#the whole thing with a tragedy is that it's preventable from the outside inevitable from the inside

[spiritsglade]

what really fucks me up about a death in the family is that, beyond the fact that jason's death was determined by vote, the fact people could vote as many times as they liked, the closeness of the margin, etc.

it's that the vote wasn't for 'does batman get there in time to save jason' it was for 'when bruce digs through that blown up warehouse, does he find a corpse or a living body.' the vote is for 'does jason get to have enough plot armor to survive getting beaten with a crowbar and then blown up'

either way, batman is too late. he was always going to be too late.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

This might be a hot take but I’m fully convinced that if Ponyboy got injured in the church fire and died in Johnny’s place, that Johnny would still die because he’d be the member of the gang that wouldn’t be able to handle it

I used to think it would be Darry or Soda- and sure, they’d be absolutely devastated. They’d never be the same. But the Curtis boys know loss, they lost both their parents at once and not only survived but bounced back in a relatively short period of time. Losing Pony would be worse and it would take them far longer to move past it, but Soda and Darry have each other and they would survive it.

Johnny though, Johnny couldn’t.

We know what Johnny and Pony mean to one another. Whether you read them as platonic or romantic or a secret third thing there is no denying they are each others person, unquestioningly and irrevocably. We see in the book how depressed Ponyboy is after Johnny’s death, delusional and then nearly catatonic with grief, and he has his brothers and the remainder of the gang watching over him like a hawk. Their support and presence is absolutely constant for a reason, even if Ponyboy’s suicide watch is largely subtextual and glossed over in a few short paragraphs.

Johnny doesn’t have brothers. He has the gang, that are family in all but blood, but Johnny has spent his life looking out for himself. He sleeps in the lot or couch surfs because no one else is going to find a spot for him, and because his own house isn’t safe. But Johnny is depressed. Ponyboy mentions how the greaser lifestyle and his parents’ warring is ‘killing Johnny’ rather than turning him cold and mean. Ponyboy also mentions that the gang is the only thing keeping Johnny from running away from Tulsa altogether, while Johnny literally voices his suicidal thoughts to Pony in the lot. Point is, Johnny’s mental state was already precarious before the events of the novel. Had he, Pony, and Dally all lived through the story Johnny would still struggle tremendously, probably even more than before. If Pony had died Johnny probably still would not have lived to the end of the book.

Johnny is incredibly protective of Ponyboy (even if Pony doesn’t realize it). Throughout the book we see him take charge whenever Ponyboy falls to pieces, comfort him when Ponyboy is feeling embarasssed after meeting Cherry, let Pony sleep on his legs even when Pony put them to sleep and they had to jump off a train. He was ready to run away with Pony no questions asked. He buys Pony a book and cigarettes when they’re on the run and don’t have a ton of money just to make the whole thing easier for Pony mentally. He literally stabs Bob to death for Pony. So imagine what would happen if Johnny went into that church with Pony and was unable to save him?  If they were in that inferno and he saw the beam crash down and helped Dallas drag Pony’s limp body out and it still wasn’t enough? What do you think happens to an already seriously depressed kid when his person- the one person who always understood him without him having to say a word, a boy who was so naive, yet so wise and so desperately kind- dies? What do you think happens when Johnny can’t save the one person he desperately wanted to protect?

It’s simple. Johnny pulls a Dally, and Johnny dies. And then Dally dies too, because he can’t live without Johnny (if it had JUST been Pony who died, Dallas would survive. Dallas cared about Pony- I firmly believe that, but Pony’s death would not affect Dally the same way Johnny’s did. It wouldn’t affect him any LESS but it would affect him DIFFERENTLY- and would not result in his suicide for a myriad of reasons that deserve a whole post of their own.)

But yeah. Had Pony died from the church fire I think Johnny would have died too, and The Outsiders would end with four dead kids instead of three. It is a horrible, inevitable, preventable tragedy, and no matter what variable is changed it will always be a horrible, inevitable, preventable tragedy.

[coyoxxtl]

im very high and thinking about how twilight princess is about the tragic inevitability of fate.

so the tp universe is one of the oot timeline tangents where ganondorf was stopped before he fucked everything up. a universe that was literally created to prevent the tragedy cycle from continuing. it was a peaceful hyrule for a very long time until certain events occurred with seemingly cruel timing.

ganondorf was nearly executed until the triforce of power suddenly manifested in him and saved his life. zelda was about to be coronated queen of hyrule until zant rolled in and took over. link was just a young man living a peaceful life far away from hyrule until it was ripped out of his hands and nothing was the same ever again.

if ganondorf died, zelda got promoted from princess, and link stayed living a simple life, then the cycle cannot continue, but it forced itself into motion. ganondorf is back to making hyrule hell, zelda is trapped and mostly powerless until the very end, and link was forced out of his home to be the big hero he was never interested in being.

in fact, link doesn’t really get his whole Hero of Time thing until later on. he left home because the village kids were kidnapped, and no other reason. he was told about it along the way and took the mantle because he had to. it was the best course of action to save his village. and of course he’s just naturally a helpful and caring person. but i think he wanted to be a small time hero, helping his neighbors with chores and such. fate made him have to be everyone’s hero. he was spurred to save his own yes but along the way he was forced to take on the weight of more than he expected, because what threatens his home threatens everyone. and he has to be one of the keys to ending it. fuck do we even know if link returns to ordon after the events of the game? is he like oot link where he couldn’t go back to kokiri forest after everything that happened? searching for the companion that accompanied him during his traumatic journey?

one thing i used to dislike about tp’s story is that link and zelda barely knew each other. their relationship is practically nonexistent, first time they meet link was a wolf, and when he wasn’t it was at the very end. but it makes sense if you think about it. link and zelda have no reason to know each other outside the triforce’s cycle. but they were forced into each other’s lives through this mutual cyclical tragedy.

im losing steam but ywa yeah u get it

[reconstructwriter]

The Untamed vs Game of Thrones/ASoIaF

Finished watching The Untamed and have to rant about it, especially to anyone tired of GRRM taking forever to finish the Winds of Winter or burned out after season eight. The Untamed /Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation has all joys of GoM/ASOIAF (fight scenes, back-stabbing, political drama, an overwhelming evil that threatens the world, medievalism inspired by history, fantasy, character deconstructions, incest, zombies, tragedy …okay it doesn’t have dragons per se but it does have a dragon turtle) It also straight up does everything better. Everything:

The Opening: Much like Indiana Jones movies are praised for having more action in the first five minutes than most action movies have in two hours, this opens up right in the middle of the most climatic, action-packed and heart-breaking scene of the whole show. Then the show jumps back and forth, leading up to the inevitable and then shows where you go from there. So, we start out with an inevitable horror – this person WILL die, that person WILL betray, etc. that not only can’t be prevented but that everyone is inevitably spiraling towards. At the same time, it opens in the middle so we’ve got the tension of ‘what will come in the aftermath of this’. Best of both.

Villains: We’ve got both the intrinsically evil and otherworldly threat and the very human people who have chosen evil. But unlike ASOIAF, there’s an interplay between the two in The Untamed. The Others are fundamentally outsiders with Caster alone assisting them by making sacrifices. Meanwhile in The Untamed, said intrinsic and otherworldly evil is very much intertwined with BOTH the villains AND the heroes. It’s power most covet and brings out their worst traits, it is a force our protagonist must struggle with both inwardly and outwardly.

Also the villains and heroes are very much distorted reflections of each other in a way that's very intriguing – especially Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang who are very similar in personality. Had things been different they could have BEEN each other in a way Jon Snow and Ramsey Snow really couldn’t. There’s also a depth to both. You can see why Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang walked the paths they did even if Xue Yang turned out so fucked up. While I can see why Jon Snow made his choices…we aren’t shown why Ramsey Snow became the way he was. He’s the cliché ‘well he was just born nasty’ that can be boring in a villain – especially one contrasted with the protagonist.

Characterization: Everyone! Xichen WISHES he had his head chopped off like Ned Stark. Wei Wuxian shows even rapidly moving waters can run deep (and hey if you wanna see someone get literally, repeatedly damned for doing the right thing…). Madame Yu is like Catalyn Stark if the latter was badass and went out like a boss (and also despite everything gave half a damn about Jon Snow). Jiang Cheng is a contradictory fit whose relationship with Wei Wuxian makes Jon Snow and Robb Stark’s relationship bland as store-bought white bread. I see your Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy and raise you Xichen and Meng Yao. In general MXTX’s characters are deeper, richer, more real and satisfying than GRRM’s.

Fantasy: This is a Xanxia fantasy so there’s a lot more overt magic – not just magical creatures but most of the protagonists and antagonists have magic. And magic swords! Personalized magic swords almost like a blend of Valyrian Steel and lightsabers except these swords allow the wielder to fly so as much as I love my glowy swoosh swords these ones might win out on cool points.

Historical: … from what I've been told Xanxia fantasies are typically set in the real world so The Untamed is set in our China – just our China if cultivation were a real way to obtain magic and immortality. So, there’s A LOT of references to real historical medieval stuff here. And a lot of medieval horror. You got your punishments, including some augmented by magic. You've got torture, entire sects being wiped out and the horror of bride ghosts.

Backstabbery: Thinking back on it Game of Thrones/ASOIAF, for all that it’s a sack of backstabbing weasels, doesn’t have a lot of really wrenching betrayal. The closest is probably Theon going back to daddy instead of staying with his Robb, but even then that's a valid allegiance for him. Littlefinger has no reason beyond money to support Ned, we get little hints of familial betrayal (Ramsey murdering his brother) but nothing like The Untamed which has some horrible betrayals. I mean people who have been best friends/sworn blood oaths/etc. backstabbing. If MXTX wrote GoT Robert Baratheon would’ve been the one cutting Ned’s head off (which, honestly that’d have been more interesting).

It's a crying shame Game of Thrones/ASOIAF is more popular and it really shouldn’t be. Best of all The Untamed its free (on Viki) 😊

[just-some-guy-joust]

Posting my own propaganda; I did NOT write a (soon to be) 100k fic about Lyf to let them die here

(Although a quick note before I dive in- reminder that if you can get a perfect 50/50 they can move together as a team!!!! Since this is the most votes any of the polls have as of now, I'll allow a tiiiiny bit of leeway in either direction as well)

Wider necessary context: The Mechanisms (in universe) are a group of space pirates who tell the stories they come across in the format of narration-song-narration-song-etc albums. These stories are always gruesome, over the top, and always always end in tragedy.

Your sister dies before your eyes after 40 years of being made to serve a role in a war you hate, with only a few seconds to live again before being cut down yourself. You win the war, but what else is there left behind?

You finally find the one thing needed to save your city from endless capitalistic destruction, and yet you die before you can share it with the world. Maybe they didn't deserve it anyway.

You work your whole life to bring together the two different tribes of your own world only to become disillusioned to the cold hatred of your people. You destroy everything because what else is there left that's even worth saving?

Time and time again, things end the same way. Death, destruction, and only a handful of survivors if you're lucky. These three aren't even the only examples, these are just the longer albums. Even the individual songs end this way, just on a smaller scale.

So when The Bifrost Incident begins, you already know how the story ends. But the characters don't.

It breaks the rules of the narrative right from the very first second. For the first time, a character in the story is narrating it, rather than a Mech as an outsider perspective. They are introduced as Lyfrassir Edda, investigating the disappearance of a train, and in this first narration they tell you exactly how it ends. No remains were found other than the engine room, and "a couple of warped skeletons." Every single person on that train dies.

The only thing Lyf can do is try to work out how it happened. They go through the remaining security recordings, keeping track of the characters and where they go. There's nothing they can do to prevent these events, they can only stand back and watch as they unfold.

Another Mech narrative device that is broken here is that every previous album took classic public domain melodies to use for their songs. The Bifrost Incident is the first (and as far as I'm aware, only) instance of them using purely original music. Even from the beginning everything feels...off.

Lyf eventually unlocks the secrets of the footage, past a point of no return. The passengers on the train, the ones they'd been watching this whole time, did not cause its destruction. The once simple murder mystery turns eldritch horror, and the usual narration-song-narration format is shattered as 5 high-energy songs in a row describe the fate of the train.

Everyone on that train is doomed. There are two full songs describing their demises, ones they cannot escape or prevent. Lyf can only watch as things get worse, until eventually the only remaining living passengers decide what they have to do: take advantage of the blood ritual keeping the train moving to delay its arrival to the station Lyf found it at.

"They cannot prevent what they have touched following them into our world, but they can delay it. Keep the train on the track as long as possible."

There is no stopping this. And Lyf then realizes what seeing this footage means. The train has arrived. It's even taken them a few days to review the footage. Every second that passes brings them, everyone they know and love, and their entire star system, closer to its inevitable destruction.

There isn't a single thing they can do in their narrative other than discover just how impossible it is to escape it. And they do try, they're the only character that ever learns of this, and they flee. It is unknown whether or not they survive.

Nobody else does. And despite all their efforts, there wasn't a single thing they could do to stop it.

[oswinsdolma]

Yes, it's 2021, but I'm still not over the dark irony of Kilgharrah's final words, so I am going to analyse it, even though precisely nobody asked.

Firstly, Kilgharrah tells Merlin after his admission of failure that "all that [he has] dreamt of has come to pass". Now, obviously there is the irony of the fact that Arthur is dead, something that Merlin has been trying to prevent for the whole five seasons, yet the battle was victorious, people have seen magic as a force for good and Merlin can now be open about his gifts with his friends. However, there is an even deeper irony here that is rarely addressed, and this lies in the word "all". The problem is, that while Emrys is the entity that strives for magical inclusion and the one that fufils the prophecy. Destiny is not conscious: it doesn't understand life or death beyond the shallow ties of balance and mathematics. Yet Emrys may be a concept, and concepts need someone- or something- to take root in, and that someone happened to be Merlin.

Fundamentally, Merlin is not a bad person, but regardless of his power, his empathy, his loyalty, he is still unequivocally human. He has flaws, he has guilt, and no matter how dedicated he is to his destiny, there will always be other variables that come into play, and there is therefore no doubt that Merlin would have had other thoughts, no matter how insignificant, that lay opposed to his destiny.

Take when Freya died: Merlin was heartbroken, and in those seconds of emotion before reason took a hold once again, he may have wished, just for a moment, that Arthur and Freya's fates were reversed. And even after that, he would have hoped that one day, Arthur and Freya could live in a world where the other's existence is not a violation onto the other. And what place exists where harmony must ensue outside of the dead?

Then moving on to Balinor's death and Merlin's anguish in its aftermath: yes, he gained his powers as a dragonlord, but at the expense of a father he should have had a right to know. In that light, there is the inevitability of resentment for his gifts. Merlin would never have wanted the powers he attained had he known the price for them. And yet again, those tiny thoughts would have crept in: the wish that things could go differently, the wish that the business of dragons was not his to oversee, even at the time when his gifts were needed most. So the sick twist there is that when Merlin needed Kilgharrah, the only person who ever truly understood him despite their differences, left him alone, that wish came true.

There are hundreds of instances where Merlin's humanity prevented the prophecy from taking a favourable turn, and that, I think is what makes Merlin less a drama than a tragedy: there's the hope for a better ending combined with the constant prescence of an ending you don't want to believe. There's the fall at the ending and the warped sense of catharsis that comes with knowing that the end did come, even if it wasn't what you expected.

Following that, there is a pause in the conversation, as both characters take a second to mourn in silence, the absence of what united them showing them no longer as allies, but as friends.

Then: "no man, no matter how great, can know his destiny." This isn't so much something for Merlin to understand, but more something for the audience to hear: it's an echo of the first words we hear, and therefore a reminder that it is Kilgharrah who tells the story. Now this is an interesting narrative device in itself: why have him narrate rather than Arthur? Why Kilgharrah over Merlin or Gwen or Morgana? Take a second to imagine what it would have been like for the story to start with their voices, even if the words were the same. Especially when we know their endings, it gives the story a different tone and alludes to each of their fates in a different way. Though here is that terrible truth that the narrative comes back to every time if you analyse it far enough: each of the core four has a story, yet because of the way they were used, it will never be their story to tell. But Kilgharrah... He was just as important as the rest of them, but while the others were pawns, he was sat watching the game with a reluctant but omniescent eye, and that's what make that line hit so hard for us (aside from the fact that it is a taunting echo of the hope we had at the start). The story, while timeless, is dead, and we are all helpless spectators, hoping against hope that we are wrong about how it ends.

Furthermore, there is the fact that it is a repeat of the first words we hear when we still hold a little hope. It is that reiteration of the fact that the story will be told and retold, rewritten and loved but doomed to end in tragedy. It's an indication of the timelessness of certain tales and the permenence of endings no matter how much we want them to change, and it hits the mark every time.

Then, if it wasn't sad enough already, there is the final utterence of the phrase "once and future king". Kilgharrah says these words in hope, trusting Merlin to take it as a promise, but retrospectively there is the darkness of that line that Merlin probably knew all along, even if he didn't let himself believe it. In saying "once" rather than "now" right from the get-go, there was that quiet acknowledgement of an ending, even if it was followed by a beginning: it is yet another reminder to Merlin that he should have known, and that bittersweet reassurance that wherever he may have done, it would always have ended in disaster. Even if they both made all the right choices, the gods would have found another way to turn it down.

Okay, next let's look at "when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again". This, in all.effect, is a reiteration of the last phrase, made clearer for an audience who may need or desire reinforcement here so I'm not going to go too deep. But the thing is, Merlin already knows, at least in his heart, that it is Arthur's destiny to rise again and be the greatest king Albion has ever known. So when Kilgharrah says this, it is not a warning or a piece of advice, for perhaps the first time, it is a kindness. Merlin has been wrecked by his actions and those of all the others caught in the imperfect web spun and left to decay by the idea of Albion. It is a gentle reminder not to forget the reason for all that they have lost, and an olive branch of freedom for one who was so long enslaved.

And there again is that irony and cruel truth that while Merlin is the crucible in which that dream will be forged and has a certain autonomy over its nature, he is not a part of that dream himself, and maybe he never will be. Not unless someone lets him in, and all the people who would ever have done so are a breath too close to death for it to really count.

(I said I wasn't going to go too deep but I got carried away)(this is why my lit teacher is fed up with me)

And finally, the last line Kilgharrah says to us, perhaps the most powerful of them all: "the story that we have been a part of will live long in the minds of men". To analyse the words in this individually would be a rare insult to its complexity, but as a phrase, it evokes such an emotive response that it alone finally cements that finality in our minds. It's the cyclical acknowledgement of the audience's role in the narrative, simultaneously retracting and strengthening our suspension of belief. The one word I have used more than any other in this essay is "story" and this is why: the people who hear a tale such as this become just as important as the characters, because we are united by hope for the final chord but dreading it, because that means that the song will finally be over. Is it better for the embers to glow with tragedy or be extinguished by a deeper catharsis?

In summary, it is obvious to the naked eye that the Great Dragon's last words are loaded with meaning far beyond their initial appearance, and when you dive deeper, the web of connotations is so vast that this essay has barely scratched the surface. But the informal and perhaps most accurate theme that wa can draw from this is that none of us are over this show, no matter what we claim, because that ending really flippin' hurt, okay!?

[oo-hazel-oo]

The Lucky Batch

hey y’all! i’ve been working on this for a hot minute — turns out i am incapable writing anything shorter than 5,000 words, so sorry in advance for how long this got. a huge thank you to @cosmicghostie for being the ultimate writer's cheerleader and to the rest of the lucky batch for giving me such amazing characters to work with! you all genuinely brighten my day, so i hope this brightens yours! ♥︎

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Lucky: a few days in the life of Clone Force 37’s unofficial therapist

content warnings: blood/injury, weapon use, lots of emotional distress (but also some fluff to make up for it!!)

Thumbs didn’t know when he had become Clone Force 37’s unofficial therapist. It just kinda happened.

His original role as the squad’s battle strategist shifted after he realized that his usual skill-set wouldn’t be helpful to a squad who typically threw strategy out the window.

Yet even without a set strategy, the unconventional group somehow had a relatively high success rate when it came to their missions. Thumbs had assumed it was their unpredictability that gave them an advantage. Or the fact that each of them had unique abilities, unlike any soldiers he had ever met.

However, the longer he was with Clone Force 37, the more he started to notice just how special his batch-mates were.

The twins, Foxy and Pepper, had caught his attention first. Both were skilled in their own ways, but what stood out to Thumbs was how each was fiercely protective of the other. He wasn’t sure what the pair had gone through to end up on the Clover, but he couldn’t help but notice the weight of Foxy’s quiet around strangers or the subtle promise behind each sticker that Pepper placed. Thumbs knew more than anyone, love was always accompanied by fear.

He saw this fear in Master Kenhla, every time she glanced towards the two padawans she had come to mentor. Despite her powerful posture, Thumbs could see how she carried the galaxy on her shoulders; not so that she could manage more, but so her brothers could bear less.

Brothers like Rane and Skip, who had lost everything, everyone, before finding their place with the Lucky Batch. Or Sparks and Ryder, both of whom blamed themselves for tragedies of the past.

They all had lost so much… Yet, by some miracle, they had found each other.

Thumbs would do anything to make sure it stayed that way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

This particular day had started normally, which for Thumbs meant wincing as three screaming forms barreled towards where he sat knitting at the back of the ship. He set his needles down, knowing he would not be getting back to work anytime soon.

“Here we go,” he mumbled under his breath as his batchmates shouted from across the hull.

“THUMBS!!!”

The small stampede, which was revealed to be Sparks, Ballast, and Luna, raced towards him, each one attempting to outpace the other.

“Oh Maker, Ballast, what did you do?”

The batcher in question skidded to a stop, mock-offense written across his face. “I didn’t-”

Thumbs gave each of his batch-mates a once-over, scanning them for injuries. “Should I get Pepper? Is anyone hurt?”

“Not yet,” the two mechanics both mumbled under their breath.

Thumbs sighed in equal parts relief and exhaustion. Ballast and Sparks had been ‘friendly’ rivals for as long as he had known the pair. Unfortunately for him, their rivalry often extended outside the realm of mechanics and into the everyday affairs of the Lucky Batch, with Thumbs usually acting as the chosen mediator of these disagreements.

Sparks pointed at Ballast, pleading his case. “He ate all the cookies Jack made me!”

“You’re overreac-”

“And drank all my caf.”

Now Thumbs understood the near-murderous look on Sparks’ face.

His brother had always done so much for the batch and asked for very few things in return, one of those things being his morning cups of caf: a simple but necessary pleasure that allowed him to function throughout the day.

Thumbs brought his attention back to the pair in front of him, wondering whose word to trust more. Then he brought his gaze down, to a much more reliable source.

“Luna, what happened?”

The padawan looked up nervously, her eyes partially hidden behind choppy bangs. Thumbs smiled when he noticed she was wearing the mittens he had knit for her. He had originally made pairs for both her and Brisk while they were stationed on a colder planet, but now Luna liked to wear them for fun, claiming they made her look like an ewok.

The young girl shrunk from the attention that was suddenly on her, moving closer to Ballast’s side.

“I…”

“What happened is he drank all my caf.” Sparks stepped forward, jabbing another accusatory finger towards Ballast. “The caf that prevents me from strangling my brothers when they get on my nerves.”

Thumbs spoke up, attempting to diffuse the rising hostility. “I thought you didn’t even like caf, Ballast. I always see you drinking that tea Jackal likes.”

The mechanic shifted on his feet nervously. “Well, I…”

Thumbs looked towards his brother curiously, confused by his sudden change in demeanor. Something about the whole dispute seemed off, almost like Ballast was covering for someb-

“Wait,” a small voice piped up from behind the three brothers. “B-Ballast didn’t take your caf, I did.”

“You-” Sparks spun towards the voice with an instinctive glower before recognizing its source. His features softened almost instantly. “What?”

Luna shrugged sheepishly. “I wanted to see if it was good… It was! And Master Ken said I was exceptionally energetic during our training afterwards.”

Thumbs fixed his gaze on Sparks expectantly, curious how he would react to the young batcher’s confession.

“I’m sorry,” she continued, wringing her mittened hands. “I know I should’ve asked.”

Sparks cleared his throat awkwardly as he waved off her apology. “No, it’s uh... It’s fine.”

Luna’s expression remained uncertain and Ballast elbowed Sparks in the side, urging him to reassure the young girl.

“Really, I mean... I shouldn’t even be drinking that much anyway,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck guiltily.

Ballast grinned at Sparks, eating up the moment.

Thumbs couldn’t help the smirk that crept onto his own face as well. For a squad of soldiers who had fought countless battles and overcome powerful enemies, they sure did surrender fast when it came to their padawans. No one onboard the Clover was immune to their effortless charm.

Luna eventually looked up at Thumbs, seeking his own approval, which he happily granted with an encouraging thumbs up.

There was a welcome moment of silence before Sparks’ head jerked upwards once more.

“Wait, what about my cookies?”

“Hmm...” Ballast looked to the floor dramatically, feigning deep thought. “You mean the chocolate chunk cookies with sea salt and a fine caramel drizzle?” He smirked before continuing. “I have no idea.”

Sparks took two threatening steps towards Ballast and within seconds the two of them were chasing each other throughout the Clover with Luna giggling in their wake.

For the clones, who quite literally were forced to grow up too fast, the padawans’ presence reminded them of what a childhood should be. It kept them grounded, desperate to preserve that feeling for the young girls for as long as they could. And if that meant that Luna could get away with stealing Spark’s caf, then so be it.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

That evening’s supply trip was supposed to be easy. A quick in and out operation to gather necessary materials for the coming weeks. But it had already been three hours since Ballast, Sparks, and Foxy’s expected return and no one on the Clover had received an update on their whereabouts.

Thumbs wasn’t someone who paced often. While the rest of the galaxy seemed to be in constant motion, Thumbs always tried his best to remain still at its center. But the longer he waited for his batchmates’ return, the more he felt like he was spinning off his axis, unable to stop the repetitive trajectory of his feet throughout the hull.

He wasn’t even aware of his own movements until they were interrupted by the sound of distant yelling. Strained shouts echoed from outside the Clover’s walls, nearly imperceptible amidst the intensifying wind. Their tone, panicked and desperate, was more bone-chilling than the rain that had started to fall around them.

Storms had always scared Thumbs. He hated seeing flashes of lightning, understanding that the explosion of thunder would follow, but never knowing when. Deep down he knew that thunder was harmless, that lightning posed the greater threat, but at least it was quick, unexpected, gone in a flash. Thunder was slow, deafening, inevitable.

When the Clover’s ramp finally lowered to reveal a bloodied Sparks cradled in Ballast’s arms, he knew that the lightning had passed.

This was the thunder.

Thumbs watched in silence as his brothers stumbled into the hull of the ship, a trail of mud and blood left in their wake. Ballast and Foxy eased Sparks onto the closest bunk, removing his armor to better assess the injury. Luna and Brisk dashed into the room, their eyes widening at the horrific sight. Luna’s breaths came in labored bursts as she called for Pepper, tears streaming down her face.

The squad’s medic came running, following the worried gaze of the two young girls who stood near the bunks. He spared a brief glance at Foxy before quickly donning a pair of gloves and shouting orders to nearby batch-mates. Hearing the commotion, Master Kenhla arrived and immediately ushered her padawans out of the room, not wanting them to witness the sight of their brother in pain.

While before Thumbs had been unable to sit still, now he felt frozen, cold as the ice on Hoth. His brothers were right in front of him, yet he felt as if he were watching the scene unfold from millions of miles away.

He kept thinking back to that morning — Sparks had been fine, albeit cranky over his lack of caf, and now…

Thumbs hated it. He hated how things could change so quickly.

He watched as Ballast, usually explosive in his mannerisms, now held Sparks’ hand in his own, whispering words of comfort as his brother lay motionless on the cot.

Thumbs suddenly felt sick to his stomach, a shrill ringing filling the air around him. The echoes of a memory that had been stagnant for years, forced into the depths of his mind, suddenly emerged:

An argument, a battle, another brother gone. A hand desperately squeezing his own before going limp, devoid of all life.

Another hand, this one from the present, landed on his shoulder, dragging him out of one nightmare and into another. A voice was speaking, asking if he was alright, telling him to sit down.

Thumbs’ guilt only increased. Hands that should be helping his fallen brother were instead on his own shoulders, urging him towards the nearest seat. He shrugged them off with an uncharacteristic roughness, finally taking a few shaky steps towards Sparks.

He had almost made it to the bunk when the same pair of arms wrapped around his torso, pulling him back.

“Thumbs, stop,” the voice urged. “You need to let Pepper help him. There’s nothing you can do.”

He knew the words were supposed to be comforting. He had spoken the same ones to almost every soldier who had come to him burdened with the invisible weight of survivor’s guilt. Sometimes it was what they needed to hear; other times, it wasn’t.

The last thing Thumbs saw was an oxygen mask being lowered onto his brother’s face before eventually succumbing to the arms around him, letting himself be removed from the scene.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Thumbs woke up the next morning with a headache.

Foxy, who had been the one to escort him out of the room the night before, filled him in on what had happened during the supply run.

Apparently as the trio had made their way back to the ship, bandits had intercepted them. The ragtag group of thieves were lacking in both numbers and artillery and hadn’t been particularly difficult to subdue. Sparks had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the unforgiving crossfire of a supply trip gone wrong.

Thumbs wished he had been there. Maybe then he could’ve shouted to his brother in warning or pulled him out of harm’s way. Stars, he would’ve jumped in front of the deathly bolt himself if it meant Sparks was still standing at the end of the day.

The two of them had grown close over the past few months, especially after Thumbs learned the story behind Sparks’ name. He could tell that his brother’s outwardly gruff attitude was just a shield used to protect the sensitive, guilt-ridden soldier beneath. Even one offhand criticism of his work as a mechanic could bring him back to the accident and a past he wished desperately to forget.

Because of this, Sparks would often work through the night, losing himself in the wires and circuits of the ship to ensure he didn’t make the same mistake twice. Thumbs was always at his side reminding him to take breaks, to drink water when he was thirsty, to eat when pangs of hunger hit...

But there was little he could do for Sparks now as he lay unconscious in the hull of the Clover.

Pepper had done everything he could, luckily managing to stabilize their brother within a few hours of the incident. Sparks was slowly showing signs of improvement — he had even woke up briefly in the early hours, mumbling something about watering Percy, before slipping back into the depths of unconsciousness.

Percy was the name of one of Sparks’ plants, something Thumbs discovered after walking in on his brother affectionately repotting it in a moment of assumed privacy.

He smiled at the memory, shaking his head in disbelief. It was just like Sparks to be worried about keeping his plants alive while he was barely clinging to life himself.

With nothing to do but wait until his brother woke up, Thumbs made his way into the hull of the ship where he found most of the batch engaged in a lively game of Dejarik. It was a tradition, meant to keep the batches' spirit alive when faced with tough times.

He almost started towards them when he felt a presence to his left, distanced from the laughter of the others.

Thumbs’ gaze landed on Ryder as he stared out of the cockpit window absent-mindedly, though he knew from his expression that his mind was anything but absent.

Thumbs approached slowly, not wanting to startle the squad’s weapons specialist.

“Hey Ry, you alright?”

Ryder glanced up, a flash of surprise illuminating his expression, before looking back down, his face once again shrouded in darkness.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” A barrage of laughter sounded from the other side of the room, where everyone was still gathered. “Think I’m gonna go for a ride though.”

“Oh, okay…” Thumbs replied, wanting to say more to his obviously-distracted brother. “Mind if I tag along?”

“You always do,” Ryder said, shooting him a small smirk.

“Hey!” Thumbs laughed, punching his shoulder lightly.

Ryder chuckled, nodding for Thumbs to follow him to the far corner of the hull. Once there, he opened the weapons cabinet, extracting a couple blasters and holstering them on his form.

Thumbs looked at his brother questioningly.

“Just in case,” Ryder said, carefully checking over his chosen artillery.

Thumbs nodded quickly, admonishing himself for not thinking more practically, especially after what happened with Sparks. It was a dangerous thing to give the galaxy the benefit of the doubt.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The planet they were currently docked on was beautiful. The hues of its rolling hills were softened by the dying light, the gentle breeze transforming the tall grasses into golden waves. The sky’s colors evolved with each passing minute, all evidence of the previous night’s storm lost to its changing shades.

It was Thumb’s favorite time of day. At dusk the light never seemed harsh; it was sympathetic, understanding. It hovered, never fully settling, like a cloud. But dusky light was also ephemeral. Thumbs wished he could freeze it, trap it in a jar and release it when he needed its soft companionship.

He knew too many people like dusk: perfect, until they were gone.

“It’s pretty here,” Thumbs eventually broke the silence, a welcome distraction from his own thoughts.

“Yeah,” Ryder replied as his eyes traced the horizon, “It is.”

“That why you’ve been coming out here so often?”

Thumbs knew his brother liked to take his speeder out on rides whenever he needed a break from the confines of the Clover. He would even accompany him from time to time. But recently he had been escaping much more frequently and Thumbs couldn’t help but worry that something else was going on.

Ryder chuckled lowly. “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“Hey, you’re kinda hard not to notice.” Thumbs smirked, gesturing a hand towards his brother’s head: “Ya know, cause of the hair.”

Ryder grinned, blowing a stray strand out of his face. “Yeah, sure thing curly.”

Thumbs ran a hand through his own coily locks with a shy shrug.

The two brothers fell into a comfortable silence as fireflies blinked to life around them. Thumbs pretended they were shooting stars, closing his eyes and wishing for the speedy recovery of Sparks back onboard the Clover.

After a while, the air seemed to become heavy and Thumbs could tell that Ryder needed to get something off of his chest.

His suspicion was confirmed when he heard his brother sigh deeply, preparing to speak.

“Lately…” he started, tugging on the end of his turquoise braid. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”

Thumbs nodded and moved to sit beside him in a subtle gesture of comfort.

“About them?”

Ryder nodded, knowing Thumbs was referencing his past squad.

“I’ve been having the dreams again.”

Thumbs’ face fell. He remembered the night he found out about Ryder’s nightmares as if it were yesterday.

He had been awake in the hull of the ship, too afraid that something bad might happen if he allowed himself the privilege of closing his eyes. Ryder had started tossing in his sleep, muttering the names and numbers of unfamiliar clones. Thumbs shook his brother awake, eventually guiding him outside of the ship when he struggled to regain his breath. The two of them had sat on the Clover’s ramp until long after the sun rose, each finding comfort in the other’s presence.

Since then, the nightmares had decreased, but every now and again they would return. The guilt would return.

“In the dream, I’m back on the venator,” Ryder described, his voice hoarse. “First there’s the flashing lights. Then voices, their voices, but they eventually fade away and then there’s just static. For a moment, everything is quiet, just a faint buzzing...”

Thumbs gave his brother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, letting him know he was still there, still listening.

“And then I’m in the escape pod. As I’m drifting away, I look back towards the ship, but it’s not the venator anymore. It’s the Clover.”

He paused, swallowing thickly.

“And then it’s just gone. Swallowed by fire.”

The unsettling images unearthed feelings that Thumbs never had the courage to voice out loud, but the anxious thrumming of Ryder’s fingers on the side of the speeder reminded him of his current task: to show his brother that he was there for him now, regardless of what happened in the past.

“Ry, I know there’s not a lot I can say. But know that they would’ve been so proud of you, of the soldier and brother you’ve become,” Thumbs reassured gently. “We all are.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Ryder mumbled.

Thumbs frowned, knowing his brother wasn’t convinced.

“Well, this was supposed to be a surprise, but it looks like you need it now.”

Thumbs pulled out the pack he had brought with him, rifling through it until he found a small bundle. He nervously presented it to Ryder, who observed the way it had been carefully packaged in colorful gift wrap and adorned with stickers, most likely donated by Pepper.

“I made this for you,” Thumbs spoke as Ryder opened the parcel. “It’s a blanket, obviously, but it’s… Well, it’s got a little more to it than that. Each row of stitches is made of yarn from all the different places we’ve been to as a batch. Thought it could be cool to see how far we’ve all come. But I also know how important it is to you that we honor our pasts, so down here,” Thumbs pointed at the bottom left corner, “I stitched in the names of CT-2019 and CT-1882. And over here is General Lyle’s.”

Thumbs looked up at Ryder, trying to gauge his reaction.

“I know it doesn’t change anything, not really, but I thought maybe it could help you sleep at night.”

There was a long moment of silence as Thumbs began to doubt the impact of his gift. The whole idea was starting to sound stupid now. Maybe if he had-

“I… Thank you, Thumbs.” Ryder finally spoke, his voice cracking slightly. “Really. It’s- It’s perfect.”

Thumbs grinned, glad to see the glimmer of hope return to his brother’s eyes. “Of course, anything for my vod.”

Ryder held the blanket close, tracing his finger over the carefully stitched names of his old squad. His eyes scanned over the various colors and textures that Thumbs had incorporated, recognizing yarn from planets they hadn’t been to in years. How long had his brother been working on this?

He was just about to ask when a subtle movement drew his own gaze downwards. Thumbs was quietly bouncing his right leg, a nervous habit that Ryder had picked up on throughout their time together. He doubted that Thumbs was even aware of his own anxious mannerism, but Ryder could tell that something was on his mind.

“Hey, vod?” Ryder placed the blanket down, his focus now on his brother.

“Yeah?” Thumbs replied, still staring straight ahead.

Ryder thought back to something his companion had told him just moments ago, something that had made him feel important, valuable, seen.

“People notice you too.”

 Thumbs chuckled, thinking back to when he invited himself to join Ryder on his impromptu speeder trip just hours before. “Yeah, I guess my constant pestering makes it hard not to.”

“Yeah...” Ryder continued, almost hesitantly. It would be harder getting through to his brother than he thought. “But we also notice why you do that.”

“And why’s that?” Thumbs asked casually, not quite sure where Ryder was guiding the conversation.

“Because you care.”

At this, Thumbs finally met his brother’s eyes, confusion painting his features. The words were simple, yet something about them did not fully compute.

“No matter how many idiotic things we pull, you’re always there for us.”

Thumbs held his brother’s gaze, considering his words intently, before looking down to his feet. He frowned before mumbling something, barely audible above the light breeze:

“Not when it counts.”

The words sliced through the air, contrary to the soft tone in which they were spoken. Ryder couldn’t help the immediate snap of his head towards his brother.

“What do you-”

“Yesterday, with Sparks,” Thumbs interjected, his voice gaining strength. “No amount of pestering could’ve helped him.”

There was something about the way Thumbs was speaking — something that Ryder had missed before, something familiar — that was unravelling with each passing moment.

“But he’s okay now, he’s fine,” Ryder tried to console, his brow furrowed.

Thumbs scoffed. “That was just luck. I heard what Pepper said: If his injury had been just an inch to the left…” He ran a hand through his hair frustratedly.

“Well, luck is kinda our thing,” Ryder said, repeating words that Pepper had spoken to him when he first joined the batch.

“But I don’t want it to be!”

Ryder looked up in shock. In the entire time he had known Thumbs, he had never once heard him raise his voice. But shock soon turned to concern when he noticed the tears streaming down his brother’s face.

“I don’t want to rely on luck,” Thumbs choked out, his voice softening. “Not… not when it comes to the people I care about.”

Helplessness.

Ryder was well-acquainted with the feeling — the image of his former general on the other side, the wrong side, of an escape pod window, forever etched into his memory. He tried to think of something to say that could comfort his brother, but the only words that came to mind were the ones Thumbs had already spoken to him moments before.

The whole batch knew that Thumbs had always struggled to take his own advice and that reminding him to do so never seemed to have an effect. It was unusual to see him in such a vulnerable state, something the former-strategist was well aware of as he avoided his brother’s gaze, shame written across his tear-stained features.

Ryder cringed at the sight, knowing he would need to take a more unconventional approach to offer his brother reassurance, one that would hopefully provide him with a fragment of control in a galaxy that seemed to feed on chaos.

Ryder nodded once, steeling himself, before reaching down and pulling his twin blasters out of their respective holsters.

“You know,” he started, attempting to keep his voice level, “I got these from CT-2019 and CT-1882. They were graduation gifts.”

Thumbs turned his head curiously, wiping away a stray tear in the process. A small part of him fought back the urge to smile: unlike his brother, he had been given craft supplies and a book for graduation.

“I could teach you how to shoot ‘em, if you want.”

Thumbs looked towards his brother incredulously.

“Ry, I’ve shot a blaster before...”

Ryder exhaled breathily, a playful grin gracing his features. “Ah, not ones like these. These here are DC-17 hand blasters.” He held his weapons in front of himself reverently. “They’re more powerful than your standard blaster, more efficient too.”

Thumbs hesitated, his confusion at the sudden shift in topic still evident, before nodding slowly.

“Alright, sure.”

Ryder spent the next few minutes guiding Thumbs through the best way to handle the blasters — helping him correct his stance, improve aim, and prepare for recoil. The process was strangely reassuring, giving Thumbs something tangible to hold onto, something he could control.

“Hey, Ryder?” Thumbs asked, looking down at the weapon in his hands, the echoes of its former owners serving as a comforting reminder that those who were gone could still protect their brothers who lived to fight another day. Maybe when Thumbs was gone, he could do the same.

“Thank you.”

Ryder had just begun to respond when a noise sounded from behind them.

Thumbs startled and spun on his heel, impulsively throwing the first thing he could think of towards the nearby bushes: Ryder’s blaster.

He mentally facepalmed as his brother jumped off of the speeder, aiming his remaining blaster towards the sound. He held out a hand as he crept closer to the bushes, silently telling Thumbs to stay back.

A tense moment passed, before a tooka revealed itself from behind the bush.

Thumbs sighed in relief before looking up at Ryder guiltily.

“Probably not the best use of the blaster,” he said with a cringe.

“What, you wanted to shoot it?” Ryder questioned breathlessly, a smirk growing across his features.

“No, of course not!” Thumbs smiled, relieved that his brother didn’t seem upset over his moment of panic. The tooka sauntered up to him, rubbing its head against his legs.

Ryder retrieved the discarded blaster and walked back towards the speeder, the remnants of a smirk still visible on his face. “Well, looks like good things can come from bad luck.”

“Yeah,” Thumbs huffed, looking down at the small animal by his feet. “Guess so.”

And maybe that’s what Clone Force 37 was: a group of outcasts who were all in the process of turning their histories with bad luck into good things — good luck.

“C’mon, hop up,” Ryder said as held out an arm. “Let’s get back to the ship.”

Thumbs let himself be pulled into the speeder, the firm grip of his brother’s hand a silent reassurance: I’m here for you.

He leaned back, his eyes reflecting the stars that had started to appear above. He wondered how many of them he couldn’t see, how many millions of lives were being lived just out of his view.

Thumbs glanced over to the brother at his side, thinking about how lucky he was to have crossed paths with him, with all of them, in a universe of infinite proportions.

“We should probably pick up some caf for Sparks on the way back… I know he’ll want some when he wakes up,” Thumbs spoke, laying all the way back in the speeder.

Ryder nodded in agreement as they lurched forward. The sun had finally disappeared from view and the two soldiers soon became mere silhouettes against the dimming night sky.

But anyone familiar with Clone Force 37 knew that they were so much more than two small blips on the horizon:

They were brothers.

And Thumbs was positive that nothing in the galaxy could ever change that.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

@the-lucky-batch @lavenderstaars @lynnpaper @foxlock @maygalodon @mango-peachjuice @radbatch @letsunity @burnthashbrown27 @generaltano @catboy-tech @cosmicghostie @namesmox @monako-jinn-stories @longearedowlfromouterspace @lusiawonder @just-another-dreamerr

[merlinbingo]

Aaand last but not least, rounding off the February round up: all the M/M fills created over the month, sorted by ship and then by rating.

Take a look, take heed of the tags/warnings/ratings (including those where the creator has decided to use the 'Not rated' and 'Choose not to use archive warnings' options - these works could contain anything at all, so please practice self-care when deciding whether or not to click on that link!) and make sure you leave these wonderful creators some love!

Elyan/Gwaine

You are enough by donttouchtheneednoggle Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings Summary: Deep in the midst of all manner of chaos, Elyan and Gwaine find each other.

Elyan/Percival

Meet the polycule by donttouchtheneednoggle Rating: General audiences Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: We got to see Percival meeting one member of the round table, but what about the rest?

Knights of the sewing circle by donttouchtheneednoggle Rating: General audiences Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Everyone keeps stealing Elyan's hoodie. And really, what is Camelot's pettiest knight supposed to do?

Gwaine/Percival

Rule Breaker by vampdocx Rating: Explicit Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Gwaine knows Percy is into it. He just isn’t sure if Percy is into it right now, when Gwaine is half-hard in his friend’s hot tub because Percy called him a slut.

Merlin/Gwaine

untitled by merlinsprat Rating: General audiences Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: gifset :)

A Little While Longer by SneakyBoyMerlin Rating: Explicit Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings Summary: Merlin is kidnapped, and Gwaine is the one who finds him.

Merlin/Lancelot

Who are the Sinners Among Us? by archaeologist_d Rating: Explicit Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings Summary: Love takes and takes and takes and they keep loving anyway. Or how Merlin and Lancelot deal with Arthur’s marriage to Gwen.

Merlin/Mordred

Dragonlords Grow Horns?! by fxndom-hoe Rating: General audiences Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Mordred finds out something about Dragonlords.

Merlin/Arthur

Merlin's Princess Bride by fxndom-hoe Rating: General audiences Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: A retelling of The Princess Bride in which Merlin uses magic to save Prince Arthur from his kidnappers and prevent King Uther from forcing him into marriage.

Where Did You Go by QueenoftheBritons Rating: General audiences Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Merlin enters the veil to secure it, but the memory of him is erased as a result.

no use crying over skimmed milk by heartsocold Rating: General audiences Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: There was no need to cry. It’s just, he supposed, that this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. His entire week was awful - absolutely terrible - and this was just the thing that pushed him over the edge.

Fresh Flowers by schweet_heart Rating: General audiences Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: After dealing with Edwin and ensuring the king's recovery, Merlin takes care of a small personal matter.

Baby, it's cold outside by Stardustwrites17 Rating: General audiences Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings Summary: In which Merlin cares too much about others (and too little about himself), Arthur is a good prince and he's hopelessly in love with his servant.

The Dolma Deception by archaeologist_d Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Arthur finds the Dolma’s ratty outfit in Merlin’s room. Merlin is a crap liar about it.

Excalibur Reborne by archaeologist_d Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Merlin might be teaching Arthurian legend—he’d lived it after all, but when one of his students finds Excalibur, it raises more questions than answers.

Wrapped Up In You by tehfanglyfish Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Not long after Freya’s death, the first in a series of mysterious packages appeared in Merlin’s room. Though they all contained ornate dresses sewn from material so fine that they befitted a queen rather than a servant, his name was clearly written on the accompanying tags. Over the years, whenever Merlin faced great triumph or great tragedy, the dresses kept arriving. The sender, though, remained a mystery, until one night when Merlin learned the truth of who had given them, a revelation that led to Merlin sharing secrets of his own.

Etemenanki by esmerod Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Merlin is taken as a child and brought to Camelot where he's locked up in a tower. He meets the prince, and destiny takes its inevitable course, as it always does.

Just a stupid Thing Teenagers Do (Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt) by lea_ndra/ Leandra/ nuttersinc Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: It's Christmas and Merlin's boyfriend comes to an uncomfortable realisation after family dinner.

Excalibur Reborne - chapter 2 by archaeologist_d Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Merlin might be teaching Arthurian legend—he’d lived it after all, but when one of his students finds Excalibur, it raises more questions than answers.

Slipping through my fingers (all that time) by Stardustwrites17 Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings Summary: On her deathbed, Magic let's Ygraine watch her son grow up, to be the king Albion needs. More than that, she's assured Arthur will be happy and loved.

Sleeping Beauty by archaeologist_d Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Rescuing Arthur from the curse of eternal sleep should have been a piece of cake, but kissing him to break said curse? That was a step too far.

Excalibur Reborne by archaeologist_d Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Merlin might be teaching Arthurian legend—he’d lived it after all, but when one of his students finds Excalibur, it raises more questions than answers.

Excalibur Reborne by archaeologist_d Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Merlin might be teaching Arthurian legend—he’d lived it after all, but when one of his students finds Excalibur, it raises more questions than answers.

Suit Up by evaelisaa Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Merlin is joining Arthur to a Pendragon corporate event for the first time, but he doesn’t own a suit, so Arthur makes him wear one of his.

Tell me every terrible thing you ever did (and let me love you anyway) by Stardustwrites17 Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings Summary: In which a witch-hunt takes place in Camelot, Arthur worries for Merlin's safety and Merlin worries for his secrets.

The Road to Knighthood by evaelisaa Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings Summary: Merlin is about to get knighted when Lancelot barges into the antechamber where Merlin is getting ready with the news that Guinevere got kidnapped.

No Hands Had Ever Been So Gentle, Nor So Deadly by queerofthedagger Rating: Teen Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Arthur's kidnapped. Of course, Merlin comes to find him, but getting Arthur out might've been the easiest part.

In Dreams by mornmeril Rating: Mature Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Arthur remembers on a Sunday, but Merlin isn't here. His dreams may yet lead Arthur to him.

Intricacies of Love (Or A Lack Thereof) by @gwen-cheers-me-up (tumblr), OwlsWithFins (ao3) Rating: Mature Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings Summary: Arthur confesses his love for Merlin and is deeply confused by Merlin's response. To everyone's chagrin, he seems quite intent on staying that way.

The Knighting by J_Gun_i Rating: Mature Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: After long last, Merlin finally get to be knighted. Not much could go wrong anymore, right?

Arthur Pendragon Is Not A Wizard by tehfanglyfish Rating: Mature Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Merlin and Arthur watch Cherry Magic, leading to several unexpected revelations.

The round mirror by YouKeepMeRight Rating: Explicit Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: "I've bought you a gift." Arthur stopped humming along with the song on the radio and turned his head towards the driver’s seat.

no better love by TheDragon Rating: Explicit Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: Wherein Arthur falls victim to yet another love potion, except this time, it has him setting his sights on Merlin.

Duty Beyond Knighthood by evaelisaa Rating: Explicit Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply Summary: It’s the first evening where Merlin is a knight, but because of a deal he made with Arthur, Merlin is still the one who has to help the king get ready for bed.

Less Than Greek by Blake Rating: Explicit Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings Summary: The whole Valentine’s Day gift thing is meant to be a joke.

The Spies have It. by archaeologist_d Rating: Explicit Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings Summary: The spies sent to bring about Camelot’s downfall weren’t exactly expecting Merlin locked up in the stocks and Arthur busy behind him. Oh, my.

[unaskedformagnustheories]

Part 3/3 I think that the pre-apocalypse world lends itself to this kind of manipulation much better. So why help Jonah succeed? This has been bothering me for a while, and the closest thing I have to a theory is that helping Jonah’s ritual succeed was just a first step in a much larger plan, that the current apocalypse world is a stepping stone to something else, but beyond that I have no clue. Anyways, I just wanted to hear what you thought about all this or anything you'd add. Love your blog!

Thank you so much for the mail! And for reading the blog. I know I don’t really update it much, but it’s so sweet to know people still look through and get a kick out of it.

My thoughts on The Web are complicated. It’s the entity that I have the hardest time understanding, but I love it all the more because of the enigma. I can’t promise a satisfactory answer, but I’m more than happy to share my current theories!

I think you’re spot on in guessing that The Web knows there’s more to come. However, I don’t necessarily think it’s a foregone conclusion The Mother of Puppets wanted Jonah to succeed. I think it’s a possibility. A strong one, but I think it’s equally likely it saw the ascendance of The Archives as something inevitable and planned accordingly - not moving to stop it, but putting plans in place to survive while keeping a close eye on the important players. Maaaaybe pulling a string every now and again to make sure it was in a position of power when the time came.

We know TMA is a tragedy. What we don’t know is what form that tragedy will take - whether personal, global or something in between. If global, I think it’s likely that the world might just be screwed. There might not be a way to change it back, and as Oliver Banks pointed out in his “report to prevent future deaths” - with no new humans being born, eventually, the pool of people to feed off of will shrivel up, killing the fears in the process. The fearscape is an unsustainable existence. A world in decline.

If there’s truly nothing to be done? A portal to another world, another reality, seems handy. And The Web has one waiting at Hill Top Road.

But why not leave? Why hang around? There’s a case to be made that The Web’s gorging itself before the inevitable decline, but I don’t think that explains Annabelle or The Web’s interest in Martin and Jon. For all that I’m not a Web!Martin truther, I do think there’s a reason the theory is so beloved. The Web’s shown an active interest in both of our protagonists, and I think it’s likely it needs something from them before it absconds. It’s possible that everything The Web’s done to manipulate the plot has been to ensure that these two people would be there the moment it needs them most. 

Everything else I have is shaky. I’ve wondered if the tapes might be an evolved version of the Leitners (used to gain a foothold and seed fear into the world on the other side of the portal - assuming there’s only one). I’ve indulged in a wacky theory that the bleeding, eight-branched trees outside of HTR and Albrecht von Closen’s home in Schramberg might be part of the horrifying creature Annabelle talked about when she told us “when a spider reaches a certain size, it is often not entirely made up of spider anymore”. I have also wondered whether or not this is the first world The Spider’s watched burn before starting anew. Maybe the world-that-was always belonged to The Mother of Puppets. It was just so subtle no one knew.

There’s so much I don’t understand. So much I can’t explain (like the overlapping imagery throughout the show between The Spider and The Eye), and I genuinely don’t know if Jonny will give us answers to it all. Part of The Spider’s charm rests in its ambiguity, but yeah. Long answer short? I agree. Elias was just a stepping stone, and I can’t wait to see what happens next.

[I just realized this made a whole-ass blog post instead of just replying to the lovely anon who asked my opinion. I know how to Tumblr. Tumble? Blog! Let’s go with blog. Anyway, here’s part 1 and 2 of the question in case anybody wanted to read the whole prompt:]  Part 1 of 3 Can I hear your thoughts on this? Ok so at this point I think there’s plenty of evidence to prove that throughout the first four seasons the Mother of Puppets has been working to make sure Jonah’s ritual succeeded. We can see the Web’s influence every step of the way, as Jon becomes Archivist and gets marked by each of the powers. I also think the best evidence that the Web wanted Jonah to succeed is that Jonah did in fact succeed, and the Web tends to get what it wants. Part 2/3 Loads of people have broken down all of its subtle manipulations, but the part I get caught up on is why. Peter Lukas said that the Web has never attempted a ritual of its own since it likes the world as it is, and I think this makes sense. We’ve seen a domain of the Web in the apocalypse, and while becoming a human puppet is scary enough, it doesn’t seem to fit with what the Web has always preferred, which is subtle manipulations that breed paranoia and make you question your free will

[cosmicangst]

I just finished Misyr’s route and...I am in desperate need of the fan disc right now because UGH, Otomate really peaked with this game. Ignoring the wonky translation by Aksys which made it a little difficult to follow at times, all the routes were incredibly well-written and the LIs all have so much depth to them and Kotone is such a perfect antagonist. This route really made my heart ache in such a good way and I’ve said this about all the routes but I really did not expect this one to be that wild, I really had no idea what was going to happen the whole time and I love that it was so unpredictable but seamlessly integrated with everything else. Would love to hear your thoughts on it when you’re done! I quite enjoyed this ending even if I can see why some fans didn’t like it!

As for Hakuoki...poor Chizuru, she really was a weak protag when she had so much potential with her backstory...Did you have a fave LI? I think I only ever fully did Saito’s route because I really liked the way his values shaped him as a person for good and bad, but I really liked Okita too! (Even if I knew he was going to be tragic because...history) And Saint-Germain’s route in C:R was sooooo good! Truly the ideal dark gothic love interest, and I like that he tries to be kind even if it’s also superficial and how it also seems to be partially some sort of coping mechanism for his guilt too? Even if it was his kindness that caused his whole baggage with the plague.

just finished cafe enchante. sorry anon for basically leaving you on read for like a month but i literally had one chapter of misyr’s route left when my brain just decided to go full on adhd and delay finishing. until now at least.

this being the “canon” route, i was expecting it to go all out and it did not disappoint. it’s a testament to the world building and the characters that i was still so affected despite being distanced for a good while. i cried two separate times at the ending (1) when misyr was seeing noah off and (2) when kotone asked misyr to stay with her as the world was ending around them.

i gotta say that i love the touch of tragedy in these happy endings. noah experiencing a fleeting moment of humanity before dying and misyr inevitably succumbing to mortality while kotone remains ageless for presumably eternity—that’s my shit!! which mind blown is kind of like a cup of coffee right? a mixture of bitter and sweet?? anyway heavy handed metaphors aside

i have mixed feelings about kotone literally embodying the cafe. i love it because it fulfills a fave: the lonely god trope (like the doctor from doctor who) who is both kind and terribly sad and whose compassion and loneliness are coconstitutive. but it also feels as if it strips her agency in some way?? as a human, kotone showed kindness out of her own individuality, desire and free will. as a literal, well, place, she almost has no choice but to be the object in which people inhabit or traverse to. no doubt she’d fit this role happily but she’s shackled in some ways, isn’t she?? she can’t really live a full life beyond the cafe/world because it would be impossible for her to escape herself. not that she would want to; but the principle of her choice to leave being stripped from her is what’s rubbing me the wrong way. and the fact that the major counteracting force preventing her from turning to the same sad fate as noah is misyr’s promise to her of his return. which is sweet in that soulmates “my atoms will find your atoms” kind of way but i had hoped that he’d append that promise with an anchor outside of himself, e.g. she won’t ever lose her path because her kindness will always enable her to make more friends and bonds yadda yadda that kind of thing which is more in line with the main theme of the game (plus canus and il are presumably immortal as well, right?)

anyway my point is that it’s fraught to hinge your life on one person. even in the time traveler’s wife (whose love story is inherently dysfunctional), the time traveler refuses to tell his wife the specific dates he travelled into the future to meet her after his death because he didn’t want her to live her entire life waiting for him specifically.

but i get the promise is for the sake of the romance and none of this is to say that they don’t recognize the value of their friendships with the others (the opposite couldn’t be truer) but these were my first thoughts after the game ended.

reading back it sounds like i didn’t like misyr and kotone as a couple which isn’t the case! i do love their mutual and absolute devotion to one another. the fact that misyr really did commit to the orpheus descends to the underworld to find and save his wife hard mode level is absolutely peak of this game. also the fact that he’s the one who continuously finds her when she loses herself and the fact that they switched places as human and non-human. that after 10,000 some years misyr finally gets the chance to live the life he missed esp since noah wasn’t able to??? again thats my shit

really on a larger whole, the fact that i was so emotionally touched in every route not just with the romances but the friendships and the antagonists too is remarkable. translation issues aside, this game is otome at its peak. it is my absolute favorite. even my other faves like nightshade or collar x malice had indelible issues in individual routes that affected the whole but this one has just easily ticked out every box i had and then some.

as for hakuouki favorites, i would say hijikata is the best plot-wise (though he’s not my type) with heisuke and harada tying for healthiest and sweetest romance—mainly because heisuke is closest to chizuru’s age so they have more in common and harada is one of the few who actively wants and mutually pursues a romantic relationship with her. i played the psp version of this game and haven’t played the updated one with the additional routes so i can’t vouch for any of the other love interests past the originals. souji and saito are probably the most popular within the fandom (i think?) but i honestly don’t remember much of their routes, which might be damning enough indications of my actual regard for them. being a kuudere saito does seem more my type so idk why i can’t remember him

and yes!! you’re so right about saint-germain. kindness as a coping mechanism or kindness as a superficiality is so chefs kiss and partly why nicola from piofiore was so disappointing to me bc he seemed to embody that trope only up to a point where he stopped being a dark hero and just started being dark and not in like a fun way either. anyway much love for saint g and his crazy kidnapping ass. if i had to pick among my problematic faves he’d be the first

[darkstar6782]

5.14: My Bloody Valentine - My Rewatch Review

I was at a bit of a loss for what to say about this episode initially, because it feels like there are only so many times you can say that an episode is heartbreaking or depressing when talking about the crap the boys are having to deal with this season before it becomes repetitive, but then I realized that the repetition is actually the point, and even though we still have a ways to go before the end, this is the first glimpse we see that the strategy might be working. Because the only thing keeping the Apocalypse at bay right now? Sam and Dean’s individual and collective willpower, their mutual refusals to say ‘yes’ to Lucifer and Michael respectively. This season is not like last season, where there is a progression of seals that must be broken or any specific tasks that must be undertaken or thwarted in order to cause or prevent the Apocalypse from happening. It is here happening right now, and the only thing stopping the whole world from coming to an end is the fact that neither of them are willing to do what Heaven and Hell want them to do. Hence, the repetition of tragedy and heartbreak, because the only real way Michael or Lucifer have of convincing Dean or Sam to let them in is to break them completely, leaving them hopeless and despairing and desperate to either just let everything end or accepting that there is no other way to stop either their suffering or the suffering of humanity.

And yet, every episode that brings us one step closer, that puts our boys through the wringer once again, also reveals even more about their true strength of character, and that is where this episode truly shines, despite the pain and suffering it causes Sam and Dean. In Sam’s case, it is more obvious; yes, he unfortunately succumbs to the call of the demon blood and has to go through detox again after, but consider his situation in comparison to Cass, who was also touched by Famine despite being an angel. Cass repeatedly insists that, because he is an angel, he can control his hunger at any time, and yet he makes no effort to do so, even though it eventually renders him completely useless during the final battle. Sam, by contrast, goes to incredible lengths to resist Famine’s effect on his hunger. When first confronted by the demon, he doesn’t even take a taste of the blood; he freely confesses to the difficulty he is having, despite knowing that Dean will not react well to hearing it; and he chooses to try and keep himself from succumbing, even though he knows it is going to put the others at a disadvantage when confronting the horseman. And then, even after he is forced into a situation that causes him to succumb, he manages not only to resist succumbing further while directly in Famine’s presence, but he uses the power that the demon blood has given him to destroy Famine and save everyone else. And then, I like to assume that he willingly chose to go back to Bobby’s panic room to detox, because the willpower that is keeping him from saying ‘yes’ to Lucifer is the same willpower that he needs to fight his addiction to demon blood, and if he succumbs to the latter he will be more vulnerable to the former. That is why Sam is the hero of this story, and I would expect no less from him, and that is why I love and admire him as a character.

But Dean’s struggle in this episode is equally tragic, mostly because of the lack of struggle. I don’t agree with Famine that Dean wasn’t affected because he is empty and hopeless inside; I think the reason why he wasn’t affected is because he is starving for something that Famine was incapable of providing. Dean is starving for hope, which is not something that can be ‘fed’ to him from an outside source, which is why his desire for it did not paralyze him the way a desire for food, drink, drugs, or love could paralyze everyone else, but he was affected all the same—as evidenced by the draining of interest in all of his usual desires—and it actually showcases his strength of character (he may have been being flippant with Famine when he tossed off that line, but I happen to think he was also right) that he was able to stand in Famine’s presence, because even after he had lost all hope, he still had something that kept him going, and he continues to fight back against the forces of inevitability without ever truly succumbing to despair even though he feels empty inside. And I think some of that has to do with his time in Hell—he may have gotten off the rack eventually, but it takes incredible strength of will in the face of ultimate hopelessness to hold out as long as he did—and that some of it also comes from the fact that he is not the only one fighting here. Though he never says as much to Sam, I think he is staying strong because he knows that if he succumbs to Heaven’s demands, it will be that much easier for Lucifer to convince Sam to say ‘yes’ as well. The only way they can fight against their destiny is if they do it together, and even if everything else is lost, they are not as long as they remember that one thing. It breaks my heart to see them both laid so low at the end of this episode, and to know that they are still not at their lowest points yet, but I know how this all ends, and that the pain doesn’t last forever, and that makes it much easier to keep going even when it feels like I am being put through the wringer with each episode as much as they are.

[things-with-teeth]

“And Hope That I Don’t Crash You”: The Web, The Archivist, and Control

In her statement to Jon, Annabelle Cane states, “I have always believed that the key to manipulating people is to ensure that they always under- or overestimate you. Never reveal your true abilities or plans” (MAG 147). In a lot of ways, the narrative supports reading this as an admonishment against doing the later. In MAG 149, Melanie shoots down the idea that the Web has some strategy beyond “to paralyze [Jon] with indecision, sitting here terrified that everything [he does] is somehow part of its grand plan;” Jon doesn’t necessarily concede to this point, but he does admit it’s a possibility. Every time we’ve met another avatar of one of the Entities or an organization that worships them, it’s turned out that they’re not all they were cracked up to be when they first appeared on the scene: Peter can’t protect the Archives as he told Martin he would, Elias isn’t as all-knowing as he would lead others to believe, the Cult of the Lightless Flame and the People's Church of the Divine Host are both 95% petty in-fighting and about 5% knowing what the heck they’re doing. (Simon “in it for the lulz” Fairchild is sort of a breath of fresh air; he also doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he doesn’t pretend otherwise.) So maybe the Web is the same; even Annabelle suggests it, telling Jon that it’s entirely possible the Mother of Puppets is “simply sitting and reveling in the inevitable cascade of paranoia as those who hold her in special terror cocoon themselves in red string and theory” (147).

On that note, please allow me to cocoon myself in red sting and theory: I think Annabelle has basically been engineering events since season one, and here’s why.

I want to be clear from the start: I think Annabelle is being completely above board when she tells Jon that she hasn’t influenced his decision to take statements and feed the Eye. It’s clear from the moment that he proposes the possibility that this is a bit of a reach, a desperate last-ditch attempt to convince both himself and the others that he hasn’t been acting with any kind of autonomy while doing something he knows will hurt people. He is. He does. Jon Sims is becoming a monster, and that wouldn’t be nearly as horrifying or as sad if there wasn’t some element of choice to it (and some element of inevitability to that choice, as with a lot of great tragedies, but the kind of inevitability that’s as much personally driven as externally motivated). In no way am I writing this in an attempt to say “the spiders made him do it, he had no choice.” That being said, Annabelle herself makes an argument for choice being dictated by circumstance, and I’m going to argue that Annabelle herself has dictated a great deal of the circumstance from the very beginning.

Some of this is very well-supported by the things that we already know for a fact; Annabelle, herself, admits to Jon that she’s been “been nudging something here and there to keep [Jon] safe, to keep everything on track” (ibid). I don’t think there’s much room to argue that Annabelle wasn’t the one who prevented Jane Prentiss’ plan to destroy the Archives from coming to fruition. As of MAG 123, we know that Annabelle was responsible for what happened to Carlos Vittery way back in MAG 16, the very same case that Martin is investigating when he discovers Jane in the basement of Carlos’ apartment leading up to MAG 22, and from MAG 16 we know that Jane’s presence there predates that of the spiders – Carlos says his building has an “infestation of some sort of insect [he] didn’t recognize – small, silvery worms [...] they provided a good meal for the eight-legged little monsters.” As a result, the Archives are aware that Jane is a present and immediate danger. In MAG 38, the infestation of worms in the tunnels and Jane’s attack on the archives is revealed when Jon damages the false wall while attempting to commit arachnicide, and she’s forced to attack early. This is almost definitely why she fails; Tim states that “[being inside the Magus Institute] made them weaker, and they’ve been down there for months, breeding, building up their numbers until there were enough to properly bury us. Except you found that hidden passage, and they had to act” (MAG 40). I think it’s also possible – although this is more conjecture at this point – that Annabelle was the one who sent the note that incited Jared Hopworth to attack the archives between seasons three and four, although that’s mostly because I’m not sure there’s a better candidate; Peter potentially has motive, but that kind of manipulation reads more as the Web than the Lonely. “I’m starting to think the letters were a trap,” says Jared (MAG 131), and I would argue that it was a trap, not for Jared but for Martin, meant to nudge him into looking outside the Institute for protection. It’s more-or-less explicitly stated that Annabelle sent Oliver Banks to coax Jon out of his coma: “I'm still not exactly sure why I'm here. But you know better than anyone how the spiders can get into your head. Easier to just do what she asks” (MAG 121). Annabelle has nudged, here and there, and she has kept Jon safe, and she has kept everything on track.

I think Annabelle has been influencing events in more subtle ways, too, however. Very early in the series, Jon receives a delivery which includes “an old Zippo” with a “spider web design on the front” (MAG 36). He’s suggests that Tim have the others take a look at it, but that’s quickly lost in the realization that the other item delivered is the web table, which Jon recognizes from its description. As far as I can recall, we don’t hear another mention of the lighter until MAG 111, when Gerard asks Jon if he’s “a spider freak” after Jon offers him a cigarette and, presumably, a light. This means that, three seasons later, Jon is still carrying the lighter. A lighter with a spider web pattern on it, delivered by Breekon and Hope, who may belong to the Stranger but who are certainly willing to deliver parcels for other powers (the yellow stole Father Burroughs receives in MAG 20, for instance). Jon has been carrying around an artifact of the Web for the better part of the series, and I don’t think it’s impossible that it’s been influencing him, or that Annabelle’s been using it to influence him, in ways that are much less obvious than those I’ve listed above. Mostly I don’t want to speculate as to how it’s influenced him – I straight up do not know, and like I said, my intention is not to absolve Jon of all agency in his own actions for the last hundred plus episodes – with one exception. There’s one other time that Jon’s smoking habit has heavily impacted the plot: when he steps out to have a cigarette in MAG 80, leaving the way clear for Elias to brutally pipe murder Jurgen Lietner and keep Jon “on track” in his development as the Archivist.

This is speculation, but I think it’s speculation supported by past events within the podcast, most specifically those surrounding Gertrude and Agnes.

Annabelle wasn’t an avatar of the Web back then, of course, but I still think that there’s a lot to be learned when it comes to how the Web and/or its representatives influence the course of events nominally controlled by and benefitting other Entities. In MAG 139, Eugene Vanderstock says:

The compromise we came to was Hill Top Road. We knew it was a stronghold of the Web, full of other children Agnes’ age. We would supervise from a distance but were confident she would be in no danger. The Mother of Puppets has always suffered at our hand – all the manipulation and subtle venom in the world means nothing against a pure and unrestrained force of destruction and ruin.

And that’s—that’s weird, isn’t it? We know that the Cult is at least somewhat protective of Agnes; it’s how Diego convinces Arthur Nolan and the others not only to refrain from acting against Gertrude but to protect her for so many years after she binds Agnes to her, because it might be “catastrophic for Agnes” if Gertrude were to die “a violent death” (MAG 145). In spite of that, here they are, sending their baby chosen one into the lair of an enemy power so that she can get some normal socialization and learn not to bite (or burn) the other kids. As a result, Agnes ends up tied to Hill Top Road and Raymond Fielding, even after Fielding is dead, perhaps because of an early attempt at the same kind of binding that Gertrude eventually succeeds at creating. I don’t think it’s outside of the realm of possibility that the chain of events leading up to the Cult making this disastrous decision were not entirely without influence from the Web.

Then there’s Jack Barnabas. I’m ridiculously charmed by Jack’s whole mindset of “this girl is so goddamn weird and I’m really ridiculously into it,” and I’m not going to suggest that what he felt for Agnes wasn’t real; even Jon is “ninety percent” sure that Gertrude “didn’t pay poor Jack Barnabas to fall in love with Agnes” (MAG 139), and I’m about equally certain that the Web didn’t compel poor Jack Barnabas into being head over heels for her, either. That said, I think it’s clear that the Web did have some involvement. When preparing for his first date with Agnes, Jack smells burning and notices that “within the corner of the room, where there had been a spider's web this morning, there was just a faint wisp of smoke” (MAG 67). The language in his statement, years later, is filled with confusion about his own motives and hints of compulsion: “I was drawn to her in a way I can't even explain,” “I don't know how it happened, it [asking Agnes for a date] just tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it,” “drowning in emotions that I still can't explain,” and “looking back, I'm still not sure what I would have done differently [...] I don't know if I would have had it in me to resist. I just couldn't avoid being drawn in” (ibid). Jack’s feelings for Agnes may not have been entirely manufactured, but they did receive a nudge, and the result was doubt and eventual death for the avatar and a necessary component in the ritual of one of the Web’s opposing powers.

Finally, there’s Gertrude. When speaking of the path that led her to the ritual which eventually bound her to Agnes, she describes it thus:

It was the Web. I didn’t know it at the time, of course, and I would call it an accident, but it never is, with them. It’s only after the fact that you can see all the subtle manipulations [...] I began researching what I thought was a counter-ritual of sorts. Like I said, I was young, naive. I somehow found just the right books, made just the right connections, and even got what I thought was a piece of blind good luck when I found a tin box in the ashes of Hill Top Road, containing some perfectly preserved cuttings of her hair. Of course, what I thought was a banishment ritual turned out not to be. The circle I constructed was more of a—an invitation. It let the Mother of Puppets bind me to Agnes, interweave our existences at some metaphysical level, as it had with Fielding and the house. (MAG 145)

Somehow she found the right books. Blind good luck that led her to Agnes’ hair at Hill Top Road. I would call it an accident. It’s only after the fact that you can see all the subtle manipulations – and this is Gertrude, who isn’t infallible, but who Arthur Nolan pinpoints as being “too practical” (ibid) to buy into the mystique of the Entities or to ascribe to them some greater motive, which would seem to belie the possibility that she’s falling prey to (as Annabelle suggests in MAG 147, as Melanie suggests in MAG 149) the tendency to succumb to paranoia while crediting the Mother of Puppets with some grand act of manipulation that the Web isn’t actually responsible for. I would argue that Jon has most likely been experiencing the same kind of quote-unquote happenstance that Gertrude once did, the same kind of subtle manipulation cloaked in coincidence, for the entirety of the series, all of it leading him toward whatever end Annabelle finds most desirable.

Some final notes that I couldn’t really incorporate elsewhere: I really, very much hope that Melanie’s therapy sessions really are just her getting good professional help for everything the Archives and the Entities have thrown at her, but I’m less and less certain that’s the case. Annabelle’s inception, her origin story, takes place in a psychology department. When doing follow-up in MAG 69, the archival staff find that all of the post-grads involved in the experiment have disappeared; in addition, Elizabeth “Liz” Bates, the advisor on the project, refuses to give a follow-up statement. The Web is about control and manipulation; it’s entirely possible that Annabelle has a large pool of qualified candidates to draw on when it comes to providing Melanie with a counselor who doesn’t have “cobwebs down her face” (MAG 149). I also keep getting stuck on the fact that very soon after Melanie asks Daisy not to call her “Mel” in MAG 147 because her therapist has advised her to be more open about these things, Annabelle opens her statement with “Free will is a funny old thing, isn’t it Jon? Can I call you Jon? I’m going to call you Jon.” Sure, it’s coincidence – but Gertrude was convinced, at first, that what she was dealing with was coincidence, too.

As for why Annabelle is doing this, I don’t know. Maybe the Lonely is as much in opposition to the Web as the Desolation is – after all, it’s difficult to manipulate someone in isolation – and she’s trying to impede Peter, not from stopping the Extinction but from benefiting from it, as Simon Fairchild says he will, thereby eliminating an enemy just as the Web did with Agnes and the Desolation. Maybe she’s trying to beat him to the same goal, establishing some level of control over someone beholden to the Ceaseless Watcher just as Peter is trying to gain control of Martin; Jon’s first experience with the supernatural involved the Web, and then there’s that Zippo. Maybe she has some goal all her own, some third option not yet even hinted at. Or maybe, like Jon, she’s acting on instinct, unable to do anything but “dance the steps [she is] assigned” (ibid), manipulating and spinning out her web because she’s incapable of doing anything else.

---

So I accidentally wrote 2.5k of wild conjecture about creepy spider people because I got stuck on the idea that there was a connection between the Zippo and Lietner’s death, that was fun. Shout out to @wildehacked for letting me yell about this and additional shout out to anyone involved in the wiki or the transcripts because oh goooooood would this have been more difficult to compile without being able to utilize those resources to check citations and grab most of the quotes. 

Quick edit to add a link to @caught-in-the-infinite‘s excellent alternative explanation for why Annabelle might have wanted Jared Hopworth to attack the Archives, which I think makes a lot more good sense than mine while also having even more ominous implications. 

[hollenka99]

Khenir and Minarv

Summary: When the gods choose to target you, life will never be the same.

Warnings: implied gore, blood, mentions of death

I'm sure you've heard the tale of Khenir and Minarv. I find it is a popular story that you enjoy passing on to the generations succeeding yours. You humans always did take a liking to tragedies with silver linings. If it is one of love and godly intervention, you consume it all the more enthusiastically. Let us clarify something first. There has always been one detail you seem to insist on getting wrong. Birds have existed as long as there have been nuts, berries and the like to sustain them. Khenir never created birds and other winged creatures. In fact, he often admired the birds that visited outside his home. Took a fancy to capturing their likeness of paper too. The only avian species which owe their existence to him are loons and horned owls. Being the god of birds does not necessarily imply you are the creator of all birds. With that irk of mine expressed, I believe I should begin. These were the days before the human population was to reach a million. We gods were acknowledged with a fierce intensity. You feared us. More than that, you feared what we could do to you or your loved ones when displeased. Don't worry. I should assure you it took effort to anger me back then. To this day, I continue to see no use in introducing you to my brother sooner than is required. It was also the time of great animosity between Keajic and Scyta. The skies and sea respectively. You got a lot more storms out at sea back then. Once, she sent a great tidal wave to devastate a town Keajic had deep admiration for. To spite her back, he had directed a gale to steer a fleet lead by one of her sons into rocks. That was the least of it. Suffice to say, anything could set them off. And the results would be disastrous for all those involved. Which is where Khenir and Minarv come in. As you may know, whenever one of you is born, it is my job to determine how long it is before you meet Tain. I have no real say in when you will die, you understand. All I do is find the likeliest timeline of your life and note it in my records. You don't call me the Chronicler for nothing, after all. But you see, if there is one thing I've always admired about humanity, it's the flexibility of your lives. All it takes is one occasion to cause your life's course to completely diverge. Khenir was going to be a farmer like his ancestors before him and potential descendants after him. He'd likely find a woman to marry and raise children with. A rather insignificant and mundane life spanning 72 years. As for Minarv, he'd be raised to be a fisherman by his father and the rest of the community. There was no conventional settling down in his most probable future. Waves stretching past the horizon would be a common backdrop of his adult life until he had the misfortune of being the victim of a poorly treated wound at the age of 38. Oh, stop pitying him. What is it with you humans and your belief the only type of life that will bring happiness and satisfaction is one ending in old age? He would have been perfectly happy doing what he loved for a living. Honestly, you come across as obsessed with watching loved ones slowly decay before you while they still breathe. You call that desirable? Either way, those were the most likely outcomes of their life. With how easily paths can branch off, nothing is guaranteed. The easiest way for your life's course to be altered is divine intervention. Should I detect a child has the chance to be someone whose life future generations will regale the story of, I pay them a visit. To tell you the truth, your reactions to my presence have always intrigued me. Some parents are ecstatic to know their child may have notoriety one day. It isn't uncommon for parents to weep or becoming protective as the gravity of their child's potential future dawns on them. Were I mortal, I would likely be amongst the horrified too. You, of course, ruined it slightly by transforming it into a tradition. You pick any elderly male neighbour and have him be part of the child's 1st birthday celebrations. No man can ever truly replicate my visitations. Your efforts are but a cheap imitation. What is all this about having them blessed over a sundial or clock? Believe me, if I wanted to bestow anything upon your child, I would do so in person. Nevertheless, I appeared in the countryside and spoke to Khenir's mother under the alias of a travelling merchant. Still an infant, Khenir was nonplussed by my being there. I doubt his mother realised the truth of my identity when I gently touched her son's head. The young Minarv I met, on the other hand, was a charming little boy when I made my way to the coast. With great excitement, he gestured to his father's ship which had been approaching the docks. Said father was none too pleased to have me be the disguised god blessing his firstborn. Apparently, he had hoped it would be Scyta, if any of us at all. Oh, if only he'd known. The years passed and the boys grew to be young men. They learned the respective trades of their families while also developing hobbies involving the flute and sketching. Their individual paths carried on leading them towards a life unaware of the other. The thing with Scyta is that she enjoys acquainting herself with mortal men. Fishermen and sailors in particular. If I had to name her favourite type of mortal, it was one who frequented her domain and respected her authority over it. You can probably see where this is going. Yes, she is the one who instigated this whole mess. Although, I doubt she was expecting the result it got. Even I can't accurately anticipate the whims of my kin all the time. Not for lack of effort, I assure you. Scyta subtly pursuing Minarv? That I could have foreseen without trying. Predicting her spouse's reaction took no effort either. Schea had always been jealous of their wife. It's understandable when your significant other has a habit of using the very thing you control to entice mortals. What better to prevent a relationship than ensure the target of the affections was unavailable. The main flaw in Schea's plan was that they naturally appear as the most attractive person in the eyes of whomever sees them. Therefore, the two men would be enamoured by the stranger attempting to unite them. The result is always achieved regardless. All Schea needs to do is ensure the pair meet eyes while they maintain physical contact with both members of the couple. A hand on each back, one look and that was that. By the docks, with a crisp ocean breeze blowing, Khenir and Minarv met. As the months progressed, they spent as much of Minarv's time on land together as they were able. The fisherman would play music while the farmer would sketch him. They were in love and deeply so. No amount of conversation with the mysterious woman supposedly living near the shore could reverse that. Naturally, Scyta refused to admit defeat and move on to her next target. More so than that, events were beginning to unfold. Minarv frequently prayed to her for the sake of safe trips. Being intrigued by birds and their ability to fly is what attracted Keajic's attention towards Khenir. Each had a mortal on their 'side'. And these mortals were lovers? No, that wouldn't do. Whether the two gods had been looking to trigger a fight between themselves or not, they'd still found a suitable reason to. Things were about to get problematic. Minarv became caught in the crossfire when his ship sunk, causing him to be the only survivor. The crops in Khenir's region failed after Sugan was to persuaded to become momentarily involved. Their livelihoods were being threatened purely because Minarv refused to concede. I recall Schea was pleased with themself, thrilled to see a match they'd created cause such conflict. Casquej had inevitably grown fond of them, given his specialty is the creative arts. I was witnessing paths be rapidly redirected as the two men's lives were thrown into turmoil. Even Tain became agitated by this mess. More humans had died than was necessary and the increasing work on his part to stay up to date with it all was enough to get him to join our cause. I know, I know, I never imagined involving myself in ridiculous spats either. Regardless, enough was enough. My brother and I were mostly ambivalent about their fate. Casquej, however, wished for there to be a happy ending to the whole ordeal. Whatever worked. We promised to co-operate in an effort to stop the madness before all our kin were dragged into it. The plan, as you may recall, was to offer them a secret paradise. A world detached from time as they had known it. Somewhere they could be safe from their torment. Khenir could admire the wildlife to his heart's content while there were enough bodies of water to satisfy Minarv. More importantly, there was no threat of death or misery. I appeared to them as a child. Claiming to be one of my own half-mortal offspring, I convinced the lovers to follow me to a mountain pass. Once we arrived, I showed them how to activate the entrance. A set of instructions later and I left them to it. I made it explicitly clear, they were not to spend longer than a month over there in one go. Those instructions were simple enough. If I were mortal, I would have disappeared for a month, returned to the regular world for two or three months then come back to the haven I knew had been made for me. Humans will be humans, I suppose. These types of stories usually have at least one moment that could have been easily avoided if the protagonist had thought things through in the moment. A month there was approximately a week outside of it. I made it so in an attempt to aid them. They followed my precautions in the beginning. A month became 6 weeks sometimes or they'd return slightly sooner than they should have. Gradually, they strayed further from my warnings. With all this deviation, it was inevitable really. Scyta and Keajic discovered why their pawns were absent. I admit it did not help that they revelled in their paradise for three months straight by regular standards. To make it worse, they had the intelligent idea to go their separate ways by the shore. Which was where the gods were waiting for them. We gods have a habit of being ridiculously petty. I have no need to tell you that which you are already aware. If a mortal stands in the way of what we hope to achieve, and we are bitter enough, we will discard of a life. What is one or two amongst thousands, millions or even billions? Both Keajic and Scyta were more than bitter enough. Even Tain showed up to witness it, albeit from a notable distance. There are very few mortals who have been personally reaped by him. Being in the company of four gods must be overwhelming enough for mortals. Even more so when Death and Time act as onlookers to your demise. Perhaps that is why they gripped each other's hands as if it would prevent their permanent separation. Being favoured by me will only buy you seconds on your deathbed. I'll make those seconds seem longer than they are, providing a chance to say your goodbyes if desired, but they are still only seconds. That amount of time sounds short to you? Imagine how trivial that duration is to me, a being who has lived for millennia and knows infinity. Keajic denied Minarv the very air he took for granted. In retaliation, Scyta commanded the ocean to make its home in Khenir's lungs. As they both asphyxiated, their fingers defiantly remained intertwined. Why it took me until this point to put my foot down, I am not sure. Possibly because I believed it was not my place to directly intervene. What was more important was that I was inserting myself in the midst of the conflict. Time stopped. I berated Keajic and Scyta for using the men for their games. Minarv had respected Scyta. The same could be said about Khenir and Keajic. Now however? It would be a miracle if either of them respected us at all. They were not made to be tormented relentlessly. Leave your opponent's favoured be and continue your squabbling somewhere more mortals wouldn't be endangered nor risk having the courses of their lives skewed. Could we agree to end this now? The rulers of sky and sea exchanged a glare. As much as they were enemies, they seemed to share the same unspoken idea in that moment. At the time, I was under the impression they were silently agreeing my pleas were rational. I had expected to continue time once more, them to walk away and the human lovers to carry on living until their appointments with Tain were scheduled. My mistake was trusting them to not slight me. I will spare you the goriest details. No doubt you've already come across versions of this story that don't shy away from it. As wings forced their way out from underneath Khenir's shoulder blades, his muscles formation shifted too in an attempt to accommodate them. Everything Minarv wouldn't need any longer became lost to him. His lungs ceased to be just in time for Scyta to drag him under the waves. You may have found the red traces mixing with the ocean in the aftermath of his legs fusing disturbing but I've seen worse. In most depictions of them, I'm sure you'll find Minarv with a black tail littered with white spots or Khenir with wings of yellow, red and a particularly light blue. That's all linked to the whole creation of loons and flagfin shiners ordeal. A bird which dives into the water to feed and a fish to keep it fed. I suppose you may find it sweet with your notions of romance. Know that they change forms as often as the rest of us gods so these visual depictions are not always accurate. All immortality has given them is more time to spend with each other. Neither is capable of human speech any longer but they seem to have developed their own method of communication. With all the chirping, whistling and whatever else they have at their disposal, I can vaguely understand them. Minarv is responsible for your stories of sirens as well. Despite having their anatomy transformed in an effort to permanently separate them, the pair still resisted their limitations. As such, they had to determine if the other happened to be nearby. Once a singer, always a singer. Humans would hear Minarv attempting to attract his beloved's attention and created tales of a creature that lured you into the water. You know, I never enquired what either of them thought about those myths. Perhaps I should, the next chance I get. Ah, speaking of which... Look at that. There is only one great horned owl whom I know would stray so far from its native homeland. Hello Khenir! Just returning from a visit, I presume? I dare say I should see him myself. Care to share with me how it went? After all, I have all the time in the world.

[thesnadger]

Hard To Extinguish

We don’t know what exactly the connection between Gertrude and Agnes entailed, but I’m very interested in the idea of emotional feedback. Probably something that comes and goes in quick moments so that other people don’t realize what’s happening. But it has an effect all the same.

Ao3 version

- - - 

Truth be told, I don’t know what you actually did do; neither Arthur nor Diego would explain it to me in detail, and Jude simply flies into a rage when it’s brought up.

It was a binding, she knows that much. Why the Mother of Puppets would want her linked to Agnes Montague, Gertrude can’t imagine. It may be that the Web’s aim is the same as hers: stopping the ritual from succeeding. But she very much doubts that. She knows not to be optimistic when dealing with the dread powers. Far more likely that the connection is only one step in some dreadful, convoluted plot.

Still, she doubts there is any merit in trying to understand the Web’s machinations. That line of thinking only to leads to a paranoia that ultimately feeds it. And perhaps there is no greater ‘plan.’ Perhaps the Web simply pulls and guides and manipulates for the sake of it, just as the Slaughter rends and the Desolation destroys and the Eye watches.

She only wishes she knew what exactly she invited into herself that day. Whether binding herself to an avatar of the Desolation will have side effects that Gertrude can’t predict.

She’s in the Archive today, following a potential lead regarding the Church of the Divine Host. Attempting to, at any rate. There’s a new archival assistant there, so new he still thinks this is an ordinary job. He’s clearly hoping to prove himself as an enthusiastic worker by pestering her with questions and suggestions every few minutes. She hints rather blatantly that he probably has work he ought to be doing someplace other than her office. But he remains oblivious to her irritation. He’s wasting her time, and her time is absolutely invaluable.

It’s as the last thought enters her mind that a sudden, white-hot rage rises in her. Before she realizes what she’s doing, she’s wrapped her hand around a letter opener and she’s holding it out, shouting at the man. Growling in a way that doesn’t suit her at all and describing in specific detail exactly what she'll do to him if he doesn't quiet his babbling and get far, far away from her this instant.

He backs out of the room quickly, propelled by a mixture of confusion and animal fear. Until today he’d no doubt seen Gertrude as a reserved, doddering old woman. He won’t know how to respond to the suddenness of her outburst or the downright unsettling knowledge she seems to have of the human nervous system and the various ways to damage it. But he at least has some instinctive sense for danger. He’ll steer clear of her from that day on.

The strange pulse of anger fades after he bolts, and Gertrude is left shaken. Unsettled. Wondering where on earth that all came from.

Agnes is at her apartment with Jude and a few others, staring out the window into the street. She likes watching the people as they walk by outside. She sits and wonders about them, about the places they’re all hurrying towards, what they do with all their days. Whether any of them think about destiny or fate.

Behind her, Eugene is going on about the glory of the Scorched Earth. How everything that stands here now will one day be ash and so on, and so on, and so on. She’s so bored of it all. So tired of hearing the same sermons repeated over and over. She wants him to be quiet so she can think her thoughts about the people outside.

She glances back at them, her family, her caretakers, and her keepers. And something comes over her. Suddenly they all seem . . . ridiculous. Not one of them has a clue how any of this works, but they're all so confident that they're serving a higher purpose. So certain they're powerful, free creatures far above the mass of humanity when they're no less lost than anyone else. It’s ridiculous, it’s absurd, and she can’t help but laugh. But the laugh that comes out of her is an odd one. Her laughter is rare, especially these days, but when she does laugh it’s wild, loud and barking. This is a dry, bitter chuckle--barely audible, but it quiets the room.

With contempt in her voice, Agnes fixes her gaze on Eugene. "Can't you talk about anything else? Your droning is dimming me."

The whole cult freezes, not sure how to react. They've seen her angry. They’re used to that, they understand that. They understand screaming and tears, they understand throwing things and threats made and threats carried out and fire. What they don’t understand is the cool, certain superiority in her as she turns her attention back towards the window.

Eugene isn’t sure whether he’s glad she didn’t burn him. But he quiets down, and Agnes is left with her thoughts again.

Many days later Agnes is alone. She’s in her apartment. Waiting, as she always is, for a future she is meant to bring.

Something creeps into her as she sits. It’s a feeling she’s not able to name because she only knows the word contentment as something to be disrupted. Satisfaction and accomplishment are always setups to the inevitable conclusion, which is devastation. She would not think to apply them to this soft, pleasurable wave that settles on her. It’s the feeling of being someone who has survived another day in a hostile world. Someone who goes to their rest knowing that they’ve arranged a small part of that world to their satisfaction.

For just a moment, Agnes doesn’t feel restless. She doesn’t feel a yearning for something she cannot name. She feels . . . at peace.

It passes, and she feels the hiss and pop of tears evaporating as they roll down her face.

Then one day, Agnes is dead. Gertrude keeps tabs on the cult’s affairs, of course, but in the end it isn’t necessary. She feels it as it is happening.

She’d have expected it to be painful, the binding had certainly been. But when the moment of death arrives Gertrude doesn’t feel anything that she would call pain. Just a sudden absence. A sense of loss and a chill that cannot be eased for days no matter how warm her office is kept or how many sweaters she piles on. She knows what it means. The child born of flame is no more, and another ritual has been prevented.

If Gertrude is unable to feel any pleasure at that thought, it is no doubt because of the binding. She can hardly expect to live through the death of someone she is metaphysically tied to without it affecting her mood, after all.

She’ll get over it. There’s too much to be done for her to sit and mope about.

Time moves on, and so does she. Eugene Vanderstock’s statement fills in the details her assistants in the field had missed. She finds that she’s hardly the worst-off survivor of the affair. That young man, Jack Barnabas . . . Gertrude has a strong stomach, but she feels a twinge somewhere when she sees the photos. The burns, she knows, are only the beginning. For someone as defenseless as him to attract the ire of the Desolation? He would have been far better off if Agnes’s kiss had reduced him to cinders.

Barnabas’s silly, earnest attempt at flirtation stopped a terrible future from coming to pass. And of course, he would never know it. Any more than he’d know why the rest of his days on earth would be filled with misery, torment, and pain. He’d saved the world in ignorance, and he would suffer just as ignorantly. It’s a bit poetic, Gertrude thinks, the tragedy of it all.

She dwells on it as she looks over his file. However little Barnabas understood about the situation, the fact remains that she has him to thank for preventing the Scorched Earth. It seems a shame to let him suffer and die. Besides that, sitting back and watching his fate when she has the ability to intervene feels uncomfortably like what the Beholding would want from her.

Eugene has been taken care of already. She isn’t the type to let someone with a long, long history of murder walk away after threatening to burn her alive. In hindsight, her method of disposal might have been overkill. But then, overkill seems to be the only thing those who attach themselves to the Lightless Flame understand. There can be no doubt that some other representative of them will come banging on her door one day. When they do, perhaps she’ll speak to them directly. And if Jack Barnabas comes up in conversation, well, no harm in making a few extra threats on his behalf. Assuming he’s still alive by that point.

As she makes this decision, she feels a quiet heat rise in her. A feeling of satisfaction tinged with sorrow that is not altogether unpleasant.

“If I die quietly,” Agnes says, taking in the shocked faces around her. “Without fire, anguish or mourning, my spark might return to the Lightless Flame so that a new chosen one can be born. One that will not falter.”

She speaks softly, without emotion. She isn’t certain what she feels and hasn’t been certain of that for a long time. She only knows what she does not feel. Agnes has never known what she wants. But she is finally sure of what she doesn’t want. Perhaps never wanted at all.

A few of the assembled members are shaking their heads, still not believing it. Some clench their fists and shout and growl. Not in true anger, she knows, but in the desperate rage that flies up when one feels their heart begin to break. When one finally, truly realizes that everything they built and toiled and struggled for is being burned. Something that has been inside Agnes ever since her birth is feeding on their misery even now. She can feel it giving her strength she neither needs or desires.

Jude is, of course, one of the people shouting. Her anger does nothing to hide the agony that surrounds her like a haze. She’s saying something, but Agnes isn’t paying attention. She just looks at Jude. The lines of her face, the edges of the tattoo barely visible on her bare shoulders. She’s wearing the same tank top that she’d worn in the cafe a few months back.

They’d been talking about the future. The Scorched Earth, the Lightless Flame, Agnes’s destiny, it seemed like that all they ever talked about. Jude was frustrated with waiting and believed that the best way to release Agnes from whatever tied her to the Archivist was to go to their institute and burn her out of it. She said that an old woman and a pile of ever-so-flammable records would have no hope against Agnes’s full glory. The Eye would be left an ashen husk, and Agnes would be free to embrace the fate she had been born for.

Agnes had never met the Archivist, of course, and there was something appealing about the idea of confronting her. Though she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to kill her as Jude hoped or just see her, face to face.

Either way, she shook her head. “If I did that . . . .” she said, “I think that something in me would burn up with her.”

Jude hadn’t liked that answer. She’d pressed her palms flat on the table and looked pleadingly at Agnes.

“Maybe it’s something that needs to burn,” she’d said. “Something you’re better off without. Even if it isn’t, surely any loss you suffer can only feed the Lightless Flame.”

A week after that day, Jack had asked for her name.

Agnes had been worshiped and adored, and in many ways loved. She’d felt the heat of a supplicant’s devotion and the burn of a fiery, passionate longing. But Jack was the first person who seemed to want to know her. To know the person she was, instead of the person she was going to be - that destined destroyer whose light was so blinding it kept everyone from seeing her. Jack didn’t know her, but he’d wanted to. That had been enough.

Jude is still shouting, and now there are tears. Her words have gone from pleading to recriminating in the face of Agnes’s silence.

“How could you give up on yourself,” she shouts. “After everything we’ve done, all we’ve sacrificed! Do you even realize what losing you will do to me? To us?”

Agnes reaches out, drawing a gentle finger along the side of Jude’s face. A deep groove forms in the melting wax, and Jude is quiet.

“Surely,” Agnes says, her voice cold, “any loss you suffer can only feed the Lightless Flame.”

There are no more protests after that.

Jude Perry has a scar now that extends from cheek to jaw. Wax is easy to mold, she can be rid of any scar with a moment of concentration if she wishes. She keeps it all the same, and whenever the heat of a burning building or the struggling limbs of a person she’s tying up cause it to lose its shape she is careful to reform it exactly as it was before.

Jack Barnabas endures three terrible years. Then slowly, eventually, things begin to turn. He finds a job in a warehouse where no one gives his face much thought, at least not after the initial surprise. He begins to make friends again, moves out of his father’s place and finds an apartment of his own. Things are still difficult, but he can see hope on the horizon.

He thinks about her now and then. Wonders if that end had been what she’d wanted or if those people drove her to it, not sure which answer would sadden him more. He has no way of guessing, of course. He knows he never understood anything about her, couldn’t even say what she was or why her touch held such blistering agony. He won’t ever forget her, though.

The scars on his face still ache sometimes. But it’s the one on his hand, the path of a single teardrop, that hurts the most.

Gertrude Robinson isn’t the mother type. She’d made that very clear, not that Eric had needed reminding. Still, she promised to find his son and has no reason to break that promise. If Gerard is a threat, she’ll deal with him. If not . . . perhaps he can be useful, perhaps not. Either way keeping him close probably isn’t the worst idea given his upbringing.

She is prepared for a threat. What she isn’t prepared for is the young man she eventually finds huddled in the corner of some horrid little dive bar, speaking to no one. Drinking in the mechanical, joyless fashion of someone looking to obliterate their consciousness as quickly as possible. He looks up as she approaches, and she wonders briefly if his connection to the Eye is enough for him to have Seen her coming. Unlikely. She doubts he can see past the edge of his own glass at the moment. Without asking, she sits down across the table from him.

“Well,” she says. “It has certainly been a while, Gerard.”

He looks at her with a little suspicion. Mostly resignation. “Do I know you?”

“Not personally. You could technically say we’ve met, in that I saw you once when you were an infant,” she replies. “But I imagine your mother has spoken of me.”

“Yeah, well. If you’re a friend of mum’s you can fuck off.” Gerard’s expression moves from resignation to dismay the moment Mary is mentioned, and he lowers his head to the table. “Not dealing with more of her stuff today.”

A wry smile moves the corner of Gertrude’s mouth. “‘Friend’ is not the word I would use.”

Gerard sighs heavily. “Look. I’m not in the mood for dancing around the point. If you’re some enemy of hers here to kill or kidnap me to get at her, you’d be better off going after something she actually values. And if you’re one of the ones that likes being creepy on purpose you’re wasting your time. Whatever you’ve got to scare me with, I’ve seen it before.”

Gertrude pauses and considers the young man in front of her. He's half-drunk now, but she doubts he would look better sober. There’s a desperation in him that she’s seen before, usually in people who come in to give statements and then disappear a week later. She doubts he’ll be able to manage much longer unless something changes for him.

Poor man hardly had a chance, really. Raised by someone who could have only seen him as an extension of her will, an heir to mold into the continuation of her legacy. Gertrude isn’t the sentimental type, but she's not unaware, either. She certainly doesn't imagine Mary ever gives much consideration to what Gerard himself is feeling, or if he feels anything at all. Only interested in the person he is going to be, never the person he is.

Her mind briefly wanders to a few years ago. When she’d been shivering under five layers of clothing and for a moment found herself madly, ridiculously wondering whether Agnes Montague had ever dreamed. Were her dreams only of fire, of torturing heat and despair, or were there ever gentle dreams? Dreams of other futures?

It’s a thought Gertrude lets go of quickly. A pointless thing to speculate on even at the time. Agnes is dead, and any dreams she might or might not have had are hardly relevant to the current situation.

“All right,” she says. “To the point, then. How would you like to be rid of your mother?”

Agnes’s death is cold and quiet. But it does not go completely unheard.

[pennys-th0ughts]

Robert Gray. The Origin of Pennywise 🤡 Chapter 2

Augustine was sitting on the stairs in the porch. She was, as usual, reading one of her favorite books totally submerged in it. I was looking at her and cherishing every single one of her features that often reminded me to my wife. From her she got her beautiful eyes and the freckles on her cheeks and nose and from me she got the color of my hair and a proud nose. Her long curled copper hair resembled a furious river and its stream made of fire running a smooth hill down.

My daughter was a lovely fifteen years old young woman now and the springtime of her womanhood has already knocked at her door. Raising a little girl for a single father isn’t always that easy, even more when you don’t have an instructions book of how to play both figures for her. There were times I got to feel uncomfortable explaining things that a mother should, but in time we made it and Augustine did her best to understand me.

– ¿Are you thinking about mom, dad? – She suddenly asked me and made me snap out of my thoughts.

I remained in silence for some minutes trying to picture Charlotte’s face in my mind. After ten years without her and my memory loss stepping forward every day, which was diagnosed a couple years ago, made me fear that someday her face would start being something unknown to me but the pictures I kept on my night table and in almost all around the house were preventing me to forget the woman I loved the most.

– I think about her every single day, sweetheart – I answered my daughter with a little smile, trying really hard to contain my tears.

I couldn’t show her my weak side if I wanted her to be strong, but the feeling was devastating sometimes. To help me cope I used to read the diary she had left me before she passed, her poetry and quotes had so much heart that you could feel each word caressing your soul. To me they were like some kind of balm she made only for me and to cure my torn up spirit. The few years spent together we have realized that we had become in some kind of inspiration to each other.

To me she was the muse that helped me create the most benevolent medicines and for her I turned to be the architect that built the most beautiful dream she would keep living through once she was gone. And I was looking at this dream straight to her eyes and telling her how much I missed her mother without mentioning how badly I needed her.

– She never left – Augustine finally said closing her book and putting it to a side-. She is still here with us.

The truth in her words got me thinking for a moment and, despite her young age, once more my daughter was right. Her wisdom was so pure and unpredictable that many times left me without words, only thoughts. I kept thinking the loss of her mother made her grow faster than I would have wanted; she was so little when Charlotte passed away than I could bet she barely remember her.

Augustine sat down on my lap and I hugged her really tight. My little girl will soon leave the house and also a big emptiness in my heart, but I knew that was the right thing to do. She had a promising future outside Derry and I wouldn’t dare to force her to stay, Charlotte would surely kill me if she could.

Finally the day I feared the most to come came and I suddenly saw myself with my eyes watering because of the tears I couldn’t hold. I helped my daughter to place her luggage inside the carriage one foggy October night and after we said goodbye she finally departed to her new destination. I saw her put distance between us and the more distant she got the more I started missing her. House would feel so empty and the days would become longer. A new lonely phase was about to begin and I wasn’t ready for it.

Fire spread fast and by the time firefighters came to help the flames had already wiped out most of the things. Liquid medicines became into steam and all the solid ones and ingredients were now ashes. Drugstore burned to the ground until everything turned out into dust. I fell on my knees and watched powerless how the little smolders were slowly dying leaving only charcoals on their spot. I clenched my fists so hard that my nails pierced my skin and bloody marks popped up.

After the incident I had to let Charlotte’s brother go; rebuild the store from a scratch was going to take a lot of time and money I didn’t have. I was officially broken. Losing my job at the store was the last low blow I wasn’t expecting and after not seeing another way out of my bad financial situation I decided, with a heavy heart, to sell the house and move in to a smaller place a bit away from the main square.

Depression didn’t take long to look through my window one cold winter day. Soon I would start to loose notion of time and the will of going out and face people would become smaller each day. Paranoia came after and some days were blurry, alcohol would make them a little bit clearer but the outcome afterwards was always worse.

Augustine got a letter sometime after the tragedy, in it I told her what happened and where I was living now. She wrote me back and her letter arrived a couple days later saying that the conservatory wouldn’t allow her to leave until upcoming summer vacations. Long months were lying ahead like some kind of carpet made of shattered glass, I was in one end and Augustine was in the other, getting to her would definitely be something very painful.

Hot waves of air announced summer as usual. I was sitting on one of the benches at the train station waiting with my eyes lost in the far landscape loaded with orange, red and coffee tones. I was sitting there alone and waited for more than one hour Augustine’s train to arrive, something that never happened. I looked down and my eyes fell on the dusty floor as my spirit did. Bitterness of disappointment began flooding my mouth as if I just had a long sip of choler. When I finally gave up to the hope of seeing my daughter again someone came up out of the blue catching me unguarded. She sat down next to me and sighed. Her perfume started tearing floral notes of rose, violets and lavender of the air and some citric shades of tangerine and lime.

– If you don’t mind me saying, – she finally spoke- it seems you have been waiting long enough.

I abruptly turned my head to look at her unsuccessfully hiding the surprise plastered all over my face. She chuckled at my sudden reaction with a shy smile that she politely covered with her hand. The paleness of her skin reminded me the bright side of the moon, her light brown eyes looked like two pieces of gold and her hair was stunningly white.

– I'm afraid you are quite correct – I replied slightly smiling back-. ¿Are you waiting for the next train, miss?

– Actually no – she extended her hand to shake mine-. I just came down from the one that just left.

We shook hands and she introduced herself as Carou Sehl, I did the same and told her I used to be the apothecary of the town until not long ago a fire burned the whole place down. We shared some trivial details of our current occupations and some other irrelevant events of our lives. It was about to be eight o'clock and I was starting to feel a little hungry.

– ¿Would you like to have a cup of coffee? – I asked her with my voice fully loaded with hesitation, fearing to be rejected because of the late hour.

She seemed not to be worried about the time so she accepted my invitation, I helped her get up and we headed to the most comfortable cafeteria downtown. On our way there we didn’t speak much, we limited ourselves to watch the store windows and the things there exhibited. In a moment the girl froze on the spot making me stop immediately since she was still grabbing my arm.

I didn’t need to ask what was going on when I saw her admiring a beautiful dress a manikin was wearing. The price in the tag was certainly high but the fabric and the design of the piece was undoubtedly amazing that reminded me the kind of dress only the princesses in fairy tales would wear.

The environment inside the cafeteria was surprisingly nice at this hour, there weren’t too much people and that made it really quiet, special to have a long and relaxed talk. Carou sat down in front me and left her belongings next to her, I did the same with my hat and coat. The waitress greeted us politely leaving the menu on the table which we both laid hands on it at the same time. Such a clumsy coincidence made the girl laugh shyly and ripped a smile of my lips, maybe the most sincere one since a long time.

We spent the next two and half hours talking about the intriguing life inside a circus, Carou worked there for many years since she was ten years old until they parents had to retire because of their advanced ages. She carefully explained that once the acrobats reach their fifties they must stop working because the muscles begin getting hard and the joints doesn’t respond as they should putting their lives in danger of falling. Carou kept on going with the family’s inheritance until time decided when to show her the finishing flag.

I remained looking at her in silence, listening every single word coming out from her pink lips carefully. She spoke with so devotion that was inevitable not to feel the same fire inside your chest.

– It seems you love what to do – I finally said sighing-. ¿Have you ever imagined yourself doing something else?

– Not really, no – she answered my question while playing with the napkin-. I think my life was meant to be spent in a circus and I'm okay with that…

– ¿But…?

– But I would have loved to travel around the world, with the circus or not, it would have been a quite unforgettable experience.

Carou clearly seemed to be the kind of woman that loved adventure but hadn’t the chance to get out and see the world by her own. Her parents anchored her to a life that had limited choices and she accepted it without hesitation given it was her only way out to a complicated situation.

– It would have, indeed –I reaffirmed her point of view.

I paid the coffees and we left. Before going separate ways, she invited me to go and watch one of her numbers at the circus which I gladly accepted. That night a warm breeze was blowing, gently shaking the branches of the trees and their leaves. The wind didn’t give time to put my hat on in time and disheveled a few locks of my hair; Carou took one of them and put it behind my ear and said:

– Your hair looks like winter fire…

I froze on the spot for a split of a second not knowing how or what to feel but I immediately put myself together and reacted just in time to say goodbye and kiss her hand. That night I would return home with a strange but nice feeling inside my chest, something I thought it was long time gone.

To be continued…

Image: Andy White (@deviantart )

[skonnaris]

50 books read in High School Worth Revisiting

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald: High school students who go on to college can quite easily nurture a firsthand understanding of the self-serving hedonism found at the center of this beloved classic. And then they’ll either despise it even more or relate all too well.

Beowulf by unknown: Pick up the popular Old English epic after forgetting the seemingly endless lectures and settle in to a thoroughly enjoyable adventure tale.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger: Depending on one’s circumstances when first picking up The Catcher in the Rye, protagonist Holden Caulfield is either a counterculture revelation or a whiny, pretentious brat. Revisiting him later in life will inevitably shift perceptions to some degree, be it major or minor.

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston: Some high school students may scoff at the soapier elements found on Zora Neale Hurston’s Harlem Renaissance essential, but older adults are more likely to see and admire the strength, courage and resolve of heroine Janie Crawford.

Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare: The real tragedy of Romeo and Juliet isn’t their mistaken, needless deaths. It’s their staggering myopia and selfishness.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey: Anyone who has ever personally suffered from a psychiatric disorder — or loves someone who does — might find the marginalization of the mentally ill in this undeniable classic both disturbing and tragically accurate. It may take some time and experience between high school and the next read for such bitter facts to really seize hold.

Les Miserables by Victor Hugo: Les Miserables is huge. When reading it in English class, deadlines might preclude many students from really picking up on the book’s myriad juicy nuances. Revisiting it later offers far more time to sit and ponder everything Hugo wanted audiences to see.

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy: As with Les Miserables, time constraints and other academic obligations make it difficult to really become absorbed in War and Peace. When picking it up and reading on a more personal schedule, visitors are more likely to forge a far more solid grasp of the material.

Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko: More sensitive high school students may find protagonist Tayo’s spiritual, emotional and physical healing process too intense for their tastes. But as they age and gain more life experience, Ceremony could very well prove exactly what they need one day.

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe: As long as there are nations battling it out over land and squashing indigenous cultures beneath their boots, postcolonial literature will always be relevant. Chances are, anyone reading Things Fall Apartas a high school student will probably be able to apply many of its tenets to current events. When they re-read it as adults, they might find themselves sadly noting how little things have changed.

The Jungle by Upton Sinclair: Both at the turn of the 20th Century and on into today, most readers (even teachers) tend to emphasize Upton Sinclair’s visceral descriptions of unsanitary food production — especially since it directly spawned hefty legislation. In reality, though, he wanted it to shed light on the plight of exploited workers. Give his classic another visit later in life and see how the story changes when reading it with this in mind.

Beloved by Toni Morrison: Toni Morrison deliberately left many elements of her celebrated novel ambiguous, so any subsequent readings will inevitably churn up new perspectives, details and interpretations.

The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan: Because family stands as this classic’s core theme, The Joy Luck Club never goes out of style. Whenever issues with parents arise, refer back to it for solace and insight.

The Color Purple by Alice Walker: When life grows too overwhelming, timeless heroine Celie provides inspiration to press on — no matter what sort of adversity and cruelty stonewalls happiness and stability.

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain: The sociopolitical elements driving this famous narrative are incredibly important to understanding it as a whole, but focusing too much on them — as one would in an English class — glosses over the comparatively more lighthearted adventure elements.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley: Understandably, many first-time Frankensteinreaders dive into the novel expecting a green-skinned simpleton with bolts in his neck — and find themselves shocked when encountering something completely different. Give it a re-read and see what may have been missed when consciously or subconsciously making comparisons with the iconic movie.

The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway: High school students sigh over this leisurely-paced classic, but older adults seeking something more philosophical than frenetic might find it exactly what they want.

Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller: Hopefully, picking up the searing Death of a Salesman at just the right time will prevent many students and adults from falling into the same lifestyle traps as tragic Willy Loman.

The Stranger by Albert Camus: Existentialism probably seems intense and somewhat inaccessible to many high schoolers, but one of the philosophy’s cornerstones warrants further consideration once they pack on more life experiences.

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad: Puncturing through allegory after allegory after allegory grows tiresome after a while, and a fair amount of individuals might enjoy Heart of Darkness far more if they didn’t have to so painstakingly dissect every word.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou: Maya Angelou’s poetic autobiography is at once heartbreaking and inspiring — an ultimately uplifting tale perfect for anyone needing a dash or two of courage.

Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut: An American treasure, Kurt Vonnegut may not necessarily appeal to harried high schoolers lacking the time to really sit and think about his statements regarding society, religion and politics. Approaching him with the proper time frame and mindset will make Slaughterhouse-Five and his other works burst with life and lessons.

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka: "Monstrous vermin" Gregor Samsa serves as a viable literary outlet for anyone, anywhere feeling as if the world treads all over their stability and happiness. Reading about the horrific abuses his family heaps upon him provides a strange, comforting sense of solidarity.

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte-: Though fiction, Wuthering Heights makes for one of the most prominent lessons in how mentally and emotionally abusive relationships operate – something women and men alike absolutely need to know if they hope to keep themselves safe.

Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck: Most of Steinbeck’s oeuvre deserves multiple reads, but his story of a developmentally disabled man and his devoted caretaker remains one of the most heart-wrenching American novels ever printed. And one whose tragic ending merits a wealth of conversations.

Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra: Because Don Quixotepossesses such a rich history and left an indelible mark on popular culture, bibliophiles of all ages find themselves coming back again and again to enjoy the adventures of the eponymous dreamer.

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath: This semi-autobiographical novel sheds considerable light on a life wracked with mental illness — a somber, realistic lesson every adult must understand. The Bell Jar also serves as a reminder that anyone emotionally struggling doesn’t always do so alone.

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess: Readers who don’t understand Russian or cockney slang (aka most of them) need to read this warped dystopian novel multiple times to understand what in God’s name the characters are even saying.

A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen: Written before the feminist movement rose up and fought for women’s equality, one of Henrik Ibsen’s most popular plays toyed with the scandalous notion that some housewives may pine for a life outside their husbands, homes and kids.

The Awakening by Kate Chopin: Another recommended read for the liberated woman and the men who appreciate them, though many fans of this book find themselves divided over whether or not they fully agree with the central figure’s actions.

Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift: English classes spend so much time zeroing in on the wealth of social, political and religious commentary found in Gulliver’s Travels, they oftentimes forget to address just how much fun the book actually is.

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison: Dense and intense, Ralph Ellison’s brutal analysis of pre-Civil Rights race relations is required reading for any students and adults hoping to end bigotry in all its twisted, ugly guises.

Maus by Art Spiegelman: Maus currently holds the honor of being the only Pulitzer-winning graphic novel, a status that rightfully earned it a place on many a syllabus. Despite its grim content — Art Spiegelman’s very real talks with his father about his Holocaust experiences — the valuable lessons about family and history remain timeless.

Inferno by Dante Alighieri: All three portions of Dante Alighieri’s epic poetry trilogy The Divine Comedy are required reading, but his bizarre, highly detailed depiction of hell holds the most influence over the literary world today — not to mention pop culture as a whole.

1984 by George Orwell: No literary history aficionados will argue that George Orwell’s terrifying totalitarian dystopia birthed the entire genre, but it certainly left the biggest impact. Political pundits enjoy trotting out parallels to 1984 when discussing administrations they hate. Citizens familiarizing themselves with the novel’s tenets and context can tell whether or not they have a real point or are just resorting to paranoid fearmongering.

Nectar in a Sieve by Kamala Markandaya: Despite the many hardships heaped upon protagonist Rukmani, hers is a story of strength and perseverance that many students and adults may want to consult when seeking comfort in times of trouble.

Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton: Though apartheid may have ended, its legacy of intolerance and discord provides future generations with the tools to identify and stop such practices before they even have a chance to start.

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller: Readers of all ages with a particular affinity for absurdity and political commentary — especially as it relates to wartime — keep coming back to this novel again and again for laughs and truth bombs.

The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros: Bibliophiles looking for a great bildungsroman to read over and over again have plenty to love about and explore with this compelling story about a young Chicana and her life in an impoverished Chicago neighborhood.

A Good Man is Hard to Find and Other Stories by Flannery O’Connor: Though an obviously subjective statement, many consider Flannery O’Connor one of the best American short story writers of all time. In such a confined space, she thrived with some incredibly provocative, influential narratives well worth reconsideration.

Night by Elie Wiesel: In his autobiography, Elie Wiesel recounts his gruesome experiences in Auschwitz and Buchenwald with the hopes of educating the world about the Holocaust’s horrors. Giving Night more than one look helps drive home its major historical themes, imbuing readers with the knowledge needed to better recognize hate and genocide.

Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi: This new classic is at once hilarious and heartbreaking. Through deceptively simple art, writer and cartoonist Marjane Satrapi recounts her childhood during the Islamic Revolution in Iran and the different set of prejudices faced as an expatriate in Europe.

Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon: Gravity’s Rainbow necessitates multiple reads because it involves over 400 characters embroiled in increasingly absurdist, surreal situations. Anyone who says they understand everything in one read is probably lying just to seem smart. Punch him or her in the face.

A Separate Peace by John Knowles: The comparatively cushy lives of private school students in New England are juxtaposed with young men forced to the front lines of World War II, with a strange and interesting friendship right in the center.

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole: Not only is it a provocative read — especially when one factors in author John Kennedy Toole’s tragic life — this posthumous Pulitzer winner also happens to be one of the most hilarious novels ever published.

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens: Charles Dickens attracts such a massive audience, most of his oeuvre could’ve easily made this list. A Tale of Two Cities oftentimes bores high school students, but as they grow older they may come to love its history and memorable characters.

Flatland by Edwin A. Abbott: Aside from the fact that this novel exists as one of the greatest satires ever written in English, it also warrants multiple reads for the sheer originality and imagination.

A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf: In her book-length essay A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf opines on feminism, sexuality (most especially lesbianism) and the importance of financial autonomy and personal space for writers.

Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri: Short stories of Indians and Indian-Americans intertwine thematically, raising some excellent questions about multiculturalism, family, relationships and plenty of other subjects bibliophiles delight in discussing.

Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse: Both the spiritually-minded and those adhering to no religious credos at all appreciate this reflective classic and turn to it for meditative advice.