to their partner?

Touch. He will be borderline clingy with the people he cares about. Part of it is that it’s his preferred way of showing closeness, part of it is that he’s likely a touch deprived. He will also bring them little gifts (flowers are a big one), and just generally tries to be very attentive. He will sit and listen if he thinks they need that, or else will drag them out to go dancing or the like to distract them.

♥ Would they leave the person they love if it meant saving their life/giving them a better chance at life?

He actually tried that once. Solenne then proceed to figuratively kick some sense into him, and he wouldn’t dare to do it again. Whatever happens, they’re going to get through it together.

[vitavitale]

headcanon VI  —  mother

V's mother was named Amanda Uccello, an American woman with obvious Italian roots. She was an average-sized woman on the slim side with relatively average facial features. Her amber eyes were notable, however. Her hair was always kept short, straight, about two inches above shoulder length, in a caramel brown color. She was industrious, reasonably ambitious, mild in nature and of good character on the whole. Her moral code was clear, she was responsible, she was not cowardly nor someone to push around. But, again, she was mild-mannered and so preferred peace over excitement. More introverted than extroverted, she also preferred her own company. She respected nature, was inviting to wildlife, and had always possessed a deep interest in the spiritual plane, in psychic forces and the supernatural. She was open to these forces so long as they were benevolent; she was reluctant to call upon that which was demonic and she hadn't for the most part. The magic she practiced was protective, only for good, but it was not something she'd done too regularly. Still, she kept a grimoire of sorts of her own.

However, she was more than human, even if partially. For generations her lineage consisted of human-demon hybrids, but as the generations passed the demonic blood inherited was diluted. Needless to say, at an early point her ancestors stopped breeding with demons. Amanda had gone far down the line, and her demonic blood was weak, almost ineffective—or she hadn't nourished it, simply finding no need at all for it and only living a plain human life. However, she had dabbled in occult practices in her teens and carried that through to adulthood, becoming a witch in her twenties as she finished school and traveled abroad. Her craft was relatively harmless, mostly used for protections and good fortune (though she'd rarely go a little further, touching facets of the dark arts when she saw the need). It was through such dark practice that she bound a demonic familiar to her when she'd left for England at the age of twenty-five, some years after finishing her schooling; it was a genial beast unlike its diabolical kin and it bonded with her without trouble. It looked very much like a sable, only a deep, jet black and with a certain wispy quality to its body.

Tragically, it was killed when she became acquainted with a coven of witches established in/around the neighborhood she'd moved to. It was unknown to her that they'd been responsible for her familiar's murder; they appeared benevolent but were driven by darker motives that Amanda could not see for many months yet. She had joined them for a short time, but soon came to sense a foreboding from their association. Fortunately, she'd distanced herself from them and ultimately broke off altogether at the age of twenty-six, but they—in particular, their head—kept discreet tabs on her since. It was her theory that they killed her cherished companion; she never confronted them about it. While Amanda kept to her craft privately, she kept to herself on the whole.

Life in England proved a challenge. She found it difficult to earn a living even in spite of her college-level education. She could not find a job in her field and so resorted to short-term work, whatever job she could pick up. The flat she'd first moved into soon became too expensive to keep, so she was forced to move into cheaper accommodations. The rent was barely affordable but other expenses she could not cover on her own. Her time was increasingly consumed by added work she had to take up, and she'd begun to rely on family overseas to wire her money. Life in the U.S. would not have been much easier, and returning would require the added cost of travel arrangements that she hadn't the hope to cover, so she was more or less stuck in Europe—and she hadn't wanted to leave it, either. Stubbornly, Amanda decided to fight it out. It was her desire to find her life's work there, but she was met with disenchantment. She'd first moved to England at the age of twenty-five with her family's blessing, having proven herself independent and capable, but circumstances strongly turned that on its head.

When she was twenty-seven, she'd taken up a waitress job at a pub, and it was during one of her nightly shifts that she served a customer who would become the father of a child she'd never dreamed of having. She noticed a charisma about him that attracted her on the outset of their relationship; they appeared to hit it off instantly. They chatted a little, but when her shift was through he'd waited for her so they could talk longer. As it turned out, they spent the night in one another's company, and for what felt like the first in a long time, Amanda was happy. She enjoyed his company, she liked him genuinely, and thus she continued to meet with him after work. In little time they entered a mutually romantic relationship, but it was during this short-lived period (a handful of months) that she'd opened her eyes to the kind of man he really was. Early, she told him of her affinity for the occult and the witchcraft she'd practice with, but it was something he was quick to spurn and urged her to abandon. He was difficult to contend with on a daily, domestic basis; though they never lived together, Amanda could see things in him that did not wholly sit well with her. Infatuation prevailed for a time, however, and she stubbornly believed she could make things work between them. She did not count on becoming pregnant any time soon, unfortunately, and the first time they slept together they were both careless. It was a week and a bit after they'd met. But this proved to be the turning point: it made her consider seriously their relationship, and for some weeks she did not tell him she had conceived.

While he had never been aggressive or manipulative, he was a wild and fickle man. A free spirit, a rebel, a drifter, indulging in the night life. His affection for her might have been genuine (going so far as to call her Mandy), but he was not quite the kind to dote nor devote himself, and least of all to settle down for the sake of family. But news of Amanda's pregnancy did not turn him away; in fact, he'd remained her significant other until he was sent away. She let him know it could not work—she knew his influence on her child would do more harm than good, though she had not voiced that distinctly—and thus broke it off. They separated on civil terms, never again seeing or hearing from one another. Bravely, she chose to raise her child on her own. Because of it, she'd moved down another notch in life in order to provide for someone who sorely depended upon her. She harbored no ill will toward the manner of conception nor toward the man who'd fathered her boy. She named him Vitale and loved him more than she'd ever loved anyone.

The development had not escaped the attention of the coven she'd left behind; they became aware of her child, the only boy born to a witch of their acquaintance when every other mother bore daughters, and did not see it as a joyous occasion. Luckily, they did not interfere, so Vitale had not known them personally. As he grew, it became evident that the demonic genes in his blood endured; he bore white hair and this, his mother knew, was too different, too strange for people (and the demons she also knew to exist in the world) to leave alone. She did not send him to school but educated him at home herself. Amanda had the sense that her former ties to the coven had not been cut cleanly; she wanted her son safe and so protected him by keeping him indoors almost perpetually. She taught him never to share his name with people he felt he could not trust. She'd become an overprotective parent in guarding him this way, even supervising him at all times when she would take him outdoors. Vitale grew up an innocent, sheltered child, not really understanding the dangers his mother took pains to protect him from, but she taught him little by little, always mindful of how he'd take certain information. What she did teach him with enthusiasm, however, was magic craft and opened his eyes to the world of the occult. Particularly, she wanted him to acquire a familiar of his own.

As he was still so young, he'd not shown indications of his sensitivity to the supernatural or the clairvoyance he'd been born with—these things had not been tapped into yet, but they were doubtlessly a part of his being and would later awaken when he would first touch demonic forces.

Their station in life was a meager one, requiring Amanda to hold down two jobs while having to do all of the house work and raise her son. She still received money from family abroad, and it was good enough to keep them fed. However, because nutrition was lacking, Vitale had developed an iron and vitamin deficiency at a startlingly young age. He became anemic before he hit his teens, and it was something more for his mother to care for. It required a specific diet, but one that went on and off; it could not always be afforded. In addition to being anemic, Vitale was underweight, but he was not a sickly child and, thankfully, went about his days as most children do. Apart from the nutrition that Amanda could not completely provide, her presence was also scarce. She could not spend nearly as much time with her son as she should have. Between work and household responsibilities, the time she spent to nurture their bond was limited, but in spite of that they were very close and Vitale was unquestioningly attached to her. He understood the reasons her company was scarce, but that did not mean he liked it any better. He tried to be a good boy for her, to not put any additional pressures on her, and he'd sorely wished he could have been of help, less of a burden, but he was still only a little boy, and his mother had always put on a brave front, assured him that she was doing fine.

Time passed with little change to come but Vitale's adolescence. Sixteen years in England and Amanda only had a son to show for it; it would be a lie to say that she did not long for a better life, to perhaps even return to the United States and find a fresh start. The pressures of survival wore her down, the endless obligations she had to shoulder almost too much to bear anymore. The life she'd been given was not the one she sought when she moved to the UK, and there were times she regretted taking that initial step—but she never regretted becoming a parent, feeling that her son was the only thing to give her any joy, and she was grateful that he was there. He was her only company as she was his; she hadn't a social life to speak of, neither did he; they were one another's worlds, and it appeared to her that life would simply consist of nothing more—at least until Vitale would mature enough to help pick up the slack. It would be another lie to say that she had not hoped nor waited for that age to come. Life was hard enough for them both, but they'd better their chances of survival if they were to depend upon each other in equal measure.

Amanda had been teaching Vitale about conjuring rites and rites of bondage, and while he showed he understood, he hadn't had hands-on practice. He decided he wanted to impress his mother by taking a familiar without her supervision, on an evening she'd gone to work. He was fourteen then (Amanda forty-one), and never had he dared to cross such a line, but his intentions were pure and his confidence apparent. His mother knew nothing about it until she'd returned home later that night, but all she'd seen was a demon in a frenzy in their tiny living room, threatening the life of her child. She could not process the cause in spite of the evidence in front of her; she thought only to protect her son, but it was during an attempt to call to him that the creature lunged for her, and effectively it had killed her in the blink of an eye. Her body was left bloody in a heap in the middle of the room, eyes pried wide open with her throat ripped through—mangled. Her murderer fled the flat through the door she'd left open, and Vitale would follow suit in haste. Their home had become a crime scene and from it he fled in fear, grief, and panic.

It didn't take long for authorities to step in. They could never find the killer—assuming it was another human, or a wild animal; they could not locate her only child, either. In the meantime, her family from the U.S. was notified of the tragedy and those able had flown to England to arrange her cremation and subsequent burial. Rather than return with her remains to the U.S., they decided to have them interred at Alberton Graveyard in Red Grave City, where she'd made her life and left a son. It was for posterity that she was buried there, even if her only child was nowhere to be found. But, sooner or later, he would stumble across her grave and discover that she'd been appropriately laid to rest—that was the belief of her family, and in years to follow it would come to pass.

[hellyeahomeland]

Me again with more Carrie and Saul. can you elaborate on how it’s different between them? You say it’s evolved but I don’t see how. Things have happened to Carrie especially, but I don’t really see how their relationship has changed at its core. Maybe Saul treats her more like an adult but even that’s debatable imo. I don’t mean to be argumentative for argument’s sake but... (continued...)

Cont… can you give concrete examples of how the development has played out on screen so I can understand it & hopefully S8 better. Specific scenes and what how they weren’t just individual scenes but changed the relationship going forward. Much appreciated! Oh and one more thing re: Saul and Carrie, sorry I forgot. Can you also venture a guess what it means in practice? What do you think will happen between them that will feel like closure or catharsis or something that’s expected of a show’s final season and perhaps finale as well?

Note #1: this became a lot longer than I expected (sorry, you asked!). Beyond what I’ve written, I challenge you to go back and watch these individual scenes. I’ve chosen ones from each season to illustrate the full arc of their relationship. Observe the differences in Claire and Mandy’s body language, in their facial expressions, in their discomfort, in the shared trauma of what’s come before. It’s deliberate writing and deliberate acting. Shorter version of this post is here, from April 2018.

Note #2: I chose almost exclusively scenes of conflict to represent the evolution of their relationship because I believe that conflict drives change. 

PROLOGUE:

To understand the Carrie and Saul relationship, we’ve got to understand what their relationship was before we met them. From what we know, Saul recruited Carrie, straight out of college. He saw in her something special and unique, something that didn’t come around every other day. She was gifted but she was also alone. She had no partner. She was socially isolated from her family and from the world (he didn’t yet know of her mental illness). This was an advantage of sorts. It meant she could give herself more and more to the work, same as he did. Remember this is his Achilles’ heel: whenever they call, he picks up. He doesn’t know how not to. It destroyed his marriage. But he molds her in his image. He teaches her, he raises her, the way a father would his daughter. He brings her up. Their relationship melds the boundaries of teacher/student, boss/employee, mentor/mentee, and father/daughter. It’s personal, and it’s deeply intimate. 

This is what we are given before the pilot and it’s what we’ve grappled with for nearly eight years: his attempts to harness her gifts–often to her detriment–and her simultaneous resentment of him for it and unwavering yearning for his approval. 

Key Scenes in the Carrie and Saul Canon:

#1: “What happened to the Saul Berenson that trekked the Karakoram?”: Much of the season one conflict between Carrie and Saul comes from her three thousand miles an hour suspicion of Brody and him being like “whoa slow down pls.” He is the first person she tells of these suspicions and he essentially shoots her down, causing her to go rogue. It’s here where the lines become blurred between boss/protege and father/daughter, because the way in which he chastises and punishes her feels awfully familial. 

So when Carrie finally reaches a breaking point in “Blind Spot” (the original Carrie Mathison Appreciation Episode), we feel that as though a family is breaking up. It doesn’t matter that she comes crawling back to him, just an episode later, remorseful. 

Carrie underlines just how much Saul has changed: in her words, from the man who “did three months in a Malaysian prison” (HELLO???? repeat: he raised her in his image) to a pussy. We understand that Carrie and Saul are both outsiders in the CIA. We understand that Saul is still grappling with his former employee David Estes bring promoted over him. While Carrie truly seems to not give a fuck, Saul keeps in line. He says “yes, sir.” He advises caution. None of these are inherently bad qualities but in this scene we come to understand that what drew Carrie to Saul was not his caution, his yin to her yang, but his daring and bravery and “FUCK THE CIA” mentality (there’s a reason why that line is in this episode too). 

#2: “You don’t know a goddamned thing”: This scene is now famous for lines like “you’re the smartest and dumbest fucking person I’ve ever known” (he’s not wrong) but this scene is actually one of the more important ones ever on this show, and I still maintain that t“The Choice” is the mos important ever Homeland episode. As to why this scene itself is significant in their relationship, I’ll allow Jacob Clifton to explain:

Saul is one thing only, and his love for Carrie comes out of the idea that they are the same. And he’s right. But because she’s giving up herself to something he can’t, it looks like they are not the same. It looks ugly to him. He fights it like an addict fights recovery, striking blindly at her softest places because can’t stand the change in vector: Her madness is only acceptable as long as it’s useful; her self-abnegation is only positive so long as he can understand it.

I bolded that last sentence because it’s almost shockingly predictive of future seasons. We can hem and haw all we want about Saul’s relative rightness about Carrie leaving the CIA for Brody being a terrible decision, but the truth is that he would have done it regardless of who Brody was. He would have done it if she’d left with Quinn, with Jonas, with Otto, with Estes, with anyone, or all by herself. I don’t actually believe that Saul wants Carrie to be miserable. I just think he doesn’t care. I think he sees her gifts, her “saving the world” (to be totally Mandy Patinkin about it) as a more profound and upright calling than, for example: having a family, being a mother, having an integrated and whole personal life… the list goes on. 

But the moment when Carrie tells him she doesn’t want to end up alone her whole life, like him, is probably the first great fissure in what was until then a generally even relationship. It establishes her desire for… something beyond everything he’d ever shown her (she literally turns down the greatest career opportunity ever for THE DUDE IN THE SUICIDE VEST… and like, did we ever consider that wasn’t really about Carrie loving Brody so much but more about how much she really didn’t fucking want to be Saul????). She threatens his control and he strikes her at the knees. 

#3: Literally all of season three: It’s difficult to choose a single scene in season three to encapsulate just how much Carrie and Saul’s relationship this season was changed but let’s just discuss the overall arc:

Saul and Carrie come up with a plan to lure out Javadi (i.e., Iran) since they know he’s partially responsible for the Langley bombing. In their shared plan, Carrie will pretend to be crazy in front of the Senate and the press so that she seems vulnerable to the influence of a foreign power. Coolness. 

Except Saul changes the plan in the middle and: 

Publicly blames the Langley bombing on Carrie

Outs Carrie’s sexual relationship with Brody on national television 

Has Carrie committed to a mental institution for four weeks with little to no contact with the outside world

Sics Dar fucking Adal on her when she gets out of the mental institution in order to maintain the cover

The scene at the end of “Game On” where Carrie comes to Saul’s house and tells him the plan has worked is devastating to watch. I don’t think it was entirely clear at the time just how much Saul’s plan had strayed from their shared vision until Carrie tells him, through tears, “you should have gotten me out of there, Saul. You shouldn’t have left me in there.” He doesn’t say anything in response. When she tells him it’s too hard, she can’t keep going, he offers her some tea. It would be funny if it weren’t so fucking sad. 

Again: 

Her madness is only acceptable as long as it’s useful; her self-abnegation is only positive so long as he can understand it.

Season three was all about that: about the lengths Saul would go with Carrie’s own illness, and how far along she’d left herself go too. Javadi literally makes a speech about it.

Now, Carrie wasn’t forced to do any of this (well, except the mental institution, that was extremely forced). We see at times how desperately she craves his attention and approval: in “Tower of David,” when she pleads with her therapist to give a good report back to Saul; in “The Yoga Play,” where he berates her for getting involved in Brody Family Drama and tells her she’s ruined everything and ARE YOU HAPPY ABOUT THAT NOW CARRIE (god, the father/daughter vibes in that one are nauseating); in “Still Positive” when she calls him, triumphant, after having arranged the meeting with Javadi and he’s like “oh yeah by the way we lost you for a few hours there.” 

(This doesn’t fit into the above theme but the scene at the end of “One Last Thing” when Carrie tells him in order for any of this shit to work they have to trust each other is one of the most interesting and important scenes of the whole season, simply because it implies one easy truth: they don’t trust each other. And what a change that is from earlier seasons.) 

And yet, he needed her for it all to work. Saul may have been the mastermind of the entire clusterfuck of season three (better on rewatch than you would think!), but without Carrie literally every step of the way, it would have gone up in flames. She lured Javadi to America with her 95%-based-in-reality mania. She convinced Brody to go to Iran knowing it would almost certainly end in his death. And then she went straight along to Tehran knowing she’d probably have to witness it all. 

The end of season three is super interesting in their relationship because I believe in my gut and in my soul that Carrie still resents Saul for convincing her to convince Brody to go kill himself. I really believe this. Again, she wasn’t forced. She did this of her own volition. But he planted the seed in her head, and I think some part of Carrie–likely equal parts rational and irrational–blames him for it, even as she mostly blames herself. 

I won’t even mention Saul’s complete un-acknowledgement of Carrie being nine months pregnant in the last half of “The Star” but Saul basically ignoring Carrie’s child for four years is more significant than we give it credit for.

#4: “Escape or die. I promise.” The season four relationship between Carrie and Saul is interesting because it upends their previous dynamic. Carrie and Saul were always outsiders in the agency, but now he’s actually on the outside and she’s ascended, more an insider than ever. Also, I know part of it was grief, and again this is not an absolution, but where else do we think Carrie learned her casual disregard for human life? I’m just saying, season four came after season three. 

So anyway, when Carrie promises to Saul that he’ll kill him before letting him be re-captured by the Taliban, we almost sort of believe her. She nearly killed him once before (wanna know the quickest way to get me from 0 to 1500 words on this show? mention the end of “From A to B and Back Again.” but actually don’t please).

The middle episodes of season four–Carrie nearly killing Saul, reneging on her promise to kill him, and then tearfully saving him from himself–are extremely moving. And they cement the arc of that entire season, of Carrie ascending where Saul had fallen. “The student becomes the master” (or the Drone Queen, rather) and all that jazz. Her journey to save her soul coincided with her journey to save him. Is that coincidental? Saul stopped being Carrie’s moral compass around the time he lied to her and had her committed. But just as Carrie is finding her way amid the chaos and fog of war, Saul is making backdoor deals with Dar fucking Adal to turn a blind eye to Haqqani’s reign of terror so that he could go and be the CIA director again. 

Saul preached idealism and goodness and morality in an increasingly terrorized, dangerous, chaotic world. He raised her in that image. She strayed, but was finding her way back to it. In those final moments of season four, that betrayal is complete. She detaches from him. And their relationship is forever altered. 

#5: “There’s a line between us that you drew. Forget that. There’s a fucking wall.” Oh, season five. This is getting really long so I’ll try to be succinct: Carrie and Saul’s relationship in season five is about her being in mortal danger and him being like “lol good luck….. NOT.” Ok, it’s only like that for an episode. 

How do they come back from the damage done at the end of season four? I think the answer is that they didn’t. They’re not healed from it. Parts of Carrie don’t trust Saul, and parts of Saul don’t trust Carrie. There are the surface elements of course: Carrie went and found a cool life in Berlin, riding bikes and wearing balloon hats and such, working for a man whose ideals often stood in direct counter to the CIA’s. In effect, she basically went and did the opposite of everything Saul had ever done. That this all comes in a time of real upheaval in Saul’s personal life (Mira divorced him, he’s literally fucking a Russian mole) only makes his ego more volatile. 

And then we have The Landstuhl Conundrum. I’m calling it this because it doesn’t yet have a name but I’m referring to the moment when the doctors say that they can’t wake Quinn from a coma, because if they do he will probably die or have irreversible brain damage. But Carrie and Saul believe he has valuable information about a terror cell that he’d eagerly share after coming out of said coma. Honestly!!! This show is extremely ridiculous sometimes. 

Anyway Saul is like “what would you want me to do if it were you lying there,” implying DUH she’d have him wake her. She says she can’t speak for Quinn. Well apparently she can, because she wakes him. Cue the irreversible brain damage, the almost-death. 

Later Saul comes to see her and Quinn at the hospital and asks how he is. “Not great,” she replies tersely. He tells her he didn’t come here to fight with her. 

Resentment City: Population of 1. I’ve actually beat this drum for a few years, but I still think that Carrie harbors resentment toward Saul for coercing her into waking Quinn. First Brody, then Quinn. This isn’t meant to absolve Carrie of blame. She convinced Brody to go to Tehran because she believed in that mission. She woke Quinn because she believed in that mission. But I do think that Saul gave her a nudge and I’m not 100% convinced that without his influence she’d have made the same choices. When we talk about Saul teaching Carrie, about him mentoring her… and then we talk about Carrie having no regard for human life, of choosing mission over man, time after time… how much of that is her nature and how much is him nurturing her toward that outcome? 

#6: “Maybe I don’t like the idea of you worrying about me.” Season six is spectacularly dull on many fronts, and the Carrie/Saul relationship is not the centerpiece. The evolution of their relationship after Berlin has taken the shape of something like season three. Saul needs Carrie’s help, she’s in no position to give it, he coaxes her with some terrifying outcome If She Won’t, then she agrees, and things still Turn Out Shitty For Her. 

Ultimately I think this season highlights that whatever difficulties they now have working with each other, whatever trust issues they both still harbor, at the end of the day it is ALWAYS Carrie and Saul Versus the World. That’s always what this story has been (though this is extremely different from their relationship being the same as it’s always been), and it’s what the show comes back to after Quinn’s death. 

He still cares about her. She tells him not to, he’s not her fucking father. This is one of the great complexities of their relationship: Saul often does coddle her the way a father would a daughter, but he’s a firm believer in tough love and all the forms that can take. 

Again, I don’t think that Saul wants Carrie to be miserable. I also don’t think he wants her to happy. Her personal fulfillment and well-being is just entirely secondary to her role in his own mission of Whatever The Fuck. I mean I guess his mission is for the world to be more peaceful and better but like… y’know how Thanos thinks that killing half the universe’s population will help with the suffering caused by overpopulation? I’m not saying Saul is Thanos. But they’re both deranged males! (Also, if y’all don’t think Saul would Gamora Carrie right up outta this dimension if it meant fulfilling his life’s mission then please let me sell you this Homeland lamp!) (But honestly, I’m not saying Saul is as bad as Thanos.) (Do not send in asks about this.)

#7: “You’ve given me a hard time these last few years.” Season seven takes the post-Berlin foundation that season six built and adds some new interesting layers that are like a weird inversion/combo of seasons four and five. Carrie’s more on the outside than she’s ever been and now Saul’s the one who’s gone to work for the enemy. 

Still, no matter whatever shit has gone down between them, it’s still Carrie and Saul Versus the World. The show highlights some key ideas in the last three episodes. First, it fully acknowledges that whenever Saul comes calling, Carrie will always answer. Remember how he said this was his Achilles’ heel? Remember how in that same episode Carrie said she was going to be alone her whole life? Remember how Saul raised Carrie in his image? These callbacks are not evidence of stagnation of their relationship; they’re references to its elemental core. 

Second, the show finally has Carrie acknowledge the… um… storm of shit Saul has put her through while also fully copping to the extreme codependence of their entire relationship:

I’ve not come all this way in that fucking plane and in my life to fail in that mission when I know I can succeed. You’ve given me a hard time the past few years. I’m in, I’m out, I’m all over the place. I am not all over the place now. I’m here and I’m all in, and I need you to say yes. 

She pledges her devotion to the mission (above all else). She acknowledges Saul’s hot-and-cold nature with her. And then she says SHE STILL NEEDS HIS APPROVAL because–say it with me–they are in an extremely! toxic! relationship!

In a nutshell, the evolution of the discord in Carrie and Saul’s relationship started with him putting her life at risk in service of the mission. And now we’re at a point where she fully fucking volunteers for the task! In my heart of hearts I think a non-zero part of Carrie is doing it so he will love her more. Did I mention they are in a codependent relationship? 

So where do we go from here?

If you are still reading, congratulations! That’ll teach you to ask me a question about Carrie and Saul! Actually, about five questions were asked. The last–what will happen in season eight that will feel at all like a catharsis–is not one that I’ve actually thought that much about. 

I think I’ve made a case for Carrie and Saul’s relationship being the soul of this show–its mangled, twisted soul. The truth is their relationship is toxic. They are both their best and worst selves with each other. Like family, they know what buttons to push, and where to strike to make it hurt the most. 

What catharsis looks like in this relationship depends a lot on how you see this relationship. For example, it would be cathartic for me for Saul to die, but that will almost certainly not happen. It would be cathartic for Carrie to strike out on her own–finally–and attempt some type of fulfillment. Also very unlikely. 

If I had to guess about what the end of this story will look like for them, it’s probably with Carrie dead. Probably on a mission Saul convinced her to believe in. 

Saul’s been alone his entire life. He will never be less alone because Carrie is alive. I guess that’s the prison he has to live in. And then maybe she’ll finally be free of hers. 

EPILOGUE:

The above is a reading of their relationship that is quite sympathetic to Carrie, obviously, and quite unsympathetic to Saul, also obviously. You will probably disagree. Gail has written very interesting stuff on how the dynamic of the Carrie/Saul relationship is most like handler/asset. I think that is a very astute perspective and there are definitely aspects of it but I think the relationship more resembles the trope of found family: she is the daughter he never had and he is the stable father she never had, and they will both ruin each other. Fin! 

[kirasreflectionsofstyle]

Blog #6: 10/22/18

From Dinty W. Moore’s Field Guide to Writing Flash Nonfiction

1.      Passages to Reflect On:

“The music of a sentence, likewise, ought to do more than merely please the ear.  It must please the mind as well.  When a well-crafted sentence propels the writer (and reader) into the next sentence, it’s because the dynamic among the various elements of a sentence—words, syntax, sound, texture, tempo, and rhythm—have a kind of forward motion. All these elements combine to give form and then movement to an embryonic idea until the shape and sounds of the sentence become a vehicle for consciousness.” (77)

 ~I rarely read aloud but when I do, the melodic sound of an author’s words is astoundingly lovely. Authors, of course, tend to vary their style but my favorites are the ones who make their prose into poetry just by their clever word choices.  I agree with Barbara Hurd when she says that a well-crafted sentence propels the writer (and reader) forward because it’s absolutely true.  A sentence or paragraph that drags will fail to hold a reader and writer’s attention, thus losing their interest for the rest of the story.  A story’s plot is only a fragment of the entertainment that an author brings to a reader; the other part has to do with the creative delivery of the writer’s words.  Without it, there won’t be a single reader who will choose to come back and learn more.

 “You’ allows you to take a step back; to watch yourself go through the motions in a way that is almost scientific, and that therefore precludes going-through-the-motions in the prose […] Second person allows and encourages you to cop to things you might otherwise leave out; to notice yourself within a larger frame; to be more observant and more understanding, perhaps, of the context in which you behaved as you did. Moreover, it slows down the pace of things so that the story happens to you and your reader at about the same time—both of you there, in the middle of whatever it is, however delightful or excruciating.” (101-102)

 ~I admit that I tend to stay away from books that are narrated in second-person.  I have read only a handful of books I genuinely loved that were written in (either entirely or partially) second-person, but not nearly as many as first-person or third.  The reason why has never been easy to explain, but my only guess is that I typically want to read about someone else—not me.  I tend to want to disconnect from the story I am reading.  When I see the name of a protagonist on the page instead of “you”, I feel more invested in a story that has nothing to do with me.  I feel more fascinated by a life lived by someone who is very different from myself and is experience things I would never dream of doing.  When something exciting or terrible happens, I still feel intense emotions even if there is no “you” to pull me into the story—I am already pulled in.  

 2.      Experiments in Prose Style:

~Dinah Lenney provides a very interesting prompt on page 102 of Moore’s book: “Remember a time when you had to make a choice, any choice, no instance being too big or too small, but best to focus on a time, or place, or thing that is significant to you, of course […] Write an essay about it in second person.”  Being that I do not typically write anything in second person point-of-view, I thought that this would be a great challenge for myself.

 It's the first day of a new semester and you’ve entered the school cafeteria with a growling stomach.  High school can be such a drag, but so can making new friends in a sea full of strangers.  You scope out the spacious room, looking for anyone who looks remotely friendly enough to let you sit with them.  That is step one.  Each table looks full so far.  How did these people meet each other so fast?  The lack of chairs is really beginning to concern you.  The long, rectangular tables seem like your best bet, but who would let you join them?  Your gaze sweeps over the glamourous social butterflies who are too absorbed in their own gab fest to notice you.  Finally, another lone figure besides yourself catches your eye.  Seated at the end of one of the tables is someone with long blonde hair draping over her green shirt.  The curvy black letters printed on it say “SLYTHERIN.”  A fellow Harry Potter fan sitting alone? Jackpot. The stone-faced stranger is boredly sorting the contents of her lunchbox, but has no companion to talk to.  You breathe in and walk to the empty chair beside her.  

“I like your shirt,” you say. 

She glances up and her blank expression is replaced by a smile.  “Thanks.” 

You gesture to the chair.  “Is it okay if I…?”  

The stranger nods.  “Yeah, sure.” You sink into the plastic chair with a heavy sigh of relief.  Step one is complete.

3.      Artful Sentences:

·       Second Person Narrative: “The circus looks abandoned and empty.  But you think perhaps you can smell caramel wafting through the evening breeze, beneath the crisp scent of the autumn leaves. A subtle sweetness at the edges of the cold.”—Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

·       Location (explained on pg. 84 of Moore’s book): Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it.  In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square.”—Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

·       Tense Shift (from present to past): “All night the boy who is a man watches me dance.  He watched me dance.”—Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street

4.      In-Class Exercises:

a)      Grace’s Conjunctive Adverbs Exercise:

~In class, Grace gave us the following exercise at the end of her presentation about conjunctive adverbs: Write 3 sentences using conjunctive adverbs that following 2 ideas in each prompt:

>You had to turn in an assignment late because you were sick.

>He was an avid reader and enjoyed writing.  

>She went to bed early because her evening plans fell through.

 The sentences that I came up were as follows:

>I caught a stomach bug last Monday, thus I asked my teacher if I could hand in my essay on Tuesday instead.

*I caught a stomach bug last Monday; thus, I asked my teacher if I could hand in my essay on Tuesday instead. 

>He enjoyed books and subsequently he developed a fondness for writing.

>Her evening plans fell through, therefore she went to bed early last night.

 b)      Emilya’s Dependent Clause Exercise:

~At the end of her presentation about dependent clauses, Emilya gave us this exercise: Write a paragraph of varied sentence types and lengths by incorporating a combination of independent and dependent clauses (making complex sentences). Try to have both subordinate and relative clauses, but focus on how this variation helps with syntax and style.

 This was my own paragraph, which is about my intense love for everything related to autumn:

Autumn is such a beautiful time of the year that, to me, the others pale in comparison.  The leaves change colors.  The warm air transforms into crisp, cool breezes.  The holidays are creeping right around the corner for us to enjoy.  No doubt that will be playing Christmas music the day after Halloween.  I’d rather leave some time for Thanksgiving.  “Jingle Bells” doesn’t quite wrap November up like a roasted homecooked turkey.

*Revision note: Under part ‘a’ of Grace’s in-class exercise, I rearranged the first sentence. My professor suggested using a semicolon before the conjunctive adverb (thus) and a comma afterward if it is connecting two sentences without a coordinating conjunction.  Very helpful tip!

[liminalrp]

WELCOME TO CENTER POINT, KIM YISOL 

Age Twenty Seven Occupation Surgical Resident Length of Residence 1 year Apartment Middle Floor (Serviced), Odd Unit, East-Facing Add-Ons Unit #03, Floor M8s

Those on Floor M8s have all been to the wedding of a now-divorced couple

Tenants that live in units that start with #3: if one doesn’t return to their apartment by 10:00pm. they’ll return to a barren space. Not to worry, their things will come back! Just give it 24 hours.

Trigger Warnings: None

kim yisol’s built a life around being first. this is role evident from the day she was born, first out of the womb by a handful of minutes. of course, there are plenty of times in life where being first doesn’t mean a damn thing. for example, being firstborn of the twins did not mean priority is guaranteed, or even favoritism—at least not in dad’s eyes. but that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? favorability goes to the son. firstborn or otherwise. best grades in class or otherwise.

to her credit, dad’s obvious bias doesn’t really discourage her (at least, not in ways she’d admit). yisol continues on her path of monopolizing firsts. first in class, first in track, first in finishing lunch. and perhaps it might’ve been true to say that her life would be considerably easier had she been less of the competitive variety. but yisol plays life to win. or at least, to chase after dad’s approval.

beyond that, childhood had been normal. overlooking the underlying issues between daughter-and-father and (maybe) father-and-mother, the kims lead a rather picturesque life; the ideal korean family for any outsider looking in: a house in which they own, two bright-eyed children, one boy and one girl, both hand in hand in matching outfits for nearly every photographable moment. twins, who, for the most part, get along swimmingly as most twins do. forgoing bits and pieces of playground jealousy growing up, yisol places significant partiality in her brother, and the usual sibling squabble here and there, the two spent most of their childhood sticking to each other rather than playing with the rest of the class.

all in all, picture perfect. at least, till disaster strikes.

as the saying goes, there’s no smoke without fire. and so, whereas dad may have been able to hide it all along, it took but one loose thread to unravel the carefully kept dirty secret he’s kept for most of his children’s lives. and how basic was it that it had been infidelity?

everything after that, naturally, fell apart. the house, the family, the mom, her and her brother. news of a hidden family, a second son dad’s been hiding all long had torn through their lives like a category five hurricane—leaving yisol to her own devices with the bits and pieces of debris: broken home, broken dreams, broken spirit. and what, pray tell, could a kid have done but pick up from where her brother fell off? but to focus on something that might remotely make mom happy again; to fixate on something that she thinks would best garner “revenge” (the higher and faster she flew, the more likely dad would regret the family (daughter) he left behind, right?).

here, we return to the obsession of ‘firsts’. we return to young yisol, now taller and older, yet all the same still obsessing over results in hopes to turn heads. because what else did she have otherwise? certainly not her brother, at least, not so much as when they were young. and with results—with results she could claim her place, with results she could have dad kicking blankets at night for abandoning them. her.

but some things in life cannot be anticipated. her brother being more like dad than she thought cannot be anticipated. lowlife, immoral, disgusting is the words that come to mind when the truth rears its ugly head. and yisol is anger driven, hurt driven, when she opens her mouth and sets fire to what’s left of the love and trust and respect between her and sinu. and with that, she enters college, yanking at her hair a lifetime’s worth of trust issues.

it becomes easier then, to hyper-fixate, to ignore family problems and boyfriend problems and fuck all so she could focus solely on her future. yisol settles on a career path halfway through her undergrad and breezes past that and medical school easy with her grades. of course, that too is a given. she’s smart, she always has been. whether or not that included the proper social skills (or even the ability to get over one’s pride) to being able to sit across what’s left of her impossibly broken family and not want to throw something at her brother’s head was a whole different story. but for the most part, she lives fine now. least, that’s what she’ll keep telling herself.