#Locke's principles of justice

[jayselegy]

*rocking myself back and forth on the floor* college is good I like college it’s all good I’m getting an education it’s going to help college is good it’s good that I’m here

[imfromthemiddlekingdom]

From what little of Lyanna that is flushed out in the books I must say, I do enjoy her as a wild and unflinchingly herself noble with little to no regard as to how other people perceive her. What I do not like however is the fandom characterization of her as a wilting flower that needed Rhaegar to steal her away from her big brute of a betrothed Robert.

We know she had a sensitive side to her due to her crying after Rhaegars performance, but we also know that she was a principled young woman with how she saw injustice being done to her fathers banner man and decided to take matters into her her own hands to distribute justice on those squires.

I cannot imagine a girl who was disgusted with Robert’s whoremongering ways would be happy to be the other woman to Elias marriage. This is why I don’t buy into her running away with Rhaegar if he promised to marry her and annual his marriage with Elia. A girl who didn’t want to marry Robert because he was a manwhore in every sense of the word would not have resigned herself to a mistress position. She was principled but wild and young but still principled.

This is why I don’t buy into the fandom characterization of Lyanna being happy to ruin a marriage because she loved Rhaegar. The most plausible scenario, for me, is that Rhaegar promised her freedom in the south to either become a knight, or joining the royal household which would delay her marriage. She was 15 but I don’t think she was stupid enough to believe that she would’ve been happy if Rhaegar set aside his kids with Elia to marry her. The whole ‘Lyanna and Rhaegar were in love!!! She was totally happy in the tower of joy!!!!’ Even if they were in love at the beginning and she did agree to run away with Rhaegar to start a new life, do you think she’d still be happy when news came that her brother and father were killed by her new father in law? Do you think she would’ve been happy being a prisoner in a tower in Dorne when all she wanted was to be free and wild?

If there were any love in Lyanna for Rhaegar, I think it would’ve disappeared the moment he locked her in a tower and the moment news came that her eldest brother and father was dead because of her. If Rhaegar even told her that they were dead.

[vixenmulder]

Jedi don’t have fun!

Summary: Reader and Yord go undercover in a bar, and accidentally distract each other on an important mission

Warnings: alcohol, kissing

—————

The glaring yellow lights from buildings reflected in dirty puddles on the ground, and the smell of cooking food and garbage mixed unpleasantly in the humid air.

Yord and Y/N were making their way through the crowded streets of the city, their hoods pulled low over their faces to maintain their anonymity. It seemed an unusual setting for two Jedi, blending into the bustling nightlife, but their mission required them to be discreet in their pursuit of the drug smuggler they had been tailing for weeks.

The limping figure ahead stopped looked around and then entered a bar, still completely oblivious to the two people that had been following him on his night time excursion. Y/N and Yord didn’t even exchange a glance as they followed him into the bar.

Yord, ever the rule-follower, was uncomfortable in the noisy, chaotic environment of the bar. The sounds of raucous laughter and clinking glasses grated on his nerves amidst the buzz of countless conversations. He preferred the tranquil stillness of the Jedi Temple, where his mind could be at peace. Yet, there was no denying the thrill of the chase and the satisfying closure that came with bringing a smuggler to justice.

In contrast, Y/N seemed to thrive in the chaos. Her carefree smile and quick wit effortlessly charmed those around her, as she ordered a drink from the bar, laughing pleasantly and paying, carefully picking up both drinks. In her civilian clothes she blended in perfectly, while Yord felt stiff and severe compared to her.

As they settled into a quiet corner booth, the shadows played on Yord's face. His demeanor, serious and composed, stood in stark contrast to Y/N's laid-back demeanor. Despite the gravity of their mission, she wore a playful smirk, unfazed by the dangerous endeavor ahead. Her eyes darted around the bar, observant, taking in every movement. The only thing betraying her nonchalant attitude was the occasional flicker of anticipation in her gaze as she locked onto their target across the room.

Yord, unable to shake off his disciplined attitude, meticulously studied the smuggler from afar, noting his every movement. On the other hand, Y/N, with her mischievous eyes, couldn't help but lean towards Yord, whispering comments and observations about the patrons of the bar. Although Yord attempted to maintain his seriousness, he struggled to ignore the warmth of her proximity and the subtle scent of her hair that filled his senses. He mentally berated himself for letting his focus slip, reprimanding himself for allowing such feelings to surface in the middle of their mission.

The drug smuggler, a burly figure with a rugged face marred by a network of scars, sat at the bar, nursing a drink. He was surrounded by a small group of shady-looking individuals, seemingly engaged in idle chatter that potentially masked the exchange of illegal substances. Y/N and Yord watched closely from their booth, their gazes unwavering yet subtle, avoiding drawing any unnecessary attention.

Yord shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the discomfort etched onto his face betraying his thoughts. The noise, the smoke-filled air, and the presence of strangers, all violated the his beloved principles of control and peace. Y/N on the other hand (much to Yord’s annoyance) had begun her favourite stake-out pass time, making up stories.

She was giggling and creating absurd backstories for random bar-goers around them, sometimes finding herself so funny that she whole figure shook violently with restrained laughter. She smiled wildly leaning in to whisper to him again “-that girl that’s with the disgraced priest, I bet she met him at a the circus, and-“

"You really ought to take this seriously," Yord whispers sternly, his gaze flicking between the target and her.

Y/N sighs, a playful glint in her eyes. "Lighten up, Yord. You know I can handle both the case and a few jokes. Multi-tasking, have you heard of it?"

She takes a sip of her drink, amused by his disapproving demeanor. His eyes roll in playful annoyance, but beneath the feigned irritation lies a hint of affection for her carefree nature. Yord sighed, the familiar frustration with Y/N's lighthearted approach surfacing again. "You can't keep getting distracted by every ‘amusing’ person in this bar. We're here for one reason."

“You made me lose my train of thought about the circus…” Y/N pouted clearly not listening and bringing a hand to her chin thinking hard.

Yord gives an exasperated sigh, shifting in his seat. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

Her laughter echoes quietly, the sound sending an unexpected airy flutter through his chest.

"You love it, though," she teases, her voice soft. "Admit it."

His stomach does a summersault, and he averts his gaze, busying himself with observing the smuggler once more.

"Focus, please. We're on a mission here, not out for a night of entertainment."

“Speak for yourself!” She smiled and stretched slightly arm brushing up against his own as she does.

Yord exhales, trying and failing to hide a smirk at her response. He feels uncomfortable in his seat, aware of the proximity between them. He wants to scold her further about keeping her mind on the mission, but he knows how little effect his words have on her carefree spirit, and even if she doesn’t act like it she is in fact paying very close attention to the smuggler. He just can’t let her know that she’s right about multitasking.

"You make it difficult to stay focused," he mutters, more to himself than her.

Y/N grins at his comment, her eyes dancing with suppressed laughter. She leans back in her seat, her arm brushing against his once again in the cramped space. The feel of her body against his sends a jolt of warmth down his spine. He mentally chides himself for reacting, knowing he should maintain his disciplined focus.

"That's part of my charm, my dear," she teases. "I've always had a knack for distracting you."

Y/N's eyes twinkle mischievously as she shifts her focus to the bar. The bartender, a stoic figure with a permanent frown, catches her attention. She giggles under her breath, her mind quickly crafting a humorous backstory for the serious bartender.

"You see that grumpy bartender?" she whispers, nudging Yord.

Yord, trying to keep his focus on the target, can't help but roll his eyes jokingly. "Oh no, not this again."

As Y/N begins to make jokes about the bartender, Yord can't help but shake his head in feigned annoyance. Despite his disapproval, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips betrays his true feelings.

She leans in, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "I bet he's not just mixing drinks. He's got a secret identity. Look at that mustache, definitely a cover up for some serious shameful past."

Y/N grins, undeterred by Yord's lack of response. "Oh come on, you're no fun. Just look at him: the way he moves, the way he interacts with the patrons. He's got layers, I can feel it."

Yord chokes on a laugh then feels frustration ride in his throat, and turn his head quickly to scold Y/N and tell her to knock it off, but when he does he is nose to nose with her, not realizing just how close she had leaned in. Her eyes are wide and startled looking back at him.

Yord is caught off guard by the sudden proximity of her face to his, and he falters his intent to chide her now overshadowed by the closeness of their bodies. His mind is blank when Y/N's gaze flicks to the side, her expression subtly changing.

Her eyes lock onto his and she whispers seriously “Do you trust me?” And even through the surprise of the situation his response was immediate. “Yes.”

Y/N abruptly closes the distance between them. Before he can react, her lips are on his, her hands gently clasping his shoulders, and one sliding up his back to his hair. For a moment, his mind goes completely blank. He's utterly frozen, the world shrinking to the feeling of her against him. His mind races struggling to process the situation.

He might die, he can’t believe this is happening. Is he dead? Her smell is overwhelming, the feeling of her delicately kissing him makes him feel things he’s never felt before. He begins to kiss her back and without him noticing she quickly hops a leg over his and straddles him holding his face with both hands so gently. The feeling of his soft face in her palms shoots electricity into her heart, and she vaguely wonders why she’s never done this sooner.

Heat floods Yord’s body and mindlessly he wraps one arm around her lower back his fingers spreading feeling the fabric covering her warm shoulders. How long have they been here? Hours? Days? Years? He wishes that could be the case.

All too soon, Y/N breaks the kiss, her gaze flicking over his shoulder. As their lips part, Yord's senses are captured by her closeness, the sweet scent of her skin, the warmth of her breath, and the rapid beat of his heart in his chest. She begins to move off of him and startled he realizes that both of his hands are on her waist. His heart feels like it’s breaking as he removes them, but the gravity of what just happened sinks in as she settles back down beside him.

Startled, Yord's eyes widen for a moment before he forces himself to maintain a casual facade. Their faces remain close, as they’re still leaned towards each other but in a way that allows them to keep an eye on the smuggler.

“So …What was that?” He said calmly clenching his jaw and trying to slow his breathing, staring at the smuggler through half lidded eyes.

Y/N can feel a subtle blush creeping up her cheeks, but she tries to play it cool. “The smuggler had been glancing at us, and when you looked away he was staring at us and had started to point, I thought he was figuring out who we were and I had to think fast.”

Yord's mind tries to catch up with the events unfolding around him. His lips still tingle from the unexpected kiss and his thoughts are a jumbled mess. He swallows hard, his mind still preoccupied with the memory of her lips against his. "And the first thing you thought of was to kiss me?" he asks, disbelief coloring his voice.

Despite her normally confident demeanor, Y/N is unexpectedly embarrassed by her impulsive action. Her cheeks flush a light pink, a rare flicker of vulnerability in her gaze.

"Just a quick cover-up," she mutters, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "The smuggler was getting suspicious, and this seemed like the quickest way to blend in."

Yord's heart pounds louder in his chest, his thoughts swirling with conflicted emotions. Her momentary embarrassment only adds to his flustered state.

His heart raced as he absorbed her words. Despite the logical explanation, his mind is filled with the lingering feel of her lips on his, the warmth of her body against his, and the overwhelming closeness between them.

He manages to find his voice, still slightly shaken. "You could have just told me," he mutters gruffly. "There were other ways to blend in.”

Y/N gives a sheepish shrug, her cheeks still flushed from embarrassment. "This seemed like the most direct approach," she replies feebly, avoiding his gaze.

Yord can't help but notice how uncharacteristically flustered she is, her usual confidence seemingly shaken by her own impulsive action. He's torn between wanting to chide her further for her recklessness and wanting to pull her closer again.

The tension between them is palpable, the air thick with unspoken words and mixed emotions. He fidgets slightly in his seat, struggling to regain his composure. Her fingers tap along the rim of her drink.

Y/N can feel the weight of his gaze, her heartbeat quickening under his intense stare. She finally meets his eyes, her expression a mixture of embarrassment and something else, something more profound that she can't quite define.

A charged silence hangs between them. Yord can't seem to tear his gaze away from her face, taking in every little detail - the flicker of her lashes, the sheen of her lips, the rising and falling of her chest. His heart hammers in his ears, drowning out the sound of the bustling bar.

Y/N, equally captivated, can feel the tension mounting between them, the air practically crackling with electricity. She swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry.

Yord grapples with the conflicting emotions swirling within him. A part of him longs to pull her closer, to feel the warmth of her body against his again, but another part of him wants to maintain his disciplined demeanor. He studies her face, his gaze roaming over her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, and the subtle flicker of vulnerability in her eyes.

A long moment hangs in the air, filled with unspoken words and electric tension. Finally, he breaks the silence, his voice gruff. "You always have to make things complicated, don't you?"

Y/N opens her mouth to respond, but before she can utter a word, Yord's gaze snaps away from her, focusing again on the smuggler. His expression darkens, his mind shifting back to the mission, his confession would have to wait.

A newcomer has approached the smuggler, engaging him in hushed whispers. Yord and Y/N share a quick glance, silently communicating the need to maintain their cover and listen in.

“Looks like the smuggler's contact arrived."

They watch closely as the two men exchange some small items, their voices too low to be heard above the noise of the bar. The conversation that was just just exchanged between the two Jedi, dropped for now, but far from forgotten.

[hamliet]

hello hamliet, love your meta analysis and they always show me a different perspective. Would love to know your opinion on seperating the art from the artist, if it is possible and if so how to go about it?

A few principles:

Not everyone will reach the same conclusion about whether they are able to separate the artist and art, and that's okay. I can't listen to Michael Jackson. I know people who can. I do not judge them.

That said I guarantee you everyone does this separation for something, so don't throw stones.

Being able to separate it doesn't mean someone endorses an issue. I don't think people who listen to MJ are CSA apologists. Learn to separate what art resonates with people from their own personal morals.

Don't deny what the creator has done. I can't deny that JK Rowling is a toxic transphobe who seems dead set on destroying trans' peoples lives and I want her stopped. Or that Charles Dickens tried to have his wife locked up in an insane asylum to cover up his affair.

Don't fight against justice for the creator. Sorry, JK, but I hope Imane Khelif who is not even trans ends up taking you to the cleaners in court. I want her harmful rhetoric to be stopped. It'd be nice if she changed her mind and repented . Take your own advice JK about how remorse is the only way to put a torn soul back together, but it hurts terribly. But I'm not holding my breath and in the meantime transphobia needs to be stopped.

Competing needs are a thing. Sorry, I have never read a series that addresses losing a parent in the same way Harry Potter does. I have read other series' about this. I've never read one that resonates the same way. I love the series but I do acknowledge the author is actively harming people and make efforts to combat transphobia in my own life.

Be sensitive to the fact that people may feel differently. I'm not going to recommend Harry Potter to someone who is transgender or tell someone they absolutely should read it and must separate author from art. They don't have to. There are some things I can't separate.

Don't deny privilege playing a role in what you can separate and what you can't. It does, because we all have different lives and different triggers, and it's good to check privilege. But life is also really short. Live in the tension. Don't try to ignore it or deny it away.

Have those discussions that are uncomfortable.

No ethical consumption exists under capitalism. I've been mostly boycotting Nestle for... thirteen years now? But I don't think everyone who consumes Nestle is intending to say "oh well" to child slaves in Africa. These children matter just as much as trans children, don't they?

Learn everything about something and something about everything, to quote a professor I once had. Care about everything. Focus all your efforts on one or two causes. You can't save the world but you can help save something.

Acknowledge the reality that humans are contradictory. I think HP as a story has the opposite thematic message to a lot of her current rhetoric. Which isn’t to say it’s perfect.

Don’t fall prey to the stupidity of suddenly denying that art is good bc the author or singer is evil. Every time I see ppl trot out the Ursula Leguin quote on HP I lose brain cells because it is empathically clear that people taking that as some kind of prescient insight have never understood Leguin’s books nor HP nor the complexity and contradictoriness of humanity.

Which also isn’t to say it’s wrong to notice problematic elements in said works that may relate to the issue or may be unrelated. Do critique.

[anarcho-smarmyism]

so i finally went and fixed all the broken links to my educating to overthrow page, where i upload excerpts from nonfiction books i’m reading (sometimes one or two, sometimes nearly the whole damn book) for public consumption. i don’t have a laptop at home now to facilitate uploading quotes from any of the books i’m reading now, but since people have been recirculating a lot of these quotes since i reblogged a lot of them recently, i figured i would make another post directing yall to them. 

if you find any of these quotes helpful or interesting, please find and read the whole thing -bonus points if you use your public library or buy locally (fuck amazon)!

-

“No one is going to give you the education you need to overthrow them. Nobody is going to teach you your true history, teach you your true heroes, if they know that that knowledge will help set you free.” -Assata Shakur

Educating to Overthrow - All quotes and links to educational works.

A link to Googledocs folder with PDFs of many educational works

Lies My Teacher Told Me

The Creation of Patriarchy

Stanford Law Review: Gender, Violence, Race, and Criminal Justice

How Nonviolence Protects the State (PDF)

With Allies Like These: Reflections on Privilege Reductionism (PDF)

The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness

Are Prisons Obsolete? (PDF)

Edward the Dyke and Other Poems

Delusions of Gender (PDF)

Imprisoned Intellectuals (Download PDF)

Between XX and XY: Intersexuality and the Myth of Two Sexes

Capitalist Realism (PDF)

The Revolutionary Ideas of Karl Marx  (PDF)

The Conquest of Bread (PDF)

Rise of the Warrior Cop: The Militarization of America’s Police Forces

Locked Up by Alfredo M. Bonanno (Download PDF)

Testosterone Rex: Myths of Science, Sex, and Society (Download PDF)

Free Comrades: Anarchism and Homosexuality in the United States (PDF)

Killing Hope: U.S. Military and C.I.A. Interventions Since World War II (PDF)

Gender Outlaws: The Next Generation

A History of American in Ten Strikes

Insurrectionary Anarchism: A Reader (PDF)

The Principles of Anarchism (PDF)

The Abolition of Work (PDF)

Mutual Aid: A Factor in Evolution (PDF)

[unfortunatetheorist]

Is Klaus' legal logic of The Bad Beginning sensible?

* Joint Theory: @unfortunatetheorist with @snicketstrange *

Klaus's speech to the audience during the events of The Bad Beginning had a carefully thought-out structure, anchored in deeply rooted legal, but more so ethical, principles. In defence of his sister, who was forced into a marriage, Klaus appears to have adopted a multifaceted approach to challenge the marriage's validity.

Firstly, John Locke.

John Locke was one of the first people to suggest that humans have natural rights. He also wrote a book about this called the 'Two Treatises of Government'.

Klaus likely invoked John Locke's arguments on natural rights to contend that the marriage was not consensual and, therefore, violated his sister's fundamental rights to life and liberty. The idea that the bride must sign "with her own hand" is interpreted here not literally, but as an indicator of action "of her own free will," supported by Locke's principles.

Secondly, Thurgood Marshall.

Thurgood Marshall was the first black Supreme Court Justice of the USA, who fought for the rights of black citizens against Jim Crow's extremely racist ideologies.

His defence of the 14th Amendment may have been used by Klaus to argue that, in cases of ambiguity or doubt, the judge's decision should lean towards protecting the more vulnerable party. This point strengthens the point that, if there is doubt about the how valid Violet's consent is, the legal and ethical obligation is to invalidate the marriage. The 14th Amendment to the United States Constitution is crucial for establishing constitutional rights and consists of various clauses. The most relevant for Klaus's case is probably the Equal Protection Clause, which states that no state may "deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws." Klaus may have leaned especially on this clause to argue that, in situations of uncertainty, i.e. his sister's forced marriage, the interpretation/application of the law should be done in a manner that protects (in this case) Violet. This would align with the principles of the 14th Amendment, using it for equal protection under the law to invalidate the marriage and protect his sister's rights.

Third, Ida B. Wells.

Ida B. Wells was, similar to Thurgood Marshall, an early civil rights campaigner, who campaigned for anti-lynching (a word which here means, opposing the brutally violent act known as lynching).

Klaus likely drew inspiration from Ida B. Wells to assert that everyone has the right to be heard and protected by authorities, regardless of their age or origin. This argument would serve to legitimize his own standing as his sister's defender in court, neutralizing any potential prejudice against him for being a child or, perhaps, belonging to a minority (he and his sisters are Jewish).

Moreover, the presence of a judge at the ceremony should not be viewed as merely a formality, but a control mechanism to ensure mutual consent, something that resonates strongly with Locke and Marshall's ideals about the role of government and law. Thus, if either of the spouses gave any evidence to the judge that the marriage was conducted under duress, the judge would be obligated to invalidate the marriage. Violet's chosen signal was to sign the document with her left hand instead of her right hand. As the judge explained, the marriage could be invalidated due to this discreet yet appropriate signal.

Lastly, the word "apocryphal" that Lemony uses to describe Klaus's argument suggests a non-conventional but insightful interpretation of the law, something that seems to echo Marshall's "doubtful insights" and Wells' "moral conviction." Instead of resorting to literalism ('literally' - with her own hand, i.e. Violet's dominant hand), Klaus's argument was much deeper and grounded, touching on the very essence of what legislation and the role of judges are. That's why Justice Strauss was so fascinated by the young boy's speech.

In summary, the historical references evidence that Klaus wove these diverse elements into a cohesive and compelling argument, utilising the legacy of these thinkers to question and, ideally, invalidate his sister Violet's forced marriage.

¬ Th3r3534rch1ngr4ph & @snicketstrange,

Unfortunate Theorists/Snicketologists

[leonawriter]

If you think about it, the Yaldabaoth Deal Ending of the base game is basically Akira’s version of Maruki’s reality.

No one has to worry about anything, because god [Akira] solves all of their problems for them. While Maruki adjusts reality through cognition, Joker, under the name of the Phantom Thieves (regardless of whether the others are still around or if they’re still locked up in the Velvet Prison), continues to change hearts.

But while it’s the ultimate end of Akira’s saviour complex, playing into the darker side of his wanting to save and reform the world practically single-handedly, and how he can summon what’s basically a demon, it also goes against his principles as someone who’s been going through the Fool’s Journey, growing and learning past himself.

If this had been anything like the previous two entries, this would have been the turning point where the Fool Arcana undergoes some sort of transformation, and after this point reuniting with the Phantom Thieves would unlock Judgement, but Judgement was already taken up by Sae for the sake of framing the story up until the end of November.

So, effectively, it’s out of character (sorry to those who like it!) for the True Ending, just as the Accomplice route in P4G is OOC for Yu’s true ending.

I use those terms because some thoughts came to mind on seeing it referred to as the ending where he “saves all his friends but two, Akechi and Mona” and then talking about how it affects Morgana, as the incarnation of humanity’s hope (Morgana isn’t seen in that ending at all).

The way it relates to Morgana is - to me - simple and straightforward, because in a reality where everyone is relying on a higher power, and they’ve all given up free will and the ability to choose for themselves, the idea of “hope” (which Morgana embodies) is no longer needed. He... likely disappears the same way the Thieves do before Yaldabaoth’s deal is offered.

Akechi, though, is more down to interpretation, but I think it’s like this-

Akechi’s entire purpose in the plot up until this point has been to be the antithesis of what the Phantom Thieves represent. He goes on TV and says to the world “The Phantom Thieves are wrong for forcing someone’s mind into a shape they prefer, and effectively brainwashing them.” 

During the events of the game, many of targets - not all but many - are beyond the reach of the law, and there’s literally no other way for the victims to gain justice other than through “sacrilegious acts” for the sake of their own justice. And yeah, I’m implying Akira has at least some understanding that Changes of Heart aren’t things good, decent people do. But just as Arsène says, he’s willing to get his hands dirty.

Left unchecked, the Phantom Thieves can let things go to their heads, as we see prior to the Okumura arc, and it’s only by having someone who stands against them, that they’re balanced out, and that we can reach January. We SEE how Akechi fights against Maruki, and everything he stands for. 

So with that in mind, where IS Akechi in the Deal ending?

In my eyes, either he’s dead (possible, especially if you didn’t max his confidant in time, or if you go with “he was resurrected with the power of gay when reality got fixed in February”), or... he’s left in disgust, because Akira has become the very thing that Akechi hates the most. Someone who brainwashes people, who forces others’ hearts into a shape he prefers, and who takes away their control and free will.

It’s easy to imagine that the Yaldabaoth deal where, in spite of Akechi being the god of control’s original choice, and is the one where Akira works with Yaldabaoth, is actually one of two ways you can effectively reverse Akechi’s Confidant. One would be by taking Maruki’s deal (he even says “the deal’s off” when he leaves) and another would be here, because what is “confidant” other than “one you can trust in confidence,” and how can you call a person that if you can’t trust them anymore?

[rainbowoasis]

But it’s Over Now, Go On and Take a Bow

4.2 Update Spoilers!!!

She’s tired, so so tired. She wishes she could turn her brain off, wishes she could sink into Fontaine’s waters for eternity. Her knees shake and her arms are jelly as she shoves everything she owns into a suit case. Half the items end up scattered on the floor around the suitcase, and she sighs as she delegates more concentration to getting them inside. 

Reach, grab, lift, drop in suitcase.

She has to walk herself through what to do because her body doesn’t want to listen. Her joints are locking up. Her legs and arms are tingling. She is so tired, and she’s not even sure that she’s allowed to be tired.

Reach, grab, lift, drop in suitcase.

Everyone is alive. The prophecy had not come to fruition after all. She can’t be more relieved than she is now, so then why does everything hurt? Faking the roll of an archon for half a millennia, refusing to let anyone into her facade, pretending that everything was under control when Fontainian lives were slipping through her fingers, sobbing on stage and desperately clawing for her people’s approval, hasn’t it all been worth it? Why must it still hurt? Tears leak past her lashes, trailing down her cheeks. Her chest snags with a hiccup, and another, and another. It’s worth it. It’s worth it. It has all been worth it! Never mind that she sacrificed her humanity, her soul. Never mind that no one will acknowledge her pain and thank her for her contribution. Her nation is safe and that’s … she sniffles … that’s all that matters right? Right? The resounding click of approaching heels echos throughout the opera house. Furina scrapes at her face in a hurry, sifting her mind for a reason to excuse the tear stains.

“Lady Furina,” Neuvillette appears in her room, as austere and imposing as ever. Furina owes a lot to him. She had tried to transform him into a pillar she could lean on without disclosing her true identity. It had only kind of worked, but he still shouldered the burden of a nation’s cruel expectations for her nonetheless.

“Ah, Iudex Neuvillette,” Furina offers a mighty greeting, flourishing her wrist. “You’ve come at a good time. I’d like to announce my resignation from the position of hydro archon. I hope you understand.”

“But of course,” says Neuvillette, “Had you not decided to leave I would have fired you myself.”

“What?” she squeaks. Then clears her throat and asserts, “Pardon me, but what ever gives you the right to presume you’d relieve me of my position?” Oh, Celestia and all its principles, she’s pulling on her facade despite the soreness in her bones. She has been acting for so long, the role might as well be designed on her very spirit.

Neuvillette smiles, a soft, pitying tilt of the mouth and a lowering of his gaze that makes it appear as though he’s mourning and trying to be strong. “Setting the matter of your trial aside, I also spoke to Focalors, God of Justice.”

“Wasn’t that me?” Furina asks.

“In a sense. She was the woman that encouraged you to do all this.”

“Oh,” Furina breathes, “The mirror me.”

“Exactly,” Neuvillette nods, “Her machinations have been realized, which means you no longer have to play your part.”

“Ahh yes, good good.”

“Lady Furina,” Neuvillette’s voice trembles as he strides toward her. He nudges the suitcase aside with his boot and sinks to one knee in front of her. His gloved hands find her shoulders, and squeeze. Furina wants to crumble beneath a grip so firm.

“I am so, so, so sorry,” Neuvillette says. His eyes are enormous. “No amount of apologies will mend the wounds you’ve taken for Fontaine, but I am so incredibly sorry that you had to. I’m sorry you were all alone. I’m sorry you could confide in no one. I’m sorry your Iudex had no faith in you and therefore did not lend you his support. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The apologies pour forth like water. Neuvillette can’t hold back his flood of emotion. Furina listens, lips parted, unsure of what to say or do. Should she soothe her dear Iudex or dismiss his concerns? What would be most appropriate? Acknowledgment! Someone’s expressing their grief for her pain. Finally, finally! 

“Ugh,” Furina groans, “Monsieur Neuvillette, let me assure you that mmff-“

“Hush now,” Neuvillette stamps a finger to her lips, his words still quivering. She’s surprised he isn’t shaking with the force of his own emotion.

“Don’t say anything,” he says, “You are no longer a performer. I do not wish you to conduct yourself as an actress. You have no need for that merciless role.”

“Oh well then, um,” Furina ducks her head and averts her gaze. Her heart flutters in contrast to how her stomach dips. She can’t help but worry that this is all wrong, that something terrible is bound to happen. It prickles the back of her neck. She wants to believe Neuvillette, to collapse into his words and do exactly as he instructs, to shed her role. But what if .. what if?

“Monsieur Chief Justice,” she gasps, “Is it really over? Am I really done?” She’s imperceptive to the new rivulets of tears running from her eyes, or the way her shoulders hitch.

“Yes Mon Petit Ange,” he coos.

“But we’re still in the opera house,” she cries.

“Then I shall take you out of it,” Neuvillette declares. With little ado, he collects her in his arms like a bride and rises to his feet. Her head lulls against his shoulder, and she clutches his jabot. Her eyes drift shut, but she can’t get her mind to quiet. “I’m never coming back,” she murmurs, more for herself than anyone else. She isn’t sure if she means it or not.

“You may only return if you will it,” Neuvillette says, “I will gladly govern Fontaine in your stead.”

“That’s good, cause I don’t wanna do it anymore.”

“I’ve already arranged suitable accommodations for you,” Neuvillette exits the room. Furina can  hardly tell he’s moving, his embrace so steady.

“You needn’t work or worry.”

“You’re so nice,” she yawns.

“Nonsense,” Neuvillette says, “It’s the least I can do.” 

…

When Neuvillette at last sets her down, it is upon a lace canopied bed of soft blankets and endless pillows. She feels like she’s melting into a cloud. She opens her eyes for but a moment, taking in the opulence of the bedroom and the low lighting before she closes them again.

“I’m so tired,” she whispers. She can only say it. She’ll never make anyone understand how fatigue weighs down her gait, how exhaustion has her living life through a dreary haze.

“I know Petit, I know,” Neuvillette breathes from somewhere below her. There’s a hand holding her ankle steady as her shoe is coaxed from her foot. Then her other shoe hits the carpet with a quiet plunk. He really is a kind person, the kindest person. Rain patters beyond the window. How long did it take her to notice? She curls up and hopes her consciousness surrenders itself, the rain her lullaby. 

…

She wakes as an unwilling participant. Her body is cramping and her eyes are dry. For a second, she frets over her duties for the day. Then she remembers. She isn’t in the Opera Epiclesse anymore. It is all over. She may cry again. She pushes herself up in her pillows. The room is dark, not a hint of light getting through the curtains. Sleep is so alluring. She’s draped in a lavender chemise she doesn’t recognize. Who is responsible for this?

“Lady Furina?” three knocks come to her door alongside a woman’s voice. “Are you up?”

“Yes, yes you may come in,” Furina calls, confounded at how hoarse her voice is, words raking up her throat. She coughs a little. The door pushes open and Navia floats in.

“Good to see you up My Lady,” Navia says, a radiant smile shaping her lips. In one hand she balances a long tray cluttered with pastries and juice. Navia sashays past the windows, yanking back the curtains as she does. Sunlight filters through the room. Furina squints. Navia sidles up to Furina’s bed and settles on the edge of it, placing the tray in Furina’s lap.

“Am I late for something?” Furina asks. The platter warms up her bare thighs and the aroma of the pastries sweeten the air the way flowers do spring.

“No, I’m just bringing you breakfast,” Navia laughs.

“Aw! Well then, I should thank you for your generosity,” Furina says, reaching for a bacon quiche. “Ahem, where is Monsieur Iudex Neuvillette?”

“He’s very busy establishing himself as Fontaine’s sovereign,” Navia says, “We’ve all been taking turns looking after you.”

“All?” Furina asks.

“Monsieur Neuvillette, Duke Wriothesley, Clorinde, and I”

“My! I did not expect my subjects to flock to my aid.”

“Ex subjects,” Navia says, twirling a bouncy tress of caramel blonde hair. Right, right. She is Fontaine’s archon no more. This mercy can’t have come soon enough.

“You have a rotation yes?” Furina grabs up a slice of vanilla cake topped with strawberries, “How long have I been resting?” 

‘Four days,” Navia says. Furina pauses mid chew, cheeks full of cake. She isn’t sure how to respond. Four days? It feels like she slumbered for only six hours.

“Sigewinne’s been monitoring you though, and your health hasn’t declined.”

“Ah yes. That is wonderful news,” Furina says. She swallows down her cake and takes another slice. “This is truly a delicious confection,” she sighs as the cream icing melts on her tongue.

“Really? Yay!” Navia claps her hands, “Fantastic! It would be a terrible shame if I disappointed you.”

“Hmm, you? Did you make this divine breakfast Ms. Navia?”

“Yes,” she bobs her head in a nod.

“Thank you. I love it! It quite befits me!”

“Well, you certainly deserve a treat.”

“Deserve?”

“Yup,” says Navia. Without warning, she dives into Furina’s space and throws her arms around her. Furina shrieks as her face is stuffed into Navia’s plush chest. She’s enveloped in strong arms and the fragrance of Navia’s floral perfume. Furina crumbles into her. She’s gooey and drenched in warmth like the cream of a hot confection.

“I wanted to thank you personally Lady Furina,” Navia speaks into her hair, “Your contribution to Fontaine is truly wonderful. My gratitude is eternal.” Oh, wow… Something crowds Furina’s throat, snatching her breath away. Her stomach cranks like the gears in a clockwork mega because, she failed Navia the most.

“Your the last person who should be thanking me,” Furina mutters. She’s taking up too much space in Navia’s embrace, cozy in a sanctuary she lacks the privilege to seal herself in. “Your attendants were dissolved before I could stop the prophecy.” A fresh wave of tears press behind her eyes. She has no right to mourn them. She hardly knows who they are, but she can’t help it. She had done everything her mirror self told her too, and innocent people still lost their lives. Navia stills against her. She holds her breath for a small eternity, then sweeps her hand through Furina’s sugar white hair.

“No, don’t say that,” Navia murmurs, “It isn’t your fault. You did your best, and it was enough to save practically all of Fontaine. I’ll never blame you for their passing. And I will never stop marveling at the perseverance and compassion you offered your people. Thank you.” She rocks Furina through her tears. Furina doesn’t ever want to leave.

…

Next time Furina wakes, it’s to a ridiculously sized man hanging over her, assessing her with shrewd blue eyes. She screams to the top of her lungs. Wait. She knows his face but can’t put a name to it, and the logical part of her brain loses the battle to the panicked part.

“Ah, you’re good and alive then,” his smirk is sideways and cavalier, “I thought I might have to get Sigewinne to examine you again. How are you feeling?”

“Um, Duke Wriothesley?” Furina dodges the question with one of her own, trying the title on her tongue. She hopes she got that right. She can’t answer that question. Every moment she’s awake, she wishes she was sleeping, and there are a million reasons why. None of which she desires to express or explain. 

“Yes?”

“It’s your turn to babysit me?”

“Perish the thought,” Wriothesley extends one bandaged hand, “I’m here to invite you outside for a cup of tea.”

“I’d rather not be seen by anyone,” Furina daintily shakes her head.

“We’re not going beyond your backyard,” says Wriothesley, “But everyone needs a little sunlight.”

“What an ironic notion, coming from the Duke of Meropide,” Furina snorts, but she sits up and slips her fingers through Wriothesley’s.

“To be fair, I’m a criminal,” Wriothesley says, “Flowers like you bloom best in the sun. I’m more like the moss that lurks between rocks underground.”

“You could’ve chosen any manner of night blooming flower or houseplant, and you chose moss for your simile. Your self esteem is rather deficient Monsieur Duke.”

“Well,” Wriothesley heaves her up. She squeals, kicking her legs until she’s cradled proper in his arms. She holds tight to his massive shoulders, worrying her lip at how far from the ground she is.

“Then we’re in the same boat, aren’t we Miss?” he carries her outside with ease. It’s a bright day, a warm one too, the sun’s heat on her skin, with no hint of a breeze. Neuvillette acquired her a house with a garden suitable for tea parties. Wriothesley dips her down in a cushioned chair, and sprawls in the chair opposite her.

“What?” Furina throws her head back into a laugh, “For five centuries I have been Fontaine’s archon, adored and trusted by all”

“But do you adore yourself?” Wriothesley drums his fingers on the mug before him, “Often when you’re supervising a vast sum of people, you lose the comfort of putting yourself first. And you learn that people don’t love you so much  as they love what you can do for them.”

Furina hiccups, almost choking on her tea. She takes another sip. It’s hot and sweet with honey and milk. Wriothesley’s tea is always welcome and exquisite, just like the duke himself. “You’re right,” she says, the words full seconds apart. “All I know how to do is pretend to take care of others. I don’t know how to love me.” She imagines she won’t ever learn either. She is too exhausted to rewire her brain to think normally. Her cup sloshes in her trembling hands,and she sets it down as not to drop it.

“See?” Wriothesley smiles, mouth in a rueful curve, and shelters Furina’s delicate hands in his big ones. “We are in the same boat.”

Furina’s breath stutters. No, no! The tears are coming back. The ache in her chest swells and it’s as if her ribs shatter.

“If I may make one correction,” Wriothesley says, and takes her silence to be permission. “While you may have been pretending to be an archon, every aspect of care and attention you granted your people was real.”

She doesn’t let go of his hands as she cries.

…

When she wakes, the steady, rhythmic bouncing of her body lets her know she’s being carried. Again? She hasn’t touched the floor since she arrived here. Is that on Neuvillette’s command? Does he wish to spare her legs? She’s delighted no one else appears to mind either. She forces her eyes open and tries to blink the dryness away. A purple jabot sways in her vision.

“Clorinde?” Furina asks.

“Good evening My Lady,” Clorinde says back. Her easy, syrupy voice travels down Furina’s neck, raising goosebumps as it goes. When last they saw each other, Clorinde had a sword pointed at her. What a horrifying time. Every second on that stage had been miserable, the air squeezed thin with her own fear. Everyone had turned against her. She doesn’t blame them, but it doesn’t soothe the pain.

“Where are we going?” Furina asks.

“No where,” says Clorinde, “I’ve been in charge of your bathing and dressing.”

“Oh!” Furina yips and covers it with a cough. A rosy heat spreads along her cheeks and nose, and she hides her face in Clorinde’s neck. A low, sultry chuckle vibrates through her in response. Clorinde’s shoes reverberate off the mosaic floor as they enter Furina’s bathroom. It is just as luxurious as the rest of her bedroom, with a capacious claw foot tub beside a window that peers into her garden. Clorinde sets her on the counter. She leaves her to light a few candles, golden light spilling along the walls. She returns, beginning to unfasten Furina’s clothes. When done, Clorinde scoops her back up and lowers her down into the bath. Furina expels a dramatic sigh as the hot water ripples around her. 

“Is the temperature to your liking?” Clorinde kneels at the side of her tub.

“It is more than adequate,” Furina says.

“Glad to hear it,” Clorinde says. She starts with Furina’s shoulders, lathering soap smelling of hyacinth in her palms, and massaging it into her flesh. “You’re usually asleep when it’s my turn to tend to you, so I’m glad to see you awake for a change.”

This feels like it shouldn’t be happening. Furina’s vision frays at the edges, her thoughts going fuzzy. The water is blurry with incandescent candle light streaking through it. Her body gives a pleasant shiver with every glide of Clorinde’s fingers. She must be sailing through a dream. Soon she’ll wake up, and she’ll have to resume being a fraud god once more.

“I have been sleeping a lot,” she admits, a giggle skipping through her words.

“That’s all right,” says Clorinde, “You’ve earned a rest. If I were you, I’d be in a six month coma. Actually scratch that. I would’ve given up a long time ago.”

“I wanted to give up so badly though,” Furina whimpers. Sheesh! Emotions are governing every aspect of her, aren’t they? They’re so hard to hold back, as insistent as a hungry audience. Not even her feelings offer her clemency. As loud as an encore, her heart throbs in her chest.

“But you didn’t,” Clorinde says, “You didn’t and you’re brilliant. Anyone else would’ve given up and no one could blame them. You’re job was to act as a god, but isn’t the strength you cultivated its own divinity?”

“Shoot!” Furina screams. She collapses into a litany of sobs, her body spasming. She can’t stop crying. She can’t stop crying. 

“You know?” Clorinde’s voice softens, “I hate crying, but I let myself anyways because of Navia. She’s always vulnerable and there is such a beauty in that. You needn’t take any shame in your own sorrow. After all I’d be flooding Fontaine if I were you. So, thank you for everything. Cry all you need.”

Furina only cries harder.

…

She wakes again. Her room is in darkness and she can’t move, so frozen by her own fatigue. Her eyes are heavy, and a portal of dreams and abyss sits just behind her eyelids. To think she has all these people pampering and spoiling her, and she’s still bereft of energy. There’s shuffling in her bedroom, and she yells.

“Lady Furina,” Neuvillette’s sonorous voice answers from somewhere in the black.

“Ahh, My Dear Iudex,” Furina exhales, relief loosening her taut drawn muscles.

“I did not intend to frighten you,” Neuvillette murmurs, “I only meant to insure that everything was still in order here. I wasn’t expecting you to wake.”

“It’s fine,” Furina says, “What is the hour?”

“A few hours past midnight,” Neuvillette says. Slow, gentle footfalls descend on the carpet. Then, the bed sighs as Neuvillette sits on it.

“You’re up so late,” Furina whines.

“Indeed. Such is the nature of reestablishing a dilapidated nation,” she can hear the weary smile in his words, “And it fairs little compared to your own exhaustion anyhow. Also, Wriothesley visits nigh every night with tea to drink and oil to soothe my aches with.”

“How gentlemanly of him,” Furina isn’t sure why the idea conjures up a flush to her complexion.

“Quite,” he chuckles. He pats over the blankets before he finds Furina’s head. He hums and runs his fingers through her hair.

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” she asks. Her mind gets away from her, and she liquefies under his affection. It takes her a few moments to finish verbalizing her concern. “Everybody is taking such good care of me, and yet I can't seem to stay awake.”

“Why yes,” Neuvillette says, “The prophecy was not fulfilled in a day, so too will you not be ameliorated so soon. Please don’t fuss over it. We are all honored to serve you.”

“Are you sure?”

“As Fontaine is the nation of hydro.”

Her eyes flutter shut, and Neuvillette’s nails on her scalp coax her back to sleep. She reflects on the time she’s spent awake. Her subjects were spoiling her, gentle with her body and tender with her heart. They all acknowledged her in earnest, let her cry and expected nothing from her. If this is all real… if her show has truly come to an end and these good ladies and gentlemen don’t mind pampering her soul till it’s whole again, then perhaps she no longer has to dread waking up. A tear rolls down her cheek and her mouth lifts in a phantom smile. One day, she won’t be tired.

A/N: Thanks for reading. Title is from Rihanna’s Take a Bow.

You can find me on AO3 as RainbowPools

Lastly, wishing everyone luck, love, and safety, and encouraging everyone to boycott and interact online for the people that really need us.

[ddarker-dreams]

LOCK. NEUVILLETTE THOUGHTS???

i'm intrigued by him ,, especially how his relationship with justice will progress over fontaine's story. there are a lot of interesting routes mihoyo can take when it comes to a theme like that. i love seeing any form of criminology in media, the main questions of the field can be explored to the fullest in fiction. those standard questions like,

what is crime?

who decides what counts as a crime?

these questions feel like they'd be simple enough, but when put under the microscope, there's a lot more subjectivity than one would expect.

throughout the archon quest, i was reminded of a book that analyzes the penal system, discipline and punish by michel foucault. it could be a weird coincidence but the original text is in french... who knows though. foucault wrestles with some of the issues presented in the story, specifically what neuvillette is coming to grapple with. another parallel is how the panopticon, both as an idea and literal construct, are brought into question.

“The Panopticon is a marvelous machine which, whatever use one may wish to put it to, produces homogeneous effects of power.”

we've only ever gotten a glimpse at the inside of celestia once, during venessa's ascension. the interior looks exactly like a panopticon. it feels like neuvillette's relying on a version of justice that's connected directly to celestia itself, which is notable, considering the other dragons that lived before the heavenly principles came down seem to despise celestia (apep, for instance).

i hope they take full advantage of the various concepts they've setup. the payoff would make for such a good story.

[mcsm-confessions]

Re: the anon that thought Romeo’s punishment was disproportionate compared to Cassie’s:

That would be very valid of you Anon, but I have to disagree. Cassie Rose wasn’t imprisoned for the crime of killing three people, she was imprisoned for the crime of being too paranoid. She was not going to trust the gang enough to come to a compromise. She was going to keep trying to kill them until we either trapped her or she succeeded. You have the option to keep offering her a truce right up until the end, but the only way to get out alive is to physically restrain her or something to that effect. Romeo is spared because he’s willing to cooperate.

The ideal of the law imo, shouldn’t be punishment equal to the crime which creates more net harm - just in a direction that appeals to some people’s sense of justice. It should be prevention of as much harm as possible (or even reverse harm done, if that can be accomplished in a fair way.) That means doing whatever it takes to stop the perpetrator either by correction, taking away the resources they were using, imprisonment, or execution, depending on how likely the person is to keep . . perpetuating after whatever method you use. This game seems to operate on the same principle. If you stop hurting people you’re forgiven, but you have to commit yourself to fixing as much of the damage done as you reasonably can.

Ivor helped you beat the witherstorm. Aiden regretted what he did to Sky City and is getting jail time and promised not to be a dick going forward. Cassie got locked out of reach of the people she wouldn’t stop trying to kill. Harper did everything in her power to unchip the Crown Messa people and is so so grateful when you help her finally do it. Hadrian and Mevia get locked up out of reach of their games and Otto commits himself to fixing the games to be closer to the original, benevolent vision. Romeo agrees that he should never have had the power that he did and that he should get whatever punishment Jesse decides for him. (This can either be staying in the Terminal, or community service.)

It’s honestly something I really like about the game, y’all need to stop bashing it.

~~~

[meenawrites]

Cho Yeong and So-I – Narrative Foils

So I was thinking about this a lot yesterday but ended up just going to bed. I hope I can do my thoughts from last night justice.

What I think is really interesting is that the writers have subtly made a comparison throughout the show between Cho Yeong and So-I. They are each other's foils.

Now here me out.

Cho Yeong and So-i have both been handed terrible lots in life. We know a lot more about Cho Yeong's than So-i's (cause duh she's the main character), but we know enough about So-i's background to surmise what her upbringing was like for the most part.

There's no mention of So-i's parents by her EVER while every other character has mentioned their parent or parents at least once, leading us to believe that So-i may never have known her parents and is most likely an orphan from an age younger than Yeong.

We also know that she's from Sari Village, same as Mudeok, which from the flashbacks we see, doesn't look like a very nice place to live or a place inhabited by very well-off people. Her only close relation in Sari Village was Mudeok/Jin Buyeon, which I think is very telling of how she interacts with people. She doesn't form deep connections with people because she's focused on self-preservation. She doesn't become close to anyone in case she has to betray or con them to survive. Since she's no one's top priority, she's made herself her own at whatever cost. This attitude is super prevalent when she's going through all the steps to become Jin Buyeon, especially the scene where Jin Mu is launching shards of pottery at her and she refuses to even flinch, even when there's one like millimeters from her eye. She's got that grit of survival that goes beyond anything most people are capable of, I would say.

She has been a swindler/thief for years to survive, and again has no notable connections aside from Mudeok/Jin Buyeon.

This girl is well and truly on her own.

We can parallel this to Cho Yeong/Naksu. Naksu was orphaned at a young age as well, and has gone through hell to survive. She grew up basically entirely alone in Danhyangeok, raised herself, and trained herself to be ruthless all so that she could survive and even possibly get her revenge. She cast away all niceties and gentleness she may have had so that she can be strong enough to take care of herself. She too was her own top priority no matter what happens.

Cho Yeong also only had one notable connection while growing up, and that was Seo Yul. Seo Yul was her one friend in her teenage years that she was able to make, that she was able to be kind and gentle with because she couldn't afford to be like that with anyone else.

Where Yeong and So-i differ is this:

So-i, growing up through great hardship and having to rely entirely on herself to survive cast away all moral beliefs and principles in order to stay alive. She doesn't hesitate to kill who she needs to to survive, and even goes so far as to try to kill Mudeok not once but TWICE just to stay alive and stay Jin Buyeon. She has basically discarded most of her humanity in consideration of 'me, me, me, I have to stay alive'. Even later in season 2, she runs a gambling den and can be seen willingly torturing people and lowkey getting a kick out of it with no qualms. Even further, she was prepared to just send off Jin Buyeon/Naksu to Jin Mu with no worries, even going so far as to lock her in a room with knock-out gas. A bit crazy and heartless if you ask me.

Cho Yeong/Naksu however has NOT done that. As much as she has a reputation as a dangerous assassin who makes heads roll wherever she goes, we're told firstly that Naksu was known to never have harmed civilians or innocents. Additionally, when she found out that Yul was from the Seo family, one of the families behind the 'murder' of her father, she 1000% could have killed him or harmed him in some way. She could have justified it to herself under the guise of revenge, but she didn't. She pushes him away and basically lets him go with nothing more than a broken heart. Because she knows despite all the hurt that Yul is not to blame for what happened to her dad, that he is innocent in all that, and that he has been ineffably kind to her.

Furthermore, we have multiple instances in season 1 where Mudeok thinks about just killing Jang Uk and getting rid of him. She thinks she can do it, or at least she tries to convince herself. But every time she has a chance to or it would actually BENEFIT her own survival –like when that mage Gil-ju was like bring him to me or else I'll have you killed–she can't bring herself to do it. She even protects him quite a bit. We see her kindness as well in the way that she reassures Seo Yul many times, despite the very real risk that it could blow her cover, that she - Naksu - was okay in Danhyangeok, that it wasn't too rough for her even though she's under no obligation to.

The real climax for Naksu was when she was stuck in the ice stone with Jang Uk, Seo Yul, and the others. She could get all her powers back, shift souls with ANYONE she wanted at the drop of a hat, if she just let them all die. Should be simple for a cut-throat assassin right? She keeps telling herself she'll do it, trying to convince herself really. But she keeps stalling. She serves the crown prince and those goons that call themselves mages, she goes into the kitchen and decides to make Jang Uk the noodles that he loves, she tries to give the prince some honey cookies to lessen the guilt that she admits is consuming her with the thought of forsaking them all just for her own power. And in the end, she can't do it. She's been kidding herself. She goes crazy when she thought that Jang Uk died, and sets her sword aside not just for Jang Uk (though yeah she could never kill him we know that) but for all the people trapped in the barrier with her that are largely innocent (except So-i), that she cares about, and that she cannot justify to herself killing just for her own power gain.

This is why Cho Yeong/Naksu is great as a character and truly strong. She had a hard life yeah, and that skewed her morals, definitely. But she has not forsaken kindness or humanity like So-i did in the face of hardship. She tries to be all unfeeling and ruthless, but even back when she didn't even know Jang Uk that well, like when the soul-shifting detector dog (I forgot what it's called, my bad) had its sights set on her, she told him to step away from her, basically to protect himself and abandon her, which is totally contrary to the ruthless persona she tries to put on.

While So-i has abandoned any morals or principles EXCEPT when it comes to Seo Yul, Naksu hasn't. She is still capable of being kind and putting others before herself. How many times has she told Uk that if it comes down to it he should abandon her and protect himself?

Even in Season 2 when she finally remembers who she is, she puts Uk first and is ready to sacrifice her own happiness to do the right thing.

In this way, So-i and Cho Yeong are each other's narrative foils, both exemplifying the path and choices one can make in the face of hardship. You don't just become a bad person in the face of hardship, you choose to. And that's what is being shown to us.

I mean you can argue that Naksu ended up having more good people around her than So-i did, but also not really. So-i had Mudeok at a time when Naksu had nobody. Did So-i get in with the wrong people when she came to Daeho? Absolutely, but she also had more control over the situation than someone in her position would and was unnecessarily cruel at times.

Holding onto your morals/humanity in the face of adversity IS a choice, and that's what the comparison of So-i and Cho Yeong demonstrates.

I have more to say about So-i but that will be it's own post. I just wanted to put this out there before words failed me completely.

Let me know your thoughts!

[whetstonefires]

Hi, I'm currently writing a fic and would like to ask for advice about the characterization of a slightly darker Lan Xichen. When he is in seclusion, in the midst of despair and grappling with feelings of anger, bitterness and resentment what do you think would be his lesson learned from everything? How would his actions/personality change particularly concerning his decision making as a leader? Would he become more manipulative/ruthless like jgy even while fully disavowing his choices? Thanks!

Okay so I do have a lot of thoughts about this!

Because there's a whole list of issues Lan Xichen has to unpack, and the deepest is in fact not the betrayed anger, or even grief or guilt, but having to reevaluate who he even is.

He's spent 13 years thinking Lan Wangji was the fuckup and he had tried hard and done everything right. Like, not flawlessly, there were all those people and even his sword brother he couldn't save and Lan Wangji he couldn't protect from himself, but still. He'd done it. Complex political and personal reality successfully navigated. Worst errors evaded. Not Like His Father.

He spent about 15 years (that's so much time!!!) having his most intimate personal relationship be with someone who was lying to and using him, and who (because he killed him!) he will never even be able to ask which parts were lies.

His entire decisionmaking system is wrecked. For him to come out of this cruel, with the confidence to do vicious things to others for some goal, he would have to somehow construct a new belief system, a basis for his convictions, that is even more narrow and sharp and coldly implacable than Jin Guangyao's was. Or at any rate more inflexible.

I don't think he's capable of this. He's like 40 years old! He's spent that whole time trying so, so fucking hard to be good, to be fair and kind and just even where these conflict with one another.

And what he has for it is a shattered decisionmaking base.

There's only so far a person can change themselves, even if they try to start over from first principles. And he doesn't have any real motivation to want to be really harsh, even if he doesn't want to be so soft anymore either.

If he had to knit himself back together under these circumstances and go forward and perform desperate feats, the way Jiang Cheng had to after the first time he broke (not as profound a break, not once he got his core 'back' and could resume most of his prior identity elements, but still the permanent damage is visible) I think Lan Xichen could get pretty dark.

If he was being forced to make constant life-or-death calls in a violent atmosphere and he didn't fucking trust himself but he knew his gentleness and his mercy and his desire to believe the best of people had been so utterly weaponized against him and those under his keeping before, I think he'd start making a lot of kill calls. He's capable of that, after all. He was a major war hero, flying from front to front, pulling asses out of fires.

He has killed lots of people! And commanded people he cares about into battle! He has the stomach for that kind of thing, when there's cause.

When Lan Xichen accepted massacres under the period of ascendancy of the Jin, let the Chang and the He and even the Wen remnants be wiped out and then erased without justice or remorse, he was using that same wartime stomach for necessity, and then trying to patch things over and let the world be peaceful, be healed.

Hide it until it stops hurting anymore. That's his basic methodology for things that it's too late to mediate.

And I think because that smoothing and that kindness and that looking-away-from-conflict are the parts of his failures most distinctive to him, as a person, they're the parts he would react against with the most violent distrust. And he'd need to lock down on his uncertainties and suppress them to function, which does not do good things for your judgment. So a Lan Xichen fresh from those traumas who had to fight a war could get pretty brutal. He could ramp his ruthlessness up by pretty rapid degrees.

If he did, he'd be doing it while leaning away from manipulation, going as direct and uncompromising and fierce as possible. (In imitation a bit of Nie Mingjue.)

If he wound up leaning away from ruthlessness hard enough he might accidentally become pretty manipulative, by way of trying to never actually force his will on others since he doesn't trust his own judgment, but I think that's a pretty outside chance. He's not actually a very subtle person and I think he's too old to really learn, and under the circumstances he'd probably be more insecure about hinting than demanding things. If he comes out too early and is overly centered on shame, maybe.

I don't think he could get as bad as Jin Guangyao no matter which direction he went, because he wouldn't be all that sneaky about it, his goals would still be for the sake of groups of people rather than himself alone, and he wouldn't have the confidence to totally refuse to take outside input on his choices. He also just gives a shit about other people, by instinct. All that puts some caps on his scope of villainy that jgy did not have.

Although under the right circumstances, with the ruthless route, he could get pretty volatile about taking advice, reacting unpredictably against attempts to gentle or redirect him as Dangerous Manipulation Again.

You could do a fantastic AU with that actually, with betrayed, hardened, trying-so-fucking-hard unstable Lan Xichen flipping out at a Lan Wangji who's trying to rein in his excessive brutality against like, suspected traitors. Like that's a role reversal you could make work by pulling the right trauma strings and it would hurt so good. Put Nie Huaisang in as a witness to an episode and really layer things up.

But I find it hard to imagine him going that way in seclusion. Taking all the pressures off a person in a mental health crisis is something you do for a reason. He is in there so he won't be forced to make decisions when he doesn't feel qualified anymore, as much as to hide from his shame and wrestle with the grief.

Putting the crisis-haver in solitary confinement is not actually a good idea! That will generally make many parts of the problem worse! Even with the ability to come out if he decides to, and even though privacy sounds like a good idea, isolation is a bit much.

But he's going to break a different way if he's alone with no responsibilities, and only himself to do anything for or to.

The most likely way for his seclusion to go bad, if it does, is self-destruction. That could look a lot of ways, and might or might not kill him, and if it does could do so at basically any speed.

If it doesn't just become an inward spiral of destruction but also is bad, though...let's see. He could still come out paranoid. Yeah. Having lost his faith in the ability and will of people to be good.

The most obvious way for this to turn ugly out the gate is that he reverses his previous arc (that's one of the reasons this doesn't strike me as probable) and instead of leaning toward 'wangji was right and i was wrong; i have to interrogate all my biases harder and reconsider my definition of acceptable sacrifices and listen to him' he looks at wangxian, and his brother's conviction that this notorious villain was always good at heart, that his crimes were mostly under duress, or exaggerations and lies, that he means well and mostly meant well, and wants to be better and to put all that behind him...

And remembers that's the story Jin Guangyao told him.

[xinimartsy]

Yes there are mangas, animes and etc. with strong female MCs but as I said, mobile otome games are specifically targeted towards helpless women. I’m half Japanese, been living here half my life and all of my Japanese friends are like that in terms of personality, they prefer more dominant boyfriends (also why the most popular suitors are those types). They mostly prefer to have a gentle and “pure” image. Ikemen Sengoku might have that MC because of the setting

First of all, hi ❤️ good to see you here again, anon. Second of all, very interesting, I do enjoy hearing your first hand experience with the subject and I do resonate with it. As a Brazilian, someone who can be considered a latina, I'm no stranger to the cultural aspect of it: that our women are fiery and seductive, which.... Fair.

And while I don't deny that many pieces of media, otome games included, might present these characteristics for this reason (I'm looking at you, Shoujo heroines), I don't think it's the case for the subject of our debate: Ikemen Prince and Belle's autonomy in it. And I stand by my opinion that, in this game in particular, it stems from lousy writing.

I don't know how familiar you are with writing, if you partake or take interest in the craft, but there are a few rules to writing a consistent story. The two rules I'll be referring to are Chekhov's Gun and the Consistent Characterization.

"Chekhov's Gun" is a writing principle that says a writer mustn't add anything in that doesn't serve the narrative. If the narrator mentions a gun on the wall in the first act, said gun must be useful in a later act, otherwise it'd have been an useless information which Chekhov describes as "false promises" to the audience.

While Consistent Characterization means that the actions the characters perform throughout the story must be reasonable within their prior characterization. A character can't simply possess a convenient skill that was not priorly foreshadowed, the same you can't ignore something you've established without good reason. A character with no knowledge of street smarts can't suddenly know how to lockpick just because, while if a character had a known past as a thief and was suddenly faced with a lock to pick, you can't simply ignore that they would know how to pick it, instead giving a good explanation as to why in that moment, they weren't able to lockpick this specific door.

Why do I raise these two aspects of writing? Because that's exactly what I complain about Emma in Ikemen prince.

In Ikemen Sengoku's prologue, we get some insight on Mai: she loves fashion and is on her way to her dream job, finally. This little piece of information established that Mai was passionate and driven enough to chase what she wants. Characteristics that remain throughout the game in every route. Mai checks out both Chekhov's Gun, by making use of her skills throughout the narrative, as well as Consistent Characterization, by acting accordingly to how she was established to be in the beginning of the game: driven, passionate, and modern.

Mutsuki (ikemen vampire) and Alice (ikemen revolution) are other two main characters from cybird that, despite being very much the pure, gentle and innocent archetype and mostly lacking agency, they work because they act accordingly to how they were established to be: Mutsuki a simple woman with a love for writing and Alice a cheerful and friendly patisserie who's content with life. They both are thrown headfirst in situations in which they find themselves helpless, much like Mai, but while Mai faces it headfirst like the headstrong girl she is, Mitsuki and Alice are more mellow, which doesn't make them bad characters since that's how they've been made to be.

And that's exactly the problem with Emma. The prologue tells us that Emma is optimistic towards the world, has a strong sense of justice, as well as courage to do what she thinks is right. Though Chevalier is known as the "Brutal Beast" and strikes fear in the hearts of people due to his ruthlessness, Emma still jumped in and slapped the drunk man to make sure the prince wouldn't cut him down, even though she likely knew that his sword could just as easily have turned towards her. She wasn't so innocent as not to know that prince Chevalier WOULD cut the man down, and that's why she stepped in. And although it was said for giggles, Sariel did comment on Emma's slap when explaining his reasoning towards his choice for Belle. This prologue tells us Emma has a most fiery personality and won't hesitate to do something she judges correct, regardless of the possible consequences.

However, many routes strip her of the qualities given to her by the writers themselves, which makes Emma fail in both Consistent Characterization and Chekhov's Gun, seeing as she's both not acting accordingly to her previously established traits as well not using her previously established skills to advance or assist the plot.

That happens because they change Emma's personality depending on her suitor as to enhance him, which is why it's most noticeable in the suitors considered more "dominant" (really the most popular ones), because instead of doing the hard and difficult work of writing someone dominant and astounding enough for someone as fiery but kind as Emma to rely on and fall for, they do what? They make her act uncharacteristically in order to emphasize those traits on him, much too pure to enphisize how they're tainted or much too kind to enphisize their darker side, much too innocent to enphisize how they're mature/dominant, much too clueless to enphisize how they're smart, that's why sometimes it seems that the Emma we read in the prologue and the Emma we read within a route are completely different characters.

That's what bothers me, not her passiveness in itself, but the fact that it seems misplaced in someone like Emma given how she was originally characterized. Emma should not be a character only reacting to what the other characters do to her. Within the world of the game, she's a PERSON. Her experiences and personality should not fluctuate depending on the suitor she's pursuing.

And given that she was priorly written as a more fiery gal, we can somewhat discard the excuse of "cultural difference" because Cybird themselves wrote the prologue and cybird themselves gave Emma those characteristics. They're just failing at upholding it.

Thus.... Lousy writing

[cassierobinsons]

do u have any fics thay u think are the characterization of all time for dean and or cas?

i'm very sorry for what i'm about to say but i am the worst person in the world to get fic recs from. 😔 i did the bulk of my fic reading in 2021 and i am not the person i was back then so can't tell whether the fic i liked is actually good. 😔😔😔 so here's a selection of fic i read more recently and really enjoy for characterisation reasons or otherwise

AITA fic my best friend AITA fic is still the funniest fic in the fandom and it's not even close

Honey by anythingtoasted is a sweet S5 fic that starts with dean pretending to be engaged to cas to scam his way into a nicer motel room and ends with them being married for real

Uncertainty Principle by JayneL (archive-locked) is a post-s8 fic that manages to pack a lot into only 1.5k words

We always were but never knew it by frightfullyrude could be described as a 4x01 rescue fic? but that wouldn't do it justice at all. this one is better read on a laptop than a phone btw!

the anatomy of flightless birds by cowlovely is a really warm, cozy post-s8 fic told from cas' pov.

you can also look through my fic rec tag for other stuff i can't remember right now. sorry i couldn't be more help!

[thoughtlessarse]

In 2006, Martin Myers got in a scrape over a cigarette. He asked a young man if he had a spare fag. The man declined to give him one. Myers came from a well-known Traveller family. The man, Myers says, made a derogatory comment about Travellers, so Myers gave up the niceties. He threatened to punch him if he didn’t hand him a cigarette. The young man ran away. He then went to the police in Luton and told them what had happened. The police were familiar with Myers. He had previous convictions for dangerous driving, assault, theft and burglary. Myers was arrested, charged and convicted of attempted street robbery. On 8 March 2006, he was given a tariff – the minimum time he could serve – of 19 months and 27 days. Myers, 42, has now served 18 years in jail for the attempted robbery of that cigarette. He was given an indeterminate sentence, known as imprisonment for public protection (IPP). This meant that while he could be released after 19 months and 27 days, he could also be jailed for up to 99 years. IPP was first used as a sentence in England and Wales in 2005, having been introduced by Labour in 2003 to detain in prison people who posed a significant risk of causing harm to the public. It was a controversial sentence. Critics said that jailing people for what they could do, rather than what they had done, contradicted the basic principle of justice: that people are innocent until proven guilty. In September 2012, the European court of human rights ruled that detaining individuals serving IPPs beyond their tariff indefinitely “was arbitrary and therefore unlawful” if reasonable access to rehabilitation was not provided. On 3 December 2012, IPP was abolished. But while the sentence could no longer be handed out by judges, it wasn’t abolished for those already serving it. Last week, David Blunkett, who introduced the sentence as home secretary, told me: “What has happened with this sentence is the biggest regret I have in terms of the outcome of all the many things that I was involved in the eight years I was in government.” Today, more than 11 years after IPPs were banned and 16 years after his tariff ended, Myers is one of almost 3,000 people imprisoned in England and Wales still serving an indeterminate sentence – with no release date in sight.

continue reading

Labour saw Clinton did much the same thing in the US and said, “We're having that.” And like Clinton they now regret the introduction of such measures.

I've no doubt discrimination against travellers played a large part in the whole affair, from the man threatened right up to the judge who passed sentence.

[middleearthpixie]

Hellooo, I love your work, and I would love to request something! If you don't end up writing it, that is completely fine. Please don't feel obligated to!

I'm not sure if you write for Kili, so if you do not, Thorin would be perfectly fine!

But imagine when the company is in Mirkwood and they are sitting in the cells. They are visited by (what they believe to be) a Dwarrowdam, while she is beardless, she is Dwarven in size and has long hair with a few braids in it (They consider her to be like Kili, relatively ugly for Dwarven standards). They get excited when she talks to them, but she doesn't seem to know anything of dwarves culture.

When the guards come, they ask her to hide, which she does not, and is thus greated by the Guards as their Princess, Legolas little Sister. They company realises they've met Thranduils Daughter, who might look a little dwarven but is an elf through and through, with long pointed ears, ethereal seemingly glowing long hair, and royal blood.

How it end is up to you! I hope you have a wonderful day! Take care <333

Hi there, Nonny!

Thank you so much for this and for your patience! 💜

I don't write for Kíli and probably couldn't do him justice if I tried, so I wrote for Thorin, since he is my first dwarf love. :)

Anyway, I hope you like it.

The Escape

Summary: Thorin and his Company have found themselves imprisoned in Mirkwood, only to have help from one of the most unlikeliest of elves...

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x OFC Carys Greenleaf

Characters: Thorin, Carys Greenleaf, Thorin’s Company, Thranduíl, Legolas, Bilbo Baggins  

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 3.9k 

***

“Did he offer you a deal?”

Thorin bobbed his head, a hint of triumph surging through him as he replied, “He did. And I told him ish kakfê ai-‘d-dûr-rugnal! Him and all his kin!”

“Well, that’s that, then.”

“I will not bargain with elves,” Thorin told him flatly, moving to the far side of the cell. Of course, calling it the far side was a bit disingenuous, as the cell itself was too small to actually have sides. Small. Damp. With cots of woven tree branches that had poked through the packed earthen walls. There was barely enough room for him and Balin, and Balin was one of the smaller dwarves. Thank Mahal he wasn't locked away with Bombur. 

Thorin peered through the iron bars that made up the cell door. Across from them, Bombur and Bifur were crammed into one cell together, and Bifur couldn't be seen behind his cousin. Thorin just knew he was there, for every now and again, Bifur muttered something in khuzdul. 

“Without a bargain,” Balin was saying, “we are not getting out of here, you know.”

Thorin shook his head, moving away from the door to sink onto the edge of the roughly woven bunk. It was rough and uneven, and he couldn't imagine getting a peaceful night’s sleep on it, even if his mind wasn't already weighted down with their situation and the fact they were quickly running out of time to make it to the Lonely Mountain before the last light of Durin’s Day. 

Still, he had his principles and bargaining with elves violated every one of them. Especially bargaining with Mirkwood elves. Out of the question entirely. “We will find our way out. Our burglar is still among the missing, remember.”

“True, but we don't know where he is, or if he is even within the palace,” Balin pointed out, sinking onto the bunk across from Thorin’s. The cell was so narrow, if he reached out, Thorin would be able to touch Balin. Thank Mahal small spaces didn't trouble him, since it looked as though they might be there for some time. 

Best not to think about that.

“Are you thirsty?”

Thorin jumped at the unexpected voice that floated through the bars and when he looked over to see who their visitor might be, he couldn't help but stare. How was it possible a dwarrowdam walked freely in Mirkwood, of all places? And not only a dwarrowdam, but one of the oddest looking women he’d ever seen, with her shimmering, white-blonde hair sleek as it spilled over her shoulders. He would have thought her to be an elf, were it not for her diminutive size (she was shorter than even Balin, and that was saying something,) and the fact that her face was completely devoid of any hair whatsoever. Her pale skin almost glowed in its bareness, making her wide eyes seemed even wider and incredibly dark. But then his gaze alit on the braids woven into that otherwise sleek golden fall. Two on the left side of her head and one on the right, each adorned with small silver ornaments of some sort. An outcast, no doubt, and probably some sort of elf-servant, which sent a rush of pity for her surging through him. 

“We want nothing from the likes of you,” he told her bluntly. “Leave us.”

She stepped closer and he realized then that her eyes were not dark at all. Instead, they were blue. A deep blue the color of the perfect sapphires that were once mined in Erebor. Deep blue and just as sparkling. Those beautiful eyes held his as she replied, “Stubborn fool. Think you anyone else will pass by and offer you water or anything, for that matter?”

“I deal with no dwarf who serves an elven master,” he told her flatly. “So take yourself off, and leave us be.”

“Thorin,” Balin’s voice was low with both warning and scolding, “there is no need to be rude to the girl.”

Thorin glared at him. “Mind yourself, Balin. We need nothing from the likes of her.”

She remained where she stood, unfazed by his dismissal. “Are you always one to cut off his nose to spite his face?”

“Begone with you, unless you’ve come to release us.”

“I couldn’t do that if I wanted to,” came her pert reply, “as Thranduíl would be furious with me and I’d rather avoid that, it’s all the same to you, dwarf.”

He held her stare as he debated about whether or not to scold her again. But when she held his stare without flinching or looking away, he relented with a muffled sigh. He was cutting off his nose to spite his face and in all honesty, he would gladly kill for a sip of anything liquid at the moment. “Very well. I beg your pardon. Water would be appreciated.”

“There,” she bobbed her head, “was that so difficult?”

Thorin felt Balin step up behind him, and he looked over at the older dwarf as Balin asked, “Who are you, lass? What clan do you claim as yours?”’

“Clan?” Her blue eyes clouded with confusion as she shook her head. “I’m afraid I don't know what you mean.”

“Whom do you call husband? I assume he’s the one what wove those into your hair.”

“Again, I’m not following you. I’m afraid I don't understand at all what you’re asking me.”

“The braids.” Balin gestured to his own woolly white hair. “The man you’ve pledged yourself to, was he killed in battle with these elves? Is that how you came to be indentured to them?”

“Indentured?” She shook her head, the silver ornaments in her braids thunking softly against one another. “I’ve pledged myself to no man. And I am indentured to no one. In fact, I have no idea what you’re going on about at all.”

Thorin wasn't exactly sure how to respond to her. “You don’t understand the significance of your braids?”

“Other than they keep my hair out of my eyes?” She smiled then. “There is no significance and I’ve pledged myself to no man. At least,” a glint came into her pale eyes as she met his, “not yet.”

To his surprise, his cheeks grew hot. She must have noticed it herself, for her smile grew winsome. “You, dwarf, are blushing.”

“Dwarf?” Balin broke in, shaking his head. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but he is no ordinary dwarf. He is—”

“That’ll do, Balin,” Thorin broke in, shaking his head as he glanced over his shoulder at him. 

Balin’s eyes widened briefly, then he nodded. “Of course.” And to the girl, he said, “Have you a name?”

“I do, of course. Surely you don't think they simply call out You! and hope I turn around, do you?”

Now it was Balin’s turn to blush and Thorin almost laughed aloud at the rare sight. Clearing his throat, Balin bobbed his head. “Of course not. That would be silly.”

“It would, indeed.” She smiled once more. “I am—”

Footsteps sounded and Kíli hissed, “Someone’s coming!”

Fíli appeared at the door of the cell he shared with his brother. “You should leave, miss. I should hate to see you in trouble.”

“Trouble?” She twisted toward him and Thorin couldn’t help noticing how her hair seemed to come alive, spilling like molten gold over her shoulder. “I’ll have nothing of the sort. Why would I?”

“Princess?” One of the Mirkwood guards appeared, scowling as he addressed the girl. “You should not be down here. It’s not safe.”

“Oh, do I answer to you now?” Her voice remained mild but there was no mistaking the amusement and annoyance threaded through her words. “Because I’m fairly certain I do not.”

“Your father would be displeased, should he know you’ve come down here.”

Princess. Thorin straightened at hearing her addressed this way. This girl was no dwarrowdam after all. Which explained so much, and yet left so many other questions clanging around in his head, beginning with why a princess was wandering about the dungeon, for starters.

“Carys!” A deeper voice rang out along the cells. “What mean you by this?”

“By what? Being here?” She didn't seem at all nervous or afraid as the elf who’d rounded Thorin and his company up in the Mirkwood forest stepped out of the shadows. “Legolas, you didn't even offer them a drop to drink and after battling the spiders, no less. What is the matter with you?”

Thorin almost smiled at the disappointment and scolding in her voice. It served the uppity elf right, to be put in his place. He not only accused Thorin of lies, but of thievery as well, and took it upon himself to relieve Thorin of the same sword Elrond had gifted him not a two months ago. 

Thorin looked from Carys to Legolas and almost groaned at the resemblance between them. She was not a dwarf at all, but merely a very small elf. A child, perhaps? He thunked his head against the iron bars. A child would not go against her father’s wishes and free them. The most she would do would be to offer them water. What else could she do? 

But if Legolas was chagrined by her words, he hid it well, snorting before he replied, “Why would I do such a thing? And you should not take it upon yourself to—”

“Oh, hush,” she snapped, shaking her head at him. “Don’t be that way. Papa is angry that they dared trespass, and while he’s within his rights to be annoyed, I think imprisoning them is overkill. They were lost in our woods and he had them arrested for it. They’d done nothing to warrant it, you know. Lost is not a crime, unless our laws have changed, which I’m fairly certain they’ve not.”

Legolas’ dark eyes flicked up and Thorin almost smiled as he met the elf’s stare easily. Stepping around his sister, he said, “Do not think I am as soft as she. I care not if you lot are left here long enough to turn to dust.”

“I’ve noticed,” Thorin replied dryly, mindful of Balin’s dark eyes boring into his back at the moment. “Although, I confess, I was not aware being lost was a crime, unless, as she’s pointed out, your laws have changed.”

“You are guilty of more than simply being lost. You took it upon yourself to attempt to hunt one of Thranduíl’s prized deer, and that is a crime in these lands,” Legolas told him, shaking his head. “You are fortunately this cell is all the punishment he’s ordered.”

“I certainly feel fortunate.”

“Thorin, mind yourself,” Balin growled behind him.

Thorin ignored the warning, adding, “We were lost and hungry and thirsty. You would do the same, were you in our boots.”

“I would never be in dwarven boots. I value my feet far too much.” Legolas turned to his sister. “Come. I will have one of the others deal with this lot.”

“I wish to bring them water first. A little kindness won’t hurt, you know.”

“Not now. Let’s go.” He grabbed Carys by the elbow and steered her away, calling over his shoulders, “She will not be back, you know.”

Carys scowled as she glared up at her older brother. “Would it have hurt to give them a sip of water? When did you grow so cold, Legolas, that you would deny anyone a basic necessity such as that?”

“You are too soft, is the problem,” he replied without looking at her. “And you know Father would agree with me.”

She pulled free. “We will see about that.”

“Carys, wait—”

She ignored him, marching ahead of him along the open walkway that led toward her father’s throne room. Although she knew her pleas would fall on deaf ears, she had to try. Thorin Oakenshield and his company had broken no elven laws, save for that attempt to shoot one of Thranduíl’s white deer, and she felt one hundred years in a cell was not exactly a warranted punishment for that. If they’d hit the deer, perhaps, but since he’d missed…

Besides, she’d heard tell of Thorin Oakenshield and had, for some time now, wondered whether or not he actually existed. Now that she’d seen him for herself… well… she was somehow going to convince her father to let him go. What harm had befallen her family from having the dwarves in their forest? Absolutely none. 

With that, she marched into the throne room where she found Thranduíl perched high atop his throne of woven branches, adorned with gilded versions of oak leaves, acorns, maple seeds, and pine cones. He blended with the surroundings in his flowing robes of gold, orange, brown, and red silk that floated about him like a mist. The sunlight that filtered through the treetops reflected off his crown of sticks and twigs, also adorned with gilded acorns and polished stones that in some lights appeared golden, and in others, almost black. 

“Papa, a word?”

His eyes were as green as spring leaves after a rainstorm, calm and tranquil as they met hers. “What is it, Carys?”

“The prisoners.”

“If you mean the dwarves, you should simply stop right there,” he replied sternly, “for I will not discuss them.”

“What have they done that is so terrible? They were lost.”

“That does not excuse them their trespasses.”

“They didn't kill the deer, mind you.” She shook her head as she stepped closer. “They did nothing except walk along our paths. They sipped not even a drop of water. Let them go.”

“I will do no such thing and we will not discuss it further. They stay until Thorin Oakenshield is willing to return to me that which is rightfully mine.”

“What?” She cocked her head slightly to stare up at him. “What are you about, Papa? What of yours can these dwarves possibly have?”

Thranduíl shook his head, sending his shimmering blond hair spilling like molten gold over his shoulders. “Never you mind about it. You have my answer. And I’ll not change my mind, so do not even try.”

“But, Papa—”

“No!” His low voice echoed all around them and his robes swished softly as he rose to sweep carefully down the staircase from his throne. “I’ll not settle for any less.”

“You are being impossibly stubborn, do you know this? You make no sense and this is just cruel. They’ve not even been offered so much as sip of water since you locked them away.”

“I needed not make sense to you, daughter, to have my wishes obeyed. Now, you are to stay away from the dungeons. Legolas,” Thranduíl’s pale eyes flicked up over her head, “see your sister to her chambers, please.”

“I can see myself there, thank you.” She spun about and swept out of the throne room through the doorway along the eastern wall, that led to a corridor traveled only by her family. Her rooms were at the far end, and she didn't slow down as she made her way through her chambers and out to the small garden behind them.

Hints of jasmine and honeysuckle hung in the air. If she closed her eyes, Carys could almost see her mother, for those scents would forever be associated with her mother. She had very little memory of her, but for her scent remained burned into Carys’ brain and would remain there. This garden was the only place were honeysuckle grew, as Thranduíl did not know she’d cultivated it. Had he, and Carys had no doubt he’d have ordered it burned. Not out of cruelty, but out of self-preservation, for he’d never gotten over her murder.

Carys was but an infant when it happened and had no memory of her mother aside from the flowers. And she could not even be sure that she linked them because she remember them or because her father told her that her mother’s favorite scent was honeysuckle. It didn't matter. Carys found comfort in the smell, just has her father found sorrow in it. 

A low stone wall ringed the garden and as she sank onto it, Carys sighed softly. Thorin and his men did not deserve to be locked away in a dungeon for a crime that was hardly a crime. The longer she sat there, her back against her favorite tree, watching the fireflies as they flashed through the growing darkness, the more strongly she felt they did not deserve this. 

The Feast of Starlight, Mereth Nuin Goliath was to begin shortly, and once the wine began flowing, no one would notice if she slipped away from the others. So she joined them all in the Great Hall, and by half-eleven, even her father was well into his cups. As she thought, no one seemed to take notice when she slipped out of the hall and down into the kitchens, where the keys were kept on a hook near the doorway. 

The iron ring was cold and far heavier than it looked, and she wrapped her fingers about the numerous equally cold and heavy keys to keep them from clanking together as she descended into the damp depths of the Mirkwood dungeons. That dampness bit into her, the cold made her feet ache through her thin silk slippers, and she wished she’d brought a wrap with her. 

But, she’d be up in her chambers and warm again soon enough, and so put her discomfort from her mind. It was temporary and it would pass.

“What time do you suppose it is?” The low male voice floated out from one of the cells.

“It must be nearly dawn by now.”

“We will never make it in time.”

She crept up to Thorin’s cell and softly rattled the keys. “I beg to differ.”

Thorin appeared in the doorway, his eyes pale blue slivers in the soft light afforded by the torches affixed high above them. Those eyes stood out starkly against his long tangle of black har and equally dark, heavy brows. “What are you doing?”

“I do not believe trespassing is deserving of a hundred-year sentence.” She slid the key into the lock and turned to set the tumblers opening. “And so, I’ve come to let you all go. But, you’ll have to move quickly, for it won’t take much for them to notice I’ve gone. They’re drunk, but not dead, you know.” 

The door opened noiselessly and a moment later, Thorin stood before her. Up close, he was strikingly handsome. Far more so than she would have ever thought and definitely more so than she’d ever expected. And since he was tall for a dwarf, and she was short for an elf, they were the same height, which meant they stood nearly eye-to-eye. 

Those eyes were friendly now, and almost warm as he said, “Princess, thank you.”

“There is no need for that.” She glanced over her shoulder at the sounds of people moving in the kitchens. “We need to move. Now. Follow me.”

“How do we know this isn’t a trap?” A dwarf almost as tall as Thorin and far more menacing-looking, with his balding, tattooed head, growled. 

“Why would I trap you when you were already trapped?” She shook her head. “There really is no time for this. Come with me or remain here for the next hundred years. The choice is yours.”

“Where is the hobbit? Is he here?” a dwarf with two jet-black pigtails asked.

“I’ve no idea what hobbit you might be referring to, as I’ve seen none. Now, please,” Carys tried to force as much urgency into her whisper as she could manage, “it will not be long before someone comes into the kitchens and notices this enormous key ring—” she held up the ring in question, jangling it softly for effect—“is missing. And they will know why it is missing. So, if you’d be so kind, please, follow me.”

“Do as she says,” Thorin hissed, then to her surprise, caught her by the elbow as he added, “Please, lead on.”

She did, moving swiftly along the all-too-familiar treads, deeper into the palace, until they reached the bottommost level, where at least two dozen casks stood carefully stacked, waiting to be filled with goods to be sent down the Forest River to Esgaroth and points beyond.

Thorin stared at her in disbelief. “You cannot mean what I think you mean.”

“You will be fine. Trust me. I used to do this myself as a child. It might give you butterflies in your stomach, but that’s the worst that should happen.”

“Thorin, you cannot mean to listen to her!” The dwarf with the pigtails stared in wide-eyed horror. “She’s meaning to drown the lot of us. And we cannot leave without finding Bilbo.”

“Please,” she looked from one dwarf to the next, shaking her head as dust filtered down from the boards above, “someone has noticed and you are almost out of time. Get in the barrels. Otherwise, my efforts will have been in vain and you will find yourselves back in your cells.”

“In with you all,” Thorin whispered sharply. “Waste no more time!”

More dust filtered down around them and the dwarves reluctantly climbed into the barrels, muttering and mumbling the entire time. She ignored them as she met Thorin’s gaze. “You should get in as well. I’ll pull the lever and get you on your way. Hopefully, the current will be swift enough to have whisked you out of reach of the archers, but I will try to stall them as best I can just the same.”

“Thank you, princess.”

“You’re welcome.” Footsteps thudded dully overhead. “You should go.”

He glanced up. “What will happen to you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never defied my father this way. He will be quite angry, I imagine. But, that certainly won’t be the first time.”

The footsteps grew louder and now her heart beat faster. Thranduíl would be beyond furious with her, really. He might even banish her. She didn't know. She’d seen him banish other elves for lesser offenses, but they were not his daughter, either. Certainly she would not have to fear such a punishment.

At least, she hoped she wouldn’t. 

The boards directly over their heads creaked and voices, muffled at first, grew clearer. The seriousness of her actions bit into her then and without hesitation, she said, “Get in now!”

Thorin climbed into a barrel and looked back at her once more. “Thank you again.”

“Think not of it,” she told him, forcing herself to smile as she moved to the lever that wold turn the floor into a ramp. “Safe travels.”

Though kept well-oiled, the dampness still caused rust to form on the giant cogs and they squealed as she pushed against the lever with all of her might. At first, the floor only barely moved and fear bit into her with sharp teeth, urged her to push with more force. The muscles in her back screamed, the ones in her legs burned, but finally, the ramp lowered and one by one, the barrels splashed into the river far below. Another moment later, and they were out of sight.

The ramp clapped shut just as the first guards burst into the chamber, Thranduíl right behind them, his eyes ablaze with utter fury unlike any she’d ever seen. When those eyes fell on her, she stepped back, her stomach twisting into hot knots of fear unlike any she’d ever felt before. 

***

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