#And the child 'introduced' to its light at the earliest opportunity

[shrikeseams]

Elves definitely assign their children some kind of patron constellation based on the time and day of their birth and/or begetting, right? Not in a horoscope way so much as a 'Varda's stars watch over everyone' way? Like a patron Saint or guardian angel type of belief.

(Funny version: this stems from cuivienen, and the first varda hears of it is like. Ingwe eagerly asking to meet his patron star, and Varda has to scramble to figure out 1. What he's talking about and 2. If she can (or should) bring said system into being somehow.)

[capsized-heart]

l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this. 

gif credit to @michonnegrimes​ 

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy. 

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child. 

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother. 

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed. 

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.   

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English. 

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland. 

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin. 

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre. 

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king. 

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to. 

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland. 

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk. 

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey. 

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates. 

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you. 

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey. 

A lick of fire coils up your throat. 

God save the king. 

**

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand. 

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling. 

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose. 

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly. 

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing. 

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other. 

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.  

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels. 

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. 

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance. 

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy. 

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear. 

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal. 

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation. 

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

**

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own. 

You see it all. After all, you are a woman. 

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror. 

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.” 

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”      

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact. 

King Henry IV.     

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly. 

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.     

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air. 

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride. 

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.  

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.  

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you. 

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light. 

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you. 

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”  

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law? 

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls. 

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile. 

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more. 

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue. 

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor. 

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.  

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light. 

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.   

“I thank you, sire.” 

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear. 

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”  

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced. 

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests. 

You leave him burning. 

**

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting. 

 The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria. 

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup. 

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans. 

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor. 

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted. 

Even if it is all a charade. 

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.      

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.  

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.   

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes. 

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs. 

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers. 

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.   

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.     

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek. 

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers. 

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic. 

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip. 

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.  

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat. 

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink. 

**

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily. 

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly. 

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time. 

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

**

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife. 

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil. 

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.  

“King Henry!”

**

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.  

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry. 

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood. 

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker. 

A ball for the boy king.   

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture. 

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm. 

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.    

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise. 

**

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.  

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk. 

You feign surprise and turn.     

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.  

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.  

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize. 

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection. 

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno. 

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear. 

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum. 

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity. 

“Beautiful.” He murmurs. 

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming. 

“I thank you, my lord.” 

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?” 

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response. 

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar. 

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

**

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you. 

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game. 

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands. 

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father. 

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.   

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce. 

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely. 

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game. 

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding. 

You are to let him touch you. 

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire. 

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself. 

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.  

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure. 

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth. 

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman. 

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

**

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows. 

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move. 

You only burn brighter.  

**

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase. 

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest. 

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil. 

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval? 

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago. 

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

**

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment. 

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.  

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns. 

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself. 

**

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return. 

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession. 

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England. 

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song. 

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together. 

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room. 

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.” 

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear. 

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.  

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.” 

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis. 

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely. 

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually. 

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening. 

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it. 

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm. 

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...” 

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss. 

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder. 

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed. 

You have the king’s word. 

**

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool. 

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.” 

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries. 

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly. 

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer. 

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.  

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming. 

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races. 

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.” 

**

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger. 

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this. 

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood. 

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

**

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill. 

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling. 

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers. 

Thou shalt not commit adultery. 

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

**

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have. 

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest. 

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl. 

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos. 

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world. 

 The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone. 

 You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world. 

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below. 

[butterfly-winx]

its probably the helia stan in me but id love to read an origin story! idk if youre planning one for all of them but i really like your worldbuilding so id read them! and i know others would too! 💞 (also that fairy sketch was beautiful and if youre planning on it id love to hear more about him 👀)

Aahh ugh, I don’t actually have a lot fleshed out for Cyanox, except that he is the Guardian of Prometia and neutral to a fault. And also unintentionally the reason for why/how Layla  gained the ability to modify Sirenix into Crystal Sirenix to adapt to cold and high pressure environments. 

I am far too disorganised to make one collection post for the backgrounds of all characters I messed with, so I guess, here goes nothing. *cracks knuckles* Buckle in for the ride! (content warning for death and lethal illnesses)

Helia was born on Lynphea in a middle sized settlement in the moderate-warm Eastern Forests of Lynphea. I talk about the zones, culture and dangers of Lynphea here, so I don’t want to repeat myself too much, but Helia’s village was much closer to the borders of the Death Zone the virus has claimed for itself than what would have been advisable. Back then, they thought  Viaj would exhaust the surrounding natural resources and its people would move on long before the spread of the virus would become a danger to them. Oh how wrong they were. All it took was the change of the wind one summer.

Helia had been only five and then some and the world was still too vivid in his eyes, lights filtering through leaves a spectacle every day he accompanied one of his caretakers on a simple errand. He was the one who found the earliest warning sign, a fungal growth on a long leaf of gras that was the manifestation of the plague befalling its plant hosts. Not quite comprehending what that meant in his young age, Helia struggled for a long time with guilt about the terror his discovery brought, wishing he would have never played in the prairie. Like that would have avoided anything.

The inhabitants of Viaj actually gained a head start through his discovery though that potentially spared other communities, however it couldn’t help theirs. They quarantined immediately, drew up a magic barrier to protect everyone from the airborne spores that carry the virus from plants to humans. But doing so they gave up hunting and gathering and were entirely reliant on the rations the other communities would send with the quarantine workers. Though even those trickled to a stop when the first person fell sick with the cough and the tell-tale black spots formed on their mucous membrane. People saw no use in wasting resources on people who were damned to die. The best they could do now was limit travel to the edge of the Eastern Forest and set more scientists on recalculating the projected spread of the virus.

Lynpheans practice a philosophy of “live and let die” not hanging onto things beyond their lifespan, so this was seen as neither cruel or unusual, but show me one person who is truly prepared to die such a horrific, slow death in order to upkeep the natural order. The people of Viaj didn’t want to die, and they certainly didn’t deserve to die. But people fell like flies, until about three months later only Helia, Naoqi, the last adult, and Tsilla, the very last baby born in midst of all that, were alive. Naoqi cared for Helia and the baby as best as he could and in doing so became a replacement parental figure in Helia’s eyes. He did everything he could to make the horrible experience slightly lighter to bear for the children, but when the magic barrier keeping the wind away fell, there was little he could have done to stave off the inevitable. 

Helia was left alone, with a not even five moth old baby and no way of feeding himself or the baby. With nothing else left, he braved the forest and looked for the quarantine workers who were no doubt overseeing the area, which marked the last time Helia ever walked in the forests of his home. The quarantine workers were more than surprised by the tenacious boy with a baby in his arms and finding out he was still alive after what they thought was final exhaustion has set in. 

The next thing after that that Helia actually remembers is waking up on Magics with Saladin greeting him, introducing himself as a distant relative. The truth was a lot more complicated than that. The quarantine workers have taken Helia to the nearest hospital to treat him for the effects of starvation, because miraculously, the disease had still not taken hold of him after five months of exposure. Hermetically locked in a wing of the hospital, he was the most prised and most dangerous person and study artefact on the whole planet. His comatose slumber was watched from behind plexi glas and every then available humoral test was run on him to find out why he of all people had proved to be immune. If he was immune at all.

Meanwhile Saladin arrived on planet as he heard the news of the demise of his hometown, of his family. Even back then he had not been the pride of the planet and his relationship with his family had been strained because of the wars he had chosen to be involved in. All of that didn’t matter the instant lives were on the line and Saladin wanted nothing more than one last exchange of letters he would never get to make everything alright again. No power in the world would ever grant him that, but having powerful friends in the right circles granted him something else. Information, that a young Viaj boy was still alive in the Epidemiology Research Centre. He may be the future, the solution to all of their problems with a  DNA hiding the secrets to immunity. Saladin immediately inquired, dug deeper demanding to see the boy, but the Council denied him visitation rights. He had to strike an underhanded deal with the co-leader of the research project under a false name to find out Helia wasn’t even awake, but held in a magically induced coma for observational purposes. The scientist talked on and on about the possibilities and what they would do after they go the genes needed but Saladin blew up at that point. How dare they treat this boy like an object, like his loss wouldn’t be felt by anyone, should one of the procedures go wrong. Like all his life could hold from now on was an ultimate sacrifice for the benefit of the many. He wouldn’t even be able to comprehend that if told. With Saladin blowing a fuse, the research centre blew up too and he fled the planet that night with an unconscious Helia in his arms. 

So what felt like a night of knocked-in-the-head-by-a-horse sleep to Helia was actually close to four weeks in real world time. He has no concrete memory of what Saladin saved him from, but enough peripheral perception of what transpired planetside to make sense of the ramifications. Technically, Helia’s DNA is public property of the Lynphea Council, and technically both him and Saladin have an arrest warrant hanging over their head for the destruction and property damage caused. If Helia were to ever set foot on Lynphea again (or even go to a country that has an extradition treaty with them) he would be taken back to the Research Centre to be dissected to the smallest molecules until he yielded answers. 

While Helia was able to grow up in Magics in relative safety, the virus was still wreaking damage on Lynphea. Saladin (and to a lesser extent Helia) made the incredibly difficult decision to reject the experimentation on Helia and thus deny the population of their home a potential treatment to an otherwise lethal infection. It is an incredibly heavy burden and no day passes that they don’t question the rightness of their choice.

Helia can certainly appreciate the moral conflict now, but as a child he was much more difficult to manage. The switch from a huge nurturing family to one primary carer to rely on was harsh on Helia, who was already traumatised and needing  love and affection. Saladin did the best he could, but running a school and otherwise being a Universe-wide known hero didn’t help. After they grew close on the tail end of Helia’s childhood, they explosively drew apart during his tweens, Helia not able or reluctant to understand the restrictions Saladin placed on his life.

First, he was unwilling to share as much about Lynphean culture and way of life as Helia wished to know, saying that he wouldn’t be able to apply it there on Magics anyway. The deeper reason for that is more likely buried in his resentment for Lynphea rejecting him as harshly as they did after he helped save the Universe from the Ancestresses, but Helia of course knew nothing of that. Then when he moved over to adapting to life on Magics “in the Magics” way, he begged to be taught magic for which he had developed a budding talent. Saladin refused again for related trauma reasons. He didn’t want Helia to wield a power that could potentially make him a weapon in someone else’s crusade. Being his only personal student would only paint a target on Helia’s back. 

Helia was having none of that, fiercely objecting to the treatment. He had his own trauma to deal with. Like death by illness. (People falling ill was a lasting trigger he has been continuously working to overcome, but the first time Saladin came home with a cough Helia immediately worked himself into a panic attack so severe he couldn’t stop vomiting and had to be taken into a hospital himself. ) He shouldn’t have to shoulder the repercussions of Saladin’s problems too! 

People who say old teens and their wilfulness are hard to deal with, haven’t met twelve year old Helia yet. To think he actually mellowed out by the time he hit Red Fountain. In any case, Helia and Saladin weren’t really speaking civilly with each other anymore by the time Helia met Krystal. (More on her side of things here) Krystal, ten and absolutely blind to seeing obstacles, offered Helia her books on basic witchcraft and with that the opportunity to take his magic learning into his own hands. After all, sorcery required a lot of detailed instruction, but witchcraft was available to any odd fool who could set up a passable reaction equation. It took half a year of trials and encouragement for his efforts to yield a result and for Krystal and Helia’s friendship to bloom. It took Saladin much longer than that to catch on to Helia’s secret tinkering. The old man should have suspected something to be up after their disagreements magically disappeared after Helia and Krystal met twice. The aftermath was ugly and lead to Helia and Krystal reluctantly parting ways. 

Helia was inconsolable an dedicated a large part of his life to making it as difficult for Saladin as possible. His grades dropped, his art got angry and choppy and he had to be escorted home by peace keepers for having snuck into places he shouldn’t have been in. Year fourteen and fifteen of Helia’s life have been by far the most difficult to deal with with no improvement in sight. Under pressure from his school and Saladin to choose a path for higher education after his year nine exams, Helia thought it would be most spiteful to chose...nothing. He would simply stop going to school at 15 years of age and just become whatever. Maybe a full-time artist or a busker. “Hah, that’ll show Saladin!”- he thought, but he severely miscalculated.

Saladin had often threatened with making Helia enrol in his school if he didn’t behave and Helia never though he would make good on his words until he was dropped off at the main entrance with all his bags like the other freshmen filtering in through the gates. Being the headmaster, Saladin allowed Helia some liberties, trying to demonstrate to him that he shouldn’t see this as a punishment, but as an opportunity to further his life. Cue Helia’s biggest pièce de resistance, showing just how much he didn’t think so. As mentioned a few asks ago, he was given the liberty to chose where he lived and which team he chose, but not like that goddamit! He took shameless advantage of the loose wording Saladin used and hopped between rooms and teams completely ignoring conventions. He was the bane of the school, found on the roof, in supply closets and in the middle of hallways. Teams feared him, because they knew if Helia was assigned to them they might as well have been one person short, his flaky nature making it hard for them to work with him. Codatorta wrote as many warnings for Helia in that one year as he did in his whole career before that. Students at Red Fountain tended to be disciplined and dedicated to becoming Specialists, but Helia was the absolute antithesis to them. At the end of the year no amount of Saladin’s half-hearted excuses could save Helia from the overwhelming force of the teaching staff getting him sacked. Not that Helia minded, though. It was exactly what he wanted.

Saladin more or less gave up on him then. If he wanted to be on his own then fine. Saladin would help him with finding an own apartment and give him his first moth of rent, but after that Helia could go and find himself a purpose in the world alone. Fine. Fine. Alright! 

It was not alright at all, but it was buried under a very thick layer of “I’ll show ya” which made Helia want to live his best liberal artist life. He enjoyed creating as much art as he wanted, but he craved social contact and being engaged in something with a common goal, so he started getting involved with local pacifist groups. He had always preached a path of non-violence, which was about the only thing that had been ingrained in him from his Lynphean upbringing. There he started to expand his horizon beyond what his gut feeling taught him about pacifism and got into reading theory seriously. He was surprised how many of those books shared around had originally belonged to the Red Fountain library and even more so that they have ben written by the founders of the Red Fountain Cavalry. And that was when Helia bust down Saladin’s office door.

“All of this theory was in the school’s library the whole time!!?? And all everyone was ever talking about was warfare!! Why was I never told the best pacifist philosophers of the century were all Red Fountain members???” “You never showed up to any of the philosophy lectures! How am I to blame?” A deep breath from Helia, re-evaluating all of his 17 years of life choices. “Dada Saladin, you have to let me back into your school please.” 

And Saladin refused. To let him back without repercussions that is. Helia had to prove that he took his education seriously and was ready to commit by taking the entrance exam like everybody else to earn his place at the institute. He scraped the bottom of the scoreboard with his first results, but took the first year foundation course with a mile long stride. He was allowed to skip quite a few modules and ended up in the same year as the protag specialist boys with quite a reputation to his name. In the process of reacquainting himself with the school and its philosophy, he learned humility, respect, and when to keep his head down and mouth shut. The upperclassmen from his original year group barely believed he was supposedly the same person they got to know as an absolute menace . There are many rumours about twin brothers, brainwashing and Saladin’s terrifying magic might turning him into this new person.

Helia has come an extremely long way becoming the well-tempered and balanced person known from the show’s timeline. It is almost as if he compressed a lifetime of angst into three years, thus min-maxing his character development coming out more adult in the end at 18 years old than many people at 30. He lived through a lot of things and it shows in how he behaves and what he cares about. He is a passable fighter, but his main aim is always to protect and to avoid conflict if possible. He is a trained negotiator for that purpose and prefers to act as tactical support for his team. It all changes however once Riven and Sky both decide to quit the team leaving Helia, Brandon and Timmy with a very difficult decision on how to go on after that.

(Aand we have arrived at present day for my AU timeline with this. I hope you made it this far, I‘ve never written this much for a tumblr post before)

[secretlyatargaryen]

Tyrion and Zuko: Puppets Dancing on Strings

This is part two of a series comparing these characters. Click here to read part one.

"The seven-faced god has cheated me," he said. "My noble sire he made of purest gold, and gold he made my siblings, boy and girl. But I am formed of darker stuff, of bones and blood and clay, twisted into this rude shape you see before you."

The above quote is from one of the most meta-textual moments in the ASOIAF series. In Essos, Arya witnesses a play portraying the events of the series from a very skewed viewpoint. It’s Lannister propaganda, and Tyrion is portrayed as a Richard III-esque villain in contrast to his father and siblings of “purest gold.”

Similarly, ATLA also shows its awareness of its own narrative in the episode “The Ember Island Players,” in which the gaang witnesses a play of the events of their adventures. This play is Fire Nation propaganda, and portrays Zuko in the most negative light, as incompetent and then eventually killed as the villain of the story.

What these two moments in each narrative show us is not only both series’ meta-textual awareness, but also serves as a commentary on the story and characters from within. By the time we see this episode in ATLA, Zuko has joined the gaang and so we are inclined to sympathize with him and see the portrayal as skewed. In ASOIAF, the last time we have seen Tyrion is after he has been exiled from King’s Landing, and we know that the propaganda put forth is specifically meant to villainize him and portray him in the most inaccurate way possible, as we also know that he was not guilty of the crime of which he was accused.

What’s also interesting about the play, though, is that the words said by the Tyrion character mirror the fascist ideology of House Lannister and identify what marks Tyrion as separate from them. This fascist ideology is also present in the Fire Nation and is the reason for Zuko’s conflict with his family.

This article discusses the “fascist aesthetic” and how it often appears in science fiction and fantasy narratives, as well as its use in ASOIAF/GOT. It’s common with villains, who usually also represent a fascist ideology, but, as the article points out, it can also crop up with heroic narratives in some insidious ways.

Fascist art depicts, in Sontag’s words, “unlimited aspiration toward the high mystic goal, both beautiful and terrifying.”  It “celebrate[s] the rebirth of the body and of community, mediated through the worship of an irresistible leader.” It focuses on “the contrast between the clean and the impure, the incorruptible and the defiled, the physical and the mental, the joyful and the critical.”  It fetishizes “the holding in or confining of force; military precision.” Its characteristic subject matter is “vivid encounters of beautiful male bodies and death.”  In short, fascist art depicts the perfected, disciplined body in service of the perfected, disciplined state.  Its aesthetic principles are, in visual terms, clean geometric lines, chiseled physiques, and slow motion; and in musical terms, brass fanfares, pounding drumbeats, and pipe organs.  Its moral principles are strength, skill, obedience, order, joyful submission, and apocalyptic dissolution… and it’s this last that really set it apart from other aesthetics that glorify strength (of which, to be sure, there are plenty to go around).

Both the Fire Nation and the Lannisters embody these fascist aesthetics, as well as fascist ideologies. To understand what I mean by fascist ideologies, and how that ties into fascist aesthetics, look here:

Common themes among fascist movements include; nationalism (including racial nationalism), hierarchy and elitism, militarism, quasi-religion, masculinity and philosophy. Other aspects of fascism such as its "myth of decadence", anti‐egalitarianism and totalitarianism can be seen to originate from these ideas. These fundamental aspects however, can be attributed to a concept known as "Palingenetic ultranationalism", a theory proposed by Roger Griffin, that fascism is a synthesis of totalitarianism and ultranationalism sacralized through myth of national rebirth and regeneration. (source)

A lot of fantasy fiction uses these ideas as shorthand for villainy, even just using the aesthetic without a particular ideology behind it, but in both ASOIAF and ATLA we see both fascist aesthetics and fascist ideologies. Both House Lannister and the Fire Nation royal family have an obsession with national honor, pride, and debt. Both are capable of unspeakable cruelty in the name of superiority. Both also follow this narrative of rebirth which is upheld by Tywin when he restores House Lannister to a terrifying state of glory after his father’s disgrace, and Ozai when he tries to become the phoenix king. Both also have a frightening obsession with perfection, which is the heart of Tyrion and Zuko’s traumatic relationships with their families.

The above linked article on fascist aesthetics discusses Tyrion as a character who challenges fascist aesthetics, not just due to the fact that he has a congenital disability but because of the traits that make up his character.

The real challenge to fascist aesthetics comes from the series’ unperfected bodies. Some bodily abnormalities can be reconciled with fascist narratives — Jaime pretty clearly loses his hand just so that he can, through agonized struggle, climb the mountain, touch the peak, and reclaim his status as a perfected instrument of death.  Brienne’s harped-on ugliness is there so that we can focus on her bodily perfection in terms of skill and strength.  Varys’ castration is tied in with his utter dedication to serving the realm — the fascist body needs to be disciplined and perfect, but in all three of these cases bodily imperfections are just opportunities for more and further discipline.  But the same can’t be said of Tyrion.  He is quite precisely undisciplined. He drinks to excess.  He likes his food.  He has sex — he doesn’t make love, he has sex, and often, and never in idealized terms.  He pisses.  I don’t remember whether he shits or not, but others shit in his presence.  He cracks jokes.  He loses his temper and alienates his friends. All of this brings in the spirit of the carnival and the grotesque, which is the mortal enemy of fascist self-seriousness.

Here I discuss Zuko’s attempt to fit into a fascist aesthetic which is introduced only to be undercut in the narrative pretty early on - Zuko, despite the appearance he wants to project, is decidedly undisciplined - and then slowly eroded as his character undergoes a change. Tyrion undergoes some similar costume changes, going from proudly wearing his Lannister colors to wearing clothes that are not his own while in exile and having a crisis of identity. Tyrion’s dwarfism, like Zuko’s scar, is something that marks him as the unperfected, as it is something that he cannot change about himself even if he changes his appearance.

Both House Lannister and the Fire Nation royal family also embody fascist ideologies on a personal level within their own family structure.

Warning for in-depth discussion of abuse below.

At the beginning of ASOIAF we get the sense of Tyrion as someone who was fairly directionless. This post speculates about what Tyrion’s life may have been like pre-series. He’s the son of a wealthy lord and technically the heir, although the unspoken truth - until Tyrion’s conversation with his father in ASOS - is that Tywin will never let him inherit Casterly Rock, and indeed Tyrion was never treated as the heir, which is why Tyrion realizes during that conversation that it was something he “must have always known.” Tywin sees Tyrion as unsuitable to inherit because of his dwarfism, but cites other traits - real and imagined - as reasons why he will never let his son inherit. But the kicker here is that a lot of this is stuff that Tywin created and nurtured. Tywin creates Tyrion’s complex with regard to sex workers and then treats it as a sign of inherent weakness. He dismisses Tyrion’s intelligence as “low cunning.” He humiliates and belittles his son in private and in public, and then treats Tyrion’s justified frustration and anger as if it is a natural state that reinforces his unworthiness. Tywin’s abuse of Tyrion is systematic, punctuated by brutal violence but also infused with subtle gaslighting, to the point where Tyrion internalizes this belief.

This is strikingly similar to what Ozai does to Zuko, who is similarly directionless at the beginning of his story, removed from succession, and on an impossible mission to chase the Avatar, who hasn’t been seen in a hundred years. There are many points in the series, in the flashbacks to his childhood, in how Zuko thinks about his father, and in his relationship with Azula, that tell me that Zuko’s banishment was not just the result of one incident of defiance (and I will talk more on the actual incident of Zuko’s banishment later). It was the result of years of failing to live up to his father’s impossible standards of perfection. There is something in Zuko from even his earliest childhood that is abhorrent to Ozai’s fascistic worldview. Zuko’s inability to be as good at bending as his sister - and what’s worse, his younger sister - his emotional nature, displayed both positively (shown in his love for his mother and his tendency towards nonviolence in the flashbacks), and negatively (displays of frustration and anger which show a lack of control), and his inability to control himself when he speaks out in the war council, all of these things mark him as imperfect and therefore weak. And Ozai’s response to this is to put everything into his other child, grooming her as his true heir, while treating Zuko in a way that only reinforces the perception that Zuko is unworthy. Zuko absolutely believes this about himself at the beginning of the series.

Zuko: You're like my sister. Everything always came easy to her. She's a firebending prodigy, and everyone adores her. My father says she was born lucky; he says I was lucky to be born.

The way that Ozai scars Zuko during the agni kai that results in his banishment is an outward physical manifestation of Zuko’s (perceived) imperfection. The difference is that while Tyrion’s physical imperfection - his dwarfism - was something he was born with that caused Tywin to perceive it as a symbol of all that was inherently wrong with Tyrion’s character, Ozai scars Zuko to make what he sees as Zuko’s flawed character appear outward for all to see. Both these things stem from the same source, or rather, the same two things, inextricably linked: pride and shame.

Iroh: Pride is not the antidote to shame, but its source.

I’ve written a lot about how Lannisters are obsessed with shame, because Lannisters are obsessed with pride. This is shown symbolically in their association with Lions (”Hear Me Roar”) and the colors red and gold. The Fire Nation colors are also red and gold, evoking royalty and strength, plus the added symbology of fire, which actually is also associated with the Lannisters. Game of Thrones made good use of this imagery as well to show the Lannisters’ power in King’s Landing:

Compare to the Fire Lord throne in ATLA:

This is all part of the fascist aesthetic, of course. Both ATLA and ASOIAF acknowledge that fire can have other, less destructive meanings as well. More on that later.

Aside from the history of constant emotional abuse, Tyrion and Zuko also have a striking parallel in what is the most traumatic moment of either of their lives. For Zuko, it’s when his father burns and scars him during the agni kai. For Tyrion, this is when his father forces him to participate in Tysha’s abuse. These two acts are horrifically similar in their motive, the way they are carried out by the abuser, and what they were designed to do to the victim. They also both happen when the victim is thirteen years old, an age when children start to begin their long journey to adulthood, but still have far to go before they can be considered separate from their parents.

Upon first viewing the scene where Zuko's father challenges him to an agni kai, it's framed as being about honor, and Zuko refuses to fight his father on the grounds that it would be dishonorable, but that's exactly why Ozai challenges him in the first place. Because Zuko has already challenged his father by speaking out against him in the war council, and this is the point of Ozai's lesson. He is saying to his son, you have no honor and no right to challenge me, in any and all ways. I control you. And when you look at it after viewing the entirety of the history of abuse in that family, it becomes something deeper than just being about honor and it's not even about what Zuko did. Because the constant dynamic in that family was one in which Zuko was repeatedly dominated and taught that he was inferior. And the way it's framed by Ozai, as being about regaining lost honor, is a lie. Because in Ozai's eyes, Zuko never had any honor to begin with, and that's what he shows him by burning him and scarring him. In that context, Zuko was never going to be able to stand up to Ozai, and it becomes less about a child refusing to fight his father and more about a child too terrified and downtrodden to even know how to stand up to his father while his father mutilated him. Ozai knows this and does it deliberately, which makes the whole thing even more horrifying. And at face value, it initially appears that Ozai's burning of Zuko is much more violent and motivated by anger than Tywin's abuse of Tyrion, but realizing the dynamics at play here and realizing that Zuko would have never been able to fight back and that Ozai deliberately intended it that way, this makes it a much more cold, calculating attack on his son in the context of a lifetime of convincing his son not only of his own inherent unworthiness, but that Zuko was actually to blame for it. Which makes Ozai very like Tywin in his calculated cruelty, his ability to convince his victims that he is right and all-powerful, and his campaign of dehumanization against his own son.

Similarly, when Tywin forces Tyrion to watch and participate in the gang rape of Tysha, his first love - raping Tyrion as well in the process - he frames it in the context of honor/shame/pride. He tells Tyrion that this is a lesson about marrying below his station, and manipulates Tyrion into believing it. I’ve written a lot about Tyrion and Tysha on my blog so I’m not going to rehash all that. What I am going to say is that these two incidents, both violations of their victims’ bodily autonomy, are horrifically similar in their ability to convince their victims that they were the cause of the abuse, and unfortunately in the ASOIAF fandom there are a lot of people who seem to believe that Tyrion is at fault. The difference, I suppose, is that Tysha was also abused, whereas Zuko’s action of defiance hurt no one but himself, but I would argue similarly that Tyrion had no possible way to stand up to Tywin; that, similarly to the impossible situation of the agni kai that Ozai puts Zuko in, it would not have mattered whether he had fought back or cowered in fear. The purpose is to ensure that the victim believes that the abuser is the one in control. The effect is an inability for the victim to trust their own judgments and perceptions, thus keeping them dependent upon the abuser. We see this in the way that both Zuko and Tyrion have internalized the guilt of what was done to them. Both of their narratives hinge on unlearning what their fathers have taught them in the most violent way possible.

And all this creates a never-ending cycle of shame. Tywin and Ozai attacked their sons because of perceived weakness which was seen as a shameful reflection of their own self image, because of the intolerance of any sort of imperfection in both men’s worldview.

We don't actually get a whole lot of characterization of Ozai as a person. What we get is mostly through others, how he treats his son, how he treats his daughter. But another way that we can understand Ozai and learn more about the dynamic in that family is through Iroh.

Iroh is a character who we are introduced to as something of a mirror to what Zuko could be. While Zuko is indoctrinated into the Fire Nation ideology, Iroh has already undergone his transformation from star general to the wise mentor and guiding light that he tries to be for Zuko by the time the story begins. And Iroh's story is one that is firmly opposed to the fascist belief in superiority and particularly, military greatness. Iroh is another example of the unperfected, both physically and mentally, although it might be more accurate to say he is the once-perfected. Iroh's biggest tragedy is his military disgrace following the death of his son, who he loved deeply. Even before this occurrence, though, Iroh is identified as weak by both Ozai and Azula, and this is used by Ozai to usurp him in the line of inheritance. But it's his emotional breakdown after his son's death that really cements him as a character opposed to the fascist ideology, because it's a firmly anti-war, anti-imperialist message. An acknowledgment that you can have all the power in the world and still lose what is most valuable to you. By the time we see him in the series, he is fat and elderly, kind to even his enemies, makes clear both his love for his son and his love for his nephew, and indulges in simple pleasures, like tea and pai sho. He's a pretty identifiable "good" character, although he does sometimes enable and justify Zuko's bad actions, particularly in the first season.

There are several characters who I see as parallel to Iroh in Tyrion’s narrative. One is Tytos, the father that Tywin despised and sought to distance himself from due to his weakness, who dies fat and old and disgraced and informs much of Tywin’s ruthlessness, and whom Tywin projects onto his son. Another is Gerion, laughing, kind, something of a mentor to Tyrion before his disappearance. The third is Jaime, who, like Iroh, is an older figure who tries to protect Tyrion but who can’t protect him entirely, partially due to a certain aloofness of personality. Tyrion also has the moment in ASOS where he rejects Jaime’s apology with the Tysha revelation and by the end of that chapter identifies himself as Tywin “writ small,” while Zuko has the moment under Ba Sing Se where he rejects Iroh’s advice and chooses to side with Azula instead. Both are morally gray actions tied to the abuse and gaslighting the characters have experienced. Tyrion feels betrayed by Jaime because of Jaime’s role in what happened with Tysha, while Zuko is pretty clearly manipulated by Azula.

Another similar familial relationship is Zuko and Azula and Tyrion and Cersei. Both Tyrion and Zuko are abused by their sisters, who are cruel, ambitious, and totally subsumed by the fascist ideology of their fathers, and who abuse their brothers out of a sense of identifying with their abuser.

One of the main differences between Tyrion and Cersei’s relationship and Zuko and Azula’s relationship is that Tyrion is MUCH more capable of seeing through Cersei’s manipulations than Zuko is, and I feel like that has to do with the gap between their ages. Although Zuko is the older sibling, Azula is much more dominant than him and the closeness in their ages makes that much more personal.

I’ve talked before about Cersei’s abuse of Tyrion and why it’s important to recognize that she is abusive to him and his negative actions towards her are not equal to her abuse of him, and one of the things that highlights that is that there is such a wide age gap between them. I’m looking at this partially from the perspective of someone with an older brother and sister with a similar age gap (and a younger brother who is much more closer to my age). And when I was a kid I tended to see my older siblings as other adults that lived in my house. I am close to my siblings and we never had a hostile relationship - although I did feel somewhat jealous of my sister growing up - but I am much closer to my sister now as an adult than I was when I was younger, and we have a much more equal relationship. But given Tyrion’s lack of non-abusive adult authority figures in his life, Cersei’s treatment of him becomes a reinforcement of Tywin’s abuse, and that’s why his hostility to her is not equal to her hostility towards him.

Zuko and Azula’s relationship is different. He is an older sibling but because of their closeness in age, they experienced abuse in the form of Ozai pitting them against each other. Tyrion and Cersei have a similar intense rivalry but it’s much less personal and much less tied to shared childhood trauma. And it’s the fact that for Zuko and Azula, that trauma is shared and experienced together, that makes it easier for Azula to manipulate Zuko and play on his inability to trust his own perceptions even though he definitely doesn’t trust her.

I also think it’s a difference in personality. Tyrion’s much more extroverted and analytical which makes him much more able to question Tywin and his sister despite Tywin’s repeated gaslighting and despite the fact that it does often work. One of the things that Tyrion and Zuko have in common is that they simultaneously realize that their family’s beliefs and especially the way their family has treated them is wrong, yet they also consistently internalize those beliefs. Yet Tyrion never feels inferior to his sister the way Zuko feels inferior to Azula, and I feel like that has to do with Zuko’s tendency to internalize more and withdraw inward.

Another difference would be that whereas Azula is the star sibling to Zuko’s disappointing sibling, Jaime plays that role for both Tyrion and Cersei.

Finally, both Tyrion and Zuko have moments of calling out their abusive fathers on their bullshit. Zuko has the one central moment of speaking out against his father’s ruthless military strategy with disastrous results when he is thirteen. Similarly, there are several moments in ASOIAF where Tyrion calls his father out on his ruthlessness and Tywin rebuffs him with gaslighting and plausible deniability. Both Ozai and Tywin are masters at gaslighting, and it takes a long time for both Tyrion and Zuko to be able to resist. However, both Tyrion and Zuko have similar moments of declaring independence from their fathers. 

And I’ll talk about that in part three, which will focus on recovery, resolution, and redemption.

[processproductionsophielindsay]

LORNA SIMPSON

Lorna Simpson, The Water Bearer (1986)

https://www.nytimes.com/2007/03/02/arts/design/02lorn.html

Lorna Simpson, Guarded Conditions (1989)

https://www.artspace.com/magazine/art_101/book_report/representing-the-black-body-lorna-simpson-in-conversation-with-thelma-golden-54624

Lorna Simpson, Necklines (1989)

https://mcachicago.org/Collection/Items/1989/Lorna-Simpson-Necklines-1989

Lorna Simpson Wigs (1994)

https://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/lorna-simpson-wigs-1994/

Childhood

Born in Brooklyn in 1960, Lorna Simpson was an only child to a Jamaican-Cuban father and an African American mother. Her parents were left-leaning intellectuals who immersed their daughter in group gatherings and cultural events from a young age. She attributed their influence as the sole reason she became an artist, writing, "From a young age, I was immersed in the arts. I had parents who loved living in New York and loved going to museums, and attending plays, dance performances, concerts... my artistic interests have everything to do with the fact that they took me everywhere ...."

Aspects of day-to-day life lit up Simpson's young imagination, from the jazz music of John Coltrane and Miles Davis, to magazine advertisements and overheard, hushed stories shared between adults; all of which would come to shape her future art. The artist took dance classes as a child and when she was around 11 years old, she took part in a theatrical performance at the Lincoln Center for which she donned a gold bodysuit and matching shoes. Though she remembered being incredibly self-conscious, it was a valuable learning experience, one that helped her realize she was better suited as an observer than a performer. This early coming-of-age experience was later documented in the artwork Momentum, (2010).

Simpson's creative training began as a teenager with a series of short art courses at the Art Institute of Chicago, where her grandmother lived. This was followed by attendance at New York's High School of Art and Design, which, she recalls "...introduced me to photography and graphic design."

  Early Training and Work

After graduating from high school Simpson earned a place at New York's School of Visual Arts. She had initially hoped to train as a painter, but it soon became clear that her skills lay elsewhere, as she explained in an interview, "everybody (else) was so much better (at painting). I felt like, Oh God, I'm just slaving away at this." By contrast, she discovered a raw immediacy in photography, which "opened up a dialogue with the world."

When she was still a student Simpson took an internship with the Studio Museum in Harlem, which further expanded her way of thinking about the role of art in society. It was here that she first saw the work of Charles Abramson and Adrian Piper, as well as meeting the leading Conceptual artist David Hammons. Each of these artists explored their mixed racial heritage through art, encouraging Simpson to follow a similar path. Yet she is quick to point out how these artists were in a minority at the time, remembering, "When I was a student, the work of artists from varying cultural contexts was not as broad as it is now."

During her student years Simpson travelled throughout Europe and North Africa with her camera, making a series of photographs of street life inspired by the candid languages of Henri Cartier-Bresson and Roy DeCarava. But by graduation, Simpson felt she had already exhausted the documentary style. Taking a break from photography, she moved toward graphic design, producing for a travel company. Yet she remained connected to the underground art scene, mingling with likeminded spirits and fellow African Americans who felt the same rising frustrations as racism, poverty, and unemployment ran deep into the core of their communities.

At an event in New York Simpson met Carrie-Mae Weems, who was a fellow African American student at the University of California. Weems persuaded Simpson to make the move to California with her. "It was a rainy, icy New York evening," remembers Simpson, "and that sounded really good to me." After enrolling at the University of California's MFA program, Simpson found she was increasingly drawn towards a conceptual language, explaining how, "When I was in grad school, at University of California, San Diego, I focused more on performance and conceptually based art." Her earliest existing photographs of the time were made from models staged in a studio under which she put panels or excerpts of text lifted from newspapers or magazines, echoing the graphic approaches of Jenny Holzer and Martha Rosler. The words usually related to the inequalities surrounding the lives of Black Americans, particularly women. Including text immediately added a greater level of complexity to the images, while tying them to painfully difficult current events with a deftly subtle hand.

Mature Period

Simpson's tutors in California weren't convinced by her radical new slant on photography, but after moving back to New York in 1985, she found both a willing audience and a kinship with other artists who were gaining the confidence to speak out about wider cultural diversities and issues of marginalization. Simpson says, "If you are not Native American and your people haven't been here for centuries before the settlement of America, then those experiences have to be regarded as valuable, and we have to acknowledge each other."

Simpson had hit her stride by the late 1980s. Her distinctive, uncompromising ability to address racial inequalities through combinations of image and text had gained momentum and earned her a national following across the United States. She began using both her own photography and found, segregation-era images alongside passages of text that gave fair representation to her subjects. One of her most celebrated works was The Water Bearer, (1986), combining documentation of a young woman pouring water with the inscription: "She saw him disappear by the river. They asked her to tell what happened, only to discount her memory." Simpson deliberately challenged preconceived ideas about first appearances with the inclusion of texts like this one. The concept of personal memory is also one which has become a recurring theme in Simpson's practice, particularly in relation to so many who have struggled to be heard and understood. She observes, "... what one wants to voice in terms of memory doesn't always get acknowledged."

In the 1990s Simpson was one of the first African American women to be included in the Venice Biennale. It was a career-defining decade for Simpson as her status grew to new heights, including a solo exhibition at New York's Museum of Modern Art in 1990 and a series of international residencies and displays. She met and married the artist James Casebere not long after, and their daughter Zora was born in the same decade. In 1994 Simpson began working with her grandmother's old copies of 1950s magazines including Ebony and Jet, aimed at the African American community. Cutting apart these relics from another era allowed Simpson to revise and reinvent the prescribed ideals being pushed onto Black women of the time, as seen in the lithograph series Wigs (1994). The use of tableaus and repetition also became a defining feature of her work, alongside cropped body parts to emphasize the historical objectification of Black bodies.

  Current Work

In more recent years Simpson has embraced a much wider pool of materials including film and performance. Her large-scale video installations such as Cloudscape (2004) and Momentum (2011) have taken on an ethereal quality, addressing themes around memory and representation with oblique yet haunting references to the past through music, staging, and lighting.

Between 2011 and 2017 Simpson reworked her Ebony and Jet collages of the 1990s by adding swirls of candy-hued, watercolour hair as a further form of liberation. She has also re-embraced painting through wild, inhospitable landscapes sometimes combined with figurative elements. The images hearken to the continual chilling racial divisions in American culture. As she explains, "American politics have, in my opinion, reverted back to a caste that none of us want to return to..."

Today, Simpson remains in her hometown of Brooklyn, New York, where in March 2020, she began a series of collages following the rise of the Covid-19 crisis. The works express a more intimate response to wider political concerns. She explains, "I'm just using my collages as a way of letting my subconscious do its thing - basically giving my imagination a quiet and peaceful space in which to flourish. Some of the pieces are really an expression of longing, like Walk with Me, (2020) which reflects that incredibly powerful desire to be with friends right now."

Despite her status as a towering figure of American art, Simpson still feels surprised by the level of her own success, particularly when she compares her work to those of her contemporaries. "I feel there are so many people - other artists who were around when I was in my twenties - who I really loved and appreciated, and who deserve the same attention and opportunity, like Howardena Pindell or Adrian Piper."

The Legacy of Lorna Simpson

Simpson's interrogation of race and gender issues with a minimal, sophisticated interplay between art and language has made her a much respected and influential figure within the realms of visual culture. American artist Glenn Ligon is a contemporary of Simpson's whose work similarly utilizes a visual relationship with text, which he calls 'intertextuality,' exploring how stencilled letters spelling out literary fragments, jokes or quotations relating to African-American culture can lead us to re-evaluate pre-conceived ideas from the past. Ligon was one of the founders of the term "Post-Blackness," formed with curator and writer Thelma Golden in the late 1990s, referring to a post-civil rights generation of African-American artists who wanted their art to not just be defined in terms of race alone. In the term Post-Black, they hoped to find "the liberating value in tossing off the immense burden of race-wide representation, the idea that everything they do must speak to or for or about the entire race."

The re-contextualization of historical inaccuracies in both Simpson and Ligon's practice is further echoed in the fearless, cut-out silhouettes of American artist Kara Walker, who walks headlong into some of the most challenging territory from American history. Arranging figures into theatrical narrative displays, she retells horrific stories from the colonial era with grossly exaggerated caricatures that force viewers into deeply uncomfortable territory.

In contrast, contemporary American artist Ellen Gallagher has tapped into the appropriation and repetition of Simpson's visual art, particularly her collages taken from African American magazine culture. Gallagher similarly lifts original source matter from vintage magazines including Ebony, Our World and Sepia, cutting apart and transforming found imagery with a range of unusual materials including plasticine and gold-leaf. Covering or masking areas of her figures' faces and hairstyles highlights the complexities of race in today's culture, which Gallagher deliberately teases out with materials relating to "mutability and shifting," emphasising the rich diversity of today's multicultural societies around the world.

[sallyhasopinions]

Number Seventeen

Today I watched the 1932 film Number Seventeen, which is an Alfred Hitchcock joint that Wikipedia has generously referred to as a comedy thriller. It was based on a stage play by Joseph Jefferson Farjeon, and it seems that Hitchcock may have gone heavy on the thriller and light on comedy.

My copy is from an anthology DVD set of lesser-known Hitchcock works, and was not remastered in any way, so both the picture and sound quality left much to be desired. It’s not currently available to stream, rent, or buy digitally, if Reelgood is to be believed, but some third-party sellers seem to have DVD copies available on Amazon.

Here there be spoilers.

Plot... Synopsis? 

Disclaimer: I could only understand about 30% of the dialogue at best and had a hard time telling all the white men in gray suits apart, so this is the plot as far as I can tell. I also read Wikipedia’s plot synopsis and that only confused me more.

Our hero (he introduces himself later as Forsythe) stumbles into a seemingly vacant house (the eponymous Number Seventeen, which has a notice that it is available for sale or to rent), apparently seeking shelter from a storm. There he meets new friend Ben, who is a cockney caricature, and the two of them stumble upon a corpse on the third story landing. Ben finds that the floor corpse has a pair of handcuffs and a gun in his possession, which he takes for himself, whilst Forsythe is investigating a noise that came from downstairs. Ben and Forsythe then hear a noise coming from above, and follow the sound until a girl manages to crash through the ceiling. Once revived, she introduces herself as Miss Ackroyd, and explains that she is looking for her father. They live next door, and she has reason to believe that Mr. Ackroyd similarly climbed over to No. 17 by roof himself. She is in possession of a telegram for him from a detective Barton regarding some stolen jewels, a man called Sheldrake, and instructions to watch the empty house.

The clock tolls and a house bell rings, and Forsythe ventures downstairs. Ben moves to return the gun to the corpse, only to find that it has disappeared. Forsythe finds a mysterious man and woman at the front door, who act as though they are inquiring about the vacant house as potential occupants. They are followed by another man, who slips inside after them by jamming his foot in the door. Forsythe goes through the motions of pretending to show them around the house, trying to keep them on the second story to avoid the corpse, but they notice Ben and Miss Ackroyd on the upper landing. Ben goads them into coming further upstairs, as he is aware that the corpse has disappeared, and he is restrained by the male newcomers, who are armed as well. Forsythe, Ben, and Miss Ackroyd are searched and questioned, with the telegram being revealed to the conspirators. Ben attempts to escape and is locked into a bathroom, where he is then attacked and strangled. The strangler retrieves the stolen diamond necklace from the toilet cistern, which Ben observes as he pretends to be unconscious. Ben promptly picks the attacker’s pocket at his earliest opportunity. 

Forsythe and Miss Ackroyd are tied to a banister as the conspirators are joined by a man who implies that he is Sheldrake and leads the conspirators to another room, but then reveals himself to be the missing Mr. Ackroyd. He frees Forsythe and his daughter and rushes to release Ben from the bathroom. Ben’s attacker, the actual Sheldrake (and the corpse from earlier), and Mr. Ackroyd fight, with Sheldrake taking the upper hand after Ben accidentally strikes Mr. Ackroyd. Ben and Mr. Ackroyd are locked in the bathroom again and Sheldrake retrieves the other conspirators and leads them to the cellar, leaving Forsythe and Miss Ackroyd tied up again. The mysterious woman, previously stated to be “deaf and dumb” and thus incapable of speech, reveals this to be a ruse by telling Forsythe and Miss Ackroyd that she’ll come back. The banister they have been tied to collapses, leaving them dangling, and the mysterious Nora unties and rescues them before rejoining the conspirators in the cellar.

Forsythe and Miss Ackroyd rush to the bathroom that Ben and Mr. Ackroyd have been locked in. Miss Ackroyd stays to care for her injured father while Ben and Forsythe follow the conspirators to the cellar. Nora is refusing to go along with the plan to board a train to the European continent with her co-conspirators, but she is overpowered and forced onto the train after the conspirators leave the cellar via a trapdoor. Ben and Forsythe give chase, with Ben successfully boarding the freight train and Forsythe forced off by the conspirators, who then climb along the moving train and attack some staff on the train. Ben has found himself in a car carrying crates of liquor and has a few drinks, while Forsythe manages to hijack a bus full of passengers and force the driver to follow the train. Ben eventually joins Nora, who is waiting in a boxcar, while Sheldrake turns his fellow conspirators against each other by accusing one of them of being an undercover detective. He then discovers the jewels are no longer in his possession, and all of the conspirators return to Nora and accuse her of stealing the necklace herself. Sheldrake and one of the conspirators climb forward on the train towards the engine where they shoot the fireman and the engineer faints, leaving the steam engine out of control. Nora is handcuffed in the boxcar by the third conspirator, who searches the loose straw on the floor but does not find the missing necklace.

The runaway train, only able to accelerate, crashes into the ferry and plunges into the water. Forsythe dives in and is able to rescue the incapacitated Nora, while Ben is seen escaping. Wrapped in blankets and drying themselves off at the police station, the surviving conspirator explains that he was exposed to the other conspirators as a detective, claiming to be Detective Barton. Forsythe reveals that he was mistaken to believe that the police cared only about the necklace, that he knows the conspirator’s name to be Henry Doyle, and that he is himself Detective Barton. He then invites Nora to get some breakfast, and Ben reveals that he is wearing the stolen necklace.

The Review Part:

In its current state this isn’t a film for casual viewing, but is interesting as a historical work of cinematography. There are some really beautiful shots with extensive use of shadow that we sometimes linger a bit too long on. This is a “talkie” but it’s scored as though it wasn’t, which leads to some jarring transitions, and the Foley work during the fight scene in particular is distractingly bad. We have a system here though, so let’s look at...

The Metrics:

Bechdel Test: Failed. The two female characters never interact with one another other than Nora rescuing Miss Ackroyd aside Forsythe.

Mako Mori Test: Failed. The women in this movie are fairly explicitly the lesser counterparts of men. To be entirely fair though, I wouldn’t say there are any meaningful character arcs in this film.

Representation:

Every character is white and British, but we are meant to understand Ben as the social lesser of every other character and his lack of refinement is meant to be the “comedy” part of “comedy thriller”. It’s aged extremely poorly.

Women are mildly to moderately useless in this film, but at least they’re there.

Final Scores:

Deaths: Unknown, but probably in the single digits.

Smooches: None at all.

Sex: We didn’t even get smooches!

Substance Use/Abuse: Alcohol and tobacco use.

Violence: Moderate, including use of firearms.

Profanity: Not that I could make out.

Watch with Kids: No child would want to watch this.

Watch with Parents: There’s nothing that would be an issue.

Sally Says: This is probably only worth watching if you’re very into Hitchcock or very into cinematography and film history.

[synthient]

The only thing I can say in the creators defense is he probably didn't originally intend DMG to be an ancient egyptian child (/teen? How old is Mana?) However yeah they probably could've changed the card's design or sth? Or just like. Not done DMG like That in the first place.

nn okay let me try to knock these out in one post

According to the official ygo guidebook written by KT, Mana’s 13. 

You point out that he might not have known that from the beginning, and normally I’m the head of the KT Didn’t Have A Plan And His Entire Writing Process Was Just This One Gif Of Gromit club,

but the chapter that introduces DMG (the Pandora duel) explicitly describes her as Dark Magician’s young apprentice who takes his place when he dies. And starts dropping heavy-handed hints that Dark Magician has a personality & isn’t just an ordinary trading card & is so loyal to Atem he’s ready to die for him. So I think it’s fair to guess that Mana and Mahad had been at least roughly planned by that point.

Given his treatment of Anzu, I would be 100% unsurprised if he sexualized a 13-year-old on purpose. Her age may have been intended as part of the appeal.

(Even if she wasn’t a child, I’d still have problems with Regular Default Dark Magician and Sexy Girl Dark Magician looking like the gender options for a warcraft race)

If we assume that DMG was always supposed to represent a girl from Ancient Egypt,

then it’s Weird that she looks like this.

In-universe, you might be able to explain it as Pegasus, a white American artist, whitewashing the Ancient Egyptian carvings he pillaged his ideas from. That could have been an interesting piece of commentary. But ygo never takes the opportunity to make that commentary, and Pegasus isn’t a real person capable of making his own choices. KT (and his staff members & editors) picked DMG’s color palette. 

But wait, you might ask, isn’t Dark Magician whitewashed too? It’s not like DMG is being unfairly singled out.

You’ll notice, though, that on manga covers, in the Toei intro theme, and in his earliest tcg art, Dark Magician’s skin is either blue or green (also a tad Weird, but at least maybe it’s supposed to suggest that he’s undead. You could also easily argue that Dark Magician’s backstory wasn’t hammered out until long after his introduction in Death-T). It’s only Sexy Girl Dark Magician who gets lily-white skin.

It was the DM anime that made Dark Magician light-skinned too (judging by the alternate Doma explanation for where duel monsters come from, the anime staff almost definitely didn’t know about Mana and Mahad from the beginning).

Fast-forward to Memory World. In the manga, Mahad and Mana look like this:

and it’s revealed that the original Dark Magician and Dark Magician Girl looked like this:

So, okay, at least in the Ancient Egypt segments of the story, their skin tones match the humans whose souls they came from. That’s something.

In the anime, Mahad and Memory World!Dark Magician still match:

but Mana and Memory World!DMG look like…this:

So what we’ve got is a hypersexualized female character who is eventually revealed to be (and was probably(?) always intended to be) the soul of a black girl from Ancient Egypt. Yet her original, most iconic design–and in the anime, her only design, even in a setting and context where it makes zero sense–is light-skinned.

Her hypersexualization, which was already Fairly Fucked Up on its own, gets mixed in with the Eurocentric beauty standards that have infiltrated the whole world thanks to colonialism–to be Sexy, she has to look white. A dark-skinned Egyptian girl can’t be the face of, as ygotas so tactfully puts it, every teenage boy’s wank fodder. (Black and dark-skinned girls being hypersexualized and dehumanized and set apart from “delicate” white femininity is a whole other issue, but ygo specifically falls into the issue of beauty-as-whiteness).

The handling of DMG also looks Not Great in when examined in conjunction with Kisara’s Miraculous Whiteness, Which Acts As A Mark Of Her Purity And Sets Her Apart From The Common Unworthy black Rabble 

Anyway, none of these are tropes(/systemic world problems) that ygo singlehandedly invented in the year 1996, and the point isn’t that this trading card franchise is evil and everyone should hate it. These are all just Not Great things that I think it’s worth being able to have a discussion about.

[10000badframes]

Why I Left Music

To understand why I left music, you've got to start with why and how I got into music.

When I was little, I was deaf, and when my hearing was restored, it came back in stages. I would listen, rapt, to a My First Symphony tape as the sections of the orchestra were introduced one by one, and as time went on, each became more intelligible. High pitches were easier to discern, so the flute stood out like a beam of light in the darkness. What's more, I was surrounded by music on a daily basis. My dad is a wildly creative and intuitive musician, proficient on a number of instruments, my mother and brother sang beautifully, and my sister had been singing and playing violin from an early age. We sang as a family at home and at church, and I was in choir and handbell choir from my earliest memories on. I don't remember not being able to read music.   I started with piano, and moved to flute once my arms were long enough for the starter headjoint, in about fourth grade. My first teacher was the principle flute player with the Rochester Philharmonic, and when I moved to Iowa, I learned from the principal of the Des Moines Symphony. Both teachers made the smart move of throwing repertoire at me which was much more advanced than the usual stuff at my level, and because I didn't know it was supposed to be hard, I rocketed forward at a feverish pace. I continued with choir and handbell choir, and as my skill became more evident, I added youth orchestra, honor band, and pit orchestras, and that was just after school. During school I was in marching band, concert band, jazz band, and orchestra. I attended elite months-long summer camps for the nation's best young musicians. I competed regularly, and at one point was considered to be one of the top three musicians in my age bracket in the country. My first tattoo was of a treble clef. As a shy child in a talented family, I was pleased to have found my talent, the thing I didn't have to work very hard at in order to achieve great things. I rested my self-confidence on that talent, and when opportunities came up to show it off, I didn't turn them down. Nobody forced me to do any of the activities above; it came with a built-in social life and plentiful affirmation, so I almost never paused to think about whether or not this was something I actually wanted to do forever. It was simply assumed, as inherent a fact of life as the sunrise.   I probably should have known it wasn't for me when practicing was boring; almost unbearable. I heard about people enjoying practicing, and assumed that they were lying in order to look good. I would avoid it however I could, and did pretty well regardless. I loved ensemble work because I loved music, but listening to myself for hours on end, however good the result was, was miserable. At the worst of times, I assumed that my hatred of practicing meant that I was lazy and undisciplined, inherently a bad artist, and probably a bad person. I heard talk about 'flow state,' and how it made the time fly. Having never achieved it, I assumed that it was a lie. Since I'd specialized to such a high degree, music was the only course to follow in college. The culture surrounding classical music then became much more evident, divorced as it was from my little Midwestern fishbowl. I learned about the way I was expected to present my gender, and was pressured by my teacher to grow out my pixie cut out of concern that I wasn't feminine enough to be a flute player. I learned about the ingrained gender divide, and how child-bearing was considered the knell of doom for female musicians. I learned that I was one of thousands of young musicians all competing for the same handful of jobs, which could wait for perfection to walk through the door as the market was so flooded. I learned that blind auditions don't mask your gender if the judges can hear you inhale. Most depressing of all, I learned that my chances of getting an orchestral job - the only thing which I enjoyed about being a musician - were so small as to be statistically impossible. I would have to join the military, become a teacher, or quit. At first, I quit. Two years into my bachelor's degree at a prestigious school, I quit, leaving my family and community reeling in shock. They had all invested faith, time, and money in my dream of being a musician, and I had thrown it away. To them, it appeared to be an impulsive, flaky, and selfish decision to make, flying in the face of every opportunity I'd been given. To me, I was trying to stand up for myself. I was lost, depressed, occasionally suicidal, and suffering from ulcers. I was still battling the notion that I was lazy and undisciplined, and now everyone I knew saw me in the worst possible light. I leaned into my new failure status, and piled bad choices on top of bad choices, embarrassing myself and my family. Years later, when I had leveled out somewhat and come to terms with the fact that I needed a bachelor's degree in order to be taken seriously on the job market, I wanted to do anything except for music. I enrolled in a community college and took math, science, and art courses, the latter having been a hobby of mine since I was young. I'd been drawing cartoons to put in my boyfriend's lunch for years, and in my drawing and painting classes, I honed the skill. When the time came to transfer my credits to the state college, the majority of my post-high school credits were in art and music. I applied at the state's art school, and was turned down. My financial reality became clear; in order to get a bachelor's degree in under three years, the majority of my transferrable credits were in music, so to music I had to return. I was accepted at the music school, and went back to rehearsals, practicing, and competing. It was much the same as the last time, in ways both good and bad, with the notable difference that this time I was resigned to the impossibility of it all. Whenever people said they'd had a satisfying practice session, I lied through my teeth and said I had, too. I incurred my debt, got my degree, and left with zero intention of pursuing a master's, surfing a new wave of disappointment from teachers and my community alike. The shambling zombie of my career ambitions followed me when I moved to New York City due to my husband's job, and I paid hundreds of dollars for lessons from eminent professionals at Juilliard and the New York Philharmonic. I took masterclasses, invested in new equipment, and auditioned. Nothing substantial ever came from it, as the statistics had foretold. I watched my classmates move into the military and teaching, with a lucky few going on to teach at the collegiate level, and even fewer achieving a performance career. I practiced, and hated every minute. Then, at my breaking point, I watched Monsters University. It's such a weird way to switch gears. People took a number of things away from their experience of MU; mine was the message that you can be amazing at something and still never hope to make a career of it. What you have to do when you've faced up to that truth is to find what you loved about the career you thought you were going to have and apply it somewhere else. Adapt. Something better might be waiting. I thought about how live music is being replaced with synthesized music and orchestras are dying across the nation. I looked at my dusty art portfolio. There were dozens of animators in that credits sequence after MU, I thought. There are two flutes in every orchestra. The next day, I sat down with my husband at lunch, and said, "let's move to California. I want to be a 3D animator." This was surprising coming from me; I'd only ever reluctantly taken to digital media, and barely knew how to use Photoshop. My reasoning was that if I wanted to be at the forefront of a growing industry, and if I re-trained in animation, I would have a better chance of getting work than I had now (there was nowhere to go but up in that respect.) There would be more opportunities for both of us out in California, where his company had a major office, and where several prominent studios were housed. He agreed immediately, and got me The Illusion of Life for my 29th birthday. Maya is a hell of a tough program at the best of times. It has a mind of its own, and even when everything is running smoothly, you have to contend with such gauntlets as the graph editor (a mathematical representation of motion over time.) You know what you want the characters to do, but you have to use this thorny, labyrinthine program to do it, and I've cried many tears of frustration over it. You are responsible for every single movement, every blink, every shrug, every breath. It is dizzyingly easy to mess up, and impossibly, sixteen-dimensionally complicated. And yet. Flow state, that thing I thought was a lie? I found it. It was about six months in, while I was still wrestling with the program. I was grappling with the reality that I'm not naturally good at this, that my talent lies elsewhere, and any progress I make in this quarter will come from elbow grease alone. I was making adjustments to a scene, and realized that four hours had passed unnoticed. I felt energized and satisfied. I craved more. At thirty, I found out that I wasn't lazy and undisciplined, that I didn't hate hard work, that I wasn't a terrible person - I was just very, very good at something I didn't truly want to do. Now, I struggle and weep and sink weeks and months into seconds worth of footage, and I love it. Wild horses couldn't keep me away.

[lyledebeast]

Agency, Abuse, and Sequel Trilogy Villains

I decided to write a thing for International Hux Day, which also happens to be Domhnall Gleeson’s birthday.  I think it’s kind of fun to observe the actor’s birthday by celebrating the character who is not only the most despised one he has played, but possible the most despised of the sequel trilogy villains.  He’s definitely more hated than Kylo Ren, whose internal conflict is a major plotline in both released films, and probably more than Captain Phasma if only because she plays a less prominent role.  The question of whether he is actually “worse” than these other two villains is subjective; there are many different ways to answer and as many different reasons supporting them.  What I’m interested in is the question of agency and the ways in which abuse complicates it..

Kylo Ren, Phasma, and Hux are all high profile members of the First Order and are committed to its principles, but only Hux was born into it, being the son of one of the founding members.  Phasma is from Parnassos and made the choice to sacrifice or murder every person she knew from her home planet to join the First Order.  Kylo Ren is the son of the Original Trilogy’s heroes and has, so far, rejected two offers to return and be reconciled. Snoke’s abuse and manipulations are, obviously, an immensely important influence on Kylo, but they are hardly the only influence.  Hux, however, is the product of First Order ideology and his abusive father. In the Phasma nove, Vi Morandi tells us, “Armitage Hux hasn’t left as much of a data trail as the other First Order leaders because he’s had no life outside of this war machine.” What opportunity for choice has he had?

While both Kylo and Phasma were once members of family groups who cared about them, Hux has, as far as we know, only ever had Brendol.  Cardinal reveals that there is “something cruel and savage in [Armitage], something forged by Brendol himself.” Vi Morani goes even further, commenting that “The greasy ginger weasel birthed a greasy ginger weasel.” Of course, Brendol didn’t give birth to Armitage, who is the bastard son of a kitchen worker.  But he may as well have for all the influence anyone else has on him .  It is not until he meets Rae Sloane that anyone protects him from Brendol’s physical and psychological abuse, and by that point the damage has been done.

I have not read Aftermath: Empire’s End in which Sloane is introduced, but I’m very curious to see if Hux’s situation is treated with the moral complexity it seems to merit.  I can say that it poses some difficulties to the, at times, rather hamfisted moralizing of the Phasma novel.  After spending much of the novel teasing the reader with suggestions of Phasma’s moral ambivalence, Delilah Dawson presents us with a story from her past that seems designed to convince us that she was simply a bad apple from the start.  The earliest story Vi tells reveals that Phasma disabled her brother and sacrificed the rest of her family to survive, and even that is not presented as the result of her circumstances.  Her brother, Keldo, has the same experience and retains his capacity for shame and compassion.  This seems to render all the trauma she underwent later unimportant.

That’s a difficult thing to do with child abuse.  It’s hard to argue that that is a coincidence when it has clearly made Armitage Hux who he is.  Does that make him sympathetic? Of course it does.  Does it make him redeemable? Hardly. If he ever had any redeeming qualities to start with, Brendol beat them out of him. He’s surpassed even his father in cruelty.  Vi tells us that Armitage “has gone even further” with the stormtrooper training program he inherited from his father: “The children lose all sense of individuality, of self.  They’re never allowed to play, discouraged from laughter or frivolity or creativity, outside of how those emotions or urges can be used to win war games.” He’s grown up to be a child abuser in his own right, every bit as despicable as Brendol.  Except that we have no idea what forces shaped Brendol from birth. Armitage can’t be saved from what he has become, but he can’t be blamed for it either

This is, of course, too messy for either of the films to handle.  It’s understandable to an extent, since Brendol is dead before they begin and Hux is not a major character.  But it’s also disappointing.  Being a child abuse survivor makes Hux so much more troubling and interesting, especially in light of the abuse he suffers at the hands of Snoke and Kylo. There are very interesting parallels to be drawn between Hux and Kylo.  So much has been made of the fact that Kylo killed his abuser, which seems to be a step towards the light.  At least, that’s how Rey reads it.  But not only does he not take that step, one of his first actions he kills Snoke is to start abusing Snoke’s other victim: Hux.  Who also killed his abuser, via Phasma and her Parnassos beetle, and took over his position.  At this point, Kylo is taking exactly the same path as Hux, with the important difference that he was offered an alternative and refused to take it.

[az-valentine]

Entry 1: Pennywise [AU]

July 2nd, 2018 

In light of recent events – the nature of which I refuse to explain to people who simply couldn't understand – I've been inspired to record a few passages for Humanity to eventually stumble upon. Despite what you may know about me, however little that may be, I assure you, there is far more to me than what meets the eye. You probably know me to be an unpredictable, animalistic Eldritch Abomination that comes crawling out of the darkest pits of your worst nightmares – you are correct. However, I'm far more complicated than that. Yes, I eat flesh and feed on Fear, as it's necessary for my survival. I didn't choose to be this way, it's just how I was created to be. 

Outside of that, I'm actually a fan of your classic literature, like Shakespeare, Twain, Poe, and Lovecraft. I also enjoy taking long walks to admire your older European architecture, and your bigger, more lush and diverse botanical gardens. I don't often leave Maine, let alone the Continental United States, but when I do, it's always a treat. My Eldritch Brethren usually don't care much – or at all – about what Humanity has accomplished in its pathetically short time, but I watched your earliest ancestors crawl out of the ancient muds of this planet, and I'm positive I'll watch you all return to the weeds in due time. 

My past is better left being known only by those closest to me, and left up for interpretation to everyone else. That being said, I feel strangely obligated to offer you a word of warning – don't end up like the protagonists of most Lovecraft stories. Don't go digging for information you have no business knowing. What you know, and what you think you know about Fear, hardly even scratches the surface of the unnamable terrors that lie beneath and beyond your fragile mental barriers. The depths of Madness are not meant to be explored by Mortal minds, for they were never designed to be capable of handling the journey. 

Some have tried, and nearly all have ended up a writhing, unintelligible, gibbering mess before their inevitable, horrific deaths. Some have wound up on that Path without even intending to, and fell victim to similar fates. If there's one thing we have in common, it's our tendency to be curious creatures. I definitely understand the desire to learn about the unknown. I cannot stop you from attempting to uncover lost knowledge and hidden truths, and I can't honestly say I care whether or not you listen to me. However, I still feel compelled to advise against it. Like me, though, you'll do what you please, regardless of the risks. 

Moving forward, those of you that know of me know me to be a Shifter, a being that is capable of taking the form of whatever I want. I'm like a Mimic, but far more interesting, and intelligent. I'm also like Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, except I take no pleasure in gaining legions of followers and spreading Madness. I prefer to be left alone most of the time – to Hunt, eat, sleep, and explore as I choose. Earth isn't the only planet I've been to, but it's definitely one of my favorites. If I wake up during one of my sleep cycles, I'll sometimes take that opportunity to go somewhere new and different, or old and familiar. 

I've seen everything from the bustling cities of Tokyo and Arcturus Prime, to the noxious swamps of Beldron 4, the scorching, temple and monolith-spotted deserts of Alkh'tktuuhl, the ravenous raggle-trees of Nillub, and even the turbulent oceans, black forests, and numerous mountain ranges of an unknown terrestrial behemoth, floating aimlessly through the inky depths of Oblivion. One thing most don't know about me, is that Alkh'tkhtuuhl holds a very special place in my Heart. Those that know the reason why, though, I can count on one hand. 

Unbeknownst to Humanity, Arcturus Prime is still thriving to this day – and if rumors hold true, the Arcturians eventually want to introduce themselves. Don't worry, they're incredibly friendly. In my experiences with them, they're often a little shy, so don't do anything stupid when they get here. You'll need their help if you want your species to survive, thrive, and save the only planet you currently have to live on. They'll slowly work you into the galactic community, and help you learn how to integrate with other people from other planets, as well as how to survive off of your home world. 

Everyone that lives long enough will go through a Great Change at certain points in their lives – this trait is not unique to Humans, or any other Mortal species within the Multiverse, but is present among all sentient Life that has evolved far enough to be capable of experiencing these changes. Even I, the Prince of Fear, have gone through it several times throughout my existence. Indeed, many see me as just a highly intelligent, impossibly powerful beast that's merely good at acting, but I too am a person. 

I am not at liberty to speak of my true origins, or what came before, but I do have quite a few stories I'm allowed to tell. For the sake of brevity – I could write an entire series about my life – I will stick to telling only a few tales that I hold near and dear to my Heart. It's not every day a Mortal gets to learn such personal things about an Eldritch Being, let alone directly from them, so consider this a little gift to Humanity. I still take what I need to sustain myself, but who would I be if I didn't give back every now and then? 

Don't think of me as just a monster – I may be greater than anything a Human could ever hope to become, and I may have needs that cause a conflict of Morality between us, but it doesn't mean we don't share similarities. I don't know why I feel the need to say it, but just like you, I have my weaknesses. I have sore spots, bad memories, times of self-destruction, and an unhealthy relationship with self-hatred. Oh, yes...I can be as vulnerable as the Mortals whose lives I claim. It's not all bad, though. As I stated earlier, some of my guilty pleasures include literature, architecture, and traveling. I also enjoy attending plays, Broadway shows, and operas. At heart, I am an artist, and someone who appreciates the natural beauty to be found spread out across the Universe. 

In fact, for as long as I can remember, I've always taken part in the various cultures' Arts in some way or another. My numerous homes have always had a collection of writings, paintings, and props found in certain visual productions that had struck my fancy. I would occasionally write my own works, such as poetry and prose, plays, and even some music, and then offer it to Yog-Sothoth for his Archives. On top of that, I would often disguise myself as a native of a planet, and audition to play a role in something – not once was I turned down. Who was the best Carmen? Me. The greatest Figaro? Me! 

By now, you must be perfectly aware of the sizeable amount of differences between me, and the Being you've always known me to be. There is an explanation for this, yes, but I struggle to believe that you could fully comprehend what I'm about to describe. If I only lay out the basics for you, there's a good chance you'll be able to follow along. I've made mention of the Multiverse, yes? It's bigger, stranger, more complex, and more terrifying than you may have previously believed it to be. Infinities on top of Infinities, spanning in Infinite directions, through every Dimension, and every conceivable and inconceivable possibility happening all at once, at all possible times. It's a lot to take in, and I urge you not to try and understand it completely. It'll just drive you Insane, like many others before you. 

Back to the point at hand, though...I am not the same Pennywise you've known, as I'm from a different Universe. Who I am, as well as my Past, Present, and Future, have been and always will be completely different from the version of me you're familiar with. I've mastered the Art of Transcending Time and Space, and am able to move freely between Universes. The conditions of my state of existence, though, must remain a closely guarded secret for the time being. Let's just say that I've made promises I can't afford to break, to someone that makes me look tiny, powerless, and insignificant by comparison. 

Perhaps "completely different" was a poor choice of words. If I'm not careful, I'll become the Thing born of your worst nightmares. What's worse? I could get stuck like that, and require another Purification to set me straight. Yes, a Purification...something that all of the Dark and Twisted Souls must be willing to subject themselves to if they wish to enter the Light. Ugh! I shudder to think about going through such a painful experience for a second time. The agony is only temporary, and it melts away into a warm tingle, but it's still horribly unpleasant at first. I won't try to sway you one way or the other, but it was worth it for me. I was fine doing my own thing, and being by myself, but the opportunity was too great to pass up. 

I'd rather not get into the details of the situation, but I regained something I'd lost billions of years ago, only because I chose to go through the process of Great Change. I haven't been happy in billions of years, but I am now, and I'm never giving this up. To be perfectly honest, I only went through this change last October, and so I'm still adjusting to this new Way of Life I've chosen. I may or may not have snacked on a child recently...don't look at me like that, I was starving! And without a long sleep to fall back on anymore, I must feed at least once a week now, depending on the size of the person. 

I wouldn't worry too much if I were you. I've been targeting only the worst of the worst, so as long as you're not a piece of shit person, one worthy of being scared to the point of shitting yourself and then getting eaten alive, you have nothing to Fear from me. Except maybe the occasional scare for my amusement, and to satisfy my need for Fear. 

 July 3rd, 2018 

This entry has already gotten long, and I'm afraid I've run out of Time to tell you a story. Forgive me, I didn't think my introduction would wind up being so long. I'm afraid I have some bad news...I'm set to depart on a series of Hunts for the next three to seven months, and I'm unsure of when I'll be able to continue. This was sprung upon me at the last minute, and I'm in no position to decline this mission. 

Know this, Humanity: I will return, and in no less than excellent health. Chances are, I won't be hungry when I finally make it back. However, don't think for a moment that I won't continue to Hunt the scum of your societies, one by one...both to fulfill my needs for survival, and to make good on my Sacred Oath. 

 Until next Time, 

                  Pennywise 

[shahdhruv2995posts]

Importance Of Early Childhood Education

Importance Of Early Childhood Education

Importance Of Early Childhood Education

” Why does my baby have a fever? ” ” How many oranges can kids eat in one day? ” ” Best extracurriculars for children. ” ” Hair lice remedies. ” ” Parenting tips for dummies. ”

This is probably what every parent’s search history would reveal. No matter how old your child is, you, as a parent, will worry about one thing or the other. Thus, you have equipped yourself with the knowledge to deal with every potential problem. Right from health to education, you want to be prepared for it all. In this process, one mustn’t sideline the importance of early childhood education. While browsing for the best preschools for your little one, you should know why doing so is crucial. Early childhood education refers to the period from birth up to the age of 8 years. It is more than preparation for primary school. It aims at the holistic development of a child’s social, emotional, cognitive and physical needs in order to build a sound foundation for lifelong learning and well-being. Well-established research constantly emphasizes the importance of early childhood education as an essential building block for a child’s future success. During your fledgling’s younger years, his remarkable brain is capable of absorbing information like a sponge. At this stage, his potential for learning things is at its peak. Attending an early childhood education programme will not only improve your child’s language and motor skills but also develop the necessary cognitive skills to advance to primary school. At this juncture, enrolling your little one in a right brain education programme would be an excellent choice. Right brain development activities have innumerable benefits. When the right hemisphere of the brain is unlocked, your child is introduced to a plethora of learning opportunities. Attending a quality early childhood education programme is known to improve your child’s health as well. The quality care provided in these programmes influences his learning and development. Additionally, his socio-emotional development is less likely to be adversely affected. In fact, his social skills would flourish in such an environment. The benefits of early childhood education include :

• Socialization :

Socialization with individuals apart from the child’s family in a safe environment is of vital importance. Parents must support their children’s transition into their friendship groups. The earlier you accomplish this, the better. Why? This helps your little one overcome shyness and gain confidence.

• Co-operation :

At an early childhood education programme, children learn how to share, co-operate, and remain patient. In this process, they’re guided by thoughtful professionals who have their best interests at heart. This is especially important for an only child who is unaccustomed to sharing at home. This is a crucial lesson that must be taught at the earliest.

• Effective Learning :

Lessons must be taught in a fun, interactive, and exciting manner to spark a thirst for lifelong learning. Your child will thus, be equipped to embrace life’s challenges with enthusiasm, eagerness, and determination.

• Teamwork :

Several preschool activities revolve around teamwork to teach your toddler the importance of respecting other opinions, listening and co-operating. Instilling this value at a tender age ultimately makes your child socially attuned and more employable.

• Resilience :

By establishing a consistent, secure, and just social environment, teachers can foster resilience in children. Clearly defined expectations and predictable consequences help children manage their emotions optimally. This builds the foundation for their coping strategies to deal with life’s challenges in the future.

• Patience :

As adults, we encounter situations that test our patience on a daily basis. An early childhood education programme provides an abundance of social experiences where your child can explore and practice patience. At this tender age, the important virtue of patience is imparted. E.g. – your child learns to share the teacher’s attention, waits in line for his turn at the swing, etc.

• Confidence and self-esteem :

Positive interactions with teachers and other children in the classroom will promote a secure and healthy image of your child in his mind. This enables him to embrace life’s problems and obstacles confidently.

An after school programme that focuses on right brain development activities will teach your child the above life skills and values while tapping the unadulterated potential of the right brain. In a left-brain dominant world, a right-brain child will undoubtedly thrive as he’ll have an upper hand due to his holistic brain development. He’ll be capable of logically assessing a situation and coming up with creative solutions. Right brain training consists of activities that can be conducted at home. For example – using flashcards, pretend play, music, dramatic story-telling, mandala, imaging, etc. Along with lighting up the right hemisphere of the brain, these activities necessitate parental involvement. This strengthens the parent-child bond. By taking an active role in the early childhood education process, parents can help ensure that their child has all the support they need to develop to their full potential. Parental involvement creates a positive experience for children and helps them excel academically. Such involvement extends teaching outside the classroom. An active and engaged parent will also know where his little one is competent and where he requires more attention. Therefore, the parent can focus his attention on those areas. This will ultimately improve the child’s confidence in his abilities. Time and again, the significance of parental involvement in a child’s early years has been emphasized. What better way exists to engage as a parent than by involving yourself in right brain development activities with your toddler? The activities at home, in addition to the after school programme, will bless your child with an arsenal of lifelong values and skills. However, the only weapon your child will need to overcome life’s hurdles is your constant love and encouragement.

[dhruv2910blr]

Importance Of Early Childhood Education

Importance Of Early Childhood Education

” Why does my baby have a fever? ” ” How many oranges can kids eat in one day? ” ” Best extracurriculars for children. ” ” Hair lice remedies. ” ” Parenting tips for dummies. ”

This is probably what every parent’s search history would reveal. No matter how old your child is, you, as a parent, will worry about one thing or the other. Thus, you have equipped yourself with the knowledge to deal with every potential problem. Right from health to education, you want to be prepared for it all. In this process, one mustn’t sideline the importance of early childhood education. While browsing for the best preschools for your little one, you should know why doing so is crucial. Early childhood education refers to the period from birth up to the age of 8 years. It is more than preparation for primary school. It aims at the holistic development of a child’s social, emotional, cognitive and physical needs in order to build a sound foundation for lifelong learning and well-being. Well-established research constantly emphasizes the importance of early childhood education as an essential building block for a child’s future success. During your fledgling’s younger years, his remarkable brain is capable of absorbing information like a sponge. At this stage, his potential for learning things is at its peak. Attending an early childhood education programme will not only improve your child’s language and motor skills but also develop the necessary cognitive skills to advance to primary school. At this juncture, enrolling your little one in a right brain education programme would be an excellent choice. Right brain development activities have innumerable benefits. When the right hemisphere of the brain is unlocked, your child is introduced to a plethora of learning opportunities. Attending a quality early childhood education programme is known to improve your child’s health as well. The quality care provided in these programmes influences his learning and development. Additionally, his socio-emotional development is less likely to be adversely affected. In fact, his social skills would flourish in such an environment. The benefits of early childhood education include :

• Socialization :

Socialization with individuals apart from the child’s family in a safe environment is of vital importance. Parents must support their children’s transition into their friendship groups. The earlier you accomplish this, the better. Why? This helps your little one overcome shyness and gain confidence.

• Co-operation :

At an early childhood education programme, children learn how to share, co-operate, and remain patient. In this process, they’re guided by thoughtful professionals who have their best interests at heart. This is especially important for an only child who is unaccustomed to sharing at home. This is a crucial lesson that must be taught at the earliest.

• Effective Learning :

Lessons must be taught in a fun, interactive, and exciting manner to spark a thirst for lifelong learning. Your child will thus, be equipped to embrace life’s challenges with enthusiasm, eagerness, and determination.

• Teamwork :

Several preschool activities revolve around teamwork to teach your toddler the importance of respecting other opinions, listening and co-operating. Instilling this value at a tender age ultimately makes your child socially attuned and more employable.

• Resilience :

By establishing a consistent, secure, and just social environment, teachers can foster resilience in children. Clearly defined expectations and predictable consequences help children manage their emotions optimally. This builds the foundation for their coping strategies to deal with life’s challenges in the future.

• Patience :

As adults, we encounter situations that test our patience on a daily basis. An early childhood education programme provides an abundance of social experiences where your child can explore and practice patience. At this tender age, the important virtue of patience is imparted. E.g. – your child learns to share the teacher’s attention, waits in line for his turn at the swing, etc.

• Confidence and self-esteem :

Positive interactions with teachers and other children in the classroom will promote a secure and healthy image of your child in his mind. This enables him to embrace life’s problems and obstacles confidently.

An after school programme that focuses on right brain development activities will teach your child the above life skills and values while tapping the unadulterated potential of the right brain. In a left-brain dominant world, a right-brain child will undoubtedly thrive as he’ll have an upper hand due to his holistic brain development. He’ll be capable of logically assessing a situation and coming up with creative solutions. Right brain training consists of activities that can be conducted at home. For example – using flashcards, pretend play, music, dramatic story-telling, mandala, imaging, etc. Along with lighting up the right hemisphere of the brain, these activities necessitate parental involvement. This strengthens the parent-child bond. By taking an active role in the early childhood education process, parents can help ensure that their child has all the support they need to develop to their full potential. Parental involvement creates a positive experience for children and helps them excel academically. Such involvement extends teaching outside the classroom. An active and engaged parent will also know where his little one is competent and where he requires more attention. Therefore, the parent can focus his attention on those areas. This will ultimately improve the child’s confidence in his abilities. Time and again, the significance of parental involvement in a child’s early years has been emphasized. What better way exists to engage as a parent than by involving yourself in right brain development activities with your toddler? The activities at home, in addition to the after school programme, will bless your child with an arsenal of lifelong values and skills. However, the only weapon your child will need to overcome life’s hurdles is your constant love and encouragement

[omgpriyasoniime]

Importance Of Early Childhood Education

Why does my baby have a fever? ” ” How many oranges can kids eat in one day? ” ” Best extracurriculars for children. ” ” Hair lice remedies. ” ” Parenting tips for dummies. ”

This is probably what every parent’s search history would reveal. No matter how old your child is, you, as a parent, will worry about one thing or the other. Thus, you have equipped yourself with the knowledge to deal with every potential problem. Right from health to education, you want to be prepared for it all. In this process, one mustn’t sideline the importance of early childhood education.

While browsing for the best preschools for your little one, you should know why doing so is crucial. Early childhood education refers to the period from birth up to the age of 8 years. It is more than preparation for primary school. It aims at the holistic development of a child’s social, emotional, cognitive and physical needs in order to build a sound foundation for lifelong learning and well-being.

Well-established research constantly emphasizes the importance of early childhood education as an essential building block for a child’s future success. During your fledgling’s younger years, his remarkable brain is capable of absorbing information like a sponge. At this stage, his potential for learning things is at its peak. Attending an early childhood education programme will not only improve your child’s language and motor skills but also develop the necessary cognitive skills to advance to primary school.

At this juncture, enrolling your little one in a right brain education programme would be an excellent choice. Right brain development activities have innumerable benefits. When the right hemisphere of the brain is unlocked, your child is introduced to a plethora of learning opportunities. Attending a quality early childhood education programme is known to improve your child’s health as well. The quality care provided in these programmes influences his learning and development. Additionally, his socio-emotional development is less likely to be adversely affected. In fact, his social skills would flourish in such an environment.

The benefits of early childhood education include :• Socialization :

Socialization with individuals apart from the child’s family in a safe environment is of vital importance. Parents must support their children’s transition into their friendship groups. The earlier you accomplish this, the better. Why? This helps your little one overcome shyness and gain confidence.

• Co-operation :

At an early childhood education programme, children learn how to share, co-operate, and remain patient. In this process, they’re guided by thoughtful professionals who have their best interests at heart. This is especially important for an only child who is unaccustomed to sharing at home. This is a crucial lesson that must be taught at the earliest.

• Effective Learning :

Lessons must be taught in a fun, interactive, and exciting manner to spark a thirst for lifelong learning. Your child will thus, be equipped to embrace life’s challenges with enthusiasm, eagerness, and determination.

• Teamwork :

Several preschool activities revolve around teamwork to teach your toddler the importance of respecting other opinions, listening and co-operating. Instilling this value at a tender age ultimately makes your child socially attuned and more employable.

• Resilience :

By establishing a consistent, secure, and just social environment, teachers can foster resilience in children. Clearly defined expectations and predictable consequences help children manage their emotions optimally. This builds the foundation for their coping strategies to deal with life’s challenges in the future.

• Patience :

As adults, we encounter situations that test our patience on a daily basis. An early childhood education programme provides an abundance of social experiences where your child can explore and practice patience. At this tender age, the important virtue of patience is imparted. E.g. – your child learns to share the teacher’s attention, waits in line for his turn at the swing, etc.

• Confidence and self-esteem :

Positive interactions with teachers and other children in the classroom will promote a secure and healthy image of your child in his mind. This enables him to embrace life’s problems and obstacles confidently.

An after school programme that focuses on right brain development activities will teach your child the above life skills and values while tapping the unadulterated potential of the right brain. In a left-brain dominant world, a right-brain child will undoubtedly thrive as he’ll have an upper hand due to his holistic brain development.

He’ll be capable of logically assessing a situation and coming up with creative solutions. Right brain training consists of activities that can be conducted at home. For example – using flashcards, pretend play, music, dramatic story-telling, mandala, imaging, etc. Along with lighting up the right hemisphere of the brain, these activities necessitate parental involvement. This strengthens the parent-child bond.

By taking an active role in the early childhood education process, parents can help ensure that their child has all the support they need to develop to their full potential. Parental involvement creates a positive experience for children and helps them excel academically. Such involvement extends teaching outside the classroom. An active and engaged parent will also know where his little one is competent and where he requires more attention.

Therefore, the parent can focus his attention on those areas. This will ultimately improve the child’s confidence in his abilities. Time and again, the significance of parental involvement in a child’s early years has been emphasized. What better way exists to engage as a parent than by involving yourself in right brain development activities with your toddler? The activities at home, in addition to the after school programme, will bless your child with an arsenal of lifelong values and skills. However, the only weapon your child will need to overcome life’s hurdles is your constant love and encouragement.

[josephlrushing]

10 Things That Make the Old Star Wars Expanded Universe Better Than the Sequel Trilogy

Last week the final entry in the Skywalker Saga – Star Wars The Rise of Skywalker – arrived on BluRay in stores (it has been out for digital purchase for a few weeks), and I thought it might be worthwhile to look back at the Sequel Trilogy and compare it to the original Star Wars Expanded Universe (EU) that was ‘purged from canon’ when Disney took over the franchise.

I have a long history of loving Star Wars that goes back to seeing the original movie more than a dozen times in theaters mostly using paper route money, but I am going to be blunt here: The Rise of Skywalker ‘broke’ Star Wars for me. This is the first movie I have not bought as soon as it was released — dating all the way back to the initial 1990 VHS offerings of the original trilogy.

I forgave the Prequel Trilogy many sins due to the strengths of several characters, the intricate look at the fall of the Jedi, and of course the amazing lightsaber choreography – and I count Revenge of the Sith as my third favorite Star Wars movie. In 2015 I was hyped to ride along with the sequels, being right there in Star Wars shirts for the opening night showings – and once again, I forgave The Force Awakens for the same-ness and fan service and rejection of ideas forged and honed across decades because I saw promise in the new characters and actually liked some of the ideas plucked from the expanded universe.

Similarly, I forgave The Last Jedi for its treatment of many characters, lack of cohesive motion in the larger arc and overt desire to be different at any price, simply because I did enjoy a few things and continued to care about the central characters. And even while watching the in-your-face spectacle of The Rise of Skywalker I had very positive feelings … which began to fade rapidly the moment I left the theater and started thinking about the film. The final movie betrayed the characters, the four decades of history built across movies and extended lore, the fans who had brought the franchise such success, and by revealing that there was no ‘master plan’ and that things done in one movie could simply be undone in the next at the whim of the director, they betrayed Star Wars.

So rather than giving time and more money to re-watching The Rise of Skywalker, I have been reading old books and re-playing old computer games, and have been reminded at how incredibly rich the Expanded Universe once was before being trashed by Disney. The good news? You can still read these books and play these games – and I recommend that you do!

Here are 10 things from the Expanded Universe that are better than the Sequel Trilogy.

1. Kyle Katarn – one of the strongest characters in all of Star Wars … and that includes the main movie characters. Katarn sought an education, and therefore ended up at the Imperial Academy, but during a mission began to experience Force visions and encountered and spared Jan Ors and others, but his leadership set him up as a decorated Imperial Officer once he graduated the academy. Just before he graduated, he learned his father had been killed – he was told it was Rebels, but a later encounter with Jan Ors revealed it was actually an Imperial assassination. This leaves him with a lack of trust of both the Empire and Rebellion – but he sees the good in taking on those who killed his father while thwarting Imperial plans. His conflict has him constantly struggling between the Light and Dark sides of the force. He is a richly developed and complex character with a natural arc and a series of relationships that are allowed to grow throughout the games. And sorry to say… HE stole the Death Star plans!

2. Luke’s New Jedi Academy – in The Force Awakens, Luke has a new Jedi Academy, and then, something goes wrong and there is mass destruction and Luke quits. In the EU, having a ‘rogue student’ happened enough that it was practically a trope – yet the reason it happened made perfect sense: training older force-sensitive people without a dedicated master-apprentice relationship could easily lead to unpredictable ends. But it is the depth and breadth of students, their struggles, and stories and how they interact with all of the main characters that make this burgeoning new Jedi Order so intriguing

3. Grand Admiral Thrawn – a blue Chiss Imperial military officer who started out as part of the Chiss Ascendency before rising to be a key leader during the reign of the emperor, Thrawn (full name Mitth’raw’nuruodo) took ships into command into hiding after the Battle of Endor. Years later he returned and brought together the remnants of the Empire to threaten the very existence of the fledgling New Republic at a time when it was struggling to gain the confidence and respect of star systems. Thrawn is a great strategist and an intriguing character far beyond anything we saw in the sequels.

4. Mara Jade – she started out as the Emperor’s Hand, a skilled and trusted assassin, set on destroying Luke Skywalker for killing the Emperor. We first met her as the dangerous protege of smuggler Talon Karrde, in the ‘Heir to the Empire’ novel that also introduced Thrawn. She was the first really strong and complex female character in the Star Wars universe aside from Leia – and indeed it was Leia who initially placed trust in Mara. She quickly became a fan favorite, and her inherent Force sensitivity naturally put her on a collision course with Luke. In the end, she and Luke get married and have a child together before she is tragically killed trying to protect her son Ben from Han and Leia’s son Jacen who had become a Sith apprentice. She replaced Kyle Katarn as the primary character for the Mysteries of the Sith stand-alone expansion to Jedi Knight in 1998 and is responsible for saving him from his fall to the Dark Side at the end of that game.

5. The Dark Forces / Jedi Knight series – the mid-1990s were pretty much the birth of the first-person shooter computer/video game. id Software released Wolfenstein 3D in mid-1992, with the juggernaut Doom releasing at the end of 1993 and dominating the gaming world of 1994. As a result, there was a glut of ‘Doom clones’ released from 1994 – 1997, most of which were mediocre and forgettable, but others such as Heretic, HeXen, Blood, Rise of the Triad and Duke Nukem 3D became classics. Perhaps the best of all of these was Dark Forces in 1995 – it had missions rather than just levels, which made sense for the mercenary Kyle Katarn. And like ‘real’ missions, you either succeeded or failed the entire thing, without the ability to save along the way. The story was cohesive and engaging, and for the first time, you were dropped into the Star Wars universe in an immersive way. Improving upon this milestone was 1997’s Jedi Knight, complete with FMV (full motion video) cutscenes and deep characters and … lightsaber combat! While Dark Forces introduced the third dimension to levels, in Jedi Knight we got a new level of scale and scope with massive sprawling levels of staggering height and innovation. Kyle and Mara Jade returned in 1998 for Mysteries of the Sith, and then in 2002 Raven Software took over with the Quake III engine based Jedi Knight II: Jedi Outcast, featuring a huge leap in narrative development and incredible lightsaber combat. 2003 brought Jedi Academy and a return to the mission structure of Dark Forces (but with choice of mission order), and Jedi Knight’s customizable Force Power allocation. Jedi Academy refined the lightsaber combat – and remains the best lightsaber combat system to this day (sorry Jedi Fallen Order!). Alas, NONE of the characters or events are part of the new canon.

6. Han & Leia’s Relationship – from the earliest Expanded Universe novels, the relationship between Han and Leia has been central to pretty much everything. And for good reason – pretty much half of what propels Empire Strikes Back to be such a great movie is the growth of that relationship which fully forms in Return of the Jedi. And as expected after those events Han and Leia get married and have children – but there is so much else happening that things are never so simple. In books such as the Jedi Academy trilogy, we see the Solo children return from their exile to begin integration into Jedi training and life with their family. At the same time, we see that Leia struggles to balance life as a Jedi Apprentice, leader of the New Republic, mother, and wife. She is drawn to diplomacy and leadership … and Han bristles at all the formality and often struggles at feeling like Leia’s arm-candy. He embraces opportunities to leave Coruscant on diplomatic missions, though Leia seldom trusts his motives and occasionally fears for him falling back into his scoundrel ways. It is a complex relationship built by two complex characters – and they never simply fall apart due to the struggles or failings of their children.

7. New Republic – one of the biggest complaints I have with the Sequels is how they immediately splintered the Republic and Rebellion against the overwhelming First Order. In the Expanded Universe, we saw the New Republic quickly gain popular support but at the same time, those who saw financial or power gains under the Empire were slow to come on board and would harbor former Imperial leaders and assist the Imperial Remnant in strikes against the New Republic. Others appreciated the key role Luke and the Force played in toppling the Empire, didn’t trust the Jedi to be leaders and so there was another point of conflict as the Jedi Academy grew – of course, having the occasional powerful Dark Jedi or Sith cause havoc fed into this distrust! But the point is, in the Expanded Universe things moved forward in a way that made more sense, was ugly and messy and full of power-plays and distrust associated with all politics, rather than a convenient splinter that allowed us to get back to the ‘pitiful rebellion’ status for the Skywalker-Solo gang.

8. The Solo & Skywalker Children – in the Sequel Trilogy we get only Ben, but in the Expanded Universe we have four main children: the Solos have the twins Jacen and Jaina as well as younger son Anakin, and the Skywalkers have a son Ben several years later. All are Force-sensitive and have many adventures through the years, becoming integral parts of the New Jedi Order as well as carrying many elements of all of their ancestors and parents. The ability to blend a variety of character traits and present them with different scenarios provided for a wealth of stories and relationship building.

9. Dark Jedi – the Prequel trilogy showed us the possibilities of ‘gray Jedi’, ones who rebelled against the blind dogma of the Jedi but were not interested in the ways of the Sith. Qui Gon Jinn was one such Jedi, and it seems that Count Dooku was also such a Jedi. Other books and games took the concept further – Jedi who embraced the Dark Side without adopting the ‘Rule of Two’ or other Sith traditions. Often they were Fallen Jedi such as Exar Kun or Ajunta Pall from the Old Republic, and Jerec from the Empire. But other times they were simply untrained Force users who were swayed by power to become thugs or tools of Dark Jedi, or like the Reborn Warriors were infused with the Force Powers of other and became twisted with rage and hate. Wherever they came from or how they chose to pursue power, they made for interesting stories beyond the ‘good vs. evil’ tropes of the main Star Wars movies.

10. Knights of the Old Republic – not just one of the greatest role-playing video games of all time, this is the embodiment of a series of comics, novels and tabletop games depicting a period of galactic history thousands of years before the events in the films. This is a rich period of history before the Sith Order adopted the ‘rule of two’, where the Republic and Sith Empire battled for control and Mandalorians and others were major forces. This period featured legendary Jedi and Sith with names we’d never heard before, allowing for incredible character and plot developments.

I could mention others such as Rogue Squadron, or the super-weapon Sun-Crusher that was dumped into a black hole, and other great characters such as scoundrel-hero Dash Rendar from ‘Shadows of the Empire’, Talon Karrde, Corran Horn, Admiral Daala, and many more. OK, maybe Rendar is a throwaway stand-in for Han Solo – but it is definitely better than the sudden reveal of Poe as a smuggler-scoundrel-turned-hero with a heart of gold. There are so many fun characters and ideas – even in some poorly written books – that it is a great look into the myriad ways we all envision this galaxy far, far away!

What about you – what are your thoughts about the Sequels in general, and ‘Rise of Skywalker’ specifically after a few months have gone by? Are you a fan of the old Expanded Universe? What are your favorite and least favorite parts?

from Joseph Rushing https://geardiary.com/2020/04/07/10-things-that-make-the-old-star-wars-expanded-universe-better-than-the-sequel-trilogy/

[dhruv12345shah]

Importance Of Early Childhood Education

” Why does my baby have a fever? ” ” How many oranges can kids eat in one day? ” ” Best extracurriculars for children. ” ” Hair lice remedies. ” ” Parenting tips for dummies. ”

This is probably what every parent’s search history would reveal. No matter how old your child is, you, as a parent, will worry about one thing or the other. Thus, you have equipped yourself with the knowledge to deal with every potential problem. Right from health to education, you want to be prepared for it all. In this process, one mustn’t sideline the importance of early childhood education.

While browsing for the best preschools for your little one, you should know why doing so is crucial. Early childhood education refers to the period from birth up to the age of 8 years. It is more than preparation for primary school. It aims at the holistic development of a child’s social, emotional, cognitive and physical needs in order to build a sound foundation for lifelong learning and well-being.

Well-established research constantly emphasizes the importance of early childhood education as an essential building block for a child’s future success. During your fledgling’s younger years, his remarkable brain is capable of absorbing information like a sponge. At this stage, his potential for learning things is at its peak. Attending an early childhood education programme will not only improve your child’s language and motor skills but also develop the necessary cognitive skills to advance to primary school.

At this juncture, enrolling your little one in a right brain education programme would be an excellent choice. Right brain development activities have innumerable benefits. When the right hemisphere of the brain is unlocked, your child is introduced to a plethora of learning opportunities. Attending a quality early childhood education programme is known to improve your child’s health as well. The quality care provided in these programmes influences his learning and development. Additionally, his socio-emotional development is less likely to be adversely affected. In fact, his social skills would flourish in such an environment.

The benefits of early childhood education include :• Socialization :

Socialization with individuals apart from the child’s family in a safe environment is of vital importance. Parents must support their children’s transition into their friendship groups. The earlier you accomplish this, the better. Why? This helps your little one overcome shyness and gain confidence.

• Co-operation :

At an early childhood education programme, children learn how to share, co-operate, and remain patient. In this process, they’re guided by thoughtful professionals who have their best interests at heart. This is especially important for an only child who is unaccustomed to sharing at home. This is a crucial lesson that must be taught at the earliest.

• Effective Learning :

Lessons must be taught in a fun, interactive, and exciting manner to spark a thirst for lifelong learning. Your child will thus, be equipped to embrace life’s challenges with enthusiasm, eagerness, and determination.

• Teamwork :

Several preschool activities revolve around teamwork to teach your toddler the importance of respecting other opinions, listening and co-operating. Instilling this value at a tender age ultimately makes your child socially attuned and more employable.

• Resilience :

By establishing a consistent, secure, and just social environment, teachers can foster resilience in children. Clearly defined expectations and predictable consequences help children manage their emotions optimally. This builds the foundation for their coping strategies to deal with life’s challenges in the future.

• Patience :

As adults, we encounter situations that test our patience on a daily basis. An early childhood education programme provides an abundance of social experiences where your child can explore and practice patience. At this tender age, the important virtue of patience is imparted. E.g. – your child learns to share the teacher’s attention, waits in line for his turn at the swing, etc.

• Confidence and self-esteem :

Positive interactions with teachers and other children in the classroom will promote a secure and healthy image of your child in his mind. This enables him to embrace life’s problems and obstacles confidently.

An after school programme that focuses on right brain development activities will teach your child the above life skills and values while tapping the unadulterated potential of the right brain. In a left-brain dominant world, a right-brain child will undoubtedly thrive as he’ll have an upper hand due to his holistic brain development.

He’ll be capable of logically assessing a situation and coming up with creative solutions. Right brain training consists of activities that can be conducted at home. For example – using flashcards, pretend play, music, dramatic story-telling, mandala, imaging, etc. Along with lighting up the right hemisphere of the brain, these activities necessitate parental involvement. This strengthens the parent-child bond.

By taking an active role in the early childhood education process, parents can help ensure that their child has all the support they need to develop to their full potential. Parental involvement creates a positive experience for children and helps them excel academically. Such involvement extends teaching outside the classroom. An active and engaged parent will also know where his little one is competent and where he requires more attention.

Therefore, the parent can focus his attention on those areas. This will ultimately improve the child’s confidence in his abilities. Time and again, the significance of parental involvement in a child’s early years has been emphasized. What better way exists to engage as a parent than by involving yourself in right brain development activities with your toddler? The activities at home, in addition to the after school programme, will bless your child with an arsenal of lifelong values and skills. However, the only weapon your child will need to overcome life’s hurdles is your constant love and encouragement

[devinsena]

Part 2: Rhetoric, And The Power It Holds On The Abortion Debate

This article is a continuation of a two-part series on rhetoric and the dangerous misuse of words by pro-abortion apologists. In it we will continue to discuss key terms and bring to light hidden agendas within pro-abortion arguments most people tend to miss. Rhetoric, or the use of words and phrases, is very powerful.

The misuse of rhetoric by changing the meaning of words, replacing words, or creating new words altogether is foundational to pro-abortion argumentation.

In Part I of this series on rhetoric, we learned the true significance of popular pro-abortion terminology, including the term “pro-choice.” In this second and final installment, we will continue exploring common “pro-choice” rhetoric and its effects on the abortion debate.

We will begin with a word which is well-known and well-loved all over the world: “baby.”

What comes to mind when you hear this word? What image do you see? A newborn cradled in the arms of his mother? An older infant crawling or toddling around? The Gerber Baby? Your own child, or the child of someone you know? Regardless of the particular image, most, if not all, of us have a positive reaction when we hear this word. We think of already-born children, and the thought of them makes us smile.

However, when it comes to children in the womb, society has the hardest time calling them “babies.” No, they are “fetuses,” “embryos,” and “zygotes.” We do not think of them as babies. When we talk about abortion, no one wants to admit it is the killing of a human baby.

Yet, think about the expectant mother or father who actually wants their child. Do you ever hear the mother who just learned she is pregnant call her friends and say, “I’m going to have a fetus!” or “I’m pregnant with an embryo!”

Of course not. But why not? Shouldn’t the terminology be consistent?

This use of euphemisms is particularly dangerous. Why does the abortion industry refuse to call a preborn human a baby? Why bring in so many alternate words? First we must examine the specific words used — “fetus,” “embryo,” and “zygote.” Are these accurate terms to describe a human in the womb? Technically, yes. They are scientific terms to describe different gestational stages inside the womb.

A zygote is a preborn human at the moment it exists, i.e., fertilization, the union of sperm and egg. “Embryo” and “fetus” describe a preborn human at a very early gestational stage. So, it is factual to use these terms to describe a child in the womb, but this does not make them accurate.

Our society has accepted the use of clinical, scientific terms to describe a preborn baby only when referring to an act of killing said baby. We resort to factual but cold terms. But are they even the most accurate? Think about when you had to dissect animals in school. How were you taught to refer to the animal dissected? You called them, for example, fetal pigs.

The term “fetal” is not a noun, it is an adjective. It is a descriptive term used to identify the animal in the earliest stages of development. So, if we are going to use more accurate rhetoric, babies in the womb are fetal humans, not fetuses.

Pro-abortionists’ insistence on using “scientific,” yet inaccurate, terminology to describe preborn humanity is an attempt to sterilize and in turn normalize the act of killing a human. If the preborn child were called a “baby,” or even a “human,” society would have a much harder time accepting abortion as “a woman’s right.”

In that light, let us consider the act of abortion itself. If a human child is killed outside the womb, we call it “infanticide,” “homicide,” or “murder.” If a large number are killed we call it “serial killing” or “genocide.” If the killing takes place inside the womb, we call it “abortion.” This is the term accepted by society. As pro-lifers, this is the term we should use; but we must not forget abortion is synonymous with infanticide and homicide.

A popular claim by those who promote the act of killing babies is abortions are “safer than pregnancy.” Safer. Safer for whom? Safer for the mother, they claim, because more women die in childbirth than from having abortions. Many pro-abortion activists who have had abortions themselves claim they stand by their decision because it empowered them and furthered their rights as women.

They claim abortion was the best way to preserve their lives. Consider the rhetoric used in these claims. By saying it is safer to have an abortion than to carry a child to term and deliver that child, pro-abortion activists are essentially saying the rights of the child are not equal to those of the mother — the mother’s rights to convenience are more important than the life of the defenseless child in the womb.

Rarely will you hear it put this way in mainstream abortion marketing. Think about it. When was the last time you saw an advertisement from an abortion clinic which read, “Come pay us to kill your child?” Never.

The abortion industry’s marketing campaign is based one hundred percent on misleading rhetoric in an attempt to deceive — a very successful attempt. Planned Parenthood presents itself as a “women’s healthcare provider” while performing over 300,000 abortions per year.

On some abortion websites the act of abortion is described as “gently taking the pregnancy tissue out of your uterus” — not “ripping apart a preborn child.” Notice it is not even called a “fetus” anymore. Instead it is mere “tissue,” implying abortion is akin to having one’s gallbladder removed.

The phrase “gently suction” is even more misleading. Former abortionist Anthony Levatino clarifies exactly what abortion by aspiration consists of. He explains, “the suction machine has the force of approximately ten to twenty times that of a normal household vacuum cleaner.” This is definitely not “gentle.”

Not only is a mass genocide of defenseless humans taking place, it is being downplayed to sound as innocent as possible. The number one cause of death in America — the elective abortion of preborn children — exists today because we as a nation have bought into the manipulation and lies instead of speaking truthfully.

Lest you think this use of rhetoric only applies to the act of abortion itself, let me assure you it does not. It is also used to justify the after-effects.

Millions of post-abortive women and men suffer as a result of abortion, and their voices are constantly silenced. They do not have a place in the public square to share their horrible experiences. We do not hear from the countless women who regret their abortions.

Many post-abortive parents look back on their abortions as the worst decisions they ever made. “They haunt me to this day,” post-abortive mothers share. “I still wonder what my child would have looked like.” “I still wonder how my child would have laughed.” “What kind of mom would I have been?” The amount of suffering these women are going through is incalculable, yet they are silenced for the sake of continuing this barbarity.

An industry which proclaims, “Shout your abortion,” locates the few women who, on the surface, claim to have no regrets, no suffering, and no ill effects as a result of abortion. Those women are given a platform in an attempt to normalize and justify the decision to abort.

This is a campaign designed and marketed to make us accept not only that the act of killing preborn humans is morally agreeable, but Mom and Dad are just fine afterwards. This is clearly not the case, yet many Americans accept it as truth.

America has swallowed the “pro-choice” movement, with all its dangerous rhetoric. We have accepted it as truth. The “pro-choice” movement is a rhetorical nightmare designed by pro-abortionist marketers to make a deadly act “empowering” and “righteous” when in reality, it is quite the opposite. This Leftist rhetoric has gone so far as to feed us the idea that truth is not necessarily true. They have introduced the deadly idea of moral relativism.

Have you ever heard someone say, “I don’t agree with abortion, but I’m not going to tell a woman what to do with her body”? Doesn’t that sound nice, tolerant, and accepting? Politicians use similar language all the time. Though it sounds agreeable, it is actually very dangerous.

If morality is relative, there is no absolute truth because everyone has their own. Saying you merely “disagree” with abortion and would never “tell a woman what to do with her body” completely mischaracterizes the act being committed.

As mentioned in Part 1, this is identical to saying you personally would not rape someone, but you think that others should be free to make the choice to do so. This is the same argument being made by the “pro-choice” movement. The movement itself deflects away from moral grounds. In reality, an act is right or wrong.

There is no middle ground when it comes to life and death, but pro-abortionists claim otherwise, and tell us the “truth” is whatever the mother says it is. We must realize that all rhetoric is designed to influence one way or another. There is no middle ground.

Perhaps the most dangerous result of this manipulative rhetoric is how it affects the Church — the greatest asset to the pro-life movement with the greatest opportunity to end abortion.

Christians hold the firm belief we are all created by God in His image, which gives us an indescribable value at the moment of conception. In modern society, the abortion debate has been intentionally labeled a “political issue.” Why? Because it keeps the Church out of it.

As devout, law-abiding Christians we often find ourselves stepping back when confronted with political issues because we think getting involved in politics is inconsistent with our call to spread the Gospel.

This could not be further from the truth. Not only is it an arguable duty of Christian Americans to engage in politics and culture to be the shining lights Jesus commands us to be, but regardless — abortion is simply not a political issue. It has become politicized, but it is ultimately a spiritual issue.

When a human life created in the image of God is taken, it automatically becomes a spiritual matter. It belongs in the Church more than any other place. It makes complete sense the Church would be the primary defender of life and treat the act of abortion for what it is.

Christians should not shy away from the fight, but approach head-on the twisted rhetoric to what the issue is really about: protecting the defenseless image-bearers of God.

There is one thing you should take away from this discussion on rhetoric. If we are believers; if we are a group of people who deeply care about words, and their usage, we must choose our words carefully.

We must constantly be aware and willing to study the rhetoric being presented to us. We must be willing to defend the truth, lovingly, compassionately, and gracefully, all while making sure we use the correct verbage. By doing this, we have the power to righteously expose the lies which have been sold to America for over 50 years.

You can find an expansive audio version on the topic of Rhetoric on The Human Element Show, a podcast by our friends at Human Coalition which combines incisive commentary and accessible apologetics to not only communicate the pro-life worldview, but also engage Americans in ending the abortion genocide in our lifetime.

source http://humandefenseinitiative.com/part-2-rhetoric-and-the-power-it-holds-on-the-abortion-debate/