#I don’t like the notion that the greens are bad and cruel and the blacks are good and kind

[hacked-wtsdz]

I’m not exactly onto something here, because one of the ideas of hotd was that choosing a side caused the entire Dance, but comparing two coronation scenes I can’t not talk about them. The way Aegon’s coronation feels like doom. It feels so heavy, so dark, almost forced, dystopian. And we know from the books that the crowd didn’t answer in such united cheers, for the most part the people were silent. Despite Aegon being the “rightful” heir because of his gender the crowning still feels like usurpation (which it is), it gives off a feeling of both lostness and corruption. When Rhaenyra’s coronation has an entirely different atmosphere to it. It is smaller and feels less queen-suited, and yet more Targaryen. It is filled with feelings of both grief and hope. She is crowned at her daughter’s funeral, her dead father’s crown placed on her head by her husband. A soft pink dusk, dragons all around, people actually bending the knee, as opposed to the darkness of the dragon pit and the only dragon present brining destruction and death. Idk where I’m going with this but I can’t help but notice how hopeful and powerful Rhaenyra’s coronation is, and how almost terrifying Aegon’s came out to be.

[sondepoch]

Silence Starts to Overflow (Venti x Reader)

Barbatos’s voice, whispering gently in the wind, stirs you from the slumber you were about to give into. How cruel, that you would allow yourself to pass without saying farewell to him.

MASTERLIST

Death isn’t quite the right word for it.

It would be more fitting to say that you’re passing—because passing is something that precedes catching, catching is something that precedes continuing, and continuing is something that precedes life.

Though to say that this state you’re in can precede life is a lie at best.

Where are you?

Barbatos’s voice, whispering gently in the wind, stirs you from the slumber you were about to give into.

How cruel, that you would allow yourself to pass without saying farewell to him.

The final remnants of your strength—the strength you’d been saving for a final, devastating blow against Baal, the strength you never got to use because Rex Lapis ambushed you first with an cataclysmic meteor—fly out from your fingertips in a single beacon of light that pierces the clouds as it broadcasts your position to the world.

Instantly, you feel the wind turn.

A smile crosses your lips at that. Channeling your Lumino into the sky so freely is a risky move, especially given that every archon in the area now knows where you are. You can already sense the familiar pulse of Geo and Electro growing closer as Rex Lapis and Baal doubtlessly venture back to you to finish the job, but, of course, Barbatos is faster.

Geo is slow, after all.

Electro is marginally faster, given the right medium.

Nothing, however, can trump the speed of Anemo.

Nothing but Lumino, though you suppose that will cease to exist with your passing.

“You’re a fool,” Barbatos whispers in that breathy, exhilarated voice of his. “Someone could have seen,” he says. “You’re lucky I was so close.”

Ah. It appears that he hasn’t seen your wounds yet.

Well, that’s not so bad. 

You allow yourself to relax as Barbatos gathers you in his arms at the speed of wind, holding you close against his chest as he rides a breeze of his own making into the sky. 

“There are less than a hundred gods left, now. You and I can keep a low profile these next few days and wait for the numbers to dwindle, and then we can start working together to…”

You say nothing as Barbatos continues.

To die like this, in the arms of your lover, the sound of his laughter in his ear and the element of his soul surrounding you...would be a peaceful death.

A nice death.

As Barbatos eagerly tells you about his fight against Beleth, you press your head deeper into his chest. You take a deep breath of his scent, the scent of cecilias and happiness and youth and freedom, and you begin to let yourself drift away, the strength of Lumino finally fading from your gnosis and from this world, and…

How cruel.

You can’t bring yourself to part from your lover just yet.

Not without a proper goodbye, at least.

“Barbatos,” you whisper, just strong enough to lift your head off his chest. “Barbatos, please.”

It’s at this moment that Barbatos looks, properly looks, down at you, and you can see the adrenaline of his victory sap from his expression, beautiful blue eyes turning from overjoyed to mortified in a single second.

“No,” he mutters when he sees how the light has already begun to fade from your eyes, the natural waves of Lumino that used to radiate off you so naturally now turned dim with your impending death. “No. No, this can’t—no, no. No. Please. No. No.”

Within a second, he has your back lain against a cloud, as if the stoppage of movement can do anything with your elemental energy so far dwindled. 

“Who—who did this—”

You smile gently. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

Baal isn’t an especially dangerous woman: you know Barbatos can defeat her; but if she’s managed to obtain an alliance with Rex Lapis, God of War, then the last thing you want is for your lover to attempt to avenge you and get himself killed just like you. Not when Barbatos is already so strong. Not when he already has a chance at becoming one of the Final Seven.

“T-This isn’t a time for—”

“Shh,” you whisper, reaching for his hands. The touch calms him. You channel what little power you have left into his hands, praying that he can feel it. Feel you.

“Tell me,” Barbatos says, tears beginning to build in those mesmerizing eyes. It’s hardly the time to be thinking about it, but this form that he’s chosen is truly beautiful: skin like porcelain, perfect and fine and untouchable, stunning dark blue hair, thick and nearly-black at every inch, and eyes that hold your entire world in them, blue and green and Barbatos. “I—please, they might still be around here. I can defeat them and give you their gnosis, and—”

You force yourself past your limits to lift an arm up to Barbatos’s chin. It takes all your effort to press a single finger against his lips, a wordless seal on the conversation. 

“You’re dying,” he whispers, the tears now spilling forth. “You’re—you’re—”

You press your finger against his lips again, silently asking him to speak not of your death, and the god breaks down next to you, sobbing loudly as he pulls you closer, now holding you in his arms instead of allowing you to remain flat on the ground.

It’s quite uncomfortable, actually.

Yet, you prefer the warmth of your lover’s arms to soft chill of the clouds, prefer the sensation of his salty tears spilling onto your hair, prefer the way you can savor the feeling of him a little bit longer this way.

“S-Sitri should be near here. I-if you can last just a little longer, he’ll be able to heal you and—”

Your heart falls. This must be karma.

“I killed Sitri this morning.”

The devastation in Barbatos’s eyes when you say that is more painful than the spreading darkness in your gut.

“Ph-Phenex might—”

“Sitri killed Phenex. He told me.”

The sound that spills past Barbatos’s lips at that is something between a wail and a whimper, a sob and a scream. It’s nothing like the beautiful music you’re used to hearing from his lips, and it hurts you to know that you’re the cause of this awful noise, this awful pain that will hurt him so much more than it can hurt you.

Though that’s the nature of this war, isn’t it? The very notion of thousands of gods, thousands of elements, all fighting against one another in an attempt to sit on one of the final seven seats in Celestia is something that can only occur with death, with sacrifice.

You and Barbatos were naive for ever thinking that both of you would be able to make it.

“Barbatos,” you say, cupping his cheek gently, admiring the silky softness of his skin because you know this is the last time you’ll be able to do so. “I want you to live.”

“Stop it,” Barbatos says. “Stop—stop talking like you’re going to—to—”

“To die,” you finish for him, and your hand falls from Barbatos’s cheek. You don’t have the strength to hold it up anymore. “But I don’t want you to die.”

“N-no, please, I—” Barbatos sobs, an ugly sound. “I don’t want to live in a world without you.”

“I want you to live,” you say, stubborn. “Live for me.”

“I don’t want to,” Barbatos whispers. “Not without you. S-so if you want me to live, please just try to—”

“I can’t.” Your smile is sad as you stare at him. “I can’t, Barbatos, but you can.”

“I don’t—”

“Take my gnosis.”

Your lover physically recoils at that, shock painted on his beautiful features before denial takes over.

“No,” he says, shaking his head furiously. “No, no, no. No. I won’t. I—you’ll only die faster without your—”

“Barbatos,” you say, wishing you had the strength to reach out and grab his hand. “Barbatos, for all purposes, I'm already dead.”

“No!” he shouts, and when he sees how you wince at that, he lowers the volume of his voice. “No, you’re—you’re not dead. You’re alive, you’re here, and you don’t have to—”

“I can’t control it if I die.” You turn your gaze from Barbatos to the sky, vaguely wondering what heavens are above the heavens. “But you can make sure you don't. Take my gnosis.”

“I don’t want it,” Barbatos whispers, and his eyes shimmer with tears he’s trying to hold back. 

“Take it,” you say. “Take it and live. And remember me. And build a world where no one else needs to die like this.”

“I don’t care about anyone else,” Barbatos whispers, but his hand is on your heart, now. “I just want you. Please. Please don’t—”

“Take it.”

The power of Lumino comes to a peak as you allow the source of it to expose itself, raw elemental energy radiating off your body.

“Hurry,” you whisper. “Someone will come.”

“I-I don’t—”

Barbatos lets his hand grip the gnosis, but he can’t seem to bring himself to take it out from you. Doubtless, it’s because he knows that this gnosis is the only thing allowing you to cling to life—but for him to be able to absorb its power, he has to take it from you when you’re still alive. You need him to take it now. If you want to make sure he has the strength to become one of the Final Seven, this push is the only thing you can offer him.

“I love you.”

The words fall from your lips naturally, and the power of saying them—a power that inevitably rises because those three words, that declaration of your heart’s true sentiments, are the reason you’re able to get up every day, a power that gives and gives and gives and is the sole reason for which you live—sends you a final boost of strength.

You thrust your hand onto Barbatos’s and hold it. 

With the gentleness that only the shadow death can bring, you lift his hand, still closed around your gnosis, from your body. 

The second your gnosis is off of you, it binds to Barbatos.

You can see the power travel into his body: the power that manifested as Lumino in you being absorbed into his body as the tips of his braids turn bright at the edges, a beautiful blue as bright as the sky where the edge of Barbatos's hair was once nearly black. You can feel, then, as the gnosis amplifies his power: it happens in a shockwave that jolts your body, a shockwave that shakes you to the core with the original source of your power now gone.

“You…”

Barbatos stares down at you with wide and teary eyes. Where you seem mesmerized by his transformation, it seems that he’s horrified at yours. No doubt, just as the light entered him, it must be equally visible that it’s left you.

A chilling breeze draws towards you. You shiver under it. 

“Cold,” you mutter, and Barbatos instantly pulls his cape off to wrap you in it. Somehow, it does nothing to warm you up. The cold, it seems, originates from within.

“Stay with me,” Barbatos says, cradling you in his arms. He presses his lips to your forehead. “Stay with me, love. Stay with me. You can live through this, I know it, just stay…”

Ah. 

It’s so cold.

The chill that begins from deep inside you spreads, branching towards your fingertips and your toes and up your neck. With it comes a darkness, one that your power has always protected you from. Now, though, Lumino is weak. It stands no chance at being one of the Final Seven elements. You failed it as an archon. 

“...with me. Please. Please don’t go. Stay. Please. Please…”

You want to respond to him. You’ve never heard Barbatos sound so miserable, so broken. You stare up at him, trying to make your lips form the shape to words that will comfort him. 

You can’t seem to move your lips.

You can’t seem to move your eyes, either. 

Numb, you stare up at Barbatos, unblinking and unmoving. Your gaze is fixed on him, a darkness creeping in at the edges.

No, you think. No, stop. I want to look at him longer. 

The darkness doesn’t oblige. It creeps closer and closer, and a desperate fear begins to overtake you. Is this the last time you’ll see your lover? Why? How? How can that be? That can’t be right. You and Barbatos were supposed to win this war. You and Barbatos were supposed to survive this war. You and Barbatos were supposed to rule a nation together and save the world together and build a life together and—

Why is it all going away?

Stripped of the power of light that had always protected you, the darkness you’d always feared crawls closer. 

Stop, you think. Stop it. Don’t take him away. I want to stay. I want to stay with him. I don’t—

Despite the chilling cold that’s wrapped around all your body, you feel a tear fall.

I don’t want to die.

You hear something that sounds like a scream, but it’s so distant. It’s like a howl: monstrous and enraged and furious and terrifying, yet...familiar. Suddenly, you can’t figure out who this wailing reminds you of, but the thought of the person sends a strange sense of warmth to you. 

It’s nice, you think.

You can’t be quite sure what’s happening anymore. All you know is that it’s cold and dark, so horribly cold and dark. 

The howling sound grows louder. Vaguely, you feel something grip you, shake you, cling to you.

Something about you is instinctively soothed by the touch. Amidst all this cold and all this darkness, you think you can find comfort in this sensation. You know you shouldn’t like it—that the feeling of your body being shaken and clung to and howled and wailed at isn’t something you should like—but there’s peace in it. 

It’s a nice feeling.

It’s a nice feeling. 

MASTERLIST

Word Count: 2.3k

Notes: freedom sword come home

Comment & Like

I do not own the rights to Genshin Impact or any of the characters within it.

[starshipsofstarlord]

Those who fell - Natasha Romanoff x reader x Gamora

Masterlist link

Summary; in life and death, the three of you are able to unite, and make the most of the time that the sacrifices of your lives have given you

Warnings; smut, threesome, oral sex (female receiving obviously), strap on sex, tribbing, fingering, mentions of death, angst

divider by @firefly-graphics

Gamora sunk her strap into your cunt, as Nat, your friend and fellow avenger clambered upon your face, sinking her pussy down onto your awaiting tongue as you hum satisfyingly at the taste of her silken essence. The green woman began to thrust as her hands secured their grip onto your waist, the red strap on affirming penetration consistently in and out of your walls.

You had all lost everything; life, lovers, hope, and thus all you had now was the sentence of rejoicing in your freedom from all the fabrications of the complications that were in regards to being alive. Natasha had faith that her and your family were to succeed in their mission, they were heroes, and they had saved you both from yourselves once upon a time, many long moons ago.

“Y/n.” Nat scrambled out your name as she rocked her hips against your face, spreading her juices down to the sides of your cheeks, you shook your head as you attached your mouth around her clit, enforcing a squeal to beckon out of her plump lips, as she bit on them, lost in the pleasure that you were granting them. Life had been cruel and deceiving, there was no light at the end of the tunnel, and thus, similar to now, you were responsible for crafting your own.

At the sound of your name, Gamora upped her pace, her emerald hands digging into the thickness of your thighs as she delved deeper within you, extracting a moan from you, that rumbled up and through Natasha’s body. “Shit, don’t stop ‘Mora.” Your words were muffled by the purchase of Natasha fucking herself down onto your face, but the message, though pursed together, was clear. You wanted more, and she, as a guardian of the galaxy, was here to help, and take partially for herself.

And the one thing that she was to be stealing was your orgasm, as she pulled away, as she had done to her own father, rejecting him and his ill wishes, removing the fake cock from inside of you, watching as your legs quivered for attention. Whines spurred out from your throat, peeking through Natasha’s body like shots of lightning cursing vigilantly through her. “Patience, I have something better; much better.”

She disengaged the harness from around her legs and waist, allowing the support to drop to the floor as she shuffled closer, hooking her palm around the curve and inside of your knee, bracing it to some height, as she steadied herself in the air, her feet prompting her against gravity, as she lowered her own cunt upon yours, descending the swell of her clit against the hood of yours, rubbing the skin grafted fabrics together, recalling tears in your eyes as you submitted to the pleasure.

Your own hands strayed from Nat’s hips, running down the crevice of her thighs as you looked up to her, the shadow of her full breasts blocking most of your view, trailing your fingertips down to prod at her swept aside labia, stroking the earnest and moist lips with the pads of your fingers, as you switched the position of your tongue upwards, so that it was flicking and delivering harsh sucks to her sensitive clit.

With your right hand, you swiped through her swollen folds, rasping in the feeling of Gamora’s pussy moving swiftly upon your own, as you entered a finger into the red head, listening intently as your name was preached from her rosy lips. You hummed at the taste of the assassin, softly shaking your head beneath her, as she tentatively ground down, revelling in the pleasure that you were basking upon her.

Gamora threw her black and red hair back, her lids closing as she felt your clit twitch at her notions, as you tried to grind back up against her. With hooded eyes, she watched as your tits softly swayed under the pressure that both women were laying upon your body; you were in absolute bliss, distracting yourself from the fall that had lead you all to be here. You had tried to save Nat, Clint was so focused on doing the same that he didn’t even have a chance of saving you as you descended, and he was left to survive of watching Natasha let go of his hand, wanting to save at least one life out of your iconic trio.

Even in the afterlife, the two of you remained together, fulfilling every fantasy that you had about the other. You had found Gamora lurking, lost in this imprisonment of a world, ashamed of having lead Thanos to Vormir, but proud that she had gotten her sister’s life spared. She was always the favourite, but here, she wasn’t judged upon her combat skills; rather instead there were other skills required to keep the pair of you happy and content, and she was more than eager to oblige.

The situation and those in the past were nothing more than distractions to the prospect of life that you were all missing out on. And like a white light, the same which she had seen whence her head had been unforced by a harsh impact to the behind, Natasha felt herself unravel. When she was done lulling in the glow of her orgasm, the redhead climbed off from your face, watching with flushed cheeks as you and Gamora went at it. Without her reducing your breaths, you were pursuing the thrill of the chase like animals, huffing and growling as you eagerly smashed your hips together, with intwined legs.

There was wetness spooling out from the main crevice of contact, spreading down your thighs as you and Gamora endlessly ground your folds and furthermore together, throwing your necks back as you leant in a stretch to get the best angle of stimulation. Nat found herself crawling closer as she pressed her lips to yours, delving her tongue within your mouth as your own swirled around the intrusion of hers, allowing her a second hand taste of her sweetness. Her hands ran down and pinched your nipples, evoking the image of fluttering eyelashes upon your face, as you grew mad with pleasure, spasming against Gamora as you joined her juices with her own.

A heavy sigh lifted from her chest as she untangled her legs from your own, turning over onto her front as she crawled towards you, smacking your legs apart as she took in the view of your pussy that was clenching around nothing, and the painted in her own cum, that was perfectly intermingled with the excess of your own. Out from the corner of your eye, as you passionately kissed Nat, you watched the enchantress, as she snuck her head in a closer vicinity to your personal parts, darting her tongue out to collect the blend of fulfilment, bringing her hand up to rub your clit as she ate you out.

“Holy shit.” You mumbled against Natasha’s mouth as your sensitive cunt took in more pleasure, despite practically having just came under the whim of the same woman that was tending to your will of overcoming a settlement of self mourning, reducing you to atoms of sweat and a heated body as her tongue rolled around your centre, Natasha nibbling on your tongue in the meanwhile. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum!” And you did, as you rolled your hips against Gamora’s face.

Natasha left you as she went in search of the strap, discovering it with a pleasant smile, as she put it on herself without aid, sending you a tender look as her eyes ran over your stimulated form. She grasped onto Gamora’s leant ass, as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, as she knelt behind the woman, leaving the two in the doggy position. Nat grabbed the harnessed dildo with a gentle hand, rubbing against the hood of Gamora’s clit, as you shuffled back, and bent your knees upwards, absentmindedly fondling with your button, despite the growing burn in the bead of muscle.

Beginning to thrust into the guardian, Nat became rough, a tense and affirmative expression taking over her face, whilst Gamora wore one of dazed eyes and an agape mouth. It was quite the show, more so as Nat clapped her hand down on the other woman’s backside, pulling a strangled sound out of her throat. Perhaps being dead wasn’t so bad if you were to be gifted with the freedom of performing such erotic acts without a crunch of time and saving the world, but you missed your friends, this again, whilst being a grave fantasy, was a way to forget about them all, even if it be only momentarily.

“Natasha!” At the sound of her name, you remembered the way Clint would say it as he was piloting at the front of the quintet with her, or how Thor would formally greet her. Your hand went slack as you mulled over the memories, it felt like you were being stabbed in the chest. As Gamora was rendered through an orgasm by the black widow herself, you felt yourself cry, wanting nothing more, despite it being a gruelling task, than to fight, hell, even go through another accords. Anything was better than being dead.

feedback is always appreciated 💙

[whorecruxriddles]

Baby Black always greets Walburga’s portrait when she passes/stays at Grimmauld Place. Like yeah she’s a HUGE JERK but that’s also her nana so? Might as well? Usually it’s sarcastic like “Well hello to you TOO madam” but the day Walburga starts coming at BB talking about how Regulus would be ashamed (of both her existence as a half blood & the way she turned out) that’s the day she hexes the painting to click like a chicken for a week & storms off to her room.

BABY BLACK I CANNOTTTT

-

You weren’t sure exactly how you’d managed to hex that god awful painting. One minute, you’d been trying to think of an insult to throw back at your grandmother and the next, her oily nose had grown into a long, yellow chicken beak and she was clucking hysterically.

It should’ve been funny. If you’d hung around to admire your work, you would’ve been commended by Fred and George or earned a chuckle from Lupin. But you didn’t. Instead, you stormed up to your room, slamming the door behind you.

Well, not your room. Your father’s room.

Your father who would have hated you.

On some level, you knew that your grandmother was spewing a load of shit. She was already off her rocker and the sudden return of her estranged son and all his mudblood loving little friends, including a werewolf, were very trying on the old brush strokes. But still, you couldn’t help but wonder if...she was right.

“MY SON WOULD BE ASHAMED TO HAVE SUCH A FILTHY DAUGHTER YET YOU PRANCE AROUND HERE LIKE HE WOULD HAVE RECOGNIZED YOU AS HIS OWN”

You could still hear her smirk as she shrieked that he would’ve been revolted to see the disgrace you brought to his face and the Black family name.

The cruel taunts played over and over in your head as you paced the floor of Regulus’ old room, your fists clenched in rage. A small movement from the desk caught the corner of your eye; the picture of your father from his quidditch days. His green Slytherin uniform shimmering in the wind as he sat on his broom, flashing the camera the only smile you’d seen any evidence of. Other than your own, of course.

Clutching the frame, you sat down at the end of your bed. Whatever he was smiling about, he looked proud. If you closed your eyes and pretended he was right in front of you, you could almost imagine that he was giving you that look at pride. Regulus couldn’t have hated you, right?

A soft knock came at the door and you only acknowledged it with a grunt. The door opened and closed and then Sirius was sitting next to you, looking over your shoulder at the photograph.

“What did that old bitch say to you?”

“That my dad would’ve hated me.”

Sirius stiffened, which did nothing for your stress. He put a hand on your shoulder and gave you the kindest smile he could muster.

“Regulus wasn’t the most loving person but he would never never have hated you. His family was always most important to him, even when he was a Death Eater-”

“He was a Death Eater?”

Sirius cringed. He had forgotten to ask if you were aware of that or not. You stood up and began to pace, glaring at the happy photo.

“So he would’ve hated me. He would’ve despised me. He would’ve actively tried to kill me!” You ranted, your hands shaking from how hard you were grasping onto the photo. Part of you wanted to throw it against the wall and part of you wanted to hug close to you and never let go. Either way, you’d never felt lower.

“Darling, take a breath-”

“I can’t, not when my own dad would’ve seen me as-as-as nothing but a mudblood!”

“My parents-”

“Didn’t join a group trying to kill people like you!”

Sirius stood, putting his hands on your shoulders to stop your pacing. He took the picture from your hands and tossed it onto the bed before turning back to you.

“(y/n), listen to me. My brother was an idiot who bought into all the terrible things our parents told us. He was an idiot and went and joined Voldemort. You deserve to know that and I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier.” He said and for the first time, you noticed how haunted your uncle’s eyes really were, “But you also deserve to know that he tried to leave the Death Eaters and that’s why he died. I always thought that he had gotten in over his head but now that I know about you...love, you’re probably the reason why he wanted to leave. He didn’t want anything to happen to you because he loved you.”

Sirius’ face began to blur as tears filled your eyes. A sob escaped you and Sirius pulled you into a hug. You let yourself cry against his shoulder as he rested a hand on the back of your head, rocking you slightly.

“Reg didn’t hate you, he wouldn’t have hated you. He kept you safe from the rest of our family, he left you the house. You would’ve been his pride and joy. I can practically hear him bragging about you to me.”

You let out something that sounded like a mix between a cry and a laugh. With a small squeeze, he continued,

“I still love you. Remus and Tonks love you. Hell, Molly would probably pack you up and take you back to the Burrow with her, if I’d let her. Your family loves you, even your dad got caught with a bad crowd.”

Pulling back, he wiped your tears away - like a good father would, you thought. You couldn’t bring yourself to smile but you weren’t frowning quite so hard now, which Sirius decided to take as a win.

“You’re tired. Why don’t you take a nap and I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready.”

You nodded wordlessly, afraid that if you tried to speak, your voice wouldn’t work. Sirius seemed to understand as he gave you one more hug before turning to leave. Flicking the light off for you, he turned back, “Just...think on it. And think about what else we could turn my mother into.”

With that, he shut the door, leaving you by yourself. You took up his suggestion, crawling into the bed you’d made your own. For a few minutes, you stared at the picture of your father, trying to imagine when the happy teenager had become so overwhelmed with hate. You thought about what Sirius had said, about how he thought that you might be the reason Regulus had left the Death Eaters. You wanted the idea to make you happy and proud of him but at the same time, you couldn’t push away the notion that if you were the reason he’d tried to leave, then you were also the reason he’d died.

The harsh words of your grandmother began to ring through your head again and you shoved the photo under your pillow, turning over and shutting your eyes.

[celestialmarks]

“I’m not the bad one here”: Muu Analysis and Interpretation

here is my personal muu analysis and interpretation. i'm really wondering: does muu really believe herself to be justified? is this a front she's presenting because her apologies remained unheard to the bitter end? is she really vindictive and somewhat indifferent deep down, or is she really pretending to protect herself? somewhat a bit of both? this is what i'll be trying to answer. i'm going to be using : - her official character intro in the character intros MV - her intro voice lines (from the official website) - her interview questions - her drama CD content basically every piece of muu extra content we've got, aside from minimal interactions from the app. AS WELL AS - her MV, After Pain, which i'm going to be deciphering based on the color coding! i don't think anyone has done this in full yet (if anyone did, i apologize)

(general TW for discussions & depiction of severe bullying)

as a general disclaimer,

i'm not going to reiterate points that have already been made. if you've looked at youtube comments of previously made analysis, it should be enough to determine what's going on. i'm interested in exploring why muu may feel justified in her actions and what the "darker" side of her is, is all.

there have been no hints as to the fact that she was a bully in the past or something. it could still come out that she was, or that her behavior was awful in whatever way (which i really wouldn't like bcse it reinforces the notion that bullied people "have to had deserved it" which is gross) and it still WOULD NOT change my opinion of her bcse she's still been through all that and pushed to the limit. at the end of the day, there's no way she lied about or downplayed this. she WAS horribly bullied and she almost died from it.

muu has her flaws, clearly. i'm just pointing out what they are here, her mentality and how it might allude to her being shown in a less sympathetic light next round, but that's it.

first, where does the "muu feeling justified" even come from?

to begin with, it's been stated in her intro "she can have a attitude at some times." it's also confirmed by the insults on the blackboard, transcribed in eng and edited onto the MV's visuals here (TW suicide baiting, self-harm baiting).

"So arrogant" as well as "are you looking down on us?" are written on the first blackboard, "eww poor people" on the second.

in her drama CD, muu also appears to be :

overly blunt at times 

spoiled. used to being treated well, since she's rich

quite manipulative, even if she's straightforward about it

i suggest u read the whole thing to get a sense of what she's like, if you haven't yet!

once again and at the risk of repeating myself... she still doesn't deserve any of what happened even if she was condescending or flaunted her wealth. which i don't even think might be the case (it's not like the bullies are objective, they're just using it as a way to justify their treatment of her. and in the MV she says herself "There's no special meaning / I just got the short end of the stick"). she's kind of naive about her wealth (see the crepe incident dfdghjd) she doesn't appear to do it to annoy others or look down on them. she's just used to a life of comfort.

moreover, it's been implied she may have been taken advantage of initially because of her wealth (see the chat on her phone and the picture of her with the three other girls, which i'll call Girl A, Girl B and Girl C for convenience's sake and also bcse the ref to dr is funny). probably her bluntness and occasional attitude caused her more problems, but i'll come back to what triggered the bullying later.

regarding her manipulative behavior, it's because she's used to getting her way (crepe incident, her telling Es she'll just make him like her : "All I have to do is gain your favour, right?"). "my sorry spells must be wearing off" in After Pain alludes to this. since she was previously quite privileged, she had never been treated like this before. even when she made mistakes she was forgiven, so she may have been a bit of an entitled brat, once again. when she starts being bullied, her world REALLY turns upside down. she's so used to getting her way that she even THREATENS Es at the end of the drama CD. we're past manipulative here. no way to know if she has done this in the past though. this might just be due to her desperation, really, but the fact that she does it right after another attempt at sweet talk does make me raise a brow

also the way she turns the tables on Es. "i won't forgive you" when she's supposed to be the one who's forgiven or not? she's rejecting the fault onto Es, just like, ALL the way through her drama CD, she's been saying she wasn't in the wrong. that's her way of justifying herself when/if she causes harm. literally she will not stop saying it : 

"I’m not the bad one here!" "I did kill them. But, they’re to blame! They made it to the point where I had to kill them… I… I had such a tough time." "Sure, I might’ve killed them, but… If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to escape. The cruel things they did to me were far worse!" "If you’re gonna say that I shouldn’t have killed them, then… Are you saying that I should’ve continued suffering forever?" "Even though I’m not the one in the wrong, they want to sentence me to penal servitude… That’s so messed-up." "It wasn’t a bad thing to do, right?" "What should I do then? What should I do in order for you to forgive me, prison guard? I’ll do anything! Um… Anything painful or embarrassing is out of the question though… And, I don’t wanna do anything scary either…"

muu is DESPERATE to be proven innocent. she'll do almost anything, though she's reluctant to put herself in any situation that might be triggering for her (understandable after what she's been through so i wouldn't say she's whining here.) in one of her intro voice lines on the website she says pretty much the same thing:

That’s right. I killed someone. But I couldn’t help it! If I didn’t, there’d be no way to escape. I’m… not the bad one.

in addition, here is what we get from her intro in the character intros MV:

"Fufu... it's your fault for doing horrible things to me." → Lack of remorse ?

from her interview questions:

"The person who did something wrong should apologize first." → Waiting for others to acknowledge their faults first, bcse she doesn't want her apologies to be ignored again... and to just be mistreated again, as a result?

maybe she wants to be declared innocent so that she can finally feel like she's heard, acknowledged. so that she can feel that her pain has reached people, and she might start apologizing outwardly then too, bcse part of her's sorry. but a part of her genuinely believes she had no other choice and as such should be treated as innocent. it's kind of a complex mentality.

what i'm focusing on is that she has this belief she is justified still.

something caught my eyes in relation to that : the "thinks she's the hero" on the second blackboard. muu has a self-righteous side like futa, even if it were (partially?) a front.

also, the quote behind every inmate : "every saint has a past and every sinner has a future." muu "saved" herself by killing someone else and now has a future, so she's her own hero? perhaps. perhaps that's what is helping her cope with the crushing guilt, and that's why she's outwardly so insistent on it.

but then again, something doesn't click: why would muu be saved from killing someone? the bullying has just gotten worse. why does she seem so relieved in that situation? is it because people at least don't touch her now, because they're scared of her? she is literally getting suicide baited though... well, i have an idea. but first let's decode After Pain properly.

more substance to her feeling justified: the color coding and hidden messages in After Pain

so, here goes. on the official site, people who got the innocent verdict are shown to have green eyes, while people who got the guilty verdict have red eyes. so from this, we can deduce that innocent = green and guilty = red.

well... muu's MV is coded like that all the way through. we have a theme of greens (cold colors) VS oranges (warm colors). to represent her thoughts in relation to her actions, and others'. they’re complementary colors, so it’s rather clear cut (black and white?) the color that's inbetween is the yellow from the screen with the handwriting writing that keeps coming back as well as... yup... the yellow from the box cutter she used to kill Girl A, her crush (presumably). and the yellow that is muu's character color! so very significant. i'll analyse After Pain sequence by sequence so u can see what i mean in detail. beginning of the MV : she's sitting in the classroom alone. the first thing we see is the green hourglass = i'm innocent! and we see the orange glow of the sunset. the light isn't hitting her directly, as u can see: she's left in the shadows = blameless, the victim here. it's hitting the blackboard with all the insults, however.

together with the lyrics this scene is basically everything about muu screaming "SEE? IT'S THEIR FAULT, LOOK WHAT THEY DID. I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING." and then of course we have the first instance of the screen with writing in yellow! this one says "ねえなんで" ("say, why?") nothing surprising there so far.

then BOOM the hourglass. very very clearly depicting her pain, her suffocating and being cut from the world. and thus proving her "innocence" bcse she's trapped, in danger of choking, and helpless.

it of course covers her (more of her basically telling you she's innocent). and then it cuts to a pinker, more orange-y scene with the bullies (they're guilty!)

and WAIT A MINUTE? WHAT IS THAT? yep... the box cutter. and what color is it in this scene? orange. it was orange here.

clearly she's saying that the others are much more at fault here. when she wields it, the box cutter is of a lighter color--still a warm color, since it's yellow. but a yellow that's very close to the lime green of her hourglass, isn't it? for now let's say it represents something in between, ambivalent feelings. the writing in yellow comes back and so does the chorus (look at how much i tried to apologize and make them stop). it feels to me like that's muu taking back the mic like HEY, listen up, you saw this right. in conclusion. here it is again: look at how innocent i am! look at how much i've suffered! and thus naturally it cuts to a hourglass scene immediately after.

nonetheless, the writing in yellow says... "でもたぶん" ("but maybe...") which is intriguing.

haven't mentioned this before but obviously muu herself is a mix of warm and cold colors, aka pink (her uniforms highlights, the sleeves and tie + her hair) and green (her eyes, with a highlight of lime/yellow...) then we're back in the classroom and once again the orange light = guilt isn't hitting her directly.

and the colors picked in the LINE chat with the others areee.... naturally, green for her, pink for the others... yellow for the whole background, just as yellow encompasses the entire MV as her true feelings on the matter.

title screen in yellow then flashes yet again, followed AGAIN by the hourglass scene (muu repeating, just like in her drama CD: "yeah, here's my whole story, and i'm innocent!")

the writing in yellow says "ねえもしも" ("hey, tell me...")

the writing in yellow flashes for the FOURTH TIME and this is the most interesting instance: "それなのに" ("even so...")

this shot is doused in orange/warmer yellow on the bullies' side and in the background too. super self-explanatory really

the orange light of guilty is still not hitting muu. meanwhile on her lap...

on the left, the bullies' stockings are blue, but they have a orange hue to them. the rest of the objects here in cold tones are all related to muu or touching her. the picture on her phone is split between yellow and blue. like the blame and innocence was, back then, even/balanced in the sense of peace and quiet, or perhaps just hidden in the background before it jumped out?

she's hit by the orange light here and please look at how the bucket is not blue at all and the floor below her is more yellow. Girl A is the one to open the door, so i think this might show Girl A's POV in relation to muu. not perceiving her innocence.

Girl A's eyes here are green and yellow, so to some extent innocent but guilty in a way that is justified in muu's mind? which is why muu reaches out to her. thus here's my theory on what happened with her : muu confessed, yes. however, the girl didn't out her. especially bcse the blackboard doesn't have any mention of muu liking girls (going by the TL previously shared at least). she just started avoiding muu. given the lyrics here: Girl A used muu's attitude concerning other matters as justification for avoiding her, which kickstarted the bullying. hence "the stabbing of the little devil's voice" which references something Girl A said about her attitude, prompting the rest of their friend group to see muu in a negative light so as to side with her. (since muu's planned counterattack to what Girl A said is a suicide note, it can only be Girl A that's the "devil". the cause.)

also please note how the light is only HALF hitting the background. she's to blame, but not entirely. not yet. besides her eyes are a different shade of green than muu's: darker, far from lime. clearly just green + yellow highlight, without the blatant "innocent" of the lighter lime. entirely ambivalent!

in this shot, the light is deserting muu's eyes. no lime green or yellow here. she just has dead eyes, resembling Girl A's eyes at the end of the video. this is muu telling us that this was her last chance not to become a corpse.

then muu reaches out to the one person she could ask for help. the one person who could have cleared any misunderstanding and possibly stopped this. she's running and everything is soooo yellow and orange. EXCEPT for the bushes which are green, a firm line (literal lines!) that allude to the possibility that Girl A might change her behavior. "perhaps she'll realized she crossed the line/know where the line is and walk off this path."

however, muu steps into the light here. she's been hit by the window's light even if we can't see it, as seen by her shadow. hence, she's already guilty, it's just out of frame (she doesn't realize/know it yet.) still, note that the light hitting her is not orange but ONLY YELLOW. less guilty than the others! but the school? orange. guilty place. guilty people

Girl A is still framed by green stuff. she has a possibility of being innocent, of being forgiven by muu, but the path she's walking is orange, clearly.

we see a tiny hourglass fall off, a timid reminder from muu "i know what you're about to see, just remember i'm not to blame." and then muu reaches Girl A and the background is just SO yellow and orange for the both of them. but notice something? on muu's side the background is more yellow. on Girl A's side it gets darker, more orange.

Girl A doesn't respond for a moment and her eyes are still green and yellow! muu has hope that she might still change for the better and forgive her! see that muu's innocent!

but nope! she rejects muu! and we get this deep orange!!! NOTHING like the yellow in the background earlier! this is the last straw for muu!

contrasting with the green of muu's hourglass breaking as she hits her limit:

yellow, vengeful fire burning next to muu. it's practically shimmering as she stabs Girl A. it's so light it's almost white.

Girl A's eyes have turned orange bcse in that moment in muu's mind SHE is the guilty one. she deserves this.

while in contrast, even if the background behind muu's very orange... her eyes are glowing lime/yellow.

i hit picture limit so this is part 1! (reblogging this to add more. here is the full post with part 2 as well)

[sagemcmae]

SessKag DDN January 2021 Theme: Space

Vast | Cold | Air | Black | Pull | Distant | Matter | Light | Radiant | Gravitate

Vast

The sea of grass sways in the summer breeze. Under the sun’s light, the blades change from green to gold. Sesshomaru watches the hypnotizing transition of the colors, his mind drifting far from his position.

Distraction plagues him often these days. His thoughts are an endless stream of questions. Like the strands of grass before him, his thoughts bounce back and forth, dancing along the line between reason and impulse. 

It is a narrow ledge. He has never been this close to falling over. 

Throughout his entire life, Sesshomaru has followed the path set before him. He has only deterred from his course once. The choice to restore Rin’s life was the will of Tenseiga, not his own. The blade chose her. He could blame his detour on the sword. When it comes to his current predicament, there is only one whom he can hold responsible.

Himself.

Sesshomaru tilts his head to the sky, contemplating what will become of him. If he allows himself to continue along this path of shameful musings, he will become a sentimental fool— weak and incompetent.

This he cannot allow.

He tells himself to ignore temptation, to avoid the one who has put all these ridiculous notions in his head. He guards his heart with the same ferocity as his ward.

“Sesshomaru!”

He turns.

She appears on the hillside with a warm smile and a wave.

Perhaps he has it wrong. Maybe he is already the fool.

But with her he feels invincible.

With Kagome, the possibilities are vast.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Cold

If Sesshomaru were to compare her to something, he would liken her to the sun. She is full of warmth. Her aura is bright and vibrant. Those in her life flock to her, a constant rotation of friends, family, and acquaintances.

The miko delights in the company she keeps. She showers them with praise, lavishes them with gifts, and embraces them tightly. He never has to guess what she is thinking. Her emotions are written on her face. Rarely, has he seen her guarded or closed off.

Though there are times when she is ashamed of her feelings— usually because of something his half-wit brother has said —the miko remains happy. She shares her smiles with everyone.

Even him.

By comparison, his mother is cold. She may love him— in her own way —but she does not express it through physical touch or words. His mother has always placed propriety over all else. Sesshomaru can only imagine how she would react if she saw the miko’s horrendous manners.

He smirks at the visual.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Air

The first time he encountered her alone was by that forsaken lake. What happened to her companions remains a mystery. All he knows is that he blames them for her plight. 

When he arrived at the water’s edge, the last thing he intended to do was enter. Then he saw her head crest the surface. Her arms flailed wildly and he went to her. 

Sometimes, he can still hear her frantic gasps for air. The sound haunts him even now. 

It is what makes him reach for her in the evening, seeking reassurance that she is safe. The way his fingers gently card through her hair is nothing like the desperate way she clung to him that day. Drenched and shivering, she had clamped onto him with more strength then he realized one so small could possess.

He had lent her mokomoko made and gone in search of wood to build a fire. Sesshomaru intended to warm her body and dry her clothes but when he had returned, she was gone.

The scent of his brother polluted the air— his only clue to what had happened to her.

And the only reason why he did not follow.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Black

The endless darkness terrifies her. Each and every time Kagome tries to enter the well, the memory of that day stops her. She stands there, frozen as the nightmare takes hold. Her crippling fear has already caused her to miss two exams and her little brother’s birthday. 

Kagome tells herself she won’t let one bad day ruin her. She flings herself over the side, dropping through the shaft with a scream. 

The portal opens. 

Kagome descends through the continuous void.

When her feet land in the dirt, she glances up, relieved to find herself not at the bottom of a deep lake but back at the shrine. 

But as she climbs out, Kagome finds herself remembering something else from that day.

The strong arms of the one who saved her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Pull

His constant indecision is akin to the push and pull of the sea. It wears him down, slowly taking over his sense of purpose bit by bit until he can no longer see reason.

Sesshomaru bypasses all protocol. He does not announce his intentions. He does not request permission. He does not wait.

In battle, if one remains still for too long, they will be discarded. The same can be said for courting. Sesshomaru can not afford to be stagnant. If he wishes to have the miko, he needs to act.

Now.

He slips away from his vassal’s prying eyes, dodges a run-in with the half-breed, and manages to scare off the wolf prince.

His efforts are not in vain.

When he finds her, she is alone in the hot springs.

He makes his move.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Distant

It is strange how far from someone you can feel even when they are walking right beside you. The realization has bothered Kagome all day. With each step the group takes toward defeating Naraku, she feels herself drifting further away from Inuyasha.

At first, Kagome figures it is because of Kikyo. Inuyasha doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that his ex-girlfriend is a clay doll. To him, Kikyo is still the perfect priestess she was in life. He doesn’t acknowledge the fact she relies on her soul scavengers to keep her standing upright or her disregard for others. 

Kagome isn’t sure how to feel about that. Sango tells Kagome to hate Kikyo but all Kagome feels toward the other woman is pity— pity for the life that has been stolen from her and pity for her lost chance with Inuyasha. It is cruel, unfair.

Once Kagome recognizes that she feels sorry for them, it is easier to let go. Pity isn’t love. Maybe she can love Inuyasha as a friend or even as a brother but Kagome will never feel for him the way he feels for Kikyo— the way they feel for each other.

She sinks into the hot spring, wondering where that leaves her. In truth, she has been considering a life here in the Feudal Era. It is easier to manage than entrance exams and job hunting. Kagome would rather face off against a demon than a math test any day.

“I’m ridiculous,” she mutters to herself.

“I disagree,” a deep voice replies.

Kagome’s eyes go wide as Sesshomaru steps into the springs.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Matter

She does not scream for her companions to come to her aid, nor does she make a move for her bow. Sesshomaru takes this as a sign that he can stay. He settles into a rock across from the miko, keeping his gaze upon her.

Droplets crash into the pool, falling from her wet bangs and sending ripples across the water’s surface. Her cheeks are painted scarlet and her eyes look at everything but him.

“You are unusually quiet this evening,” he remarks.

Her throat bobs slightly. Sesshomaru watches her lips part as if she means to speak to him. Then, she shakes her head and closes her mouth as quickly as she opened it.

“If you are concerned about my brother, you needn’t worry. He is preoccupied with that abomination he calls a lover,” Sesshomaru tells her.

Still, she says nothing.

Her head is angled down. Under the veil of steam, he can barely make out the color of her eyes. He wishes to be closer but he doesn’t dare move for fear is scaring her off.

“Are you frightened of me?”

The miko shakes her head.

“Then what is the matter?”

“Seriously?” she scoffs. She raises her face, glaring at him. “You’re naked!”

He blinks. “I fail to see the issue.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Light

Kagome covers her face with her hand. “I— uh, I’m going to go,” she announces. She reaches around behind her, trying to locate her towel.

Full moon was last week which means there is barely enough light to see anything. Well, anything except for Sesshomaru’s extremely defined chest.

Don’t go there, girl, she warns herself.

Her fingers close around soft fabric. Sighing with relief, Kagome slips out of the hot springs, making sure to hold the towel up to maintain her modesty.

As if there’s any of that left, she thinks ruefully remembering all the times Inuyasha and Miroku have spied on her and Sango. Perverts!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Radiant

Sesshomaru has never denied himself anything. What he wants he takes. He has the title, the strength, and the power to obtain what lever he desires.

Yet, when it comes to the miko, he restrains himself.

His eyes linger on the slender slopes of her shoulders, the gentle line of her spine, and supple curves of her breasts. She is radiant.

He does not stop her from leaving the spring. Nor does he call after her. She may not know how she affects him but he is acutely aware of how he affects her.

The air is thick with arousal. The taste of it hangs heavy on his tongue, a sampling of what is to come.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gravitate

Kagome nearly trips over her own feet as she hurries away from the springs. The only thing she can hear is her pulse ringing in her ears. The noise drowns out everything else and makes her feel a bit light-headed.

She stumbles into the clearing, earning her a curious look from her friends.

“Is everything alright, Kagome?” Sango asks.

“Yeah, yeah, everything is fine,” she answers, waving her friend off. “Just going to grab my stuff and get dressed.”

“Do you need any help?” Miroku inquires.

A smack echoes through the forest, causing Kagome to laugh. You think he’d have learned by now, she thinks, shaking her head.

With her pajamas in hand, she finds a quiet spot several paces away from the group. The branches overhead have blocked out almost all of the light, making it difficult to see.

Kagome fumbles and curses as she attempts to stick her foot through the leg of her pajama bottoms. It snags on the seam. She loses her balance and falls to the ground.

Groaning, she rubs her backside. That will leave a bruise.

With a sigh, Kagome hastily dressed before anyone comes over to see what all the commotion is about.

Just as she finishes slipping her top overhead, a voice whispers in her ear. “If you require assistance, all you need to do is ask.”

Kagome gasps. “Sesshomaru!”

He takes her hand and places a chaste kiss upon it. “Until next time.”

Then, he is gone.

But Kagome knows he’ll be back.

She wears a smile to sleep that night, dreaming of dancing in the dark.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Patricia Highsmith: The problem of good art made by bad people

No writer would ever betray his secret life. It would be like standing naked in public.

- Patricia Highsmith, the novelist writing to a friend in 1940

Patricia Highsmith, who died in 1995 having written a series of psychological thrillers, including The Talented Mr Ripley and Strangers on a Train and the romance The Price of Salt, left two sets of diaries hidden in a linen closet in her home in Ticino, Switzerland.

In one she recorded details about her professional life: plot ideas, philosophical musings and thoughts on writing. In the other she documented her private reflections and memories, including a single sexual encounter with the writer Arthur Koestler (a “miserable, joyless episode”) and her efforts, through psychotherapy, to “get myself into a condition to be married”.

She had no more compassion for men than she did for women. In one entry Highsmith writes that “the American male does not know what to do with a girl once he has her. He is not really depressed or inhibited by his inherited or environmentally conceived Puritan restraints: he simply has no goal within the sexual situation”.

Highsmith’s diaries, which run to more than 8,000 pages, have been pored over by biographers, but have never before been made public, or in this case interwoven into a single narrative of the life of a complex woman who thought deeply about themes of good and evil, loneliness and intimacy.

It was in her diary that she described becoming sexually obsessed with a customer at Bloomingdale’s in New York, whom she later followed to her home, provoking observations about murder and love.

She had an obsession about detailing absolutely everything in her life, very much like Sylvia Plath. And she drew on the diaries for her novels, which explore the notion of obsession, guilt and murder, and reject rationality and logic for the darker elements of human personality.” Dubbed “the poet of apprehension“ by the novelist Graham Greene, who said she “created a world without moral endings … Nothing is certain when we have crossed this frontier”, the Texas-born Highsmith was deeply influenced by European existentialists such as Albert Camus and Søren Kierkegaard, and those influences are deeply felt in her diaries.

She was a lesbian who hated women, totally politically incorrect in lots of ways, and certainly not a poster girl for the feminist movement. She hated blacks, Jews, men, and women. A sort of equal opportunities hater then. In mitigation Highsmith was self aware of her own beliefs and it mortified her and was a source of constant anxiety. She herself was fighting many demons including her mother’s rejection, an attempted seduction by her father as a child, and being sexually abused by two travelling salesmen. She had a tough life.

But there is a question over how far Highsmith can now be assimilated into contemporary culture of ‘wokeness’ and ‘MeToo’.

There is no question in person she could be a monstrous, violent and quite unpleasant woman. Knowing about her life and views could for some make it difficult to read her works. But for all that I think the diaries’ publication could help to again reveal that, contrary to popular imagination, creativity is not necessarily rooted in our best instincts.

These same highly culturally charged debates raged around the controversial French writer Celine in France. In Germany Wagner continues to be a touchy issue. Or back again in France, the recent controversy at the Césars where many people walked out as child minor rapist Roman Polanski was honoured for his latest film.

Going further back Gaugin was a pedophile. Degas was an anti-Semite. Caravaggio killed a man. Where do you draw the line? When do you draw the line?

Some argue art cannot be good or evil. Only the artist can. What he/she presents as art is a different dimension of thinking and somehow not really representative of the artist. I’m not entirely convinced by that argument. If only because great art is never transmitted through an empty vessel but is actively germinated through the life experiences of the artist. But also more importantly most artists don’t separate themselves from their art as they are convinced their art comes from the deepest depths of their being.

We don’t have to be puritans to acknowledge that some henious actions deserve more consideration than historically allotted to a consideration of the artist and his/her works.

But those who are ‘woke’ liberal left activists arguably seem to be advocating a one size that fits all approach. There is no wriggle room for discourse correction or allowing nuance to inform the conversation. And I use the word ‘conversation’ deliberately because such things are nearly always being worked out in real time and also each one of us ascribe different values to different things e.g. Picasso cheats on his lovers and so I don’t like his art, whilst others would say, so what? Grow up. There is a serious slippery slope that if you eliminate the bad artist and writer from the canon and you might as well eliminate art and literature itself. And that’s where we might well end up.

I believe that adjusting personal behaviour seems much easier than enforcing an interpretative cultural lens on a shifting audience and telling them this is how you should enjoy art.

I personally believe it’s a matter of personal conscience and conviction. If you’ve really searched your heart, and found that a piece of art is just that important to you, as many people do without admitting it out loud, then it should be fine to engage with it. But the imperative now is to privately think about why it matters to you. If I can justify that to myself then yes, I will go ahead and ‘enjoy’ that piece of art regardless of how much of a shit the artist was or is.

To me it’s not a question of compartmentalising, of ignoring or suspending my disgust with an artist's personal behaviour so as to concentrate on the art. I'm watching and reading because I expect art to be about moral dangers in a way that is less didactic than essays are. I expect art to be troubling because I expect people to be troubling. I am prepared to like and dislike something in every work. I can also appreciate the aesthetic genius of a moral monster without feeling that I am becoming inured to monstrosity.

For this reason when I for example look at  Benvenuto Cellini, creator of Perseus With the Head of Medusa, was a murderer and a rapist. He killed at least two men and was accused by a model of sexually assaulting her. This does not stop me from looking with great amazement and curiosity at the naked and sexual Perseus With the Head of the Medusa. The knowledge of the immorality of the creator does not distract from my enjoyment of his creation; indeed I am made even more curious to know how beauty is perceived by a violently troubled man.

In the end for me, and I can only speak for myself, contrary to popular imagination, creativity is not necessarily rooted in our best instincts. Nietzsche said, “One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” I like that.

A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To the artist, to paraphrase Pearl S. Buck, a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this a cruel overpowering necessity to create - so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating. 

In Patricia Highsmith’s case it’s revealing she said once in a sly backhanded way, “My New Year’s Eve Toast: to all the devils, lusts, passions, greeds, envies, loves, hates, strange desires, enemies ghostly and real, the army of memories, with which I do battle — may they never give me peace.” A true great artist never know really knows peace or contentment for this is the price of creation. The intensity of personal turmoil is the fuel of their creativity.

The Greeks may have believed that they had “muses” whispering ideas in their ears. Or that the Romans believed they wrote with their “genius”. But I suspect the best artists are those that are in touch with and confront their humanity, at their best and at their worst.

[bitter-sweet-farmgirl]

The Battlegrounds

AU where Dwalin is one of the best Dwarf wrestlers in Middle Earth and goes up against a Dwarrowdame who has to win the fight to gain her freedom after years of being forced to wrestle.

*This could possibly become more than one part*

MASTERLIST

OC(s) Used:  Asgre

Word Count:  2,835

Translations at bottom

**Cultural Note:  Dwarves are immensely proud of their beards and anything that insinuates a short beard or lack of a beard is extremely insulting to them.**

~~~~

Vaguely, from my chambers, I could hear the roar of the crowd as they waited for the match to begin.  Letting out a deep breath, I closed my green eyes and rolled my shoulders experimentally, my tight braid of blonde hair gently brushed my back as I did so.  

This would be the most important match of my life.  If I won it, I would be set free, allowed to live the life I wanted to live.  I had to be prepared for anything; ready to take on any type of opponent.

"Miss Asgre?"  A soft voice called, making me open my eyes and turn in my seat on the plush canopied bed that I called my own.  A young girl stood in the doorway, her golden locks cascading down her shoulders as she leaned into the room.  

"Yes, Sissal?"  I asked, my voice hoarse from the many years I had spent yelling to be heard above the roar of a fired up crowd.  

Sissal entered the room, walking over to me and hesitated before she spoke.  "Do you know who you are up against tonight?"  She asked in a whisper, glancing around as if to reassure herself that it was only us two in the room.

I gave her a look, rising to my feet and walking over to my vanity, where I studied my reflection in the cracked glass.  "Of course not.  It ruins the fun if I do.  Besides, they don't like me to know ahead of time, especially with this match being such an important one."  I said, laughing grimly.

Sissal looked confused, brown eyes looking down at me as she stood by my side.  "I do not understand? Why is this such an important fight?  Aren't they all important?"  She asked, and I gave her a tight smile.  The girl was young, and didn't understand how the world worked yet.  The powerful ruled the weak and that was how it was.  I had learned not to question it by this time, and just accepted it.  It was easier that way.

Letting out a quiet sigh, I stared deep into my own eyes that had seen so many horrors that I would never be able to unsee.  The thick, crimson substance creeping slowly across the stone

flooring within my childhood home, leaking into the cracks within the stones and filling them like tiny rivers of scarlet.  But yet, it still came ever nearer, never stopping.  Then there were the twisted expressions of agony on my parents cold, frozen faces, blood dripping through their hair and staining it horrible shades of red before adding to the scarlet flood.  Later in my life, there were the broken, contorted limbs of wrestlers as they were carried from the ring, their screams of pain drowned out by the crowd cheering for the victor.

"Sissal, this fight determines whether or not I get my freedom.  If I win, I go free; but if I lose..."  My voice trailed off, and Sissal nodded silently.

"I see," she whispered.  "I hope you win."  But then her soft brown eyes lit up, and she opened her mouth once more.  "Miss Asgre, I know who you are up against!"  She whispered, and I whirled to look at her, my mouth open slightly.

"You do?"  I breathed, and she nodded vigorously, face alight with anxiety.  "Tell me."  I murmured, and she took a deep breath.

"It's Dwalin Fundinul of Erebor.  Have you heard of him?"  She asked, but I couldn't answer her.  My mouth had gone dry the moment the name had met the air.

Dwalin Fundinul was the strongest Dwarrow within the lands of Arda.  His name was known from the Seas of the West to the dark caverns of Melkor.  None had ever won against him, and  as a Dwarrowdame I wouldn't stand a chance.

There was only one thing going for me in this fight.  I wanted to win more than he did; my freedom depended upon it.

"I have.  I doubt anyone has not heard his name, Sissal, for he is only the strongest wrestler within Arda."  I said, and her eyes widened at my words.  

"Oh...  Then you'll need all the luck in the world to win."  She mumbled quietly, but I just shook my head.  

"No, I just need to want the victory more than him.  Although a bit of luck wouldn't hurt," I said, smiling at her.  

Suddenly, the loud clanging of a bell cut through the rough rock of my chambers walls, and I swallowed hard.  It was time.  

Nodding towards Sissal, I walked out of my room and down the hallway, automatically following the familiar path towards the cheering crowd.

The roar steadily grew louder as I drew nearer, prompting a scowl to appear on my face.  It was  

beyond me to understand how anyone could enjoy such a cruel sport such as wrestling.  But it seemed cruelty was in the nature of man.  As a Dwarf, I couldn't understand it.

Reaching the curtained opening to the ring, I paused, waiting for my cue.  Faintly, through the roar of the people packed around the ring, I heard the clear voice of the announcer.  

"On one side we have the strongest Dwarrow in all of Arda; the one and only Dwalin Fundinul!  And on the other, we have our region's reining champion, Azaghâl Dushin!"  

At the mention of my ring name, I pushed through the black velvet curtain and walked out onto the wooden walkway that led me towards the ring.  

My opponent frowned when I stepped into the ring through the ropes, his stance slackening a little as he took in the sight of me.  Confusion furrowed his scarred features as he looked me over.  The roar of the crowd was deafening as they grew rowdy, waiting for the fight to start.  But he said, in a low growl of a voice, “I don’t fight girls.”  

My lip curled as I replied, “too bad, because I fight boys.” And knocked his legs out from under him.  Perhaps this would be easier than I had thought.

The Dwarrow wheezed as I quickly climbed onto his back, grabbing his thick forearms and pulling them back behind him.  "You are older than I expected..."  I said as I pinned him down, marveling at the ease of it.

"Not too old though, Azaghâl Dushin."  He growled, suddenly twisting beneath me and throwing me off his back.  

My body met the wooden mat with a harsh cracking sound, and I grimaced at the feeling.  The noise was worse than the actual pain, yet it still stung like a hornet.  But before I could get back up, Dwalin was standing over me, a smirk spreading across his bearded face.  He planted a foot on my stomach, steadying transferring his weight onto that foot, making me cough and squirm.

"Not so good now, eh inuthi?"  He jeered, and anger flooded my veins at his words, prompting me to grit my teeth and glare up at him.  

"You have not seen anything yet, you beardless fool."  I hissed, incensed, grabbing his leg and yanking it out from beneath him, causing him to fall over backwards.  The crowd let out a groan, and I could hear comments being directed towards both of us.  But I ignored them.  If I wanted to win, I could not become distracted.

Scrambling to my feet, I pounced upon the groggily moving form of Dwalin, slamming my knee down into the ridge of his spine, prompting him to let out a cry of agony.  

Instantly, I felt a surge of guilt for causing him undeserved pain.  It was not within my nature to intentionally harm another, but I had had to become desensitized to such things eventually in my career as a wrestler.

I snaked an arm around his neck, pulling it back in a choke-hold.  Dwalin's stubby fingers scrabbled desperately at my arm, his close-cropped nails leaving faint scratches across my skin.  

This match could only end once one of us was either unconscious, or too injured to continue fighting.  I wasn't strong enough to knock Dwalin out by force, but I could choke him down.  

Slowly, Dwalin's movements become more sluggish as his oxygen-starved body began to weaken.  I could see victory on the horizion, but I didn't let that notion distract me from the Dwarrow beneath me.  He could still have a few tricks up his sleeve.

But a distraction did surface, just not in the way I ever expected.  It appeared in the form of a burly, dark-haired Dwarf in the front of the screaming crowd.  Grey streaked through his dark brown hair, and he had the aura of a commanding figure.  "Dwalin, Fanâd duzdnu targ usganul mi mê!"  He yelled, and my mouth dropped open in shock.  That was a stinging insult if I had ever heard one.  

As I was distracted by the rude Dwarrow, Dwalin stirred beneath me, the muscles in his arms bunching powerfully as he clenched his fists; the cords in his neck tightening as he prepared to catch me off guard.

By the time I realized this, it was too late, and he had flipped himself over beneath me, his calloused hands grasping my slender neck and squeezing it tightly.

I choked, my hands clamping over his as he rose to his feet, raising me with him until he basically supported me with one brawny forearm.  "Mukhuh..."  I gasped out, staring into Dwalin's amber eyes with my own green ones that were rapidly beginning to fill with tears.  "Ma, mukhuk."  

I couldn't lose this fight.  Doubt began to creep into my mind, and I couldn't hold back the salty tears.  An aching hole began to dig itself within me, my fighting spirit slowly draining into it and disappearing.

A derogatory sneer appeared on Dwalin's lined, scarred face, and he began to laugh.  The deep rolling chuckle drowned out the sounds of the cheering crowd who sensed the fight was nearing its end.  "You ask for mercy?  'Adadmêzu duhû bintarg 'ubkât, zain."  He laughed, and the sound of the crowd began to fade away, only to be replaced by a unidentifiable roaring in my ears as a memory danced across my mind's eye.

A Dwarrow with long, braided golden locks and dancing blue eyes, his long blond beard carefully combed and tucked into his ornately decorated belt stood over me.  "Halw Asgre, what are you doing?"  He asked suddenly, a smile appearing easily on his face as he picked a toddler me off the floor and up high into the air.  

But then a crash echoed through the house, and my father's expression quickly changed fearful.  "Asgre, don't move."  Setting me back down on the floor, he reached to grab his axe that was leaning up against the wall.

A mace landed heavily on his back, and he crumpled to the ground with a cry of pain.  His fingers groped for the axe that was only inches from his grasp, but a spear sprouted from the back of his head, and his fingers went limp, body jerking convulsively for a moment before falling still.  

Crimson stained his golden locks, spreading across the stone floor towards me.  The blood of my father who had died protecting me.

"Do not speak of my father like that!"  I growled angrily, fingers digging into Dwalin's skin as I glared at him.  My heart began to pound, hands clenching tightly around Dwalin's as I began to force them away from my neck, jaw clenched in determination as I stared into his startled eyes.  

My arms trembled with the amount of strength it took to remove Dwalin's hands from around my bruised neck, but I wouldn't give up until I had won.

"You have made a fatal mistake.  Ankakimê."  I hissed, a victorious grin spreading across my face.  

For the first time, I saw fear within Dwalin's eyes as I slammed my head into his.  We crumpled to the ground together.  He slumped over, unconscious, while I tried to steady my tilting world.  Everything swirled around me, the crowd going wild.  

Bowing my head, I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my face as I pictured my father.  "Adad, astu tada khama."  I whispered, my voice choked up.

Sudden movement caught my eye, and I looked up to see the same Dwarrow who had shouted such a rude thing to Dwalin clambering into the ring, followed closely by two young Dwarrows that looked like polar opposites of each other.  

"Dwalin, my friend."  The rude Dwarrow said, shaking Dwalin roughly in an attempt to wake him up.  But as Dwalin remained unconscious, he let out a scoff and rolled his steely blue eyes.  "Fili, Kili, fetch some water."  He commanded, and the two young Dwarrows nodded to him and vaulted through the ropes of the ring to sprint off in search of water.  

The rude, dark-haired Dwarrow looked over at me, and I stared back at him unblinkingly.  I would not take any of his insults lightly.  But he remained silent, returning his gaze to Dwalin until  the two Dwarrows returned, a pail of water held in the blond one's grasp.  "Here you are, Uncle.  Sorry it took us so long, Kili spilled it once."  He said, and the dark-haired one gave him an indignant look.

"I did not spill it!  You tripped me in front of--"  He cut himself off, flushing.  The blond Dwarrow give him a cheeky grin.

"Uh huh, please continue, brother."  He said, but Kili shook his head.  

"It's nothing, nevermind."  He said, but the blond one wouldn't let it go.  

"In front of those pretty Elf maids?  Is that what you were going to say?"  He said teasingly, making Kili scowl.  It looked to me as if they would go to blows over it, but their Uncle interrupted.

"Fili, just give me the bucket."  He growled, and the blond one handed the bucket over to him.  "Thank you."  He then promptly dumped it over Dwalin's face, causing him to start violently and sputter at the water dripping across his face and soaking into his graying beard.

"What was that for?!"  He asked, annoyed, but the rude Dwarrow just laughed.  

"Still charming as always, even after losing your first match to a Dwarrowdame."  He chuckled, giving Dwalin a hand up.  

"Shosh, Thorin.  Let me speak with her."  Dwalin grumbled, and Thorin grinned at him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and speaking in low tones so that I couldn't make out what they were saying.  But whatever it was made a flush begin to spread up Dwalin's neck.

Swatting Thorin's shoulder, Dwalin pushed past him and walked up to me.  "This was one of the best matches I've ever had, Azaghâl Dushin.  You fought well."  He said, extending his hand for me to shake.

I cast my eyes downwards, forcing a small smile onto my face.  "I only fought well because this fight determined whether or not I get my freedom."  I said, and shock crossed Dwalin's features.  

"So if you lost, you would have remained here?  You aren't doing this of your own free will?"  He asked, and I shook my head.

"No...  I was enslaved as a child.  They killed my father and mother and took me to raise as a wrestler.  It's basically all I have known."  I said quietly, and Dwalin laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Azaghâl Dushin, zhayad astâ, 'ugbal dan astâ gabil 'ubkat khama."  He said, and I shook my head.

"I mean my words."  Dwalin said roughly, and a hint of a real smile crossed his craggy features.  

"My name is Asgre.  Azaghâl Dushin is just my ring name."  I murmured, and Dwalin's smile grew.  

"Asgre.  It's beautiful."  He said, and started to walk away before stopping and looking back at me.  "If you are interested, if you don't have any particular plans after you're free, you are welcome to come along with us," he gestured towards Thorin, Fili and Kili, "back to Erebor.  The ancestral home of Dwarves."  He clarified, once he saw my confused expression.

I smiled at him.  "I will consider it, Master Dwalin.  Thank you for the offer."  

He nodded to me, and turned to leave with the other three, climbing down through the ropes and walking away through the slowly dwindling crowd, leaving me behind to watch them go.

For the first time I could remember, I was free to decide for myself.  I could choose to go with them, or to stay behind and make my own way through the world.  But even though I had dreamed of doing the former during the entirety of my enslavement, I felt drawn to this odd quartet of Dwarrows.  

Perhaps I would go with them.  I just needed to pack my few belongings and then I could be off on the adventure of a lifetime.  

An adventure that I eagerly anticipated.

Translation(s): Azaghâl Dushin:  Dark Jewel

nuthi:  Lesser girl (derogatory)

Fanâd duzdnu targ usganul mi mê:  Elves have a longer beard than you

Mukhuh:  Please

Ma, mukhuk: Don't, please

'Adadmêzu duhû bintarg 'ubkât, zain:  Your father has no beard, woman

Ankakimê:  I look (at) you (derogatory)

Astu tada khama, Adad:  Father, this (is) for you

Shosh:  Shush/Quiet

Zhayad astâ, 'ugbal dan astâ gabil 'ubkat khama:  (I) respect you, for truly you are greater than words

[lady-divine-writes]

Perspective

Crowley likes to check in on Warlock from time to time, make sure he’s doing alright without Nanny Ashtoreth. One afternoon, Crowley discovers something rather bittersweet about his former charge and his parents. (1449 words)

“I knew I’d find you here,” Aziraphale says as he finishes his climb, stopping to rest beneath the branches of an old apple tree – healthy and lush, already heavy with fruit. Being ancient, an inhabitant of this hillside before the houses, the cars, even the people, it fears nothing, and that makes Aziraphale smile.

A better hiding spot could not be found for his reluctant demon.

Aziraphale puts his hands on his hips and takes a look around. He breathes in the clean, fresh air; closes his eyes and turns his face towards the golden sun. Today is blessed – one of the first truly warm days of summer.

And he’s thankful for this opportunity to partake in it.

He lays out his tartan blanket and sets himself upon it. He stretches out his legs, leans back on his hands, and becomes one with his surroundings – clear sky overhead, green grass beneath his feet, people everywhere gathering out of doors, enjoying this felicity ...

Save one.

The angel spots him, sulking beneath the bushes, coiled in the shadows.

The tree sits on the slope of a hill overlooking an enormous park. Further down, in an open field, a young boy makes what seems like an impossible catch. The man he’s playing ball with cheers, racing over to high-five his son, congratulating him on intercepting another pop-up. Aziraphale smiles.

“It’s so nice to see the Dowlings have turned over a new leaf,” he says. “Warlock looks genuinely happy. That should make you happy.”

Aziraphale turns his head, looking for acknowledgement from the serpent, but the snake has disappeared. Moments later, Crowley walks out from behind the tree and sits beside his angel on the blanket.

“I guess.” He yanks at a few weak strands of grass (since he’d failed to intimidate the tree), and crushes them between his fingers.

“So, why aren’t you happy?”

Crowley shrugs, merely a placeholder till he can come up with an answer.

“It was nice to feel needed. I know that being his nanny was a ruse but …” Another shrug, just his left shoulder “… I guess I was fooling myself. They never did need me at all. Looks like leaving was the best thing I ever did for them.”

Aziraphale bobs his head left and right, somewhere between a shake and a nod. “Well, you are partially right.”

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley scoffs, eyes locked on the boy in the blue t-shirt and black shorts intercepting another pop-up, while his mother, always with phone in hand, takes a barrage of pictures, posting them proudly to her various social media pages for her friends to see.

“Once you left, his parents had to compete with you,” Aziraphale explains. “With the hole you left in Warlock’s life. It made them realize everything they’d been missing out on, how important he is to them. They started to remember why they wanted a child in the first place.”

“Too little, too late, if you ask me. There are loads of wonderful parents in the world, and yet we’re always overlooking them and giving passes to the bad ones. In my opinion, if you’re gonna be bad parents, you deserve someone else raising your child.”

Aziraphale reaches out, puts a hand on his demon’s knee and gives him a sympathetic squeeze. “It’s a matter of perspective, my dear. You were the greatest nanny Warlock ever had and yet you were a demon, trying to ensure that he would grow up to be evil and cruel.”

“My motives may have been a little skewed, but …”

“… but in the end, you cared about him. Truly cared about him.” Cheers from below draw Aziraphale’s gaze back to the small family, now chasing one another around, playing tag and laughing. “They care about him, too. They aren’t bad parents, Crowley. Not really. They just … lost their way. Forgot what was important. You did them a huge favor.”

Crowley gulps at those words, the notion of losing their way landing on him like a ton of bricks.

It’s something he can definitely relate to whether he wants to or not.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel that way to me.”

“I know it doesn’t.”

Silence falls between them. In it they can hear the words: “Tag! You’re it!”, “Ah! You got me!”, “Good job, Warlock!”, and “Mommy loves you, darling!”

Crowley clears his throat, but it does little to help. Aziraphale feels the lump growing there as if it’s in his own.

“They’re taking him to the states, you know,” Crowley announces, his voice cracking. “Mr. Dowling won’t be traveling as much apparently. They’re going to make a go at being a normal family.”

“I think that’s wonderful,” Aziraphale says, moving closer to his demon.

“Do you now?”

“Yes. And not only for them. For you, too. Now maybe you can spend less time torturing yourself about leaving him and go on knowing that he’s well cared for.”

“And how do you expect me to manage that, hmm?”

“By having a little faith, my love.”

Crowley snarls, grabbing a handful of grass and ripping it from the ground. “Faith in what, angel? God in all of her infinite bloody Wisdom, and all that other nonsense they feed you guys in Cloud City? You’re talking to the wrong damn demon if you honestly think I’m going to have faith!”

“No, Crowley.” Aziraphale finds Crowley’s hand and holds it, smiling when his demon, still mad, wraps his fingers around it. “Faith in yourself. Your chapter in his story may have been brief, but you had an impact. You might have taught him songs about crushing his enemies beneath his feet, but you did it with kindness. You held him and played with him and tucked him in at night. You’re a nicer person than you give yourself credit for, and that kind of love leaves a mark. When he goes to the states, he’s taking a piece of you with him.”

“I suppose I can always hop on over. When’s the last time you’ve been to the states, angel? A while? It might be nice to give it a go, don’t you think?” Crowley stares off into the distance as the family gathers their things and starts to head away. Mr. Dowling tosses the baseball to his son one last time and Warlock catches it. In the process, he turns his head towards the apple tree.

He stops walking.

He squints into the sunlight, leaning forward to get a better look.

“Mom?” he says. “Is that … is that Nanny?”

“Where?” Mrs. Dowling asks.

“Up there!” He points excitedly. “Under the apple tree!”

Mrs. Dowling looks for herself, shielding her eyes with her hand to get a better look. “I … I don’t know. It looks like Brother Francis, to me … in a really nice suit …”

“No, next to him!”

Aziraphale sees mother and son smile. Warlock raises an arm to wave, but Crowley snaps his fingers. Warlock stops, confusion crossing his face.

“She’s … she’s gone,” he says, disappointed. “Wh-where did she go?”

“Maybe it wasn’t her.” Mrs. Dowling puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Warlock sighs. “Maybe. But I thought … I was positive …”

“I know you miss her,” Mr. Dowling says, kneeling to talk to his son eye-to-eye, “but the people we love have a way of turning up from time to time when we least expect it. I’m sure you’ll see her again.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Mrs. Dowling shoots her husband a worried look, but he simply smiles. “I work for the government. I’ll find a way. Now let’s be off. Ice cream doesn’t eat itself, you know.”

“Yeah! Ice cream!” Warlock yells, speeding away. Mrs. Dowling takes one last look up at the apple tree, but the tree is all she sees, not the angel and the demon sitting under it, watching as they walk away.

Crowley takes a shuddering breath in, waving a subtle goodbye with his fingers.

Aziraphale hands his demon a handkerchief.

Crowley takes it.

“Are the book metaphors new, or …?”

“They’re on brand, darling.” Aziraphale leans in to give his husband a kiss as he blots beneath his eyes. “I do own a bookshop, you know.”

“I’d heard rumors …”

“Now then - how about we go for a walk, hmmm? Take advantage of this fresh air. Or we can find something else to take your mind off of things.”

“Can we go for a drive?”

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale says, picking up his blanket and giving it a shake. “Do you mind if I get blisteringly drunk first?”

Crowley offers Aziraphale his arm. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

[aion-rsa]

The Sopranos’ Funniest Moments

https://ift.tt/32fYYqM

The Sopranos’ genius was in telling structured stories with well-established themes, while still aping life in all its dirty, disorganised, contradictory, open-ended glory. The show wasn’t a drama, or a comedy, or a tragedy, or a farce. It was all of them. It was none of them. It was life.

Creator David Chase and his crack team of writers never lost sight of the essential truth that no matter how cruel, harrowing or horrid life becomes, it’s always laced through with laughs: oftentimes the laughter and the horror rise in tandem.

Here, then, are some of The Sopranos’ funniest moments, most of them enmeshed with the macabre, the monstrous and the melancholy. 

South of the Border

S1, E9 ‘Boca’

In the machismo-drenched world of the mafia, even going down on your girlfriend is seen as a sign of sexual weakness, and quite possibly – in the non-PC words of Uncle Junior himself – ‘a sign that you’re a fanouk.’

Apparently, ‘they’ think ‘if you’ll suck p***y, you’ll suck anything.’

Whoever ‘they’ are.

News of Uncle Junior’s oral talents reaches Tony from a gossip chain, the final link in which is Carmella. Tony’s reaction, and the way in which he baits Uncle Junior with the intel on the golf course (culminating in Tony singing ‘South of the Border, down Mexico way’) is equal parts childish to hilarious – but funniest of all is how this schoolboy teasing serves as the pre-cursor to a Mafia war.

As Tony later tells Carmella: ‘Cunnilingus and psychiatry brought us to this.’     

Guess Whose Back?

S1, E10 ‘A Hit is a Hit’

Christopher sets Adrianna up in a recording studio to help realise her dream of becoming a music mogul. Things don’t go well. Her new band – the woeful Visiting Day – is ready to walk after a long and soul-sapping session during which they’ve produced nothing of worth. Christopher wastes no time taking up the mantle of manager to convince them that the show must go on. It’s fair to say that being motivational doesn’t come naturally to Christopher. Or, rather, it does, it’s just that his methods of motivation are rather more violent than most. First, Christopher throws the ex-addict lead singer a bag of crystal meth and orders him to take it. When that doesn’t work, he takes the only reasonable course of action left open to him and smashes a guitar over the man’s back.

There’s No Place Like Home

S2,E4 ‘Commendatori’

Paulie is incredibly excited to be visiting the motherland, and arrives full of romantic notions about Italy. All of these are systematically stamped out, mostly by Paulie himself, of whom an Italian gangster remarks at dinner, after Paulie requests tomato ketchup for his spaghetti:  ‘And you thought the Germans were classless pieces of shit.’

Paulie’s beatific little smile as he drinks in the squalor of New Jersey on the ride home from the airport is pitch perfect.

It’s the Jaaaccckkeett!

S2,E8 ‘Full Leather Jacket’

From the moment Richie Aprile is released from prison he’s on a collision course with Tony. In classic Sopranos’ style, though, the torch paper isn’t lit by Richie shacking up with Tony’s sister, or paralysing their mutual friend Beansie, but by the fall-out from a spurned jacket. Not just any jacket, though: ‘the’ jacket; the one Richie took off Rocco di Meo after an adolescent scrap.

‘Cocksucker had the toughest reputation in Essex County, but he never came back after I got through with him,’ Richie tells Tony, as he gifts him the infamous garment.

‘He later died of Alzheimer’s,’ adds Junior.

The look on Tony’s face as he tries to look grateful for ‘the jacket’ is almost as funny as the look Richie later wears in Carmella’s kitchen when he  notices the sainted jacket hanging from the shoulders of the maid’s husband.

I Ain’t Afraid of No Ghost

S2, E9 ‘From Where to Eternity’

When Christopher briefly dies on the operating table after an assassination attempt, he returns from the brink of death with visions and dispatches from the afterlife. Paulie takes these reports to heart, divining in them a supernatural threat. Not only does Christopher tell Paulie that the souls of his many victims still follow him everywhere he goes, he also brings back an oblique warning: ‘Three o’clock’.

This cryptic curse has Paulie slamming bolt upright in his bed each night with a scream on his lips. First he visits Tony, who tries to lead Paulie back to sanity.

‘You eat steak?’ Tony asks.

‘What the fuck you talkin’ about?’

‘If you were in India, you would go to hell for that.’ 

‘I’m not in India,’ says Paulie. ‘What do I give a fuck?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. None of this shit means a goddamn thing.’

Unconvinced, Paulie visits a spiritualist psychic, who ‘confirms’ that Paulie is being stalked by ghosts. ‘That’s satanic black magic!’ rails a terrified Paulie, ‘Sick shit’, before hurling a chair at the ‘ghosts’ and screaming ‘Fuckin’ qu***s!’ at them. Finally, he visits his priest to tell him he’s cutting off his donations to the church on the grounds that he should’ve been protected from hauntings. I defy you not to chuckle at the baleful glare Paulie gives the Virgin Mary on his way out of the church.  

A Very Un-woke Wake

S3, E2 ‘Proshai , Livushka’

Livia Soprano – Tony’s murderously manipulative mother – proved just as divisive in death as she was in life, her demise precipitating a wake that was as awkward and corrosive for the characters experiencing it as it was rich and funny for us schmucks at home.

Tony never wanted any of Janice’s ‘California Bullshit’ at the gathering he and Carmella hosted at their home (or ‘that house, up on that hill’, as Livia would have called it). Janice being Janice, though, vetoes her brother’s ruling. She asks each of the assembled guests to share a thought, a memory of their mother, which – given that Livia was a sharp-tongued, anti-social harridan – doesn’t produce heart-warming results. No wonder the unknown man descending the stairs in the background behind them all decides to about-turn and get the hell out of there.

‘She never minced words,’ says Hesch, trying his hardest to accentuate the positive, ‘Between… brain and mouth… there was no interlocutor.’

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Christopher’s rambling, drug-fuelled, ad lib on the nature of existence, rebirth and doppelgangers is a treat, the sort of new-age snash David Brent might have conjured up while fully sober. The silence doesn’t last for long, though, not least because Carmella has spent the duration of the tense memorial knocking back booze like a cooze-hound on Spring Break, and is ready to unleash hell. 

Merry Stressmas

S3, E10 ‘…To Save Us All from Satan’s Power’

In the absence of Big Pussy Bonpensiero – taken on a long boat-ride to oblivion – the amply proportioned Bobby Baccala is the natural choice to become the new Satriales’ Santa. Except he doesn’t want to do it. He’s too shy.

‘The fucking boss of this family told you you’re gonna be Santa Claus,’ Paulie tells Bobby menacingly. ‘You’re Santa Claus. So shut the fuck up about it!’

The surly and reluctant Bobby proves a lacklustre substitute, an observation that’s articulated perfectly by Paulie when he says, ‘Fuckin’ ho hum if you ask me.’

It’s not just Bobby’s mafia colleagues that like to drop the F-bomb at Xmas. Even a little boy, unimpressed by Bobby’s schtick, issues a heart-felt: ‘Fuck you, Santa.’

God bless us. Every one. 

Two Assholes Lost in the Woods

S3, E11 ‘Pine Barrens’

The Pine Barrens was the episode that cleaved most closely to all-out comedy, pitting hot-headed anti-survivalists Christopher and Paulie against a runaway Russian they’d failed to kill. The darkly comic shit-show unfolded in the unforgiving, snow-filled foliage of the eponymous Pine Barrens, where Tony and Bobby were eventually summoned to rescue the hapless pair.

It’s hard to pick a comedy highlight from this episode, as it’s chock-full of them, but highlights include Tony losing it at the sight of Bobby Baccala’s hunting attire (if James Gandolfini’s laughter seems particularly genuine here, try googling some behind-the-scenes facts – you won’t be disappointed); Chris and Paulie noshing down on sauce sachets like they were a gourmet meal, and the following misunderstanding between Paulie, Chris and Tony thanks to poor mobile reception:

Tony: (garbled, on phone) It’s a bad connection, so I’m gonna talk fast. The guy you’re looking for is an ex-commando! He killed sixteen Chechen rebels single-handed.

Paulie: Get the fuck outta here.

Tony: Yeah, nice, huh? He was with the Interior Ministry.  Guy’s some kind of Russian green beret. This guy cannot come back to tell this story. You understand?

[line breaks]

Paulie: (to Christopher) You’re not gonna believe this. He killed sixteen Czechoslovakians. The guy was an interior decorator.

Chris: His house looked like shit.

You Talkin’ To Me?

S4, E6 ‘Everybody Hurts’

Artie Bucco, Tony’s boyhood best pal, is a regular, hard-working chef. Even so, he’s frequently seduced by the luxurious criminal lifestyle he sees lapping around the fringes of his wonder-bread world. When a business deal to promote ‘the new French vodka’ goes awry and Artie finds himself $50k out of pocket to a swindling huckster he decides to channel his inner Mafioso and get his money back the Soprano way. Unfortunately, his inner Mafioso is no more ferocious than that possessed by any average member of the show’s audience – as much as proximity to Tony might convince us otherwise – and he gets the crap kicked out of him. Before that, though, his little Taxi Driver moment in the mirror, complete with mid-life crisis ear-ring and mobster posturing (‘Fucking shoes you’re wearing. What are they? Designer?’) is at once endearing, pathetic and very, very funny.

The mirror is no accident. He’s looking at us, looking at him, looking at ourselves.     

Telephone Tough Guy

S4, E9 ‘Whoever Did This’

While Ralph Cifaretto is probably most widely remembered as a sort-of gangster Loki – a mirth-wracked trickster with a penchant for mayhem – most of his misdeeds were so loathsome that even the wider mafia disapproved: cheating on his grieving partner, beating a young pregnant girl to death, burning a horse alive (come on, of course that was him). Still, he did make us laugh, though, didn’t he?

No more so than when he pranked Paulie’s dopey-yet-adorable old mother in her nursing home (‘It’s a retirement community!’), announcing himself as Detective Mike Hunt, Beaver Falls, from the Pennsylvania police department. Not only did Ralph claim that Paulie had been caught pleasuring a cub scout in a public bathroom, but also that a small rodent had been discovered in Paulie’s rectal passage. ‘A gerbil, ma’am’.

Ralph laughed his head off.

Tony later removed it.  

A Truth Injection

S4, E10 ‘The Strong, Silent Type’

Drug interventions are worthy and solemn rituals – they certainly aren’t supposed to be funny – but there’s something delicious about a room full of self-involved sociopaths with no impulse control and an insatiable appetite for pleasure assembling to pass judgement on Christopher essentially for having no impulse control and an insatiable appetite for pleasure. Christopher is at least self-aware enough to lobby this back in the faces of his supposed rescuers, pointing out that Silvio likes to sample his sex-workers; that Paulie’s hot-head almost dragged the Newark family into war with the Russian mob, and that Tony’s epicurean compulsions will probably kill him more quickly than Christopher’s drugs.

From the moment a bewildered Christopher emerges from his bedroom to find both families – blood and work – camped out in his living room, the laughs just keep coming, all the way through to the (inevitable) explosion of violence at the scene’s climax.

Christopher instantly recognises the host of the intervention, Dominic Paladino, as ‘the guy who broke into Stew Leonards that time and stole all those pork loins.’

‘Yes,’ replies a sheepish Dominic. ‘But… that’s not why I’m here today.’  

Especial mirth-based mentions must go to Silvio and Paulie (the latter’s reaction to Christopher’s narcotic-related manhood problems is priceless), and their refusal to play along with the ‘care-frontation’. 

‘When I came to open up one morning, there you were with your head half in the toilet. Your hair was in the toilet water. Disgusting,’ says Silvio, reading awkwardly from what is possibly the most unnecessary aide de memoire ever written.

Leave it to Paulie to lay the smackdown on this particular brand of ‘California bullshit’: ‘I don’t write nothing down,’ he says, ‘so I’ll keep this short and sweet. You’re weak. You’re out of control. And you’re becoming an embarrassment to yourself and everybody else.’

Drugs are bad. Mmmkay?

Dead Good Food

S5, E7 ‘In Camelot’

When Junior realises he can get respite from his house arrest through attending family funerals he starts to exaggerate and exploit ever more spurious links to get him out of the house for a few hours. While all around him are wracked with grief, his is the only face with a smile on it, enjoying the change of scenery, enjoying the food, wondering why everyone has to be so maudlin.

In a darkly funny scene he happily extols the virtues of the spread while attending the wake of a teenage boy. ‘Chicken’s nice and spicy, huh?’ he beams at a fellow mourner.

A Grave Error

S5, E9 ‘Unidentified Black Males’

When Tony agrees to pick up the tab for the headstone of a New York soldier who was slain, unbeknownst to him, by his own cousin, his men manage to add insult to injury.

We see the headstone. At the graveside. During the funeral service. And it says:

Peeps.

‘Peeps?’ spits Tony. ‘It’s a fuckin’ nickname! His family name is Pepperelli!’

Silvio hunkers down into full middle-management mode. ‘They’re gonna re-do it. Fuckin’ J.C. He’s dyslexic.’

 ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ asks an incredulous Tony. 

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

You could fill a book with The Sopranos’ funniest moments – Paulie’s rant about shoelaces, Bobby B botching a publicity shooting, Silvio’s poker-table tantrum, Little Carmine’s malapropisms, to name but a handful – so by necessity we’ve had to leave a lot out. What are some of yours?

The post The Sopranos’ Funniest Moments appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[olivcrfm]

oliver & margo’s playlist @ofmargos IN THE PRESENT WITH YOU.

I’m sitting on the balcony of my college dorm, and I see her. She’s carrying a heavy box, but she has the biggest dorky smile on her face. I wasn’t sure if I was in love with her before, but I am now.

campus by vampire weekend --- “i wake up my shoulders cold i've got to leave here before i go i pull my shirt on walk out the door drag my feet along the floor i pull my shirt on walk out the door drag my feet along the floor then i see you you're walking cross the campus cruel professor studying romances how am i supposed to pretend i never want to see you again? how am i supposed to pretend i never want to see you again?”

diane young by vampire weekend --- “nobody knows what the future holds on said it's bad enough just getting old live my life, they say it's too fast you know i love the past, 'cause i hate suspense if diane young won't change your mind baby baby baby baby right on time.”

nancy from now on by father john misty --- “ooh, flowers and bows milk and honey flow just a couple states below ooh oh, hook me up to the tank and roll me to the door i'm going where my body leads me i can fend for myself with what looks i have left i'll put away a few and pretty soon i'll be breaking things i have of you.”

take a walk by passion pit --- “all these kinds of places make it seem like it's been ages tomorrow's sun with buildings scrape the sky i love this country dearly i can feel the lighter clearly but never thought i'd be alone to try.”

mykonos by fleet foxes --- “the door slammed loud and rose up a cloud of dust on us footsteps follow, down through the hollow sound, torn up and you will go to mykonos with a vision of a gentle coast and a sun to maybe dissipate shadows of the mess you made.”

down in the valley by the head and the heart --- “call it one drink too many call it pride of a man but it don't make no difference if you sit or you stand 'cause they both end in trouble and start with a grin yeah they both end in trouble and start with a grin we do it over and over and over again.”

the girl by city and colour --- “i wish i could do better by you 'cause that's what you deserve you sacrifice so much of your life in order for this to work while i'm off chasing my own dreams sailing around the world please, know that i'm yours to keep my beautiful girl when you cry a piece of my heart dies knowing that i may have been the cause if you were to leave, fulfill someone else's dreams i think i might totally be lost you don't ask for no diamond rings no delicate string of pearls that's why i wrote this song to sing my beautiful girl.”

all i want by passion pit --- “all i want are hooks to hang your flowers from and paper to write letters on 'cause you're all i ever have, it's all i'll ever have when we wake up you engulf me in your love waking up is always still, it's all i'll ever have, it's all i'll ever have and all you need is someone new she's what you can't see the things you think you'll never be that's all i'll ever have, it's all i'll ever have i get the notion that i'm almost there i get the notion that we're getting closer and with one motion it could all go wrong if i'm emotional it'll ruin it all.”

she moves in her own way by the kooks --- “so at my show on monday i was hoping someday you'd be on your way to better things it's not about your make-up or how you try to shape up to these tiresome paper dreams paper dreams honey so now you pour your heart out you're telling me you're far out not about to lie down for your cause but you don't pull my strings 'cause i'm a better man moving on to better things well, uh-oh, oh, i love her because she moves in her own way well, uh-oh, oh, she came to my show just to hear about my day.”

first day of my life by bright eyes --- “this is the first day of my life swear i was born right in the doorway i went out in the rain, suddenly everything changed they're spreading blankets on the beach yours was the first face that i saw i think i was blind before i met you and i don't know where i am, i don't know where i've been but i know where i want to go and so i'd thought i'd let you know yeah, these things take forever, i especially am slow but i realized that need you and i wondered if i could come home.”

green eyes by coldplay --- “honey you are a rock upon which i stand and i come here to talk i hope you understand that green eyes yeah the spotlight, shines upon you and how could anybody deny you i came here with a load and it feels so much lighter now i met you and honey you should know that i could never go on without you green eyes honey you are the sea upon which i float and i came here to talk i think you should know that green eyes you're the one that i wanted to find and anyone who tried to deny you must be out of their mind.”

40 day dream by edward sharpe --- “i been sleepin' for 40 days and i know i'm sleeping 'cause this dream's too amazin' she got gold doorknobs where her eyes used to be one turn and i learned what it really means to see ah, it's the magical mystery kind ah, must be a lie bye bye to the too good to be true kind of love oh, i could die oh now i can die oh i've been sleepin' for 60 days and nobody better pinch me bitch i swear i'll go crazy she got jumper cable lips she got sunset on her breath now i inhaled just a little bit now i got no fear of death now.”

when my time comes by dawes --- “so i pointed my fingers and shouted few quotes i knew, as if something that's written should be taken as true. but every path i had taken and conclusion i drew would put truth back under the knife. and now the only piece of advice that continues to help is anyone that's making anything new only breaks something else.”

where are you now by mumford & sons --- “it came to the end it seems you had heard. as we walked the city streets, you never said a word. when we finally sat down your eyes were full of spite. i was desperate, i was weak i could not put up a fight. but where are you now? where are you now? do you ever think of me in the quiet, in the crowd?”

ho hey by the lumineers --- “i belong with you, you belong with me, you're my sweetheart i belong with you, you belong with me, you're my sweetheart love we, need it now let's hope, for some 'cause oh, we're bleedin' out.”

m79 by vampire weekend --- “it's gonna take a little time while you're waiting like a factory line i'll ride across the park backseat on the 79 wasted days you've come to pass so go, i know you would not stay it wasn't true, but anyway pollination, yellow cab.”

giving up the gun by vampire weekend --- “your sword's grown old and rusty burnt beneath the rising sun it's locked up like a trophy forgetting all the things it's done  and though it's been a long time you're right back where you started from i see it in your eyes that now you're giving up the gun.”

ends of the earth by lord huron --- “out there's a land that time don't command wanna be the first to arrive no time for ponderin' why i'm-a wanderin' not while we're both still alive to the ends of the earth, would you follow me there's a world that was meant for our eyes to see to the ends of the earth, would you follow me if you will have a say my goodbyes to me.”

all the pretty girls by kaleo --- “all alone, alone again no one lends a helping hand i have waited, i have waited takes it's toll, my foolish pride how long before i see the light i have waited, i have waited for you to lay me down.”

there she goes by the la's --- “there she goes there she goes again racing through my brain and i just can't contain this feeling that remains there she blows there she blows again pulsing through my veins and i just can't contain this feeling that remains.”

simple as this by james bugg --- “tried absolution of the mind and soul it only led me where i should not go oh and the answer well, how could i miss something as simple as this? something as simple as this? i've been falling crashing breaking and all the while you were stood here waiting for me girl.”

falling slowly by glen hansard --- “i don't know you but i want you all the more for that words fall through me and always fool me and i can't react and games that never amount to more than they're meant will play themselves out take this sinking boat and point it home we've still got time raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice you'll make it now falling slowly, eyes that know me and i can't go back and moods that take me and erase me and i'm painted black well, you have suffered enough and warred with yourself it's time that you won.”

[chrysalispen]

xi. the pity war distilled

"Seedseer?" a diffident voice called from the nearby doorway.

Kan-E-Senna barely spared the runner an upwards glance from the document she was scribing. Her fingers were chilled and aching from the damp cold, cramped and stained with ink from a day's worth of work, and the proceedings had only just begun. Though she was well accustomed to administrative matters when necessity called for her intervention, it had been a long time since the Padjal had found herself compelled to confine herself to a room in this manner.  

She scratched out her signature and set the quill back in its pot, reaching for the well-used scrap of blotting paper nearby. The room was darker than it should have been in mid-afternoon. A distant rumble of thunder shook the stones; combined with the grey bank of clouds she'd seen earlier this morning, it promised another bout of foul weather.

At this point, she thought with an internal grimace, it was a safe bet that most of the summer crops this year would be a bust. This was going to-

"...Ma'am? There's a man outside wanting to speak with you."

"One moment, I pray you." Carefully she dabbed her signature with the paper, then relaxed in her seat with a grimace and used the back of her hand to move stray strands of blonde fringe from her eyes without smudging herself with the ink. "Does this man have a message, or does he ask a boon?"

"It's a request. Says he's passing it on from a prisoner."

"If he is here about witness statements, we have given ample time-"

"He says it's not. I told him the trials would start at first light, and he said that's fine, he'd sleep on one of those old mess hall benches until first light to have the chance to speak to you if needs must."

She stifled a regretful sigh.

"Very well," she said with a serenity she was struggling to feel. "Send him in."

"At once, ma'am."

Kan-E-Senna cast a somewhat longing look at Claustrum leaning placidly against the wall, its stark white outline beckoning her to plead fatigue or some other excuse that would allow her to take her leave and rest for the night. But the notion that this man - a soldier, presumably - was willing to subject himself to some considerable inconvenience on behalf of an enemy prisoner was too intriguing to pass up.

A series of loud rapping noises echoed from the other side of the door.

"Second Lieutenant Cheerful Sparrow of the Foreign Levy," the runner called.

She'd known by the name that the soldier who entered would be a Roegadyn. He was an older man, his brown hair interspersed with shocks of glittering silver and sun-wrinkles winging outwards from the corners of his eyes. He'd taken off his hat as he entered the room, dressed in civilian garb, and was carrying a pack over one shoulder. A heavy-looking black bag of strange make dangled on straps in his left hand.

"A fine evening to you, Lady Seedseer," he said politely. "I know 'tis terrible late, but I was hoping to speak with you personally. It concerns the conscripts, you see."

"I was merely finishing the day's work." She gestured for him to pull up a spare chair leaning against the wall, and watched him as he set his packs down to pull it over to the desk. "Tomorrow begins the hearings for the Garlean prisoners. As long as I've made sufficient preparations before I seek my bed, 'tis of no import. How can I be of service?"

"If this is a bad time-"

"Forgive me, Master...?"

"Just Sparrow. I'm an old mercenary, I don't stand on ceremony."

"Master Sparrow, then." She folded her hands in her lap. "If you'll permit me a moment of honesty, at present there is no such thing as a 'good' time. We are trying to see the matter of the enemy's prisoners resolved as quickly and quietly as possible so that we can attend to vital business in our respective cities. Would that I could promise these poor people a truly fair trial, but..."

"I know you aren't doin' any of this to be cruel, Lady Seedseer." His hands kneaded nervously at his woolen traveling cap. "A trial's unpleasant business, 'specially a rushed one, but there's no jury in all Eorzea impartial enough to give a Garlean aught but short shrift. Although... if you don't mind me askin', do you know what's to be done with them?"

"That is not a matter I am at liberty to discuss," she said mildly. The note of rebuke in her voice was unmistakable, however, and in the dim light she thought she could see his cheeks flush.

"Right. Sorry. It's just-" The Limsan Roegadyn coughed to clear his throat, obviously ill at ease by the way he shifted in his seat. "It's just that I were asked by Mistress Aurelia to make sure their conscripts were treated fairly, is all."

"Who?"

"Mistress Aurelia," he repeated. "One of the Garleans. She'll not be hard for you to spot on the morrow, seein' as she's the only lass in the lot -- down in the keep gaol by her lonesome at the minute, I shouldn't wonder."

"...She's expressed concern for the conscripts' fates? I was under the impression Garleans looked down on those not of their race."

"Aye, well, she's a strange one,”  Sparrow shrugged. “I'm sure she's worried for her own neck, but she didn't ask after what's to happen to her, just them."

"They've been sent to each city-state to serve out their sentences in rebuilding efforts, with immediate effect." At the sight of his frown, she continued: "I've obtained promises that the conscripts will be allowed to remain in Eorzea once their time is done, if they wish it. 'Tis unlikely they will be able to return to their homes, at least until relations with the Empire can be normalized. If that should ever come to pass."

"She'll be that glad to know they've been spared," he acknowledged, but the grin he gave her was decidedly rueful. "...Don't rightly know how she's survived military life for this long, between you an' me. I've spent nights on feather mattresses not half as soft as that girl."

"Service in the imperial army is compulsory even for Garleans, so I'm told."

"Mayhap that's so. Anyroad," Sparrow grunted, his knees creaking as he stood, "I'd best be seekin' my own bed afore this storm breaks if I’m to head out at first light. Give her my regards if you're able. If things turn out for her, I hope she an' I might could meet again - under better circumstances, o’course."

"If I chance to speak with your friend alone, I shall do so," she promised quietly. "You have given me much to consider this evening, Master Sparrow. Thank you."

"Consideration's all a body can ask. Aught you'll care t'read is in the statement." He gestured with his chin to the smaller of the two bags, still sitting on the floor. "Should you decide not to have the poor lass swing from a gallows, mayhap you could find a way of gettin' that medicine bag back to her."

"Medicine bag." She paused. "Your friend is a healer, then?"

"Aye, that she is."

In response, she offered a slow and thoughtful nod.

"I shall review the statements carefully," she said, and meant it. "A good night to you, Master Sparrow."

"Good evening to you, Seedseer."

Kan-E-Senna's leaf-green gaze lingered on the door long after it had shut behind him.

~*~

A full turn of the sun had passed, and the conscripts had not returned.

Aurelia had known something was amiss when the rattle of footsteps preceded the smack of the door against the wall much earlier than expected; it was early morning, the cellblock still full dark. Even though she was awake for the loud banging against the iron bars, she still cringed at the ringing scrape of its echo in her ears.

The occupants of the cells began to stir in earnest, squinting bleary-eyed into the sudden intrusion of light, their wakefulness punctuated with muffled coughing and sniffling. Wincing as a particularly strong cough sent a lancing pain through her chest, she leaned forward to reach for the crutches that leaned against the wall.

"All right, imperials," the man had said gruffly, handing his torch to one of the other guards at his back, "get up. We're clearing you lot out-- not you, Garlean."

Confused, she had retreated, watching the others file out of the cell one at a time, unwilling to meet her eyes. She had caught one last glimpse of Sayaka's pale, fearful face as the Doman glanced back over one shoulder, before the exit to the keep slammed shut and she was left in near-total darkness with a single torch by the door the only light in the room.

That had been at first light, and the angle of the light through the mortar cracks had lengthened before dimming to naught, and she was still alone.

Fighting back her anxiety for the nonce she leaned back against the damp wall, carefully flexed her healing leg, and reached beneath the filthy dressing to adjust it - the wound itself had healed clean despite all odds - and winced. Without any chance to exercise it on a regular basis, the muscle had begun to atrophy despite her best efforts. She'd need to put some work into rectifying that problem in the coming weeks.

Assuming you have weeks remaining, murmured a tiny voice in the back of her mind.

"By the bleeding Twelve," she muttered aloud. A derisive snort echoed from the other side of the block.

"Desperate enough to invoke false gods already, I see. They'll not save you, you know."

Aurelia frowned in the direction of that voice. Squinting at the barest hint of a man's silhouette against the far opposite wall availed her little save the suggestion of silver-white hair and the scruff of an unshaven face. "We shan't know the outcome until we've had a chance to speak our piece."

"To speak?" he scoffed. "Were I you, girl, I'd not waste my breath attempting to reason with savages. It's clear our fates have been decided."

"Perhaps if you have resigned yourself to die."

"Turning coat to the Eorzeans like a coward, then, are you? Hoping to save your own neck? If you believe they've considered aught for any of us besides a hangman's noose then you're a greater fool than I took you for."

"You chose to surrender rather than fight to the death, along with everyone else here," she shot back. "The Empire would have us fall upon our swords rather than submit to captivity. What call have you to lecture anyone upon cowardice?"

There was no response save the sound of soft muttering, another series of coughs, and then nothing. 

She found herself thankful for his silence, as she didn't want to argue with the man any longer: disagreement or not, he was still one of her countrymen. The thought occurred to her that he had spoken so harshly not out of anger but out of fear, and she could hardly fault him for it were that the case.

Aurelia herself was terrified, though she had largely kept her own counsel on the matter of her personal feelings. She had a better inkling of what was to happen than the rest of them thanks to Sparrow's information, but that didn't mean she knew whether this trial would be an empty gesture for the sake of show or whether the Eorzeans actually meant to give them a fair judgment.

And what had been done with the conscripts--whether they would return, what would become of them - was currently a mystery. Her best guesses hinged upon whether their captors were inclined to anything resembling mercy, and she wasn't certain of that, either.

She knew so very little, really.

With a short and bitter sigh the Garlean drew her legs carefully upwards until both feet rested on the edges of the cot and rested her cheek against her knees, listening to the slow drip of leaking water. And waited.

~*~

The clacking turn of the door's tumbler broke the ominous silence that had descended upon the gaol. Another storm had rolled in overnight, and with the lack of light there was no way to tell it was morning. Aurelia coughed, roused from her restless doze by the loud clattering of multiple footsteps.

Three Eorzeans stood on the other side of the bars looking in at her, Lu among them. The Miqo'te looked at her and nodded once before deliberately focusing her green eyes straight ahead.

Fear twisted at her stomach once again. None of the guards had been forthcoming with information as to the whereabouts of the others, and none of the remaining Garleans had asked -- nor had any of them spoken to each other once they had been left alone with watery, unappetizing gruel from rations now running low. Aurelia knew they feared the worst just as she did.

"When your name is called, stand and come forward." The Elezen, whom she surmised must be their commander, was holding a piece of parchment in one gloved hand. "...Caelus pyr Betto and," he checked the names once more, "Marcus pyr Nerva."

Across the block, she watched two tall, pale men shuffle out of their cell.

"You two stand here," he said. "Hands out."

The pair looked at each other, sullen and resigned, and held their hands out with their wrists facing up. The chains attached to their heavy iron manacles rattled with the movement as the guards clamped them securely in place. Two more names were called, and two more men came forward. Aurelia watched them all file out of the cells one by one, disheveled, bitter, and disconsolate, all staring at the ground or the ceiling or really anywhere save at their captors.

When her name was called, all of the remaining prisoners lifted their eyes to stare at her. The guard's lips were drawn as though he'd bitten into an especially sour fruit. "Seeing as some small accomodation must needs be made for your current condition, Sergeant Zhisi has agreed to accompany you to the hearing chamber. I assume you're aware of the consequences should you attempt escape."

She nodded. Even if she'd had any intent to try, friend of a friend or not, she knew the Miqo'te wouldn't hesitate to sink a dagger into her throat.

"Along with you, then," he said, and for the second time within the last day, the door to her gaol cell creaked open. 

Aurelia limped through to freedom and felt the woman's hand wrap about her elbow, guiding her behind the chain line as it rattled past her up the stairs into the keep proper. Her limbs felt unsteady after so little time spent on them, and the bright sunlight streaming through the keep's windows screwed sharp calipers into her eyes, making her wince.

Single-file behind the chain gang, she entered a room barely larger than the cell block. It was clear this was some sort of holding area by the additional personnel posted at the door on the far end, and they would be expected to wait here until they were summoned. Before she could ask whether she was to sit or stand, Lu guided her to a small stool in one corner of the room and gestured to her to sit down.

She did so, fidgeting fitfully as she watched the Garlean men. As before they held themselves apart from their captors: stiff and hostile, expressions cold and proud. Haughtiness fair leaked from them despite everything, and she thought she understood, at least in part, the antipathy she'd faced thus far - not that the Eorzeans put any particular effort into hiding their animosity, either.

With steadily increasing anxiety she observed that none of them tarried overlong: no more than a half-bell at the outside, and for most of them it was closer to a quarter bell. Minutes stretched into hours - bells - as one by one, the others were called by name to enter.

"Aurelia jen Laskaris," the Elezen read after what seemed an eternity, and the abrupt cadence of her own name startled her enough to all but jump from her perch. 

She fumbled with the crutches and slid off the stool, limping towards the door. Her heart was hammering in her chest; she could hear her own pulse in her ears. 

Lu was standing by with a hand firmly gripping her arm to prevent either an escape or a fall. The look in her eyes made it clear she had sensed the prisoner's terror. 

"Here now, Garlean, you look like you're marchin' to your doom. 'Tis the culls what's to be hearin' your case, naught else. They'll not be loppin' off your bleedin' head on the spot."

Aurelia blinked at her, surprised that the woman had actually made something approaching an attempt to reassure her. Bracing herself for whatever lay on the other side of the door, she took a few deep breaths and nodded.

There was an unceremonious shove against her shoulder as the door opened, and she found herself flanked by two men in scarlet jackets who caught her mid-lurch. She thought she heard a muttered 'good luck' in her ear, but it was so quick and quiet that it could have simply been wishful thinking after all.

In that same instant she heard the latch fall at her back. She was alone.

=

The room was dimly lit, a fire crackling away in the hearth. In the center, taking up a good deal of space, sat what appeared to have once been a war table that she surmised had been appropriated from the keep itself. Six people sat on the opposite side, watching her as she entered the room. She swallowed down her fear, wavering in place near the threshold, uncertain what she was supposed to do.

"Prisoner," commanded a deep alto with the broad vowels that Aurelia was beginning to recognize as the cadenced speech of Limsa Lominsa, "approach the bench."

The hands on her arms were released, but she could sense the men standing behind her with their watchful eyes. She adjusted the crutches enough to let herself limp carefully towards the chair - no, bench, she realized, an actual bench.

As she approached she was able to get a better look at the adjudicants hearing her case. The woman who had spoken was a pale and very tall Roegadyn woman with silver hair and a piercing grey gaze. Next to her sat a rugged-looking Highlander with his hair bound in locs and pulled away from his face, a slim and pretty blonde Midlander who surely was no older than Aurelia herself, two more Elezen, and-

Seated at the grey-eyed woman's left, his dark eyes impassive, was a Roegadyn man she immediately recognized. His arm was still bound in a sling, the dressings freshly changed, and the expression he wore was devoid of any emotion, a clean slate. The man she'd verbally scoured in the infirmary pavilion.

Her vision swam at the edges.

"You may sit," the grey-eyed woman intoned again, her voice ever so slightly sharp. Aurelia was quick to obey, squeezing her eyes shut as she did so until the sensation of lightheadedness had passed and she trusted herself to focus. The man's attention was now on a piece of parchment lying upon the table. He wasn't even looking at her, though she sincerely doubted he had forgotten their exchange.

It's all right, she told herself. It'll be all right.

"State your name and rank for the court."

"Aurelia jen Laskaris. Medicus, Third Cohort, VIIth Imperial Legion." The quick and automatic response, learned through long weeks of protocol drills in basic training, felt dull and leaden on her tongue. It wouldn't be strictly necessary to quote chapter and verse, she knew, but she might as well go through the motions.

"Do you acknowledge the sovereignty of the Eorzean Alliance over this realm and all territories within?"

Aurelia found herself unconsciously correcting her posture beneath the woman's scrutiny, feeling rather like she was seventeen summers again, back home on a term break and sitting through an uncomfortable dinner party while her aunt talked to her guests as though she weren't in the room. 

"Yes."

"Do you acknowledge the authority of the presiding court?"

"Yes." Her voice had faded to all but a whisper.

"As an actor of an enemy state, you did make entry into Eorzean territory with the intent to invade and subjugate multiple sovereign nations. Is this correct?"

"I was deployed as part of a-"

"Prisoner will respond with a yes or no," was the curt response. "Is this correct?"

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and considered the question. While she'd acted under orders, the accusation wasn't untrue.

"Yes."

"As an enlisted servicemember of the VIIth Imperial Legion under Legatus Nael van Darnus, were you part of the cohort responsible for the dissemination of imperial propaganda in relation to the summoning of primals?"

"No. Eikon summoning wasn't my-"

"Were you at any time subject to the details of Project Meteor?"

Aurelia raised her eyes from the floor at last to fix the entirety of the panel with an appalled stare.

"I pray the court will excuse my confusion," she said, "but I must ask for clarification. Are you asking whether or not I would possess intimate knowledge of a top secret military operation?"

"Prisoner will respond with a yes or no."

She felt a surge of affronted fury.

"Of course I didn't know what the legatus was planning! Why in the world would you make the assumption-"

"Yes or no-"

"-that an army chirurgeon would be privy to such knowledge?"

"Prisoner-"

"How am I to expect a fair trial if I stand accused of matters beyond all reasonable ken?" She was all but shouting, having risen into something resembling a standing position. Her leg throbbed in angry protest from knee to ankle and she knew it would be unbearably sore later, but she barely paid the pain any heed. "I shall not be made to place a noose about my own neck!"

The guardsman yanked her backwards by one arm and forced her back down onto the seat, hard enough for the wood beneath her to make a cracking sound. His grip dug into her shoulder hard enough that she could feel the bite of his fingernails through his gloves.

"That's enough out of you," he snarled.

From her seat the silver-haired Roegadyn woman snapped: 

"The prisoner will henceforth remain seated and address this court as she is bid, or be held in contempt and subjected to additional punishment. Respond with a yes or no. You will not be asked again."

She glared at the assembled panel from beneath greasy fringe, heart pounding. Her fingers bunched in the filth-caked fabric on her thighs, gathering tight handfuls as she stared down at her feet.

"...No," she growled between clenched teeth. 

There was a pause and a series of low murmurs as the panel exchanged words she couldn't hear. She sat stiffly, every muscle thrumming with tension, her previous fear replaced by her anger. The rough-hewn Ala Mhigan man cleared his throat, glancing at his fellows before turning his attention to her.

"Admiral, I think we have established the prisoner is not one of the Project Meteor masterminds," he said, a somewhat dry note in his voice that surprised her. "Let us move on. We've all reviewed the statements from the three officers of the Grand Companies vouching for-"

The scraping sound of a chair's wooden legs against the floor interrupted the proceedings.

Aurelia tensed, her heart leaping into her throat upon seeing that the man she'd treated in the camp had pushed back his chair and stood, drawing himself to his full height. In the day's light he was handsome enough, dark eyes and a broad nose, his long dark hair pinned back in a tail and various medals and badges of office affixed to his jacket. Even the burly Highlander looked startled.

"...Loezwyrn?" The silver-haired woman was staring at him as though he'd started to speak in tongues. "You can't... we're in the middle of the hearing."

"Aye, I know it's highly irregular, Admiral, and I apologize. I should like to give a statement to the court."

"This isn't-"

"’Tis but a moment of our time."

Somewhat reluctantly, her expression bemused, the Admiral gave in.

"...I take your point. The whole godsdamned situation is 'irregular'," she said with a sigh. "Very well. We might as well attempt to do this the procedural way regardless, I suppose. State your name for the record."

"Commodore Loezwyrn Sletteidin. Maelstrom, Foreign Levy."

Aurelia felt her heart drop straight into the pit of her stomach. 

She didn't know much of Eorzean military structure beyond the basics, but she knew enough to realize this man was probably equal in rank to an imperial legion's tribunus militum at least, and she'd dressed him down like a child. Surely not, she thought. Surely fate was not this cruel.

The pause before he continued felt as though it stretched into years.

"During the battle," he began, "I was struck by shrapnel. My wounds were minor and 'twas my thinking at the time that my leadership was too necessary in the heat of the fight to bother with seekin' a conjurer. Hadn't expected it to turn bad, of course."

"Perhaps the greatest hazard of all," murmured the Midlander girl in white. Her voice was soft and soothing, like sunlight rippling over water. "But I digress. Continue, please."

"My thanks, Seedseer. Weren't until we'd set up the temporary camp that my assistants realized I'd taken ill, and I found myself dragged to the infirmary pavilion. The wait was long, and my fever worsened, and Storm Lieutenant Pavin had the foresight to try and jump the queue in order to call for aid. The prisoner happened to be working the triage lines at the time. I wanted naught to do with a Garlean. I said I would have none of her aid, in no uncertain terms."

"And then?" the Ala Mhigan prompted. "What did she do?"

To Aurelia's shock, a grin cracked the stony neutrality of the man's features.

"Lost her bleedin' temper, that's what. Told me to 'place my arse on the sodding table and keep my mouth shut.' Then said I'd probably lose the arm due to my own neglect. I was fit to chew ingots and spit nails, I'll not lie."

"Did she?" the girl asked gently. "I see you have not in fact lost your arm, Commodore."

"Aye, she was able to save it. Wouldn't promise aught at the time, but she came through. I thought I'd lose my hand for sure if only for the insult I dealt her. But she did all that she promised and the wound healed clean."

Commodore Sleitteidin's smile faded somewhat. His gaze had shifted to Aurelia's face, and she found that for the first time she was able to look him in the eyes.

"I watched this woman treat our wounded with the same care I'd expect of one of our own. That said," he added, speaking now to the Admiral, "I’m afraid I must needs recuse myself, ma’am. Personal involvement with the case and whatnot."

The other five exchanged glances.

"Right, well," the Highlander said, "I suppose we'll burn that bridge when we cross it. In the meantime, should the prisoner have aught to say in her own defense, now is the time to do so."

Aurelia tried to ignore their expectant stares, knowing precisely how pathetic she must appear. She had managed only the most broken of sleep in the past few weeks and she now felt every ilm of that deprivation. Her golden hair was lank and flat and filthy, the rough homespun she wore having fared little better during her incarceration, and by its ill fit she knew she had dropped a noticeable amount of weight.

She straightened her back, summoned all of the remaining poise she had at her disposal, and looked each one of them in the eye. Carefully she folded her hands in her lap, as if she were addressing a guest at one of her aunt's afternoon salons.

"I shall not make excuses for myself," she said simply. "Nor shall I defend the actions of my countrymen. What we did to your people was unforgivable, and you are well within your rights to seek recompense.  I served the Empire in my capacity as a healer. When I was rescued and taken prisoner by your people, I felt it only right that I offer what succor I could in exchange."

"Then you admit that you are motivated by guilt?"

"Think you we Garleans are such monsters that we lack the capacity for pity? Or remorse?" Aurelia spread her hands in a helpless gesture. "What could I possibly offer as sufficient proof of my intentions? I cannot bring back those who were lost. I doubt very much I could ever begin to atone for what the VIIth has done. But if it is within my power to provide aid, I will do so."

The woman in charge of the proceedings still looked grim, but the young girl in white was... smiling and nodding, very gently, in what appeared to be approval.

"Is this your final statement, prisoner?" the Ala Mhigan asked.

Her hands clasped tightly, shaking in her lap, Aurelia said, "It is."

"Then," he responded, his voice slow and deep and measured, "I move to adjourn unless the court has further questions.” 

None of them spoke. Into the lengthening silence, he continued: 

“The men here will escort you outside whilst we complete deliberations."

She was almost unable to support herself when she regained her footing. Her legs felt like gelatin and her heart was pounding. She hadn't intended to lose her temper but it had happened all the same, and looking at the collection of faces behind the table she wasn't sure whether they would rule in her favor or not. The girl appeared openly sympathetic, but she was the only one.

She felt as though she’d just placed her head on a chopping block.

Forcing herself not to look back, she turned her back and, flanked by the stone-faced guards, slowly limped out of the room.

[homestuckexamination]

Void - Life, the missing tenet

I finally got the chance of reading @revolutionaryduelist‘s fantastic essay on Rose Lalonde, parsed through the lenses of both gnostic and jewish mythology and philosophy.

It was a lovely read, but at the very beginning, OD talk about the Denizens and mythological figures shaping the arcs of each character, speaking to the events of the story. And while some fit wonderfully, Nyx and Hemera seemed two giving him some trouble, and I began to ponder about it. Specifically, I thought, again, about the strange relationship Void and Life have as counterparts without actually being counterparts on the Aspect Wheel, and the resulting brainstorming became something I thought would be interesting to share. This is a work in progress, theory-wise, but I really like where it’s leading me to.

So I was washing the dishes and thinking about this essay

Specially though I was thinking about what you mentioned about not quite being able to find Hemera and Nyx's tie to Roxy and Jane properly

And it brought back thoughts about the duality of Life and Void

And how it's a strangely juxtaposted thing several times.

I was thinking how perhaps it would be better to try and parse Nyx and Hemera retroactively from Jane and Roxy's Arcs than the other way around

But then I started to think...

And I think. We're missing a tenet of Paradox Space.

There's more to the Auryn.

"Do what you will", the power to do whatever you want.

The bastardization of this through Trickster Mode

The Ouroboros

It all misses one heavily, heavily present detail

That it is a dual symbol

The Spirals containing the Auryn

Two snakes, one white and one black

Two Rings, of Life and Void

"Do what you will" is the tenet of the Life side of Auryn

Agency. Empowerment, to chase your dreams

Caliborn is this at its worst.

And you could consider, Calliope, his counterpart, would embody the same if it was a singular symbol

She gets to Live. She gets to be happy. She is not quite relevant to the story, but to her friends

She completes the group, she does what she wants, gets what she couldn't. That is Do What You Will

But- She achieves that after talking to her... Alternate Self.

If Lord English is Yaldabaoth, and the prime embodiment of using those powers that give him agency over everything else for evil

I think we don't have to look at Calliope for the other side

But to Alt Calliope

A necessary death. An eternal wait. A martyr, without hopes or dreams, a tool of Paradox Space, following the script until the end, and making everything crash down around her for the Grand Finale.

I don't know how to put it into a simple sentence like "Do as you will"

But I think Void, and Alt Calliope, embody the other tenet of Paradox Space

Sometimes, bad things happen. Fate can be cruel. Relentless. Nevertheless, you have to push through. And you cannot allow the past to be forgotten, and the mistakes to be repeated.

That is why Roxy tags along with John

Nyx, Void, the embodiment of this tenet

"This sword embodies every loss we've faced"

"And I'm going to TAKE BACK from the Witch"

Roxy is the proof of all the bad things that have happened following the story.

She holds the symbol of all the loss caused in Paradox Space

And gets the final shot in S Collide taking down the Batterwitch, the last obstacle for them to get to the new Universe.

Do what you want, the world is boundless, inherently good, and you can shape it with your actions to build whatever you want.

But when things go wrong, don't despair. Keep pushing. Evolving. Adapt.

In that manner

Condy, a Thief of Life, servant to Lord English, could have been said to take away the 'do as you will' from the Heroes

And Roxy, a Rogue of Void, would've taken it back by not forgetting the losses gone through, and pushing on until the end

If the Ghosts don't come back from the Rapture, maybe that'd be a way to parse the Acceptance I theorized as something more positive in Paradox Space.

"Do as you will" and the incredibly optimistic outlook carried by it towards the end of Homestuck build up expectations of everyone coming back, of everything getting resolved, which, as the Ending has shown us, doesn't always have to happen.

It also builds up expectations of things like, the Friendsim Trolls and Joey somehow managing to escape and ending in Earth C

Which would be sweet, don't take me wrong

But I think a second tenet, relating to Void, would actually tie a lot of things together.

It's like... The Ultimate Self.

The higher version of you, the embodiment of everything that has happened to every iteration of you

Progress and development, your arc.

"Do as you will", Life, is the version that is successful, that we follow, that we see.

But the meta-reality of the Ultimate Self is made up of every failed version along the way. Of Void.

"They all influence the meta conception of your being"

Void. Never forget. Evolve beyond your past mistakes. Don't let past repeat itself. Face fate. Challenge limitations.

Jane can resurrect people and overcome the God Tier judgement. There's two Nannasprites at the end, which directly violates the perceived notion that one of them should be doomed. Condy extends people's lifes and somehow manages to break dimensional boundaries and is trying to cheat Lord English himself to overcome his control. Meenah kills everyone at the exact moment to overcome the Scratch's Erasure. Feferi blurs the boundaries of life and death by making a pact with the Horrorterrors. All of them make their own rules, all of them stretch definitions of what Paradox Space allows and make what seems impossible possible.

And the opposite is Doom. Limitations. Limits. Rules.But... Void opposites Life in a strange way too

Doom is a direct counterpart on the Aspect Wheel

But Void is thematically opposite in some ways.

So if Life sets new rules and plays around with the existing ones, doing what they want.

Then Void, 'irrelevance', is not actually that irrelevant. It speaks of that which has been lost, which other forces have deemed to not have value.

And what we see is that the Dead, the Voided, the Doomed, who should've been erased from the story

Are the ones to rise up against Lord English, the one who does whatever he wants.

Auryn is not life. "Do as you will" is Life. Just like the Rings. Just like the double spiral. Red and Green. Black and White. Gold and Purple. There's always been two.

[firelxrdsdaughter]

Cruel Symmetry | Preview Chapter

And here’s the second piece I did for the @avatarbaang!

Honestly this one was one that excited me more out of the two? I ended up taking the concept over to rp on here as well. HAHA. Then again, Azula is my main lady, no matter how much I love Suki. x)

This one’s a bit of an au anyway. Post canon.

Cruel Symmetry 

synopsis: After escaping her confinement in the Fire Nation, her bending stripped from her by the Avatar, Azula finds her way to the Earth Kingdom. Fourteen years pass, during which she has joined the Earth King’s forces and made a name for herself under an alias. No one the wiser that the child general who once conquered Ba Sing Se could be the honoured Commander Hui Yin. 

On the fated day in which she is brought to the Capital of Ba Sing Se to receive accolades for outstanding military service, Azula’s new life comes crashing down around her ears when an unexpected guest recognizes her for who she truly is. 

I

She already knows, as the walls split before her, that she ought to have rejected the invitation. What’s another year on the run, when she looks at her life in hindsight? The only problem is, where would she go?

Azula fidgets, her nails biting into the worn leather of the reigns that she holds, her back ramrod straight as she passes through the first ring of imposing walls (as easy to invade as the last time that she was here), trying to force herself to be calm. Trying to will her shoulders to fall and her easy confidence to return. It’s been fourteen years. There’s no way that they could possibly recognise her. Not in Earth Kingdom green. Not leading a retinue of Earth Kingdom soldiers, and not with her mother’s face plastered over her features.

She chews her bottom lip covertly, turning her attention upward at the towering walls of each section of the city. The men behind her, who due to complaints of the heat have been lagging since their trek across the desert, now walk a little more lively than before. Their attentions, too, are caught on the grand splendour that is the first ring of an even grander city to come. They do not notice her discomfort.

That is all just as well.

She hears the scrape of the ostrich-horses’ claws on the stone walkway and listens in the distance to the way the wind off of the mountains whooshes through the hollow spaces of the agricultural ring. An ostrich-horse snorts at her right elbow. She turns in time to see her second in command draw even with her, a grin on his otherwise rather plain face. Azula cocks an eyebrow.

“Well?” His smile stretches perceptibly wider.

“Well, what,” she returns in question, watching as Guangting’s gaze sweeps the vast expanse of the outer ring around them. He returns his attention to her.

“You said you’ve never been to Ba Sing Se before,” he points out with a sense of ease that Azula wishes were her own, “what do you think?”

She thinks that she’s already made a big mistake in coming here. She could have excused herself from the meeting. Feigned illness. But she did not. Azula notes that her hands have tightened once more against the reigns, and she loosens them consciously while she mulls over her response in her mind.

“It’s very grand,” she says after much deliberation, “probably too grand for someone like me.”

Even though the Earth Kingdom is and has always been much different from the Fire Nation, the city of Ba Sing Se reminds her of her childhood in Caldera…But Hui Yin, the commander of the hundred-and-eighty-seventh regiment of the Earth King’s army, has never been somewhere so ostentatious as Ba Sing Se. She has spent her life in the backwoods of the Earth Kingdom, scraping by, using her superior intelligence to make a name for herself in the army after the death of her farmer parents.

And that is how it must remain.

“Well it has to be, doesn’t it,” Guangting says then, “it is the capital city of the Earth Kingdom.”

In name, Azula thinks.

In truth, their reach is not as far stretching as it should be for the Earth King to be effective, but she is slowly remedying this for him. Slowly. Being the commander of a notably small force of soldiers is hardly worth much salt, just enough to get her noticed and summoned here.

“I suppose so,” she answers distractedly.

She feels Guangting grow covertly closer to her, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the men following their lead before he closes the gap between them.

“Don’t be so nervous. You’re being lauded for your part in the King’s efforts to unite the Earth Kingdom. This is a joyous occasion.”

Azula turns and offers Guangting a tight smile.

“I’ve never done well in cities,” she excuses.

Guangting snorts.

“It’ll be okay. I’ll show you the ropes.”

Azula laughs, smirking at him.

“That’s right, you grew up here, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Lower ring though. Not a great place to be but…well, I got out of there, and I made a name for myself. And my parents can afford to be in the middle ring now and — Sometimes it’s just nice to be home, even if you don’t have fond childhood memories of the place.”

Her stomach twists. She presses her mouth into a line and looks back at the second wall looming before them—the wall to the lower ring of the city proper. The part of the city  that Guangting originates from, that houses the city’s poor.

She remembers thinking in her youth that it was a rather clever system, the segregation of the classes by walls. No one had to see the squalor that some people had to live in. It was easier to keep the city under control that way too, the Dai Li’s ultimate role.

Thoughts of stone hands flying out of the shadows and enveloping her before she can call out invade her thoughts momentarily.

Azula trains her eyes on the horn of her saddle, watching the passage of the clouds

overhead on its surface.

Guangting’s rough-knuckled hand comes and plants itself over her own. Azula looks over at him. The silent And it’s all thanks to you sits between them unspoken.

Then, he says,“You should meet my parents before we go.”

Azula feels her face heating, just a little, and swallows against a suddenly thick throat, her heart fluttering.

“I wouldn’t want to impose on them when they haven’t seen you in so long,” she replies, training her attention on the ground beneath her ostrich-horse’s feet.

“Nonsense, I’ve written to them about you. They’ll be eager to meet you.”

Her heart clenches. She clears her throat, and then finally, reluctantly, nods.

“If you say so, then of course I’d be honoured,” she lies. This is something for which she will feign illness.

He’s placated for the moment, however. Besides — it would be a lie to say that she is not flattered by the notion that he wishes for her to meet them, or that they would ever wish to meet her. They wouldn’t, but he’s being polite.

Azula pushes the thought back into the recesses of her mind. She can examine that later.

They slow to a halt at the second set of guards posted outside of the lower ring’s walls. The men there stare at them stonily for a moment before nodding and parting the newest set of walls with their bending. The earth trembles; Azula can feel the vibrations all the way to the top of her skull.

For a brief moment, she hesitates. The sounds and sights of the city waft on the breeze toward them, revealed through the now present giant gate. It’s accompanied by the strong scent of human living, and she makes a conscious effort to breathe through her nose.

With a sense of finality, Azula urges her party forward, and they pass onward into the lower ring of Ba Sing Se.

*

Azula is combing out her freshly washed hair with some effort when the official arrives at her door. Guangting’s footsteps pad across the floor and down the hallway to her private suite after a brief few minutes, identifiable even from where she sits alone in the room. She watches him come through the circular porthole, a missive in his hands, scrolled and sealed with forest green wax.

“What’s that?” Azula continues in attempting to tease the knots from the bottom of her hair, wincing at each tug of the comb from her careless hands, still watching Guangting’s expression in the surface of her mirror.

“Mm, something pretty official looking,” Guangting answers distractedly.

Azula raises a dark eyebrow in response. Her hands have paused in her hair, and she watches as Guangting crosses the space between them and settles himself beside her. He looks up at her with his black eyes, smiling briefly before he returns his attention to the scroll in his hand. He breaks the seal, unravelling the paper.

Azula returns to her work, waiting.

“Ah,” he says after a moment of silence, “the King’s second cousin, Lord Shenlong, has invited you to a gathering of the nobility and high ranking ministers of the city.”

Her eyebrows raise.

“A party?” She doesn’t quite manage to hide the disdain in her voice. Or maybe it’s apprehension. She has enough experience with high society parties that she’d be hard pressed to truly enjoy one now. She knows all  too well what goes on at functions featuring the nobility.

“Yes.” He smiles, rolling the scroll back up and setting it down on the vanity. “A party.”

Azula’s right eyebrow raises a little higher than the left in response, and she purses her lips. Guangting snorts.

“Don’t be like that,” he says with a laugh, “they like you. They’ve heard all of the stories and they want to rub elbows with you. Not bad for someone from some farming village in the Northern Earth Kingdom, no?”

A smirk tucks itself into her cheek.

“I’m not very interested in rubbing elbows with most of high society,” she answers. “I don’t suppose that we can refuse?”

He leans back on his hands next to her, bemused.

“Making connections here will only be good for us,” he points out, too logically for Azula’s taste, “we could get a lot of help and a lot of supplies if you impress enough of the rich people here in Ba Sing Se. I should hardly think I’d need to tell you that, though, oh wise commander.”

She offers him a withering look for the mocking way in which he uses her title.

Turning from her second, Azula goes back to pulling the turtle shell comb through her tangled mass of damp hair one handful at a time. She winces as she catches yet another knot, closing her hand a little tighter around the offending section, working at picking the matt out with one of the comb’s fine teeth.

“Hui Yin…” Guangting takes her hand in his broad palm, wresting the comb from her and shuffling yet closer, going to work himself on her hair. She lets out a sigh, and allows him the intimacy. “We cannot afford to offend these people.”

She rolls her amber eyes up at the ceiling.

“I am aware,” she responds flatly, “but it doesn’t make me want to do this any more than I did in the first place.”

If she had still been a princess she could easily have refused the invitation. Gone to bed early. Done whatever she liked rather than go to the party, really. As a peasant girl from the Earth Kingdom, who has worked her way up the social ladder to Commander, she has no right to do as much. There are precious few times that she has missed being the princess that she once was, in all honesty, but now she longs for the privilege.

That same privilege is also part of the problem, however. She has no doubt that there will be those among the guests who would have lived through her coup of the city. There are those that might even think they recognize her from somewhere or other, surely. At least with only a court proceeding to attend, she would run less of a risk of being recognized. She’d bow before the Earth King, far enough away from most of those in the palace that anyone who could possibly identify her would not be able to clearly see her face...

Azula takes a steadying breath and tries not to think of the what ifs. This is happening, whether she likes it or not. She must simply prepare herself the best that she can.

Her scalp tingles at each pass of first the comb and then Guangting’s fingers through her hair. His kind, dark, eyes catch her gaze in the mirror once more. She feels the curve of her spine relaxing downward.

“Your parents would have been proud of you,” he tells her quietly. Azula feels her stomach sink, but keeps her expression passive where she meets his eyes in the mirror.

No, she thinks, but  forces the briefest of smiles, and makes certain it reaches her eyes for the full effect.

“Perhaps,” she says out loud, forcing lightness into her tone, “It’s certainly not the life they could have possibly pictured me living.”

“Maybe not,” he concedes, “but certainly any parent would be happy to see their child succeed in the way you have done.”

She closes her eyes, and tries to will herself not to think of her mother or father.

When she opens her eyes again, Guangting is smiling, and he settles her combed out hair carefully against her back.

“You’ll need a nice dress,” he comments. Azula glances at the scroll where it sits loosely folded against the vanity’s surface. She grimaces.

“Surely one of my nicer uniforms will do?”

Guangting snorts at her.

“You don’t know the nobility like I do,” he says, “you will need something nicer than that. Something that doesn’t shout military across the room. Something…refined. Lucky for you, I’m better at managing your stipend than you are. You have more than enough for something modestly presentable.”

Azula rolls her eyes again but cannot help the smile that splits her face from cheek to cheek briefly.

“What would I do without you, Guangting?” she asks.

Azula sighs, fluttering her eyelashes prettily at her second in command. The man raises his eyebrows and sets her comb aside.

“Go hungry, probably,” he answers dryly, a twinkle in his eye.

*

Despite the relatively dry heat of this region of the Earth Kingdom, Azula finds the room humid.

It is the press of bodies and the mingling voices that make it so. She remembers a hundred parties in her youth spent regulating her own temperature with her bending for just this reason. Now that it’s no longer there, held just beyond her reach, she finds the pressing heat nearly unbearable.  

The people are even more unbearable, if that is possible.

The invitation, when she had deigned to read it, had implied that this soiree was, in fact, a celebration of her accomplishments. But, as is often the case of gatherings featuring the world’s most wealthy and haughty elites, it had been a front for the catty sort of gossiping nosy nellies who would show up just to see someone allegedly as low born as herself stumble over her own iniquities amongst high society.

How lucky for her that she has not entirely forgotten her courtly etiquette. She doesn’t see how she could have, not with years spent at that finishing school under her belt. And surely not with years spent trying to make certain that everything she did in deed and words was perfect.

Azula doesn’t remember it being quite so exhausting, however.

Eventually, she will purposefully allow herself to slip. She can’t let rumours spread.

Guangting is a shadow at her right elbow, hovering close. He looks far more overwhelmed in this setting than she had imagined he would. He always seems so collected. It’s why she’d singled him out for promotion amongst her officers when she had first earned rank. But his floundering shows in this crowd.

Azula keeps her hands clasped firmly either at her back or at her sides, resisting the urge to reach out for him in the sea of people. She feels dangerously normal in the silk robes they’d managed to find at the shop earlier in the day, and she wants to anchor herself back to her new normal. She doesn’t dare act on the impulse in front of a crowd.

To her left, some noble women glance at her from behind their open fans, leaning in to whisper to one another. To her right, some men let out a raucous laugh and continue on in their private conversations. She is not wanted in either crowd.

Azula turns to look at Guangting, and though she is careful not to let too much slip, he reads the exasperation in her features all the same. He offers her a tight smile.

“Should I get you something stronger?” he asks, nodding at her cup. Azula glances down at the cleverly disguised glass of water that she holds poised between her fingers, and then shakes her head.

“No. I wouldn’t want to lose my composure around these people.”

He nods, surveying the room with a sweeping glance.

“Hard to make friends and connections when everyone is avoiding you,” Guangting says then.

Azula scoffs. “I feared that it might be this way,” she answers.

Guangting looks at her in surprise. She realises she’s slipped up. She backtracks.

“I just mean that when you’re born outside of privilege, it’s not as though the privileged in this country are all that interested in raising you up to be their equal.”

Guanting nods again, expression softening to understanding of the observation. Azula takes a sip of her water.

Out of the crowd, a man wades toward them, his dark hair slicked back into the long braid that seems popular still amongst the Earth Kingdom elites. His face closely resembles what she remembers of the build of the Earth King’s features. Azula turns to face him, expecting that she is finally about to be greeted by the party’s host.

When he stops before her, she is proven correct.

“Commander Hui Yin,” he bows just slightly, hands out before him, “it is truly a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Azula returns the gesture, bowing far lower, knowing her place. The ornamentation on the top of her head strains at her scalp, pulling at her hair with the downward momentum of her bow. She frowns at the floor before schooling her features as she straightens once again.

“I am Lord Shenlong, Grand Secretariat of Ba Sing Se. I am so glad that you could make it to this small gathering of mine.”

The title shocks her somewhat. Azula manages to keep her expression schooled, unaffected, but her heart thunders loudly in her ears, fluttering behind her rib cage. She knows what the title truly conceals, and it is as though her worst nightmares  have come to life before her eyes, staring at her in apathetic interest.

Shenlong, Grand Secretariat; Leader of the Dai Li.

She knows that her posture has stiffened. She can feel the strain in her shoulders and her gut. She forces herself to smile cooly, demure.

“Lord Shenlong,” she greets, bowing her head once more, “it is an honour to have been invited to mingle with so many members of Ba Sing Se’s upper echelons. I am flattered by the thought you have spared for me.”

“Yes, well…You are an anomaly,” he says with an oily smile of his own, “and when I heard that you would finally be visiting our fine capital, I knew that I could not let the opportunity to meet you face to face go to waste.”

Azula forces a light, lilting, laugh.

“My Lord has spared far too much thought for one so lowly as myself,” she tells him. “Growing up, I could not have imagined myself in a place like this.”

“I would guess not,” Shenlong answers. When he smiles it is knife thin and insincere.

Azula feels herself relax. This is a game that she knows.

His intrigues are, like those of all of the nobles in this room, of the lowest brow imaginable. At least in this context. She can feel the disdain dripping from him at the idea that someone as lowly as Hui Yin has made it as far as Azula has managed to push herself. From backwoods foot soldier to ranking officer ready to receive accolades and appointments from the court. The intrigue is petty, and ill thought out, and predictable. Perhaps the worst offence of all, especially in the hands of the leader of the Dai Li, whose power Azula knows first hand.

She takes another sip from her cup, unruffled, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For the first time, she notes the presence of a couple of other noblemen, hovering by Shenlong’s elbow, waiting to see what happens, or to participate if they feel that they might be able to do so.

“And how do you like the upper ring,” he asks then, “if I heard correctly down the grapevine, and I always do, you are to receive more than just accolades for your accomplishments. My cousin is set to award you a title as well. Soon you’ll be the honourable Hui Yin. Perhaps a military minister even.”

When she is certain that she will be able to speak without the wavering of ambition and excitement in her voice, Azula opens her mouth to answer, “It is very fine; I’m unused to such luxuries, even with my rank. There’s little that could be described as glamorous about manning a desert outpost or wading through mud in the Southern swamps.”

“So I would imagine…” he says, eyebrows arched.

There is a calculated look in his eye that has Azula’s spine crawling. It’s a look that she knows from childhood. Her father’s look, the look of Long Feng, their last Grand Secretariat. Probably a look that Azula has worn a hundred times in her life or more. He is trying to discern something about her, or figure out what might be her weakness. How to get under her skin. How to control her; find her vulnerable underbelly so that he can turn her iniquities to his own advantage.

Or, he already knows something and the Dai Li are lying in wait for her back in the borrowed house that she is staying in.

She wonders how good Guangting would be in a real fight. They’ve hardly seen the sort of battle that Azula was used to in the war. They’ve mostly been herding peasants and quelling their unorganized uprisings. She looks down briefly at the toes of her silk slippers, peeking out from under the robes that she purchased for the party.

Guangting’s an earth bender. He will be better than nothing.

“I must say that I am surprised commander,” Shenlong says then.

Azula looks up at him once more, eyebrows raised in a mild expression.

“I had heard rumours of your beauty,” Shenlong continues, “but I had thought them greatly exaggerated. It’s strange enough that a woman should be serving in the army at all, let alone one with a face such as yours.”

Recognition of the slight flickers briefly through Azula’s mind, and then a sharp smile spreads her red painted lips thin against her teeth. She holds herself perfectly still, feeling the anger tremble in her pulse despite her best efforts. Ah ha. He had found an edge to pick at after all.

“I’m afraid that I have no idea what you mean, my Lord. What do my looks have to do with it?” She plays dumb, though she is coiled tight as a snake, ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

“Well, surely it is just the novelty of a woman strategizing like a man that has gained you such recognition,” he posits casually. Around him, the men that have come to hear her speak look at one another, snickering, hiding smug smiles behind their sleeves as though she has not already seen them.

In the Fire Nation, Azula reflects, no one would have had the gall to say such a thing to her, whether she had been the princess or not. A fighting body was a fighting body, and military talent was prized amongst men and women. What her face looks like would have had nothing to do with it.

She feels her smile strain at the edges, and at her elbow, Guangting shifts. She thinks perhaps he might say something on her behalf, so she quickly responds before he has the chance to defend her.

“You are probably right,” she says, forcing her voice to steady sweetness. With his lean features and pointed beard (the slope of his nose), Shenlong reminds her once again of her father. Or perhaps it is merely his words which are playing a trick on her mind.

Even when he had been lifting her up, her father had had the uncanny ability to make her feel lesser than.

“But even this lowly woman’s tactics have led my men to many victories for the Earth Kingdom, in the name of your second cousin, our benevolent King.” She bows again, hands folded against her thighs this time. The soft ties of her deep green, waist high, ruqun strain at her middle as she breathes deeply into her gut, settling her anger.

“That is all of the assurance that I need to know I am following the correct path in my life, my Lord.”

He says nothing, but Azula can feel the force of Shenlong’s gaze against the crown of her head.

“Of course,” he says, “you are so humble. Our great hero.” There is a sneer in his voice, but he remains as poised as Azula. Around him, the men that have gathered to listen murmur their agreement, hiding their own disdain behind their politicians’ facades once more.

“Come, Commander. Walk with me. Let’s leave this hubbub so that we might speak more privately. I’ve been just dying to pick your brain.”

Azula straightens, searching his expression for any hint of what might be to come. There is no hint there.

She nods finally, gesturing to the Grand Secretariat to lead the way. Shenlong accepts the invitation, wading through the crowd. It parts before them once everyone has noticed who is trying to get through. She is glad for the warmth of Guangting at her back.

They step out of the large gathering hall and onto the walkway which overlooks the estate’s grand gardens. Azula has grown appreciative of such things in her adulthood. She breathes the sweet scent of late summer blossoms in through her nose and smiles briefly before she returns to the task at hand.

Namely, what Shenlong is planning, and how she will avoid it, if she can.

He comes to a halt, hands folded at his back whilst he observes the full spread of his gardens.

“Remind me, Commander, where was it that you’re from again?”

“Nowhere that my Lord would likely have heard of,” she answers simply, coming to stand even with him at the edge of the walkway. A breeze brushes against her cheek, cool. It comes off of the mountains. They might be in for a storm.

“Humour me,” he requests.

Azula smiles again, bemused. He suspects something, she thinks, but she isn’t certain what tipped him off. It could have been any number of things, she supposes. The colour of her eyes comes to mind, though there are plenty of men and women with something akin to them in the Earth Kingdom. A hundred years of colonization will do that.

“Northern Chu Li,” she answers finally. A place that had long been occupied by the Fire Nation. The best choice for someone who looks like her to say they’re from, if they’re lying.

“And your parents?”

“Passed on, my Lord. They were farmers.”

“Simple farmers?” He sounds slightly surprised by the news. She had thought that her fabricated story would be more well known by now. Then again, perhaps he is lying, just like her. “And yet you have such a military mind.”

Azula lets her smile grow mild, tolerant.

“Just because we were farmers does not mean that we are not capable of thought, my Lord.”

Behind her she can hear Guangting shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

“I suppose that is true,” he answers in a drawl. She sees Shenlong look sidelong at her out of the corner of her eye. “Did you know that the man who was cultural minister of Ba Sing Se before myself came from a similarly remote province. Similarly small. He also came from nothing, and yet he managed to become Grand Secretariat of Ba Sing Se…”

Shenlong turns his attention back to the garden, and Azula waits for him to make his point, bemused. Of course she had known at the time. His history had been written all over him. She had seen his struggle in the lines of his face, and the way in which he had stubbornly clung to power despite knowing already that he had lost.

“No my Lord,” she answers simply, “I didn’t.”

“Yes…He was a powerful man, too, but in the end it was nobility who overthrew him, and it is nobility now who stands in his place. Better at his job than he ever was.”

She might contest that, but Azula does not know Shenlong all that well, and anything is possible. Long Feng had not been the best of the best but he had been close. Anyone could be overthrown given the correct circumstances.

“I don’t think I am following your point, Lord Shenlong,” she says after a moment, sounding a little bored. Azula looks over at him, straining her chin upward to take in his full height. He looks at her too, green eyes crinkling at the edges in a smile.

“My point is that you enjoy quite a bit of power now, and will likely enjoy more, but given your humble beginnings I have no doubt that eventually you will fumble in that power. It was not meant for one such as you. But I can help you hang onto it as long as possible, and perhaps set you up for life after that power is gone.”

Azula raises her eyebrows, amused.

“That is a very generous offer, my Lord. What exactly would you want me to do for you, should I accept the invitation?”

“Errands…Taking care of things here and there for me when I cannot take care of them myself…” He gestures lazily with a hand, pursing his lips.

Azula swallows a laugh and a smile.

“..May I consider the offer at length and come back to you with my decision,” she inquires.

Shenlong looks at her for some time, expression inscrutable, and then finally nods, seeming satisfied with the answer.

“Of course. Is a week long enough? You should be on your way back to your station by then, yes?”

“That’s correct,” she replies, “I will have my answer for you by then.”

This time he does smile, and he reaches out a hand toward her, seeming confident already that she will agree to his terms. Azula accepts his hand, and they shake firmly for a moment. Not exactly an Earth Kingdom tradition, but it’s as good as anything to seal a verbal contract.

Shenlong slips his hands into his sleeves, and bows his head briefly toward her.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Commander. I look forward to hearing your answer,” he says, turning to walk back in to the party.

Azula watches him go, expression smooth as glass, and only when he has disappeared into the crowd does she look at Guangting, raising her eyebrows. She smirks. He returns the expression, though he seems considerably more troubled by what has just happened than she is.

*

The evening ends in a fashion that is not entirely uncommon these days. Her back pressed against a wall, and Guangting’s mouth on hers as they paw at one another’s clothing. When they break for air, panting, Guangting picks Azula up off of the floor to lumber with her over to the bed. He smiles broadly before tossing her down to the soft mattress.

It’s too soft. She misses the solid ground under a thin cot.

“I suppose after tomorrow I am going to have to start calling you ‘my lady’,” he says playfully, climbing in after her. The mattress bounces with every movement he makes, crawling up over her body.

Azula checks covertly for anyone watching in the shadows, amber eyes flashing about the room to see if the Dai Li stand waiting for them. Waiting to begin her undoing, waiting to take her to Lake Laogai and brainwash her on behalf of Shenlong. They are not there.

Guangting's dark hair has fallen from its top knot, her own handy work. It’s a curtain about them. Azula can feel one of the pins in her own hair digging into her neck uncomfortably. She ignores it and returns her full attention to what she’s doing in the moment once again.

“Don’t call me that,” she says flatly, neck tilting back to expose more flesh to his searching lips while he trails wet kisses along her skin to her collar.

“Mm…what? You don’t like the idea of being a lady,” he teases. Azula digs her nails into his sides and a hiss of breath sucks its way through Guangting’s teeth. It’s her turn to smile, knife thin and satisfied.

“No,” she answers, breathless. Her expression has turned wicked.

If anyone asks, she had not been looking for whatever it is that exists between herself and Guangting. Certainly, she’d almost been actively avoiding it her entire adult life. But whatever sits between herself and her second-in-command seems to come as naturally as breathing to them. And it does feel good to give in, every now and then.

His tongue traces the raised skin of an old scar which runs like a crevasse over her abdomen. She shivers, gasping out involuntarily. Azula bites her lip and lets her head tip back against the silk pillows of the borrowed bed in their borrowed apartments. Her borrowed apartments.

He brings his head back up, hovering close in the ever dimming light of the few candles that still burn in the room. She can feel his breath against her face.

“Well, Lord Shenlong was right about one thing.”

She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed. He is very quickly killing the mood, and she’s so very rarely in the mood in the first place.

“And what might that be?” she asks, snappish.

“You do have a face that’s meant for portraits.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes.

“Is that so?”

“It is.” He grins at her, and Azula cannot help but find it…slightly endearing. Slightly.

Guangting kisses her deeply, and Azula’s mind falls dizzyingly silent. She allows herself to be wrapped up in him.

[insomniasix]

The Lady.

Ok, so since I started making my old fics FFXV related, I’ve decided to make all of them as such. I’ll add them to a Masterlist of their own later on. 

This is a piece I created for a competition and I thought it fit perfectly for @nemo-ne-impune-lacessit ‘s Evita Hemlock and Ignis. So I did something with that. 

Some might’ve already read it before (It’s been uploaded before) but I finally fixed some of my own mistakes and added a few more FFXV lines and events in it. 

Words: 2782 | Characters: Evita Hemlock , Six Ulric , Ignis Scientia | Trigger Warnings: Death, Fire, Injury and some more death along the way.

Thank you for taking the time to read! I hope you like it!

“Tell me a little about yourself.” The man with the dirty-blond hair asked.

He’s from Insomnia. Evita was certain because of his accent. Born and raised. You don’t really see psychologist from Insomnia. After the fall, there was only one other she’d come across. Ignis seemed to know a few things though.

Her molten gold eyes kept wondering behind him, following the patterns of the dark green. Under different circumstances, Evita would be mesmerized by his incredible features. A face build by perfect carves and lines, no scars or wrinkles; and those eyes, emerald green and filled with compassion and love, even for the people he didn’t know. Like her.

She wondered for a second. Could a person really carry on with such feelings? Or is it simply part of his job?

She didn’t care about it. She didn’t care about anything anymore!

In any other time, she and her sister, Six, would be rendered speechless under the gaze of such a man.

“He’s the man of your dreams, isn’t he?” she heard her sister’s stern voice.

She’d thought about it a couple of times; a man worthy of her own beauty.

Evita was a young lady, she was to turn twenty on the next week; she didn’t care about that either.

Tall, olive skinned, with golden almond-shaped eyes and coper colored, short, messy hair. Her black streak always being her trademark.

She looked a lot like her mother. Or so she remembered.

She didn’t have time for romance.

Evita and Six grew up alone. They were orphaned at a young age when the apartment they all lived in caught on fire. The flames taking mommy and daddy with them.

That wasn’t the reason she’d decided to visit the psychologist, though. The reason was… a dream!

“Evie?” she heard his calm voice ring inside her ears. It felt like an invisible hand, caressing her away from her dark thoughts, away from the wall her eyes kept staring at; leading her straight to his soft lips.

She wanted to listen to him, hear his advice. Take it, so she could save herself. Or so she thought.

“Daydreaming?” he blessed her with a soft smile.

“There’s no reason to dream anymore.” The words fell from her lips like whisper. She didn’t want the world to listen. The world she’d come to know, was cruel, judging, painful. There was no place in it for her. “The world doesn’t give you a reason to dream.”

“How about life?” the young man asked again, mesmerized by her way of thinking; by the darkness that surrounded her.

“Life is just a game, doc.” She smiled a bitter smile.

“Please, call me Ignis. Would you care to elaborate on that notion? Is life a game for you?” it was incredible, there was nothing but compassion in his voice. No hate, no fear, no dread towards her, her words, her idea of the world.

That was… new.

“Not just for me. For everyone. It’s just a pointless, stupid game, that someone, somewhere came up with. A game where all of us are bound to play by someone else’s rules. Forced to do whatever others tell us. Unable to leave whenever we want; just whenever they get bored of us. When they’ve had enough. We all have our own daemons, but…” she took a few seconds to blink the hot tears away from her eyes, rearranging her thoughts as her eyes darkened “ you can get out of it if she blesses you. If she accepts to put you out of this misery we’ve learned to call life. It’s not always a blessing though. Sometimes, it’s the exact opposite.”

“Who is she?”

Evita smiled wearily “Lady Death. The forbidden child of Shiva and Ifrit. The cursed child; abandoned by the Six Astrals and the world beyond.”

Ignis wrote something on his notebook “So you wish to tell me, Death… is a female figure.”

“Isn’t every wrong thing in the world a female figure?” she smirked “The Original Sin: Eos, Shiva, Leviathan; everything began with them.”

“I am curious,” Ignis continued after nodding at her chain of thought “this… Lady Death, tell me about her. Explain to me, how do you picture her?”

Evita’s look was dead serious the second the words left his lips “I don’t picture her, Iggy.” Her voice strong and low “She’s not a fragment of my imagination. I’ve seen her.”

Ignis’ heart skipped a beat at her words, a certain uneasiness taking its hold on him. He fixed his glasses before continuing “The dream for which you came to me.”

“Not exactly.” She breathed, her eyes falling upon the texture on the wall once more “See, it wasn’t a dream.” She explained what the Lady was for her “A tall figure, young face, a thin yet strong presence. Long dark hair, hugging her body like a vail; and her eyes… milky white and screaming chaos! Spreading terror as they fascinate any soul that dares to look at them. She always wears a long dark tunic, taking extra care not to hide her beautify terrifying face. On her right hand, a scythe, even more monumental than her own form, a shiny blade under which countless souls have fallen! That’s how she answers your song, when you call for her. Her face,” Evita let out a heartening sigh and a shiver run down Ignis’ spine as his blood had started to freeze. He didn’t know why, but something in her words, in the meaning of them, seemed so alive, so real; like he could almost see her, standing by her side “her face is so sad. She doesn’t like what she’s doing. Though, there’s no other way, she, herself, is just another pawn of the Astrals.”

“Stop telling him everything! He doesn’t need to know.” She heard her sister’s voice once again. Six was there, whispering in her ears.

Evita stopped talking.

“Can anyone call for her?” Ignis asked. He was so absorbed by her, he hadn’t written anything down in his notebook. Thinking back on that little detail, he smiled to himself for having pressed the recording button.

Evita didn’t answer. She was waiting for Six’s blessing to do so. The latter didn’t speak. She just walked around the room a little longer. Her silver eyes falling on every single picture and frame the doctor had, hanging on the rooms walls. Pictures of his trip with his friends.

“You can tell me.” Ignis smiled “I don’t plan on calling her anytime soon.”

Evita’s eyes fell on Six’s figure, right behind him, leaning against the dark green wall with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Tell him then. I’m not sure Her Highness will be more bothered than I am.”

Evita opened her mouth, as if to say something but closed it right away. She took a small breath, trying to pick the right words “Have you heard of the Swan Song?”

“Yes.” Ignis answered, filled with interest and need for knowledge “Swans sing before they die.”

“That’s just what humans do as well. A little before we die, we let out a soundless scream of sorrow and regret. To her ears, that scream takes the form of a song. A summoning spell.”

“How is it that you have seen her, then?” Ignis thought about her words “You’re still here.”

“It all started when my parents died. I was twelve years old and my sister was fifteen. Our apartment caught on fire because my mother forgot that damn cigarette before dad threw it away.” Six let out a huffed laugh at the thought of one thing leading to another. “It all happened so fast; I can’t recall how fast the fire spread along the house. I just remember… Her! She came for mommy and daddy. She came for me! She lowered herself above me, like a mother, tucking her beloved child in bed before sleep. She whispered how it wasn’t my time, but we were to meet again. She moved so quickly, yet I, like the little child I was, followed. I needed to see; I needed to know what she was doing. Who she was.” She took a breath in, eyes wondering, following her sister’s moving figure; falling on the mesmerized eyes of her listener “They sang for her! I could hear their call. She lowered herself over them, like she’d done for me and; I couldn’t understand why but… she cried for them. It was only a single, heavy tear. When it fell and touched their foreheads, they went silent.”

Ignis was nailed in place. Unable to move, like her words were hands, keeping him down in his seat. Everything he heard, so real. Like he was the one to live through it. Like it was his parents, leaving their last breath in the arms of the dark-dressed woman. Images bombarding his mind; the apartment, the fire, the Lady in black, the shaking of fear and the smell of dread.

“And then,” Evita continued “She opened her ripped black wings and the room went dark.” She mimicked the movement a bird makes when it flatters it’s wings “I woke up in my sister’s arms the next morning. Six never spoke about it, but she’d seen her too. I know. I could see it in her eyes.”

“So tell me, Ignis.” she ordered after a few seconds of silence, her eyes glued to his “How can two kids, who had never felt pain or misery in their lives, dream about such horrid things? How can all this be but a dream? Let me tell you.” she smiled “It’s just another rule. What one cannot understand, must be just a bad dream. ‘Childish Imagination’ the previous doctor called it. ‘A teenager’s dark subconscious’. Six and I know better than that.”

“Talk to me about your sister.” Ignis tried changing the subject, get her mind working on something else “Did she treat you right? Were you happy with her?”

“He’s pushing it.” Six roared, behind gritted teeth. Getting very close to his face while he just sat there, not even flinching; not paying any attention to anything but Evita.

“You’re pushing it, doc.” Evita’s eyes moved from her sister to him “We’re here because of the ‘dream’; not my sister.”

“I’m just trying to understand, Evie. Help me put the pieces together.”

“He’s either very good at his job, or a complete idiot!” Six breathed, raising her eyebrow at him. This time she was sitting in the chair behind him, her intense look not once leaving his figure.

“What should I help you understand?” Evita asked, not paying attention to her sister’s words.

“What brings you here.”

Evita brought Six back to the center of attention, despite her sister’s protests “My sister, Six, is my guardian angel.”

“Is?” Ignis noticed “I thought…”

“You thought right.” Evita cut him off “My sister is dead!”

“We always carry the thought of the ones we lost.” Ignis quoted, fixing his glasses at the bridge of his nose. “Would you tell me how it happened?”

“She was murdered.”

Evita took her time to collect her thoughts while Ignis waited for more information. He pushed her, with his own kind way, so her mind could think of the details, get everything he could out of her. He really wanted to help her move on.

Ignis made a notion with his hand and she continued.

“Her song was beautiful! It was the second time I saw Her. It was a rainy day, back in Insomnia. We hadn’t been back for a year. She went inside the Citadel while I waited with a couple of friends, she had a duty to fulfil. A few moments later, I heard her song and a tear fell down my face. See, the Chancellor of Niflheim was there. He had it out for her ever since she uncovered his plans for the Peace Signing.” Evita looked at the celling, taking a moment for the hot tears to dry out. “And well, here we are.”

“We?” Ignis found himself surprised by her choice of words once again “There’s none other here but you, Evie.”

Evita tilted her head to the side, looking at him with wonder in her eyes “You’re wrong, Ignis.” she said “There’re four of us in this room.”

The blood inside his veins froze solid, terror spreading all over his body. The vision of the young lady he had in front him had changed in an instant. The sweet, innocent version had become cold, like a porcelain doll.

It was only then that he noticed the wounds, scratches and bruises all over her face, neck, arms and legs. There was one, in particular, he got terrified upon noticing. A big wound on her eye! How? When? Why was he noticing them just now?

“What are you saying, Evie?” his voice broke, fear taking the better of him as it consumed his heart and mind.

“You still can’t see her?” Evita smiled a sad smile “She’s right there!” she pointed at the leather couch next to the office’s door.

Ignis’ gaze followed her delicate finger. His eyes instantly falling upon her.

The tall girl with the vail of raven hair and eyes grey as a winter’s cloud. She was dressed in white, just like Evita and she was also covered in wounds and scratches. Ignis’ eyes fell upon the left side of her entire body –the parts he could see anyway. It seemed as if it was still burning. How was that possible? The wound seemed to start at the middle of her cheek, running down to her fingers and toes.

“Hey, Iggy!” Six waved with a smile when he’d finally realized she was actually there as well.

“Who are you?” Ignis raised from his seat “How did you get in here?”

“Get –“ Six sighed while rolling her eyes “I was here from the start. You were just not ready to see us.”

“See… you?” he was starting to lose it, he was sure of it “Evita, what –“

When his eyes fell upon her, Evita’s dress was covered in blood, seemingly running down from the wound on her eye. He run to her side, wanting to help her; but she just stared at his direction, her golden eyes now milky white and her face… nothing like he was expecting.

Ignis expected to come across something. Pain, agony. The only emotion she showed was… regret.

That’s when he remembered.

“Lady Death.” He whispered, feeling his heart ready to burst out.

“Can you see her now?” She asked.

“I…” he’s voice broke at the emotions bombarding his mind “This can’t be happening.” He fell on his knees in front of her.

“It’s all just a dream.” Evita caressed his cheek while she explained as he leaned into her touch “Your way of avoiding the pain. All the stories you heard from me; all yours. The fire, that took your parents when Niflheim attacked Insomnia. The ‘murder’ of your ‘brother’, Noctis. All yours! Your very own Swan Song.”

Ignis’ eyes where filled with agony when he looked at her again “Who are you?”

“I am a Reaper.” She smiled wearily “I’m here to remind you of who you truly are.”

Ignis burst out in tears at her words, realizing it was his time. That this was real.

“Your song is the most beautiful tone I’ve ever heard!” Evita breathed “You truly do not want to die!”

“But you must come with us.” Six stepped in, voice stern and yet breaking for him “Accept the end.”

And then, amongst the pain, the fear and the agony that ripped his heart apart, Ignis saw her standing in the corner, near the exit door.

A dark, shapeless figure; moving closer with every passing second. A single ray of light running along the blade of her scythe.

“My Lady.” He managed to say in between his shallow breaths her sad gaze caused.

‘She doesn’t like what she’s doing.’ He heard Evita’s words in his mind again ‘She’s just another pawn of the Astrals!’

“She’s not here for us, Ignis.” the sisters said in unison, their merged voice caressing his ears like a song “She’s here for you.”

Ignis looked at her through his eyelashes, coming across her haunting, void eyes. She bowed above him and shed a single tear. Suddenly, all the feelings he felt were gone. Pain had become peace, sorrow had become bliss.

It was all over.

But he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything anymore!

Lady Death stretched her black, ripped wings and darkness fell over the room.

“Death,” she whispered in a haunting screech “is only the beginning.”

Tagging: @nemo-ne-impune-lacessit @mzargentum @nykamito @thedragontamerying @fieryfantasy @ladye11e @glacian-apocalypse @asonataspassions (If you want to be added or removed please let me know! Thank you again!)

[inventors-fair]

Bad Commentary pt. 1

@ceta-maelstrom - Let Go of the Past

A fair concept, certainly within Green’s color pie. I think you overcomplicated this card. I’d rather a set cost, with “Exile any number of creature card from your graveyard. For each creature exiled this way, put a +1/+1 counter on target creature you control and you gain 1 life.” It could be a very powerful card in limited with a graveyard theme if the cost is aggressive enough.

@connoissuer-of-fine-vines - Prolonged Interrogation

I also think that this card is fine. I’d rather it be rare than mythic, but to be fair, 10 possible life (if you have a strong discard shell) is pretty rough, so I may be wrong there. Flavor-wise? Interrogation is hard to capture. We have Coerced Confession also in black-blue, so it’s THERE, certainly. This is a good starting point. If we were on a creative design, I’d gather folks to talk about ways interrogation could be conveyed, what would be the best way to do it, etc. Again, I’m thinking out loud here. This is a pretty good design!

@custommagiccards - Break Ties

Unless there’s some emblematic things happening, shouldn’t it be indestructible until end of turn? For specific wording, you don’t have to put “to cast this spell” - “this way” works, like on Devouring Greed/Vicious Betrayal. As for power level, man, I love the flavor but I really worry about the amount of stuff you can sink into a one-mana pump! Indestructible is big, too. I do like this concept. Ooh, and it’s making me think of another card, a common black cleric that, when it dies, makes an opponent lost life equal to the greatest power among creatures you control - making this spell even better and making for a decent bear.

@dimestoretajic - Era of Control.

I don’t like this card. It’s really cool. It’s not for me! But it’s REALLY cool. See, I’d hate to play against it because I know that someone would use it for a crazy cruel control deck? But it’s also a deck I know I would enjoy playing. Regarding the wording, I believe the first ability should have them choose permanents they control. The second replacement should be, I believe, “If a creature or land would enter the battlefield while its controller controls four or more permanents of the same type, exile it instead.” No, that...probably isn’t it. But it should check for permanent types, I believe. I’m not sure, type-changing shenanigans are hard.

@emmypupcake - Xenophobia

Great concept. I think to make it even more powerful, it should affect all creatures instead of just yours. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing just for you! In limited, man, that could be crazy. I’m sure there are a bunch of constructed decks that would like it as well. Anti-tribal piece? Insane.

@follower-of-liliana - Prolong Suffering

Hm. I love Climax as a multiplayer mechanic, speeding up the game in a crazy fast manner. Reminds me of Undaunted, but more flavorful. This card is insanely narrow, and I really don’t like how specific it is for its shell. BB or even B for some copying shenanigans is great. Curses? I wish there were more and better played curses to make this card work. Keep this mechanic around, though. It’s so, so cool. 

Just to expand for a moment: I feel that there is a notion that multiplayer mechanics such as Undaunted are also based on cards that are universal and simple. Prolong Suffering is grokable as a card but again, its narrowness requires it to be built around, instead of having the ability to be put in any kind of multiplayer-focused deck, which is one of the major strengths of Undaunted cards.

@fractured-infinity - Price of Power

I have a couple questions about this card. Why leave one creature, instead of sacrificing all of them? You’re the one in control, flavorfully, and it’s symmetrical (kind of) with discarding all the cards in your hand. Why can’t it be countered? Villains - or those who sacrifice all for power - do lose sometimes. I’m not sure I like that this card can nuke artifacts and enchantments in mono-black, and I’m not sure I like the seven-cost. But! If this was a five-drop with simplified abilities, I’d like it a lot more, because the effect is solid.

@i-am-the-one-who-wololoes - Sacrifice for Safety

Heh, the name’s right on the nose, ain’t it. I was wondering why this card was three mana, considering Eerie Interlude exists, then I saw that it was uncommon. I like the notion of this being a powerhouse like Scapegoat for the modern era. Concerning? In limited, probably. Combolicious? I doubt it. Powerful? Definitely. I’d have to see it played to feel whether or not this card necessarily needs to exist on top of Eerie Interlude.

@illharg-the-rave-boar - Fiery Crash

HA. NICE. Narrow, powerful, sideboard-licious, and so much flavor. Not much to say here, except that kids, don’t drink and drive, or a mage is going to fireball you to death.

@nine-effing-hells - Banality of War

Considering Porphyry Nodes, I wonder if this card can just be B. But you’re probably right, BB is... A little less worrisome, heh. Nothing new here, but still a card that’d be easy to slide into a set. That flavor text makes me shudder a little too, so good work there.

(Part two coming soonish maybe.)