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yikes-aemond · 1 month

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I love you. It's ruining my life. (Part IV)

pairing: Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!fem!reader (no descriptions of reader except that she wears dresses and has long hair)

warnings: canon typical violence, cursing, death

summary: You and Benjicot Blackwood plan for the future. Things don’t quite go as planned.

word count: 5.1k

author note: Thank you all so much for your patience! I will not lie—this part was a struggle to write. I think I rewrote it at least three times, and I am still not sure if I’m absolutely satisfied. Fair warning, I’m putting our lovebirds through the ringer, but do not worry—I’m a girl who loves a happily ever after. Also, no smut in this part, but stick around for part five. Happy reading!

part i can be found here, part ii here, and part iii here.

“Have you lost your mind?”

You could not have heard him correctly. Surely Benjicot Blackwood had not just asked you to marry him, while you were half naked.

You hurried to adjust your dress and cover yourself in a desperate attempt to establish some sense of dignity and propriety in this moment. Had you not been overwhelmed by the day, had you not been so taken off guard, you might have responded a little more kindly to a proposal from your beloved.

Benjicot laughed as he watched you try to gather your wits about you. He followed your direction, adjusting his breaches so that everything was tucked back into its proper place.

Once you were both decent, Benjicot reiterated, “I am quite serious. We should marry this evening.”

You shook your head, mind racing as you tried to comprehend what he was saying, what he was asking. For years, you had watched Benjicot from afar. Watched the way he grew into a man, into someone that people feared and respected in equal measure. Being with Benjicot was always your dream. The one you had tucked away in your heart for years, never to see the light of day should you dare to do the most dangerous thing in all of Westeros—hope.

And now he was asking you to marry him. You felt unbalanced, unsteady. Your head and your heart were at war.

You managed to get off the bed. Needing a moment to collect yourself, you put some distance between you and Benjicot and moved back across the room to the fireplace.

When you turned back to Benjicot, you saw that he had not moved. His eyes were fixed on you, that predatory gaze locked onto your form, waiting for your response.

That look in his eyes never failed to make you squirm. The weight of that stare made you think he could hear every thought in your head, all your secrets and dreams.

You sighed, breaking eye contact and said, “You know that our families will never allow it.”

Benjicot stood then, and slowly stalked toward you. With each step, you felt your heartbeat pound louder against your chest. You had thought that the longer you spent in his presence, the more you would become used to him. But you could not deny the effect Benjicot had on you, on your body.

Benjicot took your hands in his, and pulled you against him. Placing your hands on his chest, he rubbed his thumbs over the scrapes you had gotten earlier in the woods. Had that only been this morning? Time seemed to hold no meaning in this room. A prison that now felt like a sanctuary.

“That is why we must marry tonight.” Benjicot smiled, and then placed a kiss on your brow. “By the time they find out, it will be too late.”

You pulled back, just enough so that you could look at his face. “And do your really expect your father and Black Aly to welcome me into the family with open arms?”

Benjicot was still smiling, still so sure of his plan. “They will once they see how happy we are. How much we love each other.” He shrugged before continuing, “And we would not be the first Blackwoods and Brackens to marry. Others have done it in the name of peace.”

“But our families do not seek peace now!” You practically shouted, frustration coloring your tone. “We are on the brink of war, and our families stand on opposite sides.”

You tried pulling away, but Benjicot tightened his arms around you, stilling your struggle. Whatever good humor Benjicot had was slowly leaching from his features. “You know as well as I do that Queen Rhaenyra is the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

You closed your eyes and took a steadying breath.“Of course I agree with you, but that does not change the fact that my father will disown me if we do this. I will never be able to return home.”

Benjicot pressed another kiss to your temple and whispered against your skin,“Would that be such an awful thing?”

You felt your heart jerk at his question. The idea of never seeing your family again, of never being welcomed home, of never eating your cook’s fruit pies or riding through the moorlands outside of Stone Hedge on a misty morning, or gods never visiting your mother’s gravestone, was enough to send a wave of nausea through you.

You hid your face against his chest. “My father was not always the most loving, but he is my father. For all the faults you may find with him, he has never been cruel to me.”

Benjicot felt the shift in your mood, could practically feel the sadness and desperation radiate from the points where you touched. He knew the sacrifice he was asking you to make was no small thing. He rubbed his hands up and down your arms, trying to comfort the turmoil within you.

You could not stop the tears even if you wanted to. You did not wail, did not scream at the unfairness of your situation, did not rail against the old gods and the new for cursing your families and subjecting them to an endless blood feud. For what else could this ancient, hateful grudge between the Blackwoods and Brackens be except for a curse?

Even if you could convince your father to bless a marriage between you and Benjicot, any children between you would be enlisted to the war. Generations of prejudice had proven that. It was no matter that the Bracken or Blackwood on the other side would be a cousin. No matter that no one could remember how the hatred between your two families even began. No matter how senseless the bloodshed would be.

This was your and Benjicot’s world. You could not run from the truth of your situation, could not hide from your fates. Not if you wanted your love to withstand.

And even though the thought of never going back to Stone Hedge was devastating, the thought of never seeing Benjicot again was unthinkable. Never hearing his voice or his laugh. Never seeing his smiles. Never having him hold you in his arms. You could not bear the separation, not after having a taste of what your life could be like together.

Your tears slowed and your breathing evened out. Whatever doubts that had plagued your mind were banished. Resolution steeled your spine. You took a fortifying breath and lifted your head from Benjicot’s chest. With a watery smile on your face, you said, “I accept your proposal, Benjicot Blackwood.”

Benjicot’s joy was infectious. Smiling wide and bright, he lifted you into his arms and kissed you with such a reverence that left your breathless. Gods, you loved this man. Wanted him again and could not imagine ever being parted from him. The very thought of being separated was enough to send a panic through you.

You wrapped your arms around Benjicot’s neck and tangled your hands in his hair, your tongue in his mouth. You felt his joy in that kiss. And you let that joy into your heart. Let it fill and warm you. In this moment, you allowed yourself to be happy.

The impossible dream was becoming a reality.

When Benjicot had proposed, he did not have an actual plan. He did not have any rings or a marriage cloak. As a Blackwood, he preferred to have a ceremony before the old gods in front of the ancient, colossal weirwood tree in the godswood.

Because there were no clergy associated with the old gods, the current Lord Blackwood usually performed marriage ceremonies at Raventree Hall. But seeing as his father would likely oppose the marriage, that left Benjicot with few options. With a little convincing, or in Benjicot’s case, a little threat of bodily harm, the maester finally agreed to perform the ceremony.

You could not stop smiling as Benjicot snuck you out of your rooms. With each passing hallway and corridor, you felt your excitement grow. You could barely contain your glee as you clung to each other, arms linked and hands intertwined, as you made your way into the godswood.

The maester stood before the weirwood tree, with only the moonlight and a few lanterns to light the way. Hundreds of ravens were to be your witnesses. On any other night, feeling the weight of all those eyes watching you might have felt unsettling. But nothing could spoil this moment, nothing could come between you and Benjicot—

“What in the Seven Hells do you think you’re doing?”

Every muscle in your body tensed. Panic settled in your chest, and you felt your stomach drop.

Black Aly stood at the edge of the godswood, her bow and arrow knocked and poised to strike.

You felt the world shift. One moment you were standing beside Benjicot, and the next, Benjicot stood in between you and Aly, putting himself in the way of the arrow that had been aimed at your chest.

“Lower the bow, Aly.” Benjicot’s voice was hard and low. You watched as he moved his hand to the hilt of his dagger, ready to draw the blade at any moment.

Even from a distance, you could see Aly roll her eyes at Benjicot’s actions, but she did not lower her bow. “Do not overwork yourself, nephew.”

You grabbed the back of Benjicot’s cloak, pulling slightly as if to hold him back. You glanced wearily back and forth between the Blackwoods. Two warriors preparing to battle. The last thing you wanted was for there to be violence. For surely a duel between Bloody Ben and Black Aly would be a fight for the ages.

Benjicot’s body was tense as yours. He did not truly believe that Aly would hurt you. Aly was tough but fair, and underneath her brash attitude and hostility, she had a gentle heart. But he would not risk you. Would not allow anyone to threaten or harm you. Not when he had the ability to protect you.

Benjicot pulled out his dagger. “Put the bow away, Aly. I will not ask again.”

You wanted to step in between them like you had done in the fight with Aeron. But this situation was different. This was two Blackwood who were taking the measure of each other, testing how far the other was willing to go. You could not intervene, even if the sight of an arrow pointed at Benjicot was enough to send your blood running cold.

After what felt like hours, Aly lowered her bow. Sighing, she returned the arrow to her quiver. Only then did Benjicot sheath his dagger.

“You sure have a flare for the dramatics, nephew.”

Now it was Benjicot’s turn to roll his eyes. “Says the woman who had an arrow aimed at my betrothed.”

Your heart fluttered at the word.

Aly huffed out a laugh. “Is that what she is to you? Your betrothed? I do not recall your father agreeing to any such arrangement.”

Benjicot remained in front of you, a barrier between you and Aly. “I asked for her hand, and she accepted.”

Aly stood with her hands on her hips, eyes directed toward the heavens. She looked as if she were searching for patience amongst the stars. When she cut her gaze back to Benjicot, you could not miss the look of pity that flashed across her face.

“Benji, you know that you cannot marry her.”

You reached for Benjicot’s hand, needing his touch and warmth to ground you in this moment. Whatever happiness you had felt, whatever joy that you had shared, was now slowly falling through your grasp.

Black Aly would never allow you two to marry. Not like this.

But Benjicot’s stubbornness was no light thing. “I love her, Aly. I will marry her, and you cannot stop me.”

Just as Aly was about to respond, you saw her face pale and expression grow uneasy. And when you heard the voice behind you, you understood why.

“You would be wise to reconsider that position, son.”

If you had thought you felt panic before, that was nothing to the sickening feeling that plagued you now.

Because standing on the opposite side of the godswood, directly across from Aly, was Lord Samwell Blackwood. Benjicot’s father, and your own father’s sworn enemy. And with him stood a dozen Blackwood guards, each looking between you and Benjicot with expressions that ranged from disbelief to disgust.

You had never been formally introduced to Lord Blackwood. He was a rather tall man, with hair as black as a raven’s wing. His close-cropped beard was the same. Like Benjicot, his gaze was enough to send a lesser man cowering. And right now that gaze was cold and enraged and fixed on you and Benjicot.

If Benjicot had not been holding your hand, you would have been trembling. The two of you were trapped.

“Are you so eager to start a war, Benjicot?” Lord Blackwood asked, his tone was like ice. “For some Bracken wench?”

You felt Benjicot’s hand tighten around yours, almost to the point of pain. One glance at Benjicot told you that he was furious. His glare held that feral edge, and he was close to snarling. Bloody Ben was backed into a corner, and he looked itching for a fight. Even if that fight was against his own father.

“You will mind how you speak about my lady, father.” Had you not been so fearful for your life and his, you would have thought that declaration rather romantic.

Lord Blackwood did not look impressed. “Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you and your lady have brought to our door, Benjicot?”

“We wish to marry, father.” Benjicot glanced at you as he said, “We love each other.”

A long suffering sigh escaped from Lord Blackwood as he motioned for his men to stand down. “That does not change the fact that she is a Bracken. You cannot simply marry her without expecting there to be consequences.”

“I am prepared to accept any consequence if it means we can be together.” The surety in Benjicot’s tone was enough to ease the fear that had gripped you since you had been discovered. You could help but give him a small smile.

A smile that Lord Blackwood did not miss. “And you, Lady Bracken?” Lord Blackwood sneered. “Are you prepared to face the consequences of this marriage? Your father will seek retribution for this little act of rebellion. Are you prepared to have blood on your hands?”

Now you were the one who squeezed Benjicot’s hand. Lord Blackwood terrified you, and so did his words. You did not wish to be the cause of another fight between the Blackwoods and the Brackens, did not want to send anyone to their death because you fell in love with someone who was never meant to be yours.

Benjicot nudged his shoulder against yours, offering you what strength he could. With him standing at your side, you found the courage to meet Lord Blackwood’s gaze. “Whatever trials and tribulations may come our way, Lord Blackwood, I am prepared to meet them with Benjicot as my lord husband.”

Even without looking at him, you could feel Benjicot’s eyes on you as you held your own against his father. Could feel how proud he was of you for defending your future together.

Taking another breathe, you could not help but add, “You speak of my hands becoming bloody, but I could not think of anything more fitting for a woman betrothed to Bloody Ben Blackwood.”

The silence in the godswood was deafening.

Every person and creature seemed to be holding their breath for Lord Blackwood’s response. You did not dare break eye contact with him, determined to hold your ground and prove yourself worthy of being Benjicot’s wife.

Lord Blackwood finally moved his gaze from you and back to Benjicot. “We will treat with Lord Bracken tomorrow. Offer him a parley. You will ask his permission to marry his daughter. You will accept his decision, no matter what he says.”

“Father! You know he will not—”

But Lord Blackwood had heard enough. Holding up his hand, he demanded silence. “Those are my terms, Benjicot. Be grateful I am allowing this much.”

A weariness had settled over Lord Blackwood’s features. Although he was still a man in his prime, in that moment, he looked aged and tired. As he turned to leave the godswood, he said, “We stand on the brink of war. The Targaryens are at each other’s throats since King Viserys passed. Soon House Blackwood will be asked to choose a side, and you have allowed your foolish heart to guide your choices.”

You could tell Benjicot wanted to protest, wanted to push back on his father’s orders. He knew as well as you did that convincing your father to allow the two of you to marry was going to take an act of the gods.

And even though Benjicot knew when to pick his battles, knew when he had lost a fight, he could not help but have the last word. “There are worse things to be guided by than one’s heart, father.”

Benjicot’s words gave Lord Blackwood pause. For a moment, you thought he might respond, might reprimand Benjicot for his lack of respect. Only when Lord Blackwood continued walking out of the godswood did you feel like you could breathe again.

The Blackwood guards followed their ledge lord, leaving you, Benjicot, and Aly in the presence of the ravens. You could have collapsed from exhaustion. You felt wrung out from the day. Too much had happened in such a short period of time, and your body was protesting.

Aly approached and stopped just short of you and Benjicot. “Well, that did not quite go as I expected.”

Benjicot rounded on Aly, and with animosity in his voice, he asked, “Why did you stop us?”

Aly stared at Benjicot like he had grown a second head. “We’re trying to prevent a war, Benji. Had the two of you married, Bracken would have shown up here with a thousand men seeking your head. You might love each other, but is that love really worth the lives of hundreds? Thousands?”

“You are overreacting—”

Aly shoved at Benjicot’s chest. “And you are being an idiot! Use your head, Benji. If you had married in secret, the Brackens would have stopped at nothing to avenge that insult. You know that, even if you are too blind to see it.”

With a softer tone, Aly continued, “Be grateful your father is supporting you in this. He could have just as easily returned her to Stone Hedge. You have a chance.”

Benjicot scoffed. “A chance? Do you really believe—”

“Enough.” You cut Benjicot off before he could say another word. You took his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “My father may hate Blackwoods, but he is not unreasonable. We will convince him.”

You could tell that Benjicot was struggling to control his temper. He was still running hot from the confrontation with Aly and his father. Bloody Ben was lingering too close to the surface. You pulled his face toward yours and pressed a kiss to his lips. Nothing more than a gentle peck, but enough to distract him.

When you pulled back, you could see that some of the edge had worn off. Benjicot’s face was calmer, less hostile. “I love you, Benjicot Blackwood. I do not plan to give you up without a fight.”

Benjicot smiled at your words, the soft smile he reserved just for you. He wrapped his arms around you, tucking you under his chin. “My brave girl. I pity any man who would dare cross you.”

You held each other for a moment before Aly cleared her throat. “If you two are finished, I’m going to escort little Bracken back to her rooms.”

With a quick kiss to your head, Benjicot released you and said, “Sleep well, my lady.”

You did not want to leave Benjicot, but you knew there was no way Aly was going to let you stay with each other. As you followed her out of the godswood, you could not help but take one last look at Benjicot.

You nearly stumbled when you saw him. Beneath the ancient weirwood tree, bathed in moonlight and surrounded by ravens, stood Benjicot. His head bowed as if in prayer.

You did not have to guess what he was praying about. You only hoped that the old gods were listening.

The only neutral territory acceptable to both the Blackwoods and the Brackens were the boundary stones near the old windmill. The day was overcast and cold, with the wind tearing through the cloak Aly had lent you.

Aly had not left your side since collecting you from your rooms that morning. You and Benjicot had been kept separated for the entire journey. You had asked for him, begged Aly to allow you two a moment alone, but she had refused. Lord Blackwood was keeping both she and Benjicot on a tight leash until this matter was settled.

To say you were nervous was an understatement. You had tossed and turned the entire night, too anxious to close your eyes for fear of what your dreams may hold. You might have been confident with Benjicot the night before, but in truth, you had no idea how to convince your father to allow you to marry.

The Brackens had arrived first.

A host of about fifty men had gathered on their side of the boundary stones. A sea of red and gold with a few horses scattered in the mix. You did not miss how all the men were armed with swords at the ready.

And in the front, seated atop his favorite war horse and adorned in battle leathers, was Amos Bracken. Your father.

Amos Bracken was not as tall or built as Samwell Blackwood, but you knew your father to be a proficient swordsmen and respected fighter in his own right. You had no doubt that should this come to blows, he would hold his own.

Aeron stood beside him. A united front against their perceived enemies. And while your father’s face was blank of all emotions, calm and controlled, Aeron’s disdain for the Blackwoods was clear for all to see.

The Blackwood host equalled that of the Brackens’. You had ridden to the neutral ground on the back of Aly’s horse. You had tried to spot Benjicot all morning, but there were too many men, too much chaos. The closer you got to the boundary stones, the more you felt Aly tense in front of you.

When you finally stopped, Aly directed you to the front of the vanguard. She had drawn her bow the moment your feet hit the ground.

Your first sight of Benjicot sent your heart thumping. His dark hair was mussed, as if he had run his hand through it multiple times. But that was the only sign that Benjicot felt uneasy. His posture was relaxed, and his mouth was fixed in a smirk, like this meeting was an every day occurrence. He showed no fear.

Aly stopped you slightly behind and to the right of Benjicot. You saw the moment when your father and Aeron spotted you. Your father’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Aeron’s face twisted into a mix of shock and disbelief.

You swallowed down the fear and anxiety. Swallowed down the nausea that threatened to upend your breakfast. Swallowed down any uncertainty you felt. You had to present a strong front to your father and his men. Otherwise, they would pounce on any hesitation and demand that you be returned home.

Lord Blackwood broke the silence first. “Amos. A pleasure as always.”

“Cut the shit, Blackwood,” Lord Bracken snarled, “and return my daughter to me.”

The words were not unexpected. You tensed as Aeron shifted his hand to the sword at his side, stomach twisting as he gripped the hilt.

You exhaled a long breath and fixed your gaze on your father. “I am well, father. The Blackwoods have treated me kindly.”

Lord Bracken’s face darkened, and you instantly regretted speaking. “I do not want to hear a single word from you.”

Your cheeks flamed at the dismissal, but you refused to lower your eyes. Refused to cower before your family. “Then I am sorry to disappoint you, father.”

“You insubordinate, ungrateful—”

“Lord Bracken,” Benjicot interjected, stopping your father from insulting you further. “I am here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

You did not so much as breathe as you waited for your father to respond.

And waited.

The longer you waited, the more panic seeped into your veins. But when your father finally responded, you wished that he had not.

With a sneer on his face, your father glared at Benjicot when he said, “I would sooner feed my daughter to one of those Targaryen dragons before marrying her to some Blackwood cunt.”

You had felt like someone had knocked the air from your lungs. You had never seen such hatred on your father’s face. Had never heard his voice sound so cold and cruel. You knew that he hated the Blackwoods, but to sentence you to death rather than let you marry?

You looked at your father like he was a stranger.

You heard angry shouts and curses behind you from the Blackwood host. Felt that the bloodlust in the air had upped a notch.

Lord Blackwood held up a hand to silence his men. “Careful, Bracken.”

“My daughter was taken by your son. Subjected to gods knows what. I will not be careful, Blackwood.”

“That’s not true, father!” You shouted, launching yourself to stand before your father. You had to find some way to convince him, some way to get him to listen. “Benjicot and I are in love. Please, just listen to us.”

Your father scoffed. “Love? Between a Bracken and a Blackwood? Do not make me laugh.”

The Bracken host jeered at your father’s word, laughing and snickering at the very idea of you and Benjicot being together. You even heard a man call out, “Blackwood whore!”

You did not see Benjicot move. Did not see him reach for the dagger at his hip. Did not see him launch the blade into the air.

But you could not miss the dagger embedding itself into the man’s throat. Could not miss the splattering of blood or the final wheeze of breath the man took before falling to the ground. Dead in the blink of an eye.

A scream tore from your throat. You whipped around to look at Benjicot and found Bloody Ben instead. His eyes held that crazed, feral look, but there was no smirk.

Every Blackwood and Bracken standing in that field un-sheathed their weapons.

“You may insult me all you wish, Bracken!” Benjicot called out, moving forward. “Call me a cunt. Call me craven. I do not care.” He stopped next to you and took your hand. "But I will cut down any man who dares to say such vile insults to my lady. Of that, I promise you.”

Your father did not look pleased by that declaration. If anything, he looked more enraged than before. “You violate the terms of this parley, Blackwood. You have spilled Bracken blood. I have the right to demand your head. But I will settle for the return of my daughter. Now.”

You were close to tears. Nothing you or Benjicot said moved your father. He was determined to hold onto his hatred, to see the Blackwoods in the worst possible light. But you could not give up—you had to try.

“Father, please,” your voice broke at the words, “I know that the feud between our families has lasted for a millennium. I know that the thought of a Blackwood and Bracken being together, of loving one another, is inconceivable to you. I know that this is not the life you wished for me. But I have lovedBenjicot since I was a girl.” You took a quick glance at Benjicot to give you strength. “And he loves me. I humbly ask you to grant our union.”

Your father refused to look at you. Refused to acknowledge your words or pleas. You clutched Benjicot’s hand tighter. For you knew what was coming. Knew that your father was about to crush whatever hope you still held onto.

Ignoring you and Benjicot as if you were insignificant, he directed his words to Lord Blackwood, “I do not give my blessing to this marriage. Return my daughter to me or we will have war.”

Your vision swam and your ears began ringing. Somewhere in the distance you heard Lord Blackwood sigh and give the command. Your hand was ripped from Benjicot’s, by whom you did not know. You felt as if the entire world had spun off its axis. How had everything gone so wrong?

One moment, you were standing next to Benjicot, his warm hand against yours, and then in the blink of an eye, you were on the other side of the boundary stones, with Aeron leading you away.

You felt as if you were disconnected from your body. Aeron’s arms were around you, guiding you. You were vaguely aware that he was trying to say something, speak to you about what had happened. But you felt nothing. Heard nothing. A numbness had settled over you.

Only when you heard Benjicot call out your name did you snap.

You shoved against Aeron, tried to run back across the boundary stones to Blackwood land, back to your love, but Aeron held firm. You struggled against him, screaming and hitting and kicking, but your strength was no match for his.

You looked across the field to see Benjicot being held back by three men. He was snarling and raging, but the men held firm and forced him to his knees. You watched as Aly tried to speak to him, tried to calm him down.

But there was no calming Bloody Ben. Not now. Not when his lady had been taken from him.

When Benjicot saw that you were watching him, saw that you were struggling against your own constraints, he stopped. His eyes were wild and fierce and held the promise of retribution. With laboring breaths Benjicot shouted across the field, “I will come you for you, my lady!” He vowed. “I will always come for you!”

You sobbed at his words. Sobbed for the happiness and hope that you had felt only hours before. Sobbed for the future you might have shared together.

For the second time, you were forced to leave Benjicot behind in this accursed field. Only this time, the heartbreak was so much worse. You had gotten a taste of the impossible dream, gotten so close to getting everything you wanted.

Your dream had become a nightmare.

final author note: I know! I know! We have to suffer before things get better. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Love you babes xx

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gallifreyanhotfive · 9 months

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Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 2

While attending Jago and Litefoot's knighting ceremony, the Sixth Doctor had to go in disguise because of the grudge Queen Victoria had against him, which was started by the Tenth Doctor.

Once, the TARDIS jumped a time track, leaving the Tenth Doctor at Powell Estate for a week. During this time, he lived with Mickey.

A team called the "Plastic Surgeons," comprised of the Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, and a lone Auton, won a Mannequin Challenge competition.

The Shopkeeper from the SJAs may have been an incarnation of the Corsair according to RTD.

The War Chief once had an aborted regeneration, which left him deformed, his past and future selves joined together. He had a conjoined dual skull and an extraordinary set of limbs.

The Third Doctor took Jo back in time in an attempt to kill that same would-be-dictator baby but also failed to do so after seeing his Sixth try the same (some of you already know where I am going with this).

After being irradiated on Metebelis III, the Third Doctor was stuck in the time vortex for ten years, dying very slowly.

Ian and Barbara's son became a pop singer.

The Eleventh Doctor once traveled with a robotic copy of a Tyrannosaurus rex named Kevin. His tiny arms made him unable to help pilot the TARDIS.

Kamelion and the TARDIS had a child together.

Missy killed the incarnations that came both before her (Saxon Master) and also after her (the Lumiat).

The Venusian Lullaby sounds like God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen because Jago and Litefoot sang it on Venus to soothe the Shanghorn.

The First Doctor caused High Tutor Albrecht to regenerate by experimenting with a perigosto stick and a temporal feedback loop.

The First Doctor rigged a drinks machine to produce mercury during his time at the Academy to experiment with, nearly causing his professor to regenerate.

The First Doctor's dorm room had posters in it and became timelocked after an experiment gone wrong. No one ever figured out how to get rid of the timelock.

Basically, the Doctor was a menace even as a student, but everyone knew that.

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28

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lateatnewyork · 8 months

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Moonflower

(Flowers part II)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Azriel x ex!reader, Rhysand x sister!reader, future Helion x reader

Warnings: angst, brotherly fluff (love u rhysie poo), swearing, elain and azriel slander (minor)

warnings & summary will be updated at every part.

Prompts: N/A

Summary: Nesta and Feyre had taken your wedding dress from Elain and handed it back to you. With the help of Rhysand, you burn it. Rhys suggests for you to go to Day Court and take some time, while he sorts things out with Azriel. What happens when a certain High Lord catches your eye?

a/n there’s going to be so much angst in this series😭 if you ever feel like killing me just know i love you guys, the names of this series are gonna be based off flowers this one is called moonflower as a homage to the night court

I had gone upto my room, not wanting to see the pitying looks of my friends.

Growing up as a High Lord’s daughter made me detached from the world, forced me to hide my emotions. Which is why, I didn’t shed a single tear until I was in the safety of my bedroom.

Shrinking down against my door, I finally allowed the thoughts to catch up.

Every single time he told me he made love to me, he really meant “I’m fucking your brother’s sister in law right under your nose,”.

I don’t even think I can call it making love anymore.

When he told me he loved me, he really meant “I love Elain, not you”.

All of a sudden all his words had double meanings.

“I’m going out,” meant “I’m going to Elain’s”.

“I already ate,” equaled “I ate at Elain’s”.

And at the very end of it all, “I have a mission” was actually “I’m going to get married to Elain,”.

Elain, Elain, Elain. What did she have that I didn’t? I had known him for centuries, been there for him through nightmares, defended him from others, hell I had given my everything to him.

And instead of returning them properly, he had broken them, trampled on my poor heart, fed my mind lies and broken my every being.

Sobs wracked my body as I hunched over myself. My hair was sticking to my face by the tears. Crying quietly, I twisted the ring off my finger, chucking it somewhere in the dark.

Hearing the soft clang of the metal landing made me sob even more. It was a beautiful ring, truly. A silver ring with diamonds encrusted on the top, 3 beautiful gems the colour of Azriel’s siphons. A blue so dark it could pass as black.

My ears were ringing, I could hear a knock on the door, but it was just some background noise compared to the noise of rushing water in my ears.

A talon of power scraped against my walls gently. Getting up, I open the door.

Rhysand stands there with my dress in his hands.

“I said I didn’t want it,” I state, stubborn as ever.

“I know that’s why I came to ask if you wanted to burn it with me,” he says hesitantly.

My eyes flick between Rhysand and the dress, a silent war forging in my violet eyes.

“Fuck it, let’s go”

My meltdown dazed mind didn’t seem to realise that Rhysand hadn’t taken me out through the main hall, but through the back entrances. Too tired to comprehend anything, I didn’t ask even when I realised it.

As if waiting for me a bonfire pit had formed.

Before we had left the room, I had grabbed a box filled with Azriel’s things that I wanted to burn.

With a flick of Rhys’ wrist the dress was positioned on the stand. A stick with fire was commissioned and he handed it to me.

“Would you like to do the honours, little star?” He says waving the stick towards me. I smile slightly at the use of the old nickname.

I grab the stick and throw it at the dress, revelling in the way it burnt.

One by one I added the items from the box.

A human polaroid of the two of us. His comfy grey shirt. All his letters. Flowers he had given me 2 days ago. A glass rose, funny really because my favourite flower isn’t a rose, it’s a moonflower. A promise ring he had got me. The prototype wedding invitation.

Rhysand watched me as I threw object after object into the endless pit of fire. Once the box was empty, I lunged the box into the fire as well.

That’s when he finally spoke up, “Little star, do you want to go visit Day Court for a while, Helion said any one from our court could visit his,”.

I nodded, the anger I had grown from the objects fading into sadness. Rhys held me close wiping my wet, tear stained cheeks. “It’ll be alright” he soothingly whispers.

I had packed my bags the night of the burning and had prepare for going to Day Court the next day.

“Rhys I can winnow myself,” I huffed as he dragged me along.

“I know, I know I just wanted to make sure you got there safe,” he sighs. Understanding, I let him take me there.

If Day Court was beautiful then they’re High Lord was gorgeous.

a/n i need sleep

taglist: @esposadomd @impossibelle @acotarfics-mharmie009 @stqrgirlies-blog @balam-sen @cumuluscranium @witchymomfrien (striked out means i couldn’t tag you)

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imgeekgirlfan · 2 months

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The Curse of Cassandra [EP : II]

Read in Ao3 : here

Pairings: Qimir x f!reader(SEAsians Reader) [The Acolyte]

Content Rating : Mature 18+ Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warning (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

tags/themes : Alternate Universe - Dune & Star wars, Partners in Crime, Strangers to Lovers

Summary: your mother always reminded you, "You will never hate the desert. Your blood is the desert. The desert is your home and your tomb." but You hope desperately that your life will be different.

Status: work in progress (This is a long fanfic that will be about 10+ chapters.)

A/N : Previously, I changed the story from a reader-insert to an OC due to backlash for specifying that the reader is SEA. I didn't enjoy writing it and nearly deleted it. However, support from AO3 readers encouraged me to stay true to my original style and affirmed that specifying the reader's ethnicity is not wrong (especially since Manny is also SEA). I’ll stick with the reader-insert style. If you don’t like that the reader is SEA, feel free to find other fics.

Also, today is my birthday. so I decided to give a gift to others by releasing a new chapter of my fanfic. I hope you like it.

➡ Intro // EP : I // EP : III // EP : IV // EP : V // EP : VI // EP : VII

[Episodes 2] You will never hate the desert. Your blood is the desert. The desert is your home and your tomb

You realize how quickly your life has changed, as your feet tread on the wet sand of Pabu, a small planet far from your birthplace.

Tatooine—where you were born and raised, is almost at the edge of the galaxy. There's nothing pleasant to see except for vast stretches of dry sand. The air is scorching hot because there are two suns in the sky. The cities are teeming with thieves, thugs, and smugglers. You hate your home planet so much, but your mother always reminded you, "You will never hate the desert. Your blood is the desert. The desert is your home and your tomb."

You know that the desert your mother spoke of isn't Tatooine, but another similar planet. An ancient world that disappeared from galactic records along with the death of your ancestors.

It's funny how your family's fate has always been the same: born in the desert and dying in the desert.

You hope desperately that your life will be different.

"Stop daydreaming; we still have a lot of work to do."

Qimir's voice comes from behind. His elbow gently nudges your arm, urging you to hurry off the beach. You turn and glare at him in annoyance, but obediently comply. You lift the cargo box to your side and turn onto the old stone-paved road, the only path leading to the upper town, the main trading hub of this island.

After reluctantly living together for more than two years, you've finally been given an additional role beyond being a prisoner. You're now Qimir's temporary assistant, helping him transport contraband to sell on small planets outside the watchful eyes of the Empire's law enforcers.

Qimir is tall with long legs. It only takes him a few strides to reach your side. "Haven't you ever seen the sea before?" the man asks, noticing that you keep turning to look at the blue ocean.

You nod. The faint, fresh, salty smell of the sea and the strong wind blowing across your face make you feel better than usual. "I grew up on Tatooine. There's only desert there. I've never seen this much water before."

You fall silent, suddenly realizing you've said too much.

No matter what, you always stay cautious. You try to speak as little as possible when you're near this man. But Qimir is the opposite—he talks incessantly, which is annoying. The more you show your irritation, the more he keeps talking. It's obvious he's deliberately trying to provoke you.

And this time is no different. Once he notices you're avoiding further conversation, he takes over, telling you about Pabu and other planets without you asking. You want to pretend not to listen, but deep down, you can't help but be interested. You've never had the chance to travel or learn about life on other planets, having spent most of your time after your mother's death quietly hiding. Until you met Qimir,. He's traveled everywhere, and he seems to know everything. Many things sound nonsensical, but many are too interesting to ignore. Like the story of Mon Cala, a planet that's entirely ocean, with a grand capital city standing tall underwater, and most of its population looking like fish. Or the fact that black holes aren't empty as many believe, but home to strange and dangerous creatures. However, they remain an unsolvable mystery because no one who has gotten close to a black hole has ever survived to tell the tale.

"I’d love to see fish people," you mutter to yourself, but Qimir’s keen ears catch it.

There's an inexplicable sadness in those words, he thinks as he turns to look at your profile, half-hidden by black hair blowing in the sea breeze. "If our ship passes by there, I might take you to see them," he says, his words unexpectedly gentle.

You press your lips tightly, not responding. Perhaps you would feel a bit more appreciative if you didn't already know that what he said would never happen.

You've seen it in your dreams. Prophetic dreams foretell the future. In about four months, Qimir will have to deliver his last expensive cargo—which is you—to his client.

But beyond that... a shadow of doom completely obscured the future. You don't even know what this dream means. It's too dark to see, too terrifying, and too mysterious to understand. But one thing you're sure of, that day will be a day of death. And the clearest path is your own demise.

You frown. For a moment, you suddenly feel something—not in the form of a vision, but a deep premonition hiding beneath your consciousness.

A revelation is approaching.

But you are at a loss to determine what it could be.

Due to Pabu's highly liberal political policies, the city's population includes many immigrants from other planets, most of whom are often outlaws. This means an increase in the number of thieves and robbers, and consequently, a higher chance of being ambushed.

No place in the city was entirely safe, so Qimir decided to set up camp outside the city instead. He called it a vacation home, even though nothing about it resembles a house In reality, it's a large cave on a seaside cliff, which had been modified to resemble a living space. It's somewhat odd and out of place, but it has everything a typical home would have, all neatly organized. There are beds and desks carved from the gray stone of the cave, a small kitchen adjacent to the pantry, and even an old cleaning droid on duty.

For you, this place is much quieter than the city. There aren’t even small animals around, let alone people passing by. It’s an ideal spot for meditation or perhaps trying to use your visions again to find a way to escape.

Of course, you haven't given up on your original intention. You’re just waiting for the right moment.

But you can't use your visions recklessly. It’s not just that you don’t want to; foresight is too dangerous, It’s a trade-off that isn’t worth the risk. The future is not like the past. There are countless branching paths that can change at any moment. The further you look, the more painful it becomes, and you risk losing your sanity. You don't have the strong prophetic abilities of your ancestors. You are a weak, distant descendant. Without the training your mother forced upon you, you probably would have died before you turned fifteen.

For safety, you decide to look at the near future, roughly calculating the chances of what will happen tomorrow if you decide to escape. All the results lead to only one path: no matter how you try to escape, Qimir will still catch you.

You sigh in frustration, silently questioning yourself. which path could possibly help you avoid death?

"We are **** ******** We don't hope, we plan"

Your mother's voice echoes repeatedly in your head as you lie with your eyes closed on the hard stone bed, trying to meditate silently instead of falling asleep as you should.

You spend the whole night pondering the things your mother taught you, until the morning sunlight creeps in through the cave mouth, gradually dispelling the darkness of the night.

You hear Qimir stirring, getting up from his bed, followed by the sound of coarse fabric rubbing and footsteps as quiet as a cat sneaking out silently. He always goes out at the same time and returns later in the morning. Qimir never tells you what he does, and you never ask. You don't want to talk to him more than necessary.

...But that doesn't mean you're not curious.

You step down from the bed, feeling the stiffness that gnaws at every part of your body, especially your legs. You shake out your legs before walking outside the cave, following the earlier footprints stretching across the sandy beach. The early morning air is quite cool because the sun hasn't fully risen yet, making the sea breeze chilly. You hug yourself to ward off the cold, regretting not bringing a cloak. All you have on is a long-sleeved cotton shirt and baggy brown pants made of low-quality fabric, so thin they barely protect you from anything.

Soon you notice a pile of clothes left on the sand near a rocky outcrop by the beach. You recognize them as Qimir's clothes. You scan the area for Qimir before spotting his tall figure soaking in the water, naked and relaxed amidst the sea and the surrounding rocks of various sizes, which look like protective ramparts or a hidden place secluded from the outside world.

The sight makes you startle, almost exclaim but manage to stop yourself. Embarrassment quickly forms as a flush of heat spreads across both your cheeks. You didn't expect to intrude on his private time like this. Luckily, Qimir has his back to you; otherwise, you would have felt even more awkward if he had seen you first.

You know that the best thing to do right now is to quietly slip away before Qimir notices. However, something about him catches your eye first.

It's the large scar on his back—a terrifying long mark crossed-shaped. It definitely doesn't look like a scar from a mere accident, but more like someone intentionally tried to take his life.

You frown, confused, curious, mixed with a strange sense of apprehension towards Qimir. What could he have done to deserve this?

For the first time, you realize that you don't know anything about this man, except for the name he told you.

"If you're going to stare at me this long, I might have to start charging you."

You jump in surprise. Qimir didn't even turn to look at you when he said this.

Before you can make an excuse or hurry away, he turns back as if anticipating it, meeting your eyes openly with a mischievous, teasing smile. Those black eyes look particularly intense, contrasting with his pale skin in the water.

"Want to join in?"

His hand sweeps back the damp hair falling over his face before he swims closer to you. Water droplets cling to his tall, muscular frame, sparkling like gems in the sunlight, breathtakingly beautiful and alluring.

The sight makes you breathless, as if you're drowning underwater even though you're standing on solid ground.

It takes almost a moment before you regain your composure. Your feet quickly retreat from the shore, as if afraid he might drag you into the sea. "Don't move!" you shout at him when you see Qimir about to rise from the water while still naked, leaving you flustered and unsure of where to look.

Qimir can't help but laugh at your mix of shock and anger. "If you're not going to join me, I'd like to put my clothes back on." The man points to the pile of black clothes near your feet. "But if you want to see me naked, I don't mind," he smiles innocently, his sparkling eyes never leaving you for a second.

You feel increasingly irritated. You know he's trying to tease you again.

You want to get back at him somehow, even just a little.

Your eyes glance down at his clothes on the sand, and suddenly you have an idea.

"Your suggestion is very interesting," You nod at him before reaching down to pick up his clothes. "Seeing you walk around naked would be quite a sight indeed."

Qimir's eyes widen, only realizing what's happening when he sees you clutching his clothes and running away at full speed.

"You!! Stop right there!"

The shouting voice behind you sounds closer than you expect. You quickly glance back and see Qimir chasing after you rapidly, still naked. His bare body and flustered expression are both hilarious and amusing. The allure he had before is completely gone.

You can't stop laughing, even as he finally catches up to you.

You stand no chance against Qimir in terms of size or strength. As soon as he grabs you, the outcome is inevitable. After a brief struggle, Qimir trips you, causing you to fall onto the sand. The impact leaves you winded, but you keep laughing even while lying there. It is the first time in a year that you have the chance to laugh so heartily and for so long.

Qimir hurriedly dresses as fast as he can, glaring at you as you show no signs of stopping your laughter. He then sits down beside you, his broad chest under his clothes rising and falling with rapid breaths, exhausted from the sudden morning exercise. "You little brat," he says to you, still panting, trying to contain his anger. "I should just kill you."

He means it; he isn't joking. If anyone else had heard this, they might have been terrified, but you don't care. You are laughing so hard you can barely breathe, your cheeks flushed with a rosy glow, as vibrant as any typical teenager should be. Qimir stares at you without blinking, this time not in anger but in contemplation.

You have never smiled or laughed before, not even once. You always wear an expression as if you are carrying the weight of the entire world, like someone hiding something deep in their heart or someone who has experienced too many terrible things to mention. Many times, he senses this—you seem like someone much older, perhaps even more than him, as if an old soul is trapped in your youthful body.

Who exactly is this woman? He wonders, looking at your plain, unremarkable face. There is nothing particularly memorable about it, except for your eyes. They are the deepest, most brilliant blue he has ever seen.

There is something both captivating and unsettling about you.

"You have talent, you're cunning and quick. You'd make a good thief. Could be quite helpful in my work."

You stop laughing and look up at Qimir. His tone sounds too serious to be joking, but his lips are curved into a smile, completely different from his angry demeanor earlier. "Are you offering to teach me?" you ask, confused.

"Would you like to learn?"

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head slowly. "What's the point, when I'm probably going to..."

You don’t finish your sentence, letting it trail off. The bright expression from moments ago is fading once more.

"When you're what?" Qimir asks, his curiosity about you growing stronger.

"Nothing," you answer his question with the same phrase you always use, while painfully swallowing the word 'die', unwilling to reveal more.

You don't realize the sharp, intense gaze from Qimir, subtly hidden beneath his friendly smile.

...and you certainly don't realize that your choice to remain silent might lead to events spiraling beyond control.

#qimir x reader #qimir fic #qimir x you #the stranger x reader #the acolyte fanfiction #qimir x y/n #the acolyte x reader #star wars #the acolyte #star wars fic #the acolyte fic #qimir #Angst and Tragedy #strangers to lovers #the curse of cassandra

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niqhtlord01 · 3 months

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Humans are weird: Ash Walker: Part 1

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

“Now that we’re all here it’s time I tell you what the job is.”

Hemlock kicked the holographic table and it buzzed into life, the projection lighting up the room in a soft blue glow. Six pairs of eyes turned to look at the projection as Hemlock pointed to the slowly turning image of a world.

“This is Thescara III-“ he began before being immediately cut off.

“Frak this shit.” One of the onlookers declared. “I’m not sitting one foot on that cursed world. You drop me off on the nearest barren moon.”

“What’s wrong with Thescara III?” another onlooker asked.

Septh looked at Hemlock and scoffed. “No wonder you wanted a new crew of fresh pups, for no seasoned salvager would join up with you.”

“You going to answer my question old man, or are you just keep ignoring me?”

Septh looked at the Fling then back at Hemlock with a hard stare. Hemlock paused and took a look around the room at his new crew. There was the Theosian called Tug standing in the back. He wore his ceremonial metal armor that was crafted to his flesh upon birth and was the muscle of the group.

The Guppin Fling was sitting in front of Tug with all four of his legs crossed. They were the youngest of the group and were it not for his hacking skills he’d not be here at all. Hemlock saw a lot of himself in the Guppin but was worried his enthusiasm would make him careless.

Opposite them were the triplets Nok, Uma, and Rue. None of them were particularly good with any skillset, but Hemlock needed the extra hands for lugging things and they came cheap. In truth he still didn't know which was which so he’d just shout a name and tell them to do something.

Last was Septh; the only one he’d used for multiple jobs. He was an old hand at the salvage game and was understandably not happy about being kept in the dark until the last moment.

“Thescara III was originally a human world until their war with the Jen. Rather than engage the humans on the surface where they knew the humans had the advantage they dropped a couple thousand low yield nuclear bombs across the entire surface reducing it to perpetual nuclear winter.”

“Cowards.”

Hemlock turned to see Tug adjusting himself against the wall and send a small tremor through the decking before spitting a gob of something black on to the floor and continued talking.

“True warriors face their foes face to face; not through the lens of a computer monitor.”

“If you knew what humans can do with a sharpened stick you might think twice.”

The triplets snickered at this but went silent when Tug shot them a sidelong glance.

“None of this matters, save for the fact there is over seven million credits locked away in the capital branch bank of Universal Credit that is just sitting there waiting to be nabbed.”

The mention of loot drew everyone’s attention. That many credits were enough to buy decent chunk of a moon, or live a life of luxury on a paradise world for seven lifetimes.

“It’s just been sitting there; this entire time?” one of the triplets asked. “How do we know the credits are still there?”

Gods they even sound the same, Hemlock thought.

“’The planet has been an ecological nightmare ever since the bombs went off. You can only stay on the surface for a short period of time before the radiation levels kill you. Couple that with the vault’s combination randomly rotating itself every hour it’s made it impossible to crack it before the radiation bakes you.”

“If that’s true then what chance do we have?” Septh interrupted.

In response Hemlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold disc.

“Because we aren’t going to need to crack the vault with this little ticket here.” Hemlock smiled. “As this little dingy is a corporate level security key, which can open any UC vault automatically.”

The triplets and Fling whistled in amazement, and with good reason. Those types of security keys were only given to executive level personnel and the loss of one would trigger an immediate reaction force to retrieve it.

“Do I want to know how you got that?” Septh asked.

Hemlock shrugged. “I’m borrowing it from a certain partner who will remain nameless for now.”

He pointed back to the hologram and grinned. “Now, time to plan our payday.” ---------------------------

Parting through the dense cloud coverage, Hemlock kept a constant eye on the retro rockets to match the ever changing wind patterns. He had flown through hurricanes and gale force winds that could cleave metal like paper, yet Thescara III was proving to be an entirely different beast.

Not only was the planet covered in a near perpetual cloud cover that dispensed ash but the sheer amount of nuclear bombs that had been dropped had also changed the planet’s equilibrium. Wind direction changed in intensity and direction by the minute, air pockets were abound like it was a minefield, and that wasn’t even getting into the random lightning strikes that could short out the entire ship if one struck home.

“I told you this planet was-“ Septh began before another air pocket the ship and the ship dropped suddenly.

Hemlock grinned at his good fortune and once more adjusted a series of dials. It took a few moments to pass through the last bit of turbulence and finally get below the cloud cover.

“Welcome to Thescara III everyone.” Hemlock said as the planet’s surface finally came into view.

As far as his eyes could see the entire planet was covered in layer upon layer of grey ash. Spires of city skyscrapers loomed up out of the ground like the skeleton fingers of gods, their shadows casting long across the ruins of a dead city.

After a few moments of circling Hemlock found the ideal landing site and brought the ship down. From the city records he was able to obtain the opening was once a large park at the heart of the capital city and only a few city blocks away from their target.

With a loud thud the support legs touched down on the surface and the engines began slowly powering down. Hemlock was already unbuckling harness and making for the cargo hold. Septh was in lock step behind him as the pair entered the hold to find the rest of the crew already suiting up.

Tug still had his armor on but had donned an atmospheric helmet. Hemlock could see the faint green glow of targeting feeds displaying on the inside of the helmet as the warrior performed basic systems checks. The triplets were gathering around hauler making final checks. They wore standard atmospheric suits with different colors for distinction as they circled the hauler. It was an anti-grav model with several large cases stacked on the back which the crew would fill with credits.

Hemlock was crazy enough to take this risk but not stupid enough to think he or his crew could haul seven million credits back without transport so the triplets were to be glued to the thing the entire time.

Fling was the last of the group off to the side that Hemlock found. He was struggling to attach the gloves of his suit when he approached and helped him.

“So if we have a key to the vault,” Fling began as he nodded thanks to Hemlock for the glove assist, “why exactly do you need me?”

“If the key fails you’re the contingency.” Hemlock said plainly. “I always hedge my bets, and I always have a plan B.”

Fling smirked. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted for being plan A.”

Hemlock didn’t reply as he finished checking the rest of Fling’s suit and stepping back as Septh approached. He casually flung a spare helmet to Hemlock who caught it midair and donned it with ease.

“Listen up everyone,” he began as he spoke over the shared com network, “we have three hours to get in and out before the next radiation wave sweeps through here.”

Slapping the release button on the side of the hull sirens began blaring and the boarding ramp slowly cracked open and lowered down to the surface. A fresh blizzard of ash slowly began sweeping into the hold as the crew hopped onboard the hauler.

“Keep in coms range, keep an eye on your radiation meters, and for frak’s sake do not go wandering off.” Hemlock broke off checking on his crew to look down the boarding ramp as it fully opened. “This is not a world you want to be alone on.”

With his instructions delivered he slapped the top of the hauler’s cab and the triplets drove the vehicle forward. No sooner had the hauler reached the bottom of the ramp did Hemlock realize something was wrong.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Hemlock turned to see Fling looking off to the left of the boarding ramp and followed his gaze. His eyes went wide as he saw the outline of a Nebula B class freighter parked right next to his ship.

From the cockpit he had assumed it was another mound of ash, but now looking up at it from the ground he could see the underside of the ship clear as day. It’s boarding ramp was likewise lowered but now was coated in several layers of ash.

“Competition?” Tug asked as he hefted his power rifle. Septh shook his head in response as his eyes went over the freighter.

“This thing’s been here a while now.” He answered. Tug looked at him then back at the silent freighter. “How can you tell?” he asked.

“Nebula B’s are notorious for their engines never fully shutting down and always making a low rumbling sound.” Septh said as he put a hand to his ear. “For it to be silent it must have burned through its fuel reserves, and those can last about two-three years.”

“That’s not the half of it.”

Hemlock turned to see Tug nodding in the opposite direction to see a row of other spaceships lining alongside theirs like a giant parking lot.

“What the hell is this…” One of the triplets said from the hauler cabin. “Where are all their crews? Why’d they leave their ships out like this?”

“It’s-“ Septh began but Hemlock cut him off.

“Shut it.” Hemlock barked. He pointed down the road lined with ash covered vehicles. “We’ve got three hours and we don’t have time to waste!”

The crew looked amongst themselves before the hauler lurched forward again.

#humans are weird #humans are insane #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01 #part 1

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hurricanek8art · 4 months

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I had to start trying to explain to my mom (strictly a movie/tv fan) why the Jedi are like this at this point in time, and it finally clicked in my head. The perfect way to explain how they're so rigid and strict and have such huge sticks up their butts at this point in time.

The Jedi of this generation are the result of generational trauma.

(Spoilers for episodes 1 and 2 of The Acolyte, Phase One of the High Republic books, and some barebones setting spoilers of Phase Three under the cut. Also a big wall of text because I never know when to shut up 🙃)

So I'm behind on Phase III of the High Republic books (got a few chapters into The Eye of Darkness when it came out, brain farted out on me on reading ability, haven't gotten back to it yet 🙃😖) but I know enough to know that things are really going bad. The Nihil are rampaging, the Nameless are turning people to stone, the Stormwall has cut off like a third of the galaxy from the rest of it. It's a lot! It's really bad! And we see how it's affecting our heroes. Avar and Elzar are reeling without Stellan. Vern's questioning about how the Jedi are responding to this threat throughout Phase I has led her to become a Wayseeker. Padawans like Bell, Burry and Reath have been elevated to Knighthood a lot sooner than any of them expected to be. All of them are incredibly traumatized.

But that's just the Jedi we've seen. The heroes, the big names. Imagine being a nobody at this time. An extra. A child.

Imagine being a youngling in this era. There are literal nightmares hunting you. People are dying right and left, they're being husked and turned to stone or just plain shot/stabbed/whatever. The outposts are being closed down and everyone's being recalled to Coruscant, and that's the ones who've survived so far. They knocked the Starlight Beacon out of the sky, something that was supposed to be impossible. And less than five years ago, this was a golden age of peace, of light and life and great works that were bringing the galaxy together, a united front. That's horrible, that is terrifying.

We as the readers know it's going to work out, because it has to, because this is a prequel. They don't know that. They're just kids, and the world has suddenly turned upside-down, and the galaxy is big and scary and dark.

So everything works out, the day is saved. But these kids, they have to live with this trauma for the rest of their lives.

And when they grow up, and they train Padawans, those Padawans are going to carry the lessons they learned onwards. There is no lesson a Master can teach in this era that isn't going to carry the grief of the Nihil or the Nameless. There is no lesson any Master will ever teach again, from the moment Loden Greatstorm was captured by Marchion Ro all the way to Luke's temple burning to the ground, that won't somehow, in some way, be touched by this. It haunts everyone, everything. Those lessons are passed on, and on, and on.

Yord Fandar is intense about protocal and following the rules and making sure he's the perfect Jedi, because a hundred years ago maverick Elzar Mann played fast and loose with the rules while he was stationed on Valo, and then the Nihil turned the Republic Fair into a bloodbath. Sol is worried about Osha's (so far) inability to put her grief to the side and remain objective in chasing Mae because Imri Cantaros lost control and nearly murdered the Nihil who caused the death of his master during the Great Disaster. Vernestra Rwoh is refusing to charge into this without talking it over with the Council because she remembers what happened when she kept information from them a hundred years ago.

These aren't isolated incidents because they happened to the heroes, every Jedi of that era has some story like this, where the lines blurred in the fog of war and they made or nearly made horrible mistakes out of fear. And now, every Jedi is going to want to rise above that. To not make those mistakes, because that past is past. It's peaceful again. They're better now. But that trauma's lurking under the surface, just like the Sith. The Nihil won't win, but the Order isn't going to, either. Because what the Nihil did changed them, permanently.

The plot of the High Republic books is supposedly unrelated to the show, because it's a hundred years later. But the plot of the High Republic books explains everything about the Jedi in this era of the galaxy. They're carrying the trauma and grief of an entire generation that was brutalized unlike anything the Order had ever seen before.

And the Sith have watched, and waited, as that trauma has become so internalized, so central to what the Jedi are. The Jedi might not even realize that's what's happened to them. But the Sith see it.

And now it's finally time to begin the grand plan.

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here-but-forgotten · 5 months

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authors note: i don't fucking know man. i listened to "becoming the lastnames" and this happened.

content notes: rudy x reader. young, before he joins the military. talks of marriage. valeria and alejandro mention. mainly fluff. mentions of death.

becoming the lastnames

pre-military! rodolfo parra x reader

“Do you ever think we’ll make it?” He whispers, breaking through the shrouded dark, the cool air seeping through your skin.

“I don’t know,” You whisper.

He shifts beside you, the blanket wrinkling under his shifting weight. The night is cool; the stars are out; the city is far enough away to be forgotten but not to far away to become imaginary.

“Why do you say that?” Rodolfo asks, softly, no bite of argument on the back of his tongue.

“I mean, what if I end up just like my parents?”

“I’ll love you.”

That stupid, sweet, sticky, suffocating warmth seeps into your bones to your ribs, filling your throat with a burn.

“We could try to be like my parents,” he jokes, “we could work until we’re 40 then go insane.”

You laugh, breaking the warmth off your ribs, letting yourself melt into the blanket again. Your fingers tingle, cold.

“But what if you die?”

“Baby,” Rudy murmurs, half a scold and half a pity.

“I’m serious,” You whisper, barely making noise, the heat that chokes you catching cold air in your throat, “what then?”

“Then you can come talk to my headstone, I’ll listen.”

“Rudy.”

He laughs. You sound like his mother. His pinky wraps around yours, pulling your hand closer to him; he is warm.

“I don’t plan on dying.”

“But what if you do?”

“I just won’t.”

You sigh, defeated, that stupid boyish reasoning and manly cool. Infuriating.

“I’ll crawl back to you if anything happens.”

“If you die, I’ll kill Alej to keep you company.”

Macabre. He laughs.

“I’ll have to haunt you if you do that,” He smiles into his sigh, “If I don’t die, we’ll grow old together.”

“I’ll get all wrinkly.”

“Yeah, and so will I.”

“Marriage has always scared me,” You admit, his pinky tightening, keeping you close, “But I want to have a last love.”

“We can be just like my parents, then.”

You tighten your grip on him, his fingering wiggling out just to grab your whole hand, paw covering your hand.

“What about forever?” You ask.

“I don’t know anything about forever, but I know I wouldn’t mind spending it with you.”

“How can you be so confident?”

“I want to push Alejandro off a bridge sometimes, but I know I want to be his best friend till I die,” he starts, his voice soft, “and I feel like that with you.”

“You want to push me off a bridge?”

“I feel like the second part of the sentence.”

“I mean, I get it if you do, I can be annoying—”

“I don’t want to push you off a bridge—”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did—”

He pushes his hand and yours against your mouth, gently, hushing you.

“I am not going to push you off a bridge.”

“That sounds like a Dateline intro,” You joke.

“I am not going to kill you.”

“Sounds like something a killer would say.”

Rodolfo dramatically sighs, pulling the hands back to him.

“I don’t think we have to wait on becoming insane like my parents, I think we’re already there.”

You chuckle, scooting closer to him, your shoulder touching his.

“Love can last a pretty good long while, you sure you want to give that to me?”

“I already did.”

You hum.

“Love doesn’t go away. It either sticks around or it was never there. It changes shape though, and it’s just about keeping shapes that go together.”

“You sure you want to go get shot, you could be a poet.”

“I don’t want to get shot, it’s just a part of the job description.”

“I don’t know, you seem to be a bit of a masochist.”

He squeezes your hand, a light little non-existent warning.

“Being a poet doesn’t pay too well, I don’t think. Unless we have World War III soon, then I can be sad and traumatized and publish 15 books.”

“If you make it.”

“I will,” Rodolfo lowers his voice, pulling you against him, head resting on his shoulder, “I will make it, and I’ll come home to you, and we can go crazy together until Alejandro tries to get us admitted.”

“If we pull him down with us, he can’t admit us.”

“That’s the plan.”

He rests his nose against the crown of your head, kissing your head softly, his arm around your shoulders warm as his fingers rub your skin, your body melting against his.

“Do you think Valeria and him will make it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Confident.”

“They are oil and water. The flame is whatever they’re feeling. And it’s just whoever gets to the fire first and does something with it.”

“Are you comparing their relationship to a grease fire?”

“Yes.”

You pause, letting the words hang in the air for a moment.

“Have you been in a room with them for longer than 30 minutes?”

“I mean, yeah.”

His thumb rubs you.

“He just wants what he never got to have. And he doesn’t get that what he wants doesn’t have to be painful.”

“Do you think that’ll kill him?”

“It won’t kill either of them. It’ll just tattoo them.”

“Do you think they’ll kill each other?”

“They might try but that’ll just end in them being bickering skeletons.”

“Are they both that hot headed to where death won’t make them stop?”

“Probably. I don’t want to find out though.”

“I don’t either.”

There’s a bug, or something, making noise. The moon is high. The stars have shifted.

“We’ll be just like my parents, and we’ll grow old together, and when all of that is over, we’ll have forever. Does that sound alright?” Rudy asks, his warmth seeping into your skin.

“Yeah, I think that sounds alright.”

#cod #rodolfo rudy parra #call of duty #rodolfo rudy parra x reader #rudy x reader #rudy parra x reader #rodolfo parra x reader #fluff #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #rudy #rudy cod #rudy parra #rodolfo #rodolfo parra #rodolfo x reader #rodolfo cod

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precious-little-scoundrel · 7 months

Text

Dear John || Something Borrowed

Masters of the Air fanfiction

Summary: Upon the sudden stop of all their correspondence, Miss Lana Tierney finds herself bereft of her pen pal John Egan’s support -not however, without him first having made a heavy declaration and entrusted her with a precious bit of himself. Battling Tinsel Town’s awful labyrinth of censors, agents, and an ever disloyal mother, Lana seeks to find John, and having once found him, to remind him of his promise to try. Meanwhile in Stalag Luft III, Major Gale Cleven may loiter at his incriminating radio longer than strictly necessary in hopes of hearing a voice that would bring his best friend a shred of hope.

My many thanks to: Christi and Ashley for endless amounts of encouragement and advice and enrichment of the plot, y’all are invaluable darlings and precious friends. To Bri who has been the brains and requests behind the concept and the beating heart behind giving Bucky a love of a lifetime

Warnings: 18+ disturbing content. Not so much war focused but rather Hollywood in the 40’s which can be horribly gruesome itself. We are happily ripping off Lana Turner’s real story for much of this, and so in this chapter you will find mentions of certain harrowing abuses she endured. Such as: brief references to a forced, studio-required abortion, bugging of a woman’s room, arranged engagements, drugging, hinted sexual exploitation, willing current sexual favors in return for a role, Bucky going a little nuts as a POW, Lana’s mother being the worst, John Huston making a cameo that will probably make you wanna punch the guy. It’s ok, the real fella deserved it. Go ahead. Again, nothing explicit, didn’t wanna get all yucky but these themes are prevalent in here in passing.

Word count: a whopping 8k

Character name reminder: Julie Jean Turner goes by the Hollywood alias of “Lana Tierney”

Lana lay abed and stewed. She was past grief, or perhaps it was easier explained that Grief and her sisters, Denial and Betrayal, were more of Julie Jean Turner’s privilege. Miss Lana Tierney, academy hopeful and box office gold, had little left but rage and the moist silk of her pillow pressed to her burning cheek.

“What an awful few days it’s been.” she’d allowed herself to say a few weeks back.

The Julie Jean of that week didn’t know the meaning of the word.

Life was bad enough then, back when he called, but his voice cured everything from her terrible week. Vincent and the engagement and the studios, all of it. But then came a letter, one written awfully like a goodbye, and another one after it but all of them were little provisions for if he were to go down.

Scribbled hours before going up.

“I love you, I know it’s a lot to spring on a gal who’s just doing her bit and keeping me happy but I do. It’s an awful type of love, Julie, very tight fisted and I think I only love you because you love me so well in your way. I don’t think that’s the sort of love to do anybody any good, but I’d regret not saying it, beginners can’t be haughty. Here I wanted to stick my toe in and you gobbled the whole leg, and I love you. I love you for it. I love you.”

She’d rubbed over his signature, not a bit of cursive in that scrawled -John- a million times.

And then, just like that, just like what had happened to her friends and a million women across the world- his letters simply stopped. Julie Jean learned elsewhere he’d been shot down for weeks by the time she’d gotten the last one. It was hard to have finally heard his voice and known of his purpose, but now? -a dead silence that had a voice and face and love attached to it. It was agony of a sort she’d never known and was made worse by the loneliness in her secrecy of not being able to mourn it aloud.

She moaned into the mess of her pillowcase and ignored Bertha's fifth knock of the afternoon. Who’d recognize the glamorous Miss Tierney now? Pitiful and tear streaked and pale from blood loss. She still lay on a chucks pad the studio nurse had rolled her onto, a feeble trickle still seeping between her legs. Curled on her side with eyes glinting at the afternoon sun, she seethed at one more thing taken from her.

Lana could hardly stand it. But she had to try. She’d made John promise he would. They’d promised each other, and somehow she hadn’t any doubts that wherever he was, he was trying.

“Miss Tierney?” That was Herbert’s voice and Jean rolled her eyes at the predictability of this household. After not answering Delores they sent in Bertha and upon not answering Bertha here was Herbert and if she didn’t answer him, her mother might manage to rouse herself and drive over.

“Come in Herb, if you must.” she groaned, hand outstretched and patting blindly for a cigarette on her nightstand.

Her old driver came in with an unusually light step, it bespoke a sympathy for her plight that Jean would have preferred a thousand times never to read on his usually persnickety face. “How are you holding up after -“ he stood awkwardly at the foot of her bed as Jean rummaged and when she sat back with cigarette and holder in hand, she found him looking down at her with such concern she nearly threw the lamp at him. “Tonsillitis, huh?” he hummed sympathetically.

“Oh yes, nasty bout.” she lied merrily, the ache in her violated womb protested her move to sit up. “They had to take them clean out.” it was the only printable explanation for her ailment.

“Yeah.” Herb had been a renowned stuntman before he’d been demoted to driver, and before stuntman he’d been a soldier in the trenches and before that he’d been a clerk. If anyone knew about coat hangers and poor girls held down to be kept forever virginal and ever in use, Herb knew. Herb had warned her even, told her what a sick racket they ran here in Tinsel Town. Much good it did her, she was in too deep before she knew she had so much as stuck her toe in.

Rather like Bucky in love, apparently, and that thought made her madly blink away a stupid rush of tears.

“What’s that?” she pointed at the parcel she just now noticed was tucked under his arm.

“Oh, this? Chocolates. Here, my lighter miss?” Whatever was under Herbert’s arm wasn’t shaped like any chocolates she knew and Jean was about to give him a talking to for being insipid when her mood was so poor but then she saw him press a warning finger to his lips. He walked around the side of her bed and indeed pulled out a lighter, metal and rude and no doubt a relic of the first war, and flicked it for her to light up. Bending down he smelled of tobacco himself when he took the unprecedented liberty of whispering in her ear: “They bugged the room during your operation, Miss. Must be careful. Especially if you want to keep your gift.”

He pulled away and looked down at her sorrowfully before quietly laying the dirty brown package atop her pristine sheets. Mother had them changed after the bloodbath of the…operation. They were spotless before and now they were sooty. That pleased her.

Jean forgot to look away from him. She was startled and upset by the news but she didn’t doubt it. They’d probably bugged the phone ages ago, god knows they’d stop at next to nothing and she did so want to keep something for herself. If she couldn’t have a baby, her baby, then she’d keep a parcel, damn them all. Then a cold feeling of dread filled her and she thought to grab at her books and look for the hidden letters.

Gone. Mother. It must’ve been mother, it was her sort of thing to have rifled through Lana’s things while she was being operated on and found them and took them and-

The rage spurred her to look down at what Herb brought her, cigarette forgotten between her quivering lips. She expected it to be from him, a little pep up. Perhaps a doll or a stuffed animal to cheer her. But no, this parcel in its plain brown wrapping had come from afar, smudged and delayed a million times judging by its redirected stamps -and she’d know that writing from anywhere.

Her Johnny.

Julie Jean’s little gasp let slip the cigarette from her mouth but not before Herb caught it from singeing the sheets. He was quicker than anyone gave the old man credit for, banged up head or not. “Thought that might cheer you.” he grinned in that begrudging way of his, as if he were cross at the joy made manifest on his face.

“I’m scared.” she admitted in a whisper, hands hovering over the brown twine strings. Whatever was inside was squishy and giving. And whatever it was, John had sent it before he’d been shot down. But still, somehow it felt like a gift from him on this, the worst day of her life. Like he was sending some comfort even from hell on earth and without a clue of her own dispair. Herb seemed to read it the same way, and that’s how Jean knew she wasn’t being a delusional, hysterical wreck, if that crusty old sod knew its significance in coming today, then it was plain as the irregular nose on his face.

“Scared of chocolate?” His tease covered a strong reminder for her to watch her words.

“Mm, yes, what if there’s raspberry filled ones?” she whispered back. “You know how I can’t abide raspberries.”

“Guess you’ll just have to be brave and see.” he nudged her.

Nodding her head solemnly, Jean tugged apart the twine that had kept John Egan’s package together for an entire transcontinental delivery. It fell away with a crinkling sound and she found folded upon it, without a bit of fuss or wrapping, the oddest piece of cloth. Almost a patchwork of pale leather and a zipper and -Jean’s throat closed as her hand descended and felt along the soft fluff of a sheepskin collar.

He didn’t. He didn’t send her his jacket? Surely —

Herb made a noncommittal noise beside her which sounded awfully like some touched sorta gasp at the sight, but as it was Herb and he had a tobacco wad where he should have had a heart, so he must’ve been coming down with the same cold that landed Lana in tonsil surgery.

Hands shaky and heart hammering, Jean reached in and pulled the garment out, a tiny little note fluttered out. Someone else’s penmanship. “To the care of Jean Turner, until it can be retrieved by Major Egan.”

“Oh god.” she felt like sobbing before pressing her face into the sweat fumed plushness of it. “Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.” she kept his name buried in his jacket, secret like his gift and his love and his comfort and her desires. Eyes and mouth muffled into the darkness of something that was his. She felt Herb’s gentle hand pat on her head and the following click of the latch as he went out.

“Mister Vincent called to say there’s dinner and photographs scheduled for tonight, Miss Tierney.” he informed her levelly before he left and her ears were not so buried in Air Force Shearling she couldn’t hear of her doom. “There’s been some speculations -they want to smooth it over. Bertha was trying to pass it on.”

Bertha wanted to wipe off whatever remaining blood was on her and primp all signs of coercion off her devastated face, that’s what Bertha was here for. Jean vaguely wondered if her mother’s clenching hand print still lingered on her cheeks, she rubbed John’s jacket against the soreness of her mouth, muffling her sobs the way her mother’s hand had stifled her screams of pain only hours ago.

Back to work, asap, it would seem. -Bleed down your nylons dear, it’ll be alright, so long as they see a happy face and a lucky new couple.

Vincent. She wasn’t sure how she’d face him, the weekend getaway and his little “test drive” of her had been bad enough, the fact he hadn’t the brains to prevent it from having consequences or the spine to stand up for the life of the child he made- oh, she wondered how she’d manage to down her asparagus in the face of it all. Acting, she presumed, a true talent that had suddenly become a personality since -since? -she wasn’t sure when.

Beside her for months now, stacked beneath the pile of new Runyon books she’d taken out of the library, had been a pile of letters that didn’t have a bit of acting in them. Raw and true and terrible and wanton, each of John Egan’s thoughts tumbled off their confining pages and into her heart in mirrored response to her own. Now mother had them.

Jean wondered where all her own letters to him were, now that he was gone and someone else was in his bunk.

Funny to think of that, the most honest account of herself was most likely moldering in the bottom of some MIA airman’s footlocker.

It was all a bit self indulgent, she admitted even as she stripped out of her bloody gown and down to her bare skin, but she had lost plenty and she needed him: so she slipped him on, soft wool caressing her and stopping the shivers of shock that had wracked her all morning. It smelled so manly and sweaty and terribly real she about swooned at the sensation of having a bit of him next to her. Now she’d seen him -all those darling candid photos in repayment for hers- and she’d heard him -oh that awful, wonderful telephone call right before he disappeared- and now she was smelling him.

Jean would have to bathe and take a handful of aspirin and cinch in her girdle and kiss her fiancée tonight, but for a brief hour she layed in bed naked as a baby with her gift wrapped around her like swaddling clothes.

Vincent came later with the car, one of his father’s for certain, and eyed her choice of outerwear with a sour mouth. Fleece and chiffon was an odd mix but Lana always had been a trendsetter and it was early November, even if it was Los Angeles. Of course, for her the jacket was John, and so she wore him like armor -and if she was wearing it, they couldn’t take it without her knowing.

“I’m cold.” she answered Vin’s unspoken question sharply on the ride over, “I’ve just had tonsil surgery, you may recall?”

“It stinks.” he huffed back, his nose presumptuously nuzzling under her curls and very near the sweat soaked fleece, “Smells like a barnyard.”

What it smelled like was a red blooded American man’s honest days work killing Nazis. But Vincent and his pale hands and arranged medical exemptions weren’t likely to know what that smelled like, so Lana felt compelled to give him a pass. “It’s for the war effort,” she sighed, “we must all make sacrifices. Mr. Warner told me it would be grand press to wear it.”

She’d never spoken to Mr. Warner about much else but weather and her tits, but growing ever more desperate as these days went on, Lana thought perhaps she’d pay him a visit.

“Great press?” Vincent seethed, charmingly one track focused, “The press should be about our engagement! Not the war!”

“Be a realest, dahling,” she soothed, “nothing, not even the great scion of a prestigious family such as yours is half as fascinating right now as ball bearings and top turret production in Greenfield. If we want them to print about our engagement, it’s got to have something to do with the general war, see?“

“Ah, ah I see.” Vincent swallowed her lie well enough, still perturbed at the fracturing of his beloved media attention but consoled that Lana was not aspiring to make him a fool.

Oh how foolish that was of him, Lana hummed to herself as they pulled up to the restaurant, perhaps not tonight or in a week's time. No, for now she was down and out and no doubt about it, but eventually, she’d scramble on top, she had to or she’d be offed eventually by it all. She knew that now, it was plain with each aching step on wobbly legs and each smile of her crimped, anemic face, Vincent’s pliable hand more vice than support on her elbow as she stepped out under Chasens’ green awning.

There was conversation and photographs all through dinner, her agent and a Warner Brothers executive kindly gracing the table with heavy, stilted and very implied conversation. Lana might’ve breathed better in her booth had they held an actual gun to her head and told her to finish her parsnips that way. They were very happy she had recovered from the tonsillitis so well, they were very eager to see her on set bright and early tomorrow, they were very eager that any doubt about how in love she was with the respectable Vincent be ameliorated -a very big word to say with a mouthful of steak- and very hopeful that Lana wouldn’t get any ideas about a repeat of the War Bond tour. Yes the last one had been very effective and the government was pleased, but too much exposure to common crowds had a tendency to lessen the goddess effect, she must be let out to the pubic sparingly, and they in turn must not feel entitled to her in any way.

Such as…reaching out through the post, for example, much less expecting to be answered with anything less standardized than what Bertha might write twenty times over in her name in an afternoon.

“I just want to do my part.” Lana demurred.

“Oh honey, you’ve done your part, and now you’ve got a new part. Make a wish.” And there before her was brought out a cake slice with much fanfare, icing making a pretty little drizzle of words -“speedy recovery Lana, love from everyone at Warner Brothers Studio.”

She’d seen actresses carried out plastered to the four winds on sedative from slices just like this one, chivalrously poured into a waiting backseat of a producer or studio head, taken back to be put to bed. God knows what else happened in those beds. Her nausea returned fourfold and it wasn’t acting when she gasped a need to go to the powder room.

Instead she dashed to the phone, the one in the cubby near the toilets, trying resolutely to ignore the spying eyes of waiters and curious waves of famous guests passing by.

“Pick up, Herb, pick up.” she begged, listening to it ring and ring, then suddenly felt a horrid fear at the realization she’d left the jacket slung over her chair at the booth, with Vincent. “Herb please, please.” she moaned, stomping one well shod foot against the marble floor.

“Hallo?”

“Herb, oh Herb!” Lana gushed urgently on hearing him pick up, “You must come pick me up, they’re onto me with the letters and they’ve brought out cake and- bring a car, Vincent brought his father’s-“

“-Thank yeeew, Herbert, that will be all.” Mother’s affected transatlantic sent shivers down Lana’s spine right as she felt the cold clasp of her rings around her wrist, receiver wrenched effectively from her nerveless hand, “This is a family matter, your services are not required.”

“Mommy dearest.” Lana felt her lips trembling in a odd way that fought against the creeping numbness, “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Would that I could say the same, Lana.” Mother reproved, “To abandon your fiancé without thought? And to find you calling on Herbert, like this were some otiresome fundraiser from which you may carelessly abscond -really. Your behavior is nothing but deplorable lately, I hardly know you. The cost, Lana, think of the cost of it all, this recklessness.”

“Who told you?”

“That you weren’t appreciative of the cake?” Mother smiled shyly, “Alfonso.”

The owner, of course, when he couldn’t get a hand up Lana herself he had become quite partial to mother, loyal to an opulent degree. She suspected that cake more than ever, the phone, too. God there was no getting out of this town, this place, this life.

“Alfonso says you’re distracted,” mother went on, “pale and sniffing some jacket? What has gotten into you?”

“Vincent.” Lana joked miserably and if half of Hollywood wasn’t sat so near, she’s rather sure her mother might’ve struck her.

“You’re going to go back out there, and you’re going to smile for the pictures, and you’re going to like it.” Mother laid out the case, the plan and the rest of her life, “And when we go home you’ll be getting a piece of my mind.”

“Oh really mother,” Lana sighed heavily, “I couldn’t take the last piece.”

The pinch on her arm was familiar of when Lana was a child and refused to sing in yet another talent show - the fifth that weekend. “Your fault for falling ill, now we must make up for lost time.” they were gliding back to the table arm in arm with Lana’s pale skin pinched between mother’s manicure, “Smile, darling, smile and wave.” as they wove between one starry guest and another.

Mother’s gait stalled for one fraction of a moment upon coming up to the table and seeing the bizarre article of clothing hanging over Lana’s chair. “Works better than a mink.” Lana proclaimed quite loudly, giddy enough to attract most male attention around who craned their necks to watch her shimmy it on for a try-on, much to Mother’s feigned amusement. She shimmied in the fleece, chiffon doing little to hide the jiggle of her derrière beneath the jacket’s hem and the flash of a bulb cracked significantly amongst the dinner chatter.

“It’s much too large for you -the sleeves, the shoulders-“

“That’s because it’s a genuine article mother!” Lana preened, satisfied to have caught the eye of the one she wanted as he sat in his booth.

Powerful and dark and lecherous, The Jack Huston stared at her unabashedly over the haze of his cigarette, his own date forgotten, taking in the way the man’s coat dwarfed her little body in a pantomime of covering her physically, masculine leather and zipper in stark contrast to baby soft skin swelling out of her neckline. She knew that look well, one of a man sizing her up for how she’d look beneath him.

Lana smirked at him significantly, squeezing the material around her dreamily and created a significantly more substantial amount of decollage for him to view upon doing so. “Lana, sit down for god’s sake.” Mother was hissing and Lana saw Huston laugh at it, she rolled her eyes and dramatically shrugged, seating herself as asked but refusing to break eye contact with him until he raised his glass in a toast to her brazenness.

“Lana, photographers! Come now! Chin up, smile, smile darling.”

There were so many flashbulbs here it was obnoxious to not only Lana’s throbbing eyes but the other patrons, still a hard launch of a stilted, lab grown relationship was hardly an oddity in Hollywood or its most favored eating spots, and so it was endured.

“Doll, open up,” Vincent cajoled in Lana’s ear, hand kneading her waist and nose pressed to her hair, “practice for the wedding.”

It looked quite humorous if a little uncouth in the papers next day, Lana’s gasping and amused indulgence of her green boy fiancé as he playfully stuffed her mouth with cake in that pitiful tradition of marital provocation.

“Look at my dearest daughter, tonsil surgery yesterday and already, so eager, can’t be kept from dinner with her darling fiancé!”

The world grew fuzzy as Lana did her best to keep the wad of cake in her gums until she could spit the most of it out. “Tell your studio i want compensation for having to share press with the war effort.” Vin was complaining to the executive and Lana felt her world swim, only one single, dire hope remaining -Herb.

She gripped the edges of the jacket tighter and tried to focus. Mother was being called away, taking her leave with a photographed kiss to Lana’s clammy temple -some business with Aunt Lu and that promised check for her swimming pool. Lana had put in a lot of swimming pools for a lot of relatives, she was beginning to lose track between the pools and the houses and the cars and the wardrobes and always -“it’s family, Lana, they depend on you. Chin up, smile, smile darling, smile for the cameras, there’s my golden girl, box office magic.”

“Lana it’s very important you understand the role of an engaged woman-“ the executive was very insistent and Lana was very tired and very fuzzy feeling, which apparently Vincent could sense as his hands began to grow courageous in his petting, “-it’s a fine balance between respectability and attainability. The studio has worked so hard to give you this life, made enormous sacrifices so you could have a chance at this career, created an expertly crafted persona for you -if you were to jeopardize it all in any way, by inviting speculation about yourself or your lackluster roots-“

Lana was about ready to stand up and scream “I’m Julie Jean Turner from Broken Arrow Oklahoma!” and watch the deflated disinterest cover her audience like snow, it would ruin the effect -she wanted them to care that her life was a lie, but as soon as she told the truth, they’d lose all interest either way. Fame was funny like that.

“Mr Vincent,” Alfonso was most solicitous as well as perispring when he hurried over to her fiancé’s side, “there’s been an incident, your car, sir! The windows, they are smashed! And there appear to be eggs?”

Lana wasn’t sure she successfully suppressed the bubbling little laugh that flitted out of her leaden chest at Vincent’s deathly white pallor. There were two of him in her fractured, drug impaired vision and he acted like looney twins, scrambling up from the table in a flurry of hands and pomade, tux tails flapping like a frightened bird. “It’s my father’s car you idiot! Where was the doorman? Where?”

“Ooooh daddy’s gonna be mad.” Lana cooed to herself, amused at how this failure of a son couldn’t land a deal or a car or his own, only a troublesome actress who was in dire love with a man she’d never met.

Dear Herb, the eggs were such a nice touch.

The executive was waving off the cameras, this part of the night hardly suitable to be recorded. “Stewart, phone call for you.” A commanding, sonorous voice beside her sent goose flesh popping along Lana’s arms beneath the jacket, Jack Huston and his cologne suddenly pervading the place like an ominous deity casting its shadow over the now almost empty table.

“Mr. Huston.” Lana simpered sweetly when Stewart had left and it was just them alone with his hand on the back of her chair, thumbing at the lamb skin. There were two of Huston too, in her vision, and Lana gulped in trepidation of having to please both.

“Miss Tierney,” he replied, grinning a little too wide for her to focus, “you know what you look like you need?”

“What’s that, Mr. Huston?”

“Call me Jack.”

“What’s that Jack?” she tittered, happily courting ruin.

“A nightcap.” Jack declared and was extending a large palm for her before she could second guess. It was the choice of a lion over a wolf here in Hollywood, and Lana had such plans for Mr. Huston. But, like most things, Lana’s plans must wait until Mr. Huston’s plans for her had been satisfactorily met.

Of all the backseats to be poured into in Hollywood, Huston’s was rather plush and smelled nice and had a clinking little bar in the console, well stocked and vintage. Better yet, the car wasn’t his father’s, it was his. As was his mind and his time and his appetite. Lana could only dream of having that sort of brash freedom, for now she must attach herself to those who did if she so much as wanted a taste.

“So what’s with the jacket?” Mr. Huston had the liberty to be casual on a ride back to his house with a much desired starlet, after all, he had a slam dunk assurance she wasn’t going to say no on arrival.

“It belongs to a man who loves me.” she slurred earnestly.

“Pilot?”

“Yes. He writes the sweetest, filthiest things.”

“To you?”

“Only to me.” she whispered with drunken vehemence.

“I bet he does.” Huston laughed.

Mr. Huston enjoyed ribbons: tying them around her, to be specific but of all the novel and varied ways to be satisfactory it wasn’t so bad, and when he lay next to her afterwards as the drug began to take her fully under, Lana was pleased by the heavy arm around her waist. He didn't care about the tonsillitis. Bucky’s jacket hung carefully over the armchair in her line of sight, Jack had been nice about that, too.

Yes she could make some use of Huston and his ribbons and his new army uniform and his government contracts.

————————————————-

“I was insensible.” Lana maintained the following day at a meeting with Mother and Stewart and a slew of concerned agents and executives who were pleased enough by the engaged cake smashing photographs, less so by the discreet vandalizing of their blonde product by John Huston. “I don’t know what you put in that cake but it did the trick and I was as aghast as you upon waking up where I woke up.”

“And the jacket?” Mother had her priorities straight, troublesome memorabilia first, dear daughter’s virtue second.

“Shoot, I think Huston has it.” Lana whimpered, “I was in such a state, such a rush to leave-“

“Well that was a very unfortunate oversight, Lana.”

“I know.”

“He could use it against us.” Mother fretted.

“He’d make a fool of himself if he did,” Stewart shined best when full of his self-bloated importance and meetings such as these were essential fuel for that importance, “it would look like he took a pilot to bed.”

“Stewart, she’s all over the nation’s morning paper’s wearing the horrid thing!” Mother snapped and while she herself was admittedly awful most times, Lana never doubted she was shrewd, far more than Stewart and all the men in the room she jockeyed for lead with. “In fact Lana, this has really brought to a head a growing issue. Your restlessness, your ingratitude, it’s become insufferable and now it jeparadizes everything. I am speaking of the coat but also of the letters. Oh yes, I know all about those.”

A wise performance required Lana to play the frightened and shocked little miscreant and so she did, wide doe eyes looking beseechingly penitent and horrified in the face of having been caught doing a single independent thing. “Oh mother-“

“They are bad enough with their filth and their familiarity,” mother cut her off, “but to have written to him in your old name! Lana, the carelessness! It’s a mercy he’s dead, think of the presumptuous attitude he would have adopted had he returned. Unthinkable!”

“Dead?” Lana felt her throat close up, wishing desperately to be back in his jacket again, regretting most harshly her high-priced scheming of last night. All of it had been for him, and he was dead.

“Quite dead.” Mother was irritated by her crestfallen state but not so much as to prevent her crowing over little Lana’s misstep. “And now I am burdened with the necessity of tracking down his effects, getting your side of the correspondence back, think of the unpleasantness of contacting his family! Conversations with dead servicemen's families are always so tedious. You do recall what a bore it was for me to have to carry-on with them on your tour. And all of this to get back your filthy, perverse break of discretion.”

“Were they to get out they’d ruin your reputation.” Stewart put in the obvious, “They’d reveal your plain and common upbringing, your drab name and worse, you would be known to be a horny, hungry young woman.”

Lana stared at him across from his desk, that adrift feeling of aloneness taking over her, such as she’d only felt a few times in her life, like when her mother left her on her first studio couch for an audition, despite her pleas to stay. “Yes,” she agreed faintly, “it would be a terrible thing for an object of desire to appear willing. Or wanting, at all capable of their own needs. It would really ruin the shine of it all, I see.”

“Lana!”

“Oh mother, really, pimped out all my life -all for it to be ruined by the suggestion I might like it!”

“It’s worse than all that.” Stewart insisted gravely, immune to female objections and tantrums, “I’ve been contacted this morning by one of the branches of our government dealing with espionage and information,” -no wonder he was feeling so very important today- “and they’re concerned that the German Air Force is aware of your correspondence with Major Agen-“

“It’s Egan, actually.”

“-Agen and a tapped phone call as well, they have concerns, Lana, about the Germans using this connection as leverage on him, now they have him in their camps, under their thumb, at their mercy.”

Lana’s fractured world slid together again like a suctioned mosaic, one focal point of reason being clear. “He’s a prisoner of war.” she knew just the right inquisitive tone to encourage Stewart to keep blabbing.

“Yes.” Stewart was very grave and very important about being privy to this information, and Mother let out a fuming little cluck of her tongue at his fumble.

“So, he’s a prisoner.” she smirked triumphantly at Mother and was not corrected for once. “Not dead.”

“Good as dead.” Mother clarified.

Lana still smiled, she could work with “good as.”

———————————————-

“Jack?” Lana had timed her delicate attack most carefully, waiting until Huston was relaxed but not asleep, dressing but not in a hurry, happy but not restless, and most importantly, not remotely tired of her.

“What doll?” Jack had a broad back and nice hands, sometimes Lana imagined they were rather like Egan’s, or maybe that’s what she told herself to keep the tears at bay long enough for each amorous performance to conclude, “Your mother bitchin’ about me again?”

“Well,” she shied away into the bedding, “to be honest, yes.”

“Little rebel.” he praised her on his way to sling on his suspenders, apparently he was going out tonight, she felt a clench of panic in her gut at the need to throw her pitch before he left or hushed her.

“Jack I’ve been thinking.” She began again.

“Not what you’re payed for, doll.”

“No, true.” Lana was used to laughing at that same joke told by a couple dozen different men, “But is that skit competition still on? The one for the CBS slot?”

“Yeah, few more days left, why?”

“Anything promising yet?” Lana ventured carefully, Jack was so very busy with all these government contracts for documentaries and proganada shows, and ever since then he’d had a very short fuse, fussy over his stalled artistic dreams. Not that he didn’t care about the war, he did in fact, and that’s why Lana liked him if she liked him at all. But he liked it the way a movie maker does, he wanted to tell stories and he wanted to be somebody important, and if he wasn’t going to be shot at he damn sure would be known to hang about the guys who were.

He was off to the Pacific to film some Marines mucking about on some godforsaken Atoll in a month or more. She had to make her move.

In the meantime, he was to organize a broadcast. Lana bad learned that from the grapevine at Warner’s, Betty D. dropping as much over her three carrots at lunch.

“I was wondering why we haven’t got ourselves an anecdote to Axis Sally.” Lana chose to be blunt, Jack was different from other men, he liked her babified act as much as the next man, but he’d belted her too for ‘playing dumb’. Since then she’d said her mind, as much as she dared and he called her idiotic often, but she’d not been belted again. “Our boys keep listening to that trash, and the housewives too, just to hear reports on the missing and the prisoners.”

“They listen ‘cause she’s sexy and funny.” Jack informed her with a pointed look.

“That too.” Lana contemplated the sheets before her, “But can’t we be funny and sexy too? Instead of demoralizing we could be happy! And we’d not have reports on prisoners but we could give them clues and hope, in case anyone's listening in.”

“Listening in.” Jack had stopped his halfhearted listening to her, wheeling suddenly with cuff links partway hanging, “You mean in camps?”

“Camps. Resistance. Wherever.”

“They don’t let them have radios, ya know.” Huston pointed out, but it wasn’t said in argument, he was pondering too.

“You know they still manage.” Lana smiled softly and he smiled back.

“Ok, what’s the pitch?” He sighed and sat himself down again on the side of the bed, evening plans abandoned for the moment.

Lana’s heart swelled with hope and the delicious feeling of being taken seriously. Even if she was lying in his bed with hair a mess and dignity mighty rumpled. “Perhaps we could tack onto Fred Allen’s spot? Hasn’t he got a vacancy? A variety show? A skit? I don’t know, but we could have repeat actors and we could have guest stars. And it could- it could be a girl-“

“-Allied Sally.” Huston joked and Lana genuinely snickered at that.

“Something like that.” She agreed, chagrined at the need for a catchy, corney radio name, “And she could be waiting for her sweetheart, sending him messages and well wishes and jokes and -Oh! The score! The scores on everything! Baseball! Jack!”

“Calm down, calm down, it’s decent.” Jack hushed her, waving her giddy self back down as she warmed to her topic, “And you could be her.” he stated the obvious.

“Don’t you think I’d manage it well?” She cajoled, cocking her shoulder in her best pantomime of a coquette. “Aren’t I funny and sexy, Mr. Huston?”

“Hmph,” he scratched his cheek and stared at her as if summing up the likelihood of this working, “needs another angle. Beyond skits.”

“Alright. Like what?”

Huston secured his cuff links, smile broadening as his mind began to whirl, “Letters.” he stated and Lana’s heart froze, “Love letters, we gotta keep it sexy, you said so yourself. There’s nothing so funny as a redacted letter being read out over the censors. The constant beeps alone will get laughs, give it the right inflection in between and you’ll have a game on your hands with the listeners guessing and filling in.”

“Letters.” Lana mumbled in agreement, numb at the brilliance of it and filled with horror at the idea of monetizing what John Egan had given her -connection, love, devotion, grit, humor. But this broadcast, it might be the only way to keep in any sort of contact with him. At what cost? Would he care at all for her after it? Would he think she used him up for a little business inspiration? Oh she couldn’t bear it, yet worse, she couldn’t bear life as Vincent’s wife, locked in for another ten years at Warner’s under mother’s thumb. “It’s brilliant.”

“Almost uncanny how likely a story it is.” Huston grunted as he pulled on a shoe, sending her a sly look that broke her a heart a little more, “Nothing so powerful as a tale based on a real thing, Lana.” he reminded forcefully.

The letters, the blackmail her mother hung over her, all of it dealt with if this pitch became a reality. It would all fade into a myth. And with it all the realness John had brought her. “Yes, I said -it’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, well, easy does it for now.” He cautioned, “Gotta sort your mother and let that contract expire gently. I’ll pitch it myself. See what CBS can wrangle up. Don’t get your hopes up and keep that jacket safe, it’ll be invaluable when we get you a storyline for it.”

“Right.”

“Well go on, tell mommy dearest.” he goaded, nodding to the phone.

“Oh they wouldn’t be approving.” Lana disagreed, referring to the whole pack of them, her mother and her lawyers and her agents.

“Why not? Sounds like great business. Solves all the scandal too.”

“Something like this part-“ Lana demurred, “-wouldn’t suit my image, mother says.”

Jack barked out a rough laugh, plopped back down on the bed and tugging the sheets from her clutches. “Your mother does realize you’re walking wank material, right? That’s your image.”

“Yes,” Lana sighed, “but…unwilling, she says. That’s the crucial part.”

“Oh. Yeah, well,” Jack eyed her up, “you do make a great impression of a scared lamb in bed.”

“They’re concerned it’ll make me too independent. Like the War Bond tour,” she gave a wistful smile, “I kissed so many boys my lips swelled right up. It was grand.”

“Now Lana,” Huston cautioned, “I’m not on any crusade to liberate you, myself.”

“Oh I know!” She was quick to assure, ever the obliging little lady, “And I don’t want to be. Not from you or the studio-“

“-just from mother dearest?” he nodded knowingly, not knowing the half of it.

“Yes.” she pretended great relief at his perception.

“Huh, well, good. Because this idea would have a contract of its own, and it would be long if I’m any judge of the longevity of the project. You’ll be locked in for years.”

“But it’ll be my choice.” She reaffirmed, and this time she meant it.

“And you’ll look willing.” Jack grinned and she grinned back, compulsively like a child mimicking their threat. “Might take some practice though, to make you look willing. Get over here, doll.”

———————————————-

Major Gale Cleven was appreciative of the dangers of listening to the radio in camp, it was one of those necessary and crucial risks that required responsible stewardship and utmost care. It wasn’t a flippant pastime and it wasn’t a recreation, but then again, neither was it strictly business. Like much of their lives as prisoners of war, he and his fellow soldiers toed a strict line between honoring their captors’ jurisdictions while also thwarting their imposed restrictions at every possible juncture.

Sometimes one should listen to the radio because that is what free men did, and Gale Cleven tried by any means possible- letters, books, calculus or his frigid metal headset- to stay free in his mind, to comport himself with the same surety as his free counterpart.

Otherwise, you lived like a ghost in your own body. And that was no good for oneself or those around you. As everyone who shared a bunk and combine with John Egan was quickly learning. The immediate joy of reuniting with him, the fear of losing him to his wounds, the relief of his recovery, it had all leveled out at the end like a anticlimactic ride on a rollercoaster, skidding to a plateau where he was neither well enough to be exempt from Gale’s concern, nor ill enough to warrant the patience required to put up with his rabid moods. Always restless, being kept in the glamorized equivalent of a dog run was hardly fitting for his nature. It was hard on everyone, but Gale wasn’t such a relativist as to assume John Egan had it the same as everyone. Some folks required more miles and more sky to keep them sane, and Bucky was one of those.

It had tipped Gale into a habit that could no longer be qualified as strictly informative, nor could he defend it as necessary where he to get caught. It was undoubtedly poor stewardship to spend an extra half hour listening to the inane comedy of a BBC guest production. But he had started it to cheer Brady when Glenn Miller’s band was on, and it had done such good for him and Bucky as they crowded ‘round, that Gale had since stayed alert for any other such ‘triviality’ that might be of use.

If the Colonel walked in and demanded an explanation for this extra bit of carelessness, Cleven thought he might make a decent defense about waiting for Ed Murrow to come on, broadcasting for CBS from London, always with a decent take on what was happening in the war. The motivation of Murrow often having stars on his program was completely erroneous.

Or so Gale swore to himself for the tenth time as Demarco kept watch and he himself painstakingly tuned the dials and bent his ear to sort the static.

There was music and the typical overlap of voices for awhile until he honed it down, British and American accents floating in, obnoxiously layered all on top of each other still, yet this time intentional. He must’ve hit a variety show. He gave himself two minutes, that much he’d allow and if the thing he’d been waiting for in secret for months did not occur,

he’d move right on or pack up for the night.

“I’m not sure about no boy writing you letters!” a man’s voice crackled through, comedically irate.

The next voice was girlish, smooth despite the poor frequency and made the hair of Gale’s arms stand on end from universal male appreciation and a gut wrenching sense of recognition: “Well I don’t know any more about it, paw paw, except that he loves me and I love him!”

“Yeah?” -Gale thought perhaps that was Bob Hope’s voice, play acting as the fuming father figure, “Yeah, then tell me, dear daughter, what sorta fella calls the girl he loves: Acorn! Huh?”

Gale’s eyes bugged from his head, glassy and shocked and Crank rushed over in solidarity, terribly sure the whole continent of North America had just been reported as broken off into the sea. “What is it Buck?”

“Crank!” Gale croaked, “Go! Go get Egan, tell him his girl’s on the radio and to get his ass in here, goooo!”

“Egan’s got a girl?” Benny was bewildered.

“Acorn!” Brady and Gale yelled in unison.

“But that’s Lana Tierney.” Crank pointed over the spunk wall, or as it was called in more noble moments of higher aspiration, the Wall of Hopes and Dreams, where Lana and Rita smiled tantalizingly and warm from their crinkled posters, down on the men’s bunks.

“Yes, Acorn. Go!”

Gale held his breath and listened harder, trying to gauge how far into the sketch he had caught them, wishing them to linger, as if by sheer willpower alone he could make her stay on until Bucky got there.

Fuck -acorn? Why would she use that? She had to be out of her mind to dare a thing like that, had to be just to get his attention, right? Surely? Had to be out of her mind, Gale decided, which was just another diagnosis for love. And that gave him pause.

“What’s your feller anyway? He a squirrel?” Bob Hope was pressing the issue right as Bucky burst in with a flurry of flapping overcoat and steaming breath.

“Get in here, come on, get over here.” Gale stood up and pointed to his vacated seat, shoving Bucky down for good measure and crouching to press the headpiece to his ear, wanting to share it for some idiotic reason, as if like a parent he could cut the cord if something sad or risky came on.

“Maybe he is,” Lana was breathily defending, “and we’ll live happily ever after in our tree. And there’s nothing you or Jerry can do to stop us!”

“Shit.” Egan breathed out reverently like he’d been punched real and good and an epiphany on life was brewing beneath his shuttering smile. “Holy hell it -it is her. It’s acorn.”

“On a show called ‘Dear Acorn’, Bucky.” Brady chimed in, face as lit up for Egan’s current happiness as if it were his own.

“So what’re you twos gonna live on, huh?” Bob Hope crackled through “Love and nuts?”

“Oh well dunno, I do so love my nuts.” Lana rejoined.

“Jesus!” Gale pulled away from the headset like it had personally accosted him for a tumble in the sheets.

“Acorn.”

“Yeah paw paw?”

“You’re nuts.”

“About him I am.”

“Uhuh.”

“And there’s nothing you or Jerry can-“

“-can do about it, I know, acorn.”

“Pinky promise!” Lana chirped a couple thousand miles away, and John Egan obeyed her once more with a raised hand and a crooked finger.

That night at roll call they had something to whisper about, and for once it wasn’t half cooked schemes to climb the barbed wire or try smothering the commandant in his sleep. Instead Bucky was rocking back and forth joyfully on his heels in the bitter night air, trying hard to keep his grin in check as the spotlight swooped over, choosing the intermediate bits of darkness to nag Gale for any bits he’d missed.

“I sent for ya right away, Bucky.” Gale insisted in a gentle whisper out the side of his mouth, “They were just starting to joke about letters being written to an acorn.”

“Can you believe it?” Egan hissed, almost demented in his sudden good cheer, “She’s that proud of me, built a whole damn show on it. Fuck, it makes a man wanna fight a dozen wars.”

Gale eyed him up carefully, the inside of Bucky’s head a foreign place even to him, but if his friend was hopeful and generous enough not to mind his intellectual (or rather, lack of intellect) property being capitalized on for the war effort, then Gale wasn’t about to sow seeds of doubt. “She’s somethin’ else.” he agreed nebulously, and meant it, “Bombs Away Betty, huh?”

“Showing partiality to one branch of the armed services, Buck.” John was back to grinning, “She must’ve liked the jacket.”

Hope you enjoined, thank y’all for all the screams and thoughts you’ve sent through my asks, the comments and reblogs too, I treasure each.

If you’d like to be tagged in my MOTA writings, drop a note below. 💋

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mostlysignssomeportents · 7 months

Text

1900s futurism

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in TUCSON (Mar 9-10), then SAN FRANCISCO (Mar 13), Anaheim, and more!

I'm profoundly skeptical of the idea that the future can be predicted, and doubly skeptical that sf writers are any kind of prophet. The former grotesque fatalism (if the future can be predicted, then what we do doesn't matter); the latter is tragicomic hubris.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this thread to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/07/the-gernsback-continuum/#wheres-my-jetpack

That said, few people have been more consistently useful in understanding and anticipating (and yes, building) the future than my friend and colleague Karl Schroeder, whom I've known since I was 16 years old. Karl was the first person I heard say the world "internet." Also: "fractal," "World Wide Web," "ftp," and numerous other touchstones of the future just over the horizon.

Karl is, in fact, a futurist ("foresight consultant") who approaches the work with the same shrewd insight, wild imagination and humility that he brings to his fiction. In a new essay written with both his futurist and sf writer hats on, he nails down the toxic shadow cast by the 20th century sf, or, as he calls it, "The Science Fiction of the 1900s":

https://kschroeder.substack.com/p/the-science-fiction-of-the-1900s

Karl starts by describing the odd "double vision" of the future of the 1900s. On the one hand, many of us (myself included) were convinced that nuclear armageddon was inevitable. Unlike the unhinged architects of the nuclear arms-race, realists understood that a nuclear war would effectively end the future. As Einstein put it, "I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones."

But the flipside of that certainty that the future would end with the first nuclear strike was the belief that if we could just somehow walk the tightrope over the chasm of nuclear holocaust, we'd emerge in a future worth looking forward to: "a new era of peace and prosperity for all."

Contrast that with the existential dread of today's polycrisis: environmental collapse and political decay up to and including fascism. These aren't the binary proposition of nuclear annihilation vs Utopia – rather, they're a continuum of worse-and-better outcomes of every description. As Karl writes: "It’s not that simple. Our future now is an exhausting spectrum of scenarios, each with its own promise, and its own problems."

For Karl, we have entered a new epoch, but we've dragged in the long-expired way of imagining (and hence creating and navigating) the future with us. What makes this a new epoch? For Karl, it's the kind of future on our horizon. He cites Charles C Mann’s 1491, a superb history of the Americas before Columbus:

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/107178/1491-second-edition-by-charles-c-mann/9781400032051/readers-guide/

1491 radically reframes "the patchwork of propaganda and inference" that makes up the received narrative of the so-called "New World." It describes a land of flourishing cities, art, science and culture "in the Americas while Rome was just getting its act together." Contact with colonizing Europeans was a disaster for First Nations people, who call this period "The Invasion." It was an epochal break.

Futurism is an inextricably historical discipline. The willingness of some settler-colonialists states to consider this epochal break forces us to reframe our literal place in history, the story of the land under our feet. At its best, this futuro-historical work can begin the long work of reconciliation, as with the Canadian government's promise of $23b in reparations for the First Nations people who were kidnapped as children and sent to murderous "residential schools" before, during and after the Sixties Scoop.

The sf of the 1900s is no longer fit for purpose, if it ever was. It's a literature that was steered by open fascists like John W Campbell, who explicitly saw the literature as a means of inculcating a societal narrative of the triumph of white, corporate technocracy over all other forms of government:

https://locusmag.com/2019/11/cory-doctorow-jeannette-ng-was-right-john-w-campbell-was-a-fascist/

Karl isn't the first sf writer to try to overturn this orthodoxy – indeed, it was continuously challenged by radicals within the field, as with the New Wave, personified by the likes of Samuel Delany and Judith Merril (who both mentored and introduced Karl and me):

https://pluralistic.net/2020/08/13/better-to-have-loved/#neofuturians

The cyberpunks took a good hard run at it, too. For plenty of writers (including me), Bruce Sterling and William Gibson's 1981 story "The Gernsback Continuum" was a wake-up call:

http://writing2.richmond.edu/jessid/eng216/gernsback.pdf

Not for nothing, William Gibson has long insisted that his 1984 classic Neuromancer should be read as utopian: after all, it depicts a future in which the inevitable nuclear war only reduces a few cities to radioactive ash, sparing the rest of the planet.

Bruce Sterling once paid me the supreme compliment of describing a 2003 story I wrote about the ways that algorithms will enshittify self-driving cars as "making everybody else in the business look like they live in a dark basement growing on the mulch from old STAR TREK scripts":

https://craphound.com/stories/2005/10/12/human-readable/

Schroeder – along with today's new radical sf writer cohort – wants to fashion a fictional futurism that is fit for this world and its crisis: "in our modern technological society, science fiction tells us what to spend our time and money on." The fact that our mediocre billionaires are mired in the sf of the 1900s means that we're getting some decidedly old-fashioned futures.

For Karl, Musk is a poster-child for this profoundly conservative, backwards-looking vision: "He’s fighting the intellectual battles of the last century, a 1900s hero dropped into the 2000s with an unlimited budget to reshape the future to fit the era he’s from." Musk's obsessions – "Space flight. Settling Mars. Cyberpunk-style brain-computer interfaces. Artificial Intelligence. Self-driving electric cars. Humanoid robots." – are 1900s science fiction.

Ironically, much of this fiction labels itself "hard sf," despite the fact that interstellar travel is utter fantasy – as is mass-scale, near-term interplanetary civilization:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/09/astrobezzle/#send-robots-instead

Karl wants "a future for the 2000s." He points to some efforts to make this happen, like Neal Stephenson's Hieroglyph anthology, edited by Ed Finn and Kathryn Cramer:

https://www.harpercollins.com/products/hieroglyph-ed-finnkathryn-cramer

The "Hieroglyph" is Stephenson's shorthand for a recognizable, tangible, meme-able gizmo or other touchstone for a 2000s-era vision of the future – a replacement for jetpacks and flying cars. Karl's story for the anthology, "Degrees of Freedom," focuses on an abstraction (governance: "the single most important thing humanity can focus its creative energies on right now"), and by Karl's own admission, it's not quite the hieroglyph Stephenson was looking for.

But Karl did come up with a hieroglyph in a later work, the "deodands" of 2019's Stealing Worlds – a software agent "that believes it is some natural system, such as a river or forest, and acts in its own self-interest, that being the preservation and thriving of that natural system":

https://memex.craphound.com/2019/06/18/karl-schroeders-stealing-worlds-visionary-science-fiction-of-a-way-through-the-climate-and-inequality-crises/

(My own contribution to Hieroglyph was very gadget heavy – "The Man Who Sold the Moon," about autonomous lunar 3D printers. It won the Sturgeon Award):

https://memex.craphound.com/2015/05/22/the-man-who-sold-the-moon/

I've been impressed with Karl since the day I met him in 1987. There's no one whose thoughts on the future I'm more interested in hearing. I don't think that's a coincidence, either: Karl is an autodidact who was raised by a Mennonite TV repairman – the first TV repair shop in the Canadian prairies. If you want to understand the future, try being raised by someone who takes that kind of deliberate approach to which technology to adopt, and how.

Name your price for 18 of my DRM-free ebooks and support the Electronic Frontier Foundation with the Humble Cory Doctorow Bundle.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/07/the-gernsback-continuum/#wheres-my-jetpack

#pluralistic #science fiction #futurism #the future #reactionaries #tescreal #retrofuturism #scientifiction #karl schroeder #1491 #genocide

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dramavixen · 7 months

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Love and Redemption: A Fantasy Epic About How Prejudice Destroys Worlds, and How Love Pieces Them Back Together

**major spoilers for: Love and Redemption

After wrapping up a watch-through of Mysterious Lotus Casebook, my mom had the brilliant idea that we should rewatch the work that launched Cheng Yi to fame (or at the very least solidified him as the man to hire if you need someone to spit blood): Love and Redemption.

I’m certain she only found this idea appealing because she doesn’t remember a TV show after it’s over. Credits rolling? Aight, time for the woman to clear up space on her brain’s memory drive. Meanwhile, my life flashed before my eyes as I recalled the anguish that’s synonymous with the show’s plot. But you know how things go when your mom wants something. If she says you're sitting through 44 hours of emotional torture with her, then you plant yourself on that couch until it’s over.

Ironically, Love and Redemption fares even better on rewatch. Though other xianxias have come close to its place in my heart, I’m now concerned that my palate won’t be so easily satiated again. It’s got your conventional reincarnation, warring realms, and a star-crossed romance while throwing curveball after curveball to shatter your expectations. Complex characters, too? An endgame villain who will haunt you in your sleep? You can’t ask for more.

Just because you didn’t ask, doesn’t mean that the show won’t deliver something extra. I like to think that nothing reflects a society’s unsightly reality like a well-done fantasy, and this one hits closer to home the more time that passes. A thinly veiled commentary on human flaws and how difficult it is to be a good person, Love and Redemption is a drama for the ages.

This is going to get lengthy, so to prepare you, here’s how I’m divvying up this piece:

Part I: All of Them Are Classist

Part II: All of Them Are Sexist

Part III: All of Them Are Racist

Part IV: Love Wins All

---

Part I: All of Them Are Classist

It’s not my intention to disgust anyone right out of the gate, but we need to talk about Wu Tong. Do you hear what I hear? Yes, it’s the distant echo of Wu Tong’s nefarious laughter, resounding between the walls of my skull.

Quite simply, Wu Tong is the worst. (Or at least he would be, if it weren’t for that other fellow named Bai Lin. That dude will get a glaring spotlight later in this essay, trust me.) But it’s not for no reason.

Coming from a background of poverty, Wu Tong spends most of his young life trying to prove himself to upper class cultivators who don’t have any interest in who he is, only in what he has to offer them. He earns his place in his sect through relentless hard work. He utilizes unsportsmanlike methods in his attempts to win the battle tournament in opening episodes. It's not just a competition to him—he's directly told that if he gets anything other than first place, he can forget about keeping his place in his sect.

When he and the protagonists first meet, his prideful personality results from his inferiority complex. There’s no doubt that he’s a powerful cultivator, but the issue is how he finds that to be his only real value. He doesn't bother to be likable, because what's the point in doing that? Being likable doesn't fill an empty stomach. But the more he disrespects others in an effort to make himself appear important, the more others look down on him, and the more he overcompensates by fighting back even more. It’s a vicious cycle—one that never ends because no one involved wants to take the first step back.

Knowing what type of person he becomes, it’s hard to pity him in any capacity. However, it would still be unfair to ignore how others mistreat him before he even turns into a true enemy.

One scene that sticks out to me happens early on, where Wu Tong nearly injures Xuanji during a 1v1 battle against Minyan. The protagonist crew insists on getting payback. Okay, I’m with it. You can’t let such reckless violence slide. I guess they’ll get their revenge in a later stage of the tournament by beating him into the ground?

Nah. That would be too reasonable. What they actually opt for is tricking him to fall into a trap by putting up a “have you seen my lost snake?” poster with a financial reward, knowing that he’ll be fooled because…he’s poor.

Sifeng: I asked around. Wu Tong was born to a family of lower status. He lives frugally. The reason he trains so hard is because he hopes to become someone powerful one day. […] Now he needs the money urgently to buy medicine and recuperate his inner strength before his next battle. Minyan: When you put it that way, doesn’t that mean he has no choice but to come for the ten night pearls?

Sifeng…oh no. Not you too.

The way Wu Tong behaves doesn’t warrant anyone being amicable toward him. I, too, have a nonexistent tolerance for obnoxious, violent egoists. But if later episodes are any evidence, this scene foreshadows that two wrongs won’t make a right. If they want to teach him a lesson, they shouldn’t stoop so low as to take advantage of his poverty. His family background is the one thing about him that isn’t his fault, yet it’s the one thing they choose to use against him. That’s what I call “going too far.”

Now that he's been hit where it hurts, Wu Tong feels justified in going too far himself. In a fit of desperation and contempt prompted by his master abandoning him, he stabs Xuanji. Not great. Things get extremely not great when you remember that Xuanji is the daughter of a sect leader. That quickly transforms Wu Tong’s attempted murder/almost manslaughter into the evilest act known to mankind. All five sects turn against him to hunt him down and kill him. I’m no law or philosophy expert, but I’m pretty sure the punishment for almost manslaughter is not the death penalty.

The five sects can treat him as their prey because he doesn’t have a support system to counter them. If he were the son of another sect leader, the thought of killing him would never even have entered their minds. Targeting him so relentlessly has less to do with justice and more to do with exerting power over a lower-class young man who hurt someone infinitely more “important” than him.

That imbalance between crime and punishment is what pushes Wu Tong over the edge. He goes on the run for several years before officially succumbing to the call of evil, after which he becomes truly irredeemable. Still, you’re occasionally reminded of his struggle—is he destined to be a villain? Or is throwing aside his remaining morality just his best chance at survival?

Do you have any idea how I survived these past several years, when you were all trying to kill me? What did I do back then that was so unforgivable? Did your sister die? Was it warranted for all five sects to team up against me, an average disciple? Was it warranted to back me into a corner over and over again, to force me to claw out of hell? Open your eyes and look at me! These past four years, I’ve already died countless times. Every time, I clawed my way back out of hell. Five hundred taels? You want to take my life with a measly five hundred taels? Don’t look down on me. Touch here. I have a fake leg. That’s what your five sects have left me with. What’s that look of yours? Guilt? Pity? I’m not telling you this for you to pity me. I, Wu Tong, survived this far because I must have my revenge.

Something my mom likes to say is if you find yourself going against someone—but especially a dangerous person—you must leave a path for their survival. It’s less for their sake than it is for yours. Should you eliminate all their options, they’ll have no choice but to bite. And they’ll make sure it hurts like hell.

As an impetuous teenager, Wu Tong is in the wrong. He needs to be taught that his actions are unacceptable. But that can’t be accomplished by putting a bounty on his head and demanding that he be murdered. That’s how you turn a scoundrel into a monster.

Minyan, Wu Tong’s foil, similarly doesn’t come from an optimal background. An orphan, he was taken in by the Shaoyang Sect without the obvious pressure that Wu Tong suffers. Even so, he can’t escape the innate inequality that seems to exist between him and his fellow disciples. It especially affects him because he’s in love with Linglong, Xuanji’s sister but more importantly…also the daughter of the sect leader! Poor guy.

When I was little, kids in the village would surround me every day and call me a bastard child with no parents. I could only pretend that I didn’t hear them. Because if I took it to heart, they would only ridicule me more. We can’t shut the mouths of people who want to slander us. But we can choose not to listen.

He may think that he’s past it, but later episodes see Minyan being manipulated using that exact insecurity. It’s easy to impersonate his master and nudge him to become a “spy” in the enemy base because he’s compelled to prove himself worthy of the sect and worthy of Linglong. Fake Sect Leader Chu Lei tells him:

When I first met you, you were only eight years old. You were homeless on the streets, starving and shivering. Still, you clung to your family dagger and refused to pawn it. In that moment, I knew that you were a child with an iron will. That’s why I’m here to find you today.

I can agree that Minyan is really stupid to immediately believe that his master, a guy well-known for pretending to do important things more than he actually does them, would tell him to do something as reckless as invade enemy territory. However, he also heeds the impostor’s instructions because realistically, his master asking him to prove himself is something that could happen. Any good disciple would naturally want to repay their masters for their favor, let alone a disciple who would otherwise have nowhere else to go.

The contrast between Minyan and Wu Tong shoves itself in your face as you watch, primarily through their respective relationships with Linglong (well, one of them has a relationship. The other is a creep. Can you guess who’s who?). Without family backing, the two men both struggle to find their place in the world, but they’re complete opposites purely because of their upbringing. Thankfully for Minyan, he found a family amongst people who don’t treat him as “another,” even if he may think of himself as such.

Wu Tong isn’t so fortunate. You can say it’s his own doing, a result of his terrible personality, but he certainly wasn’t born like that. And now someone will pay for it.

---

Part II: All of Them Are Sexist

As a caveat, I’ll mention that the main cast really could have used a woman who isn’t some combination of foolish, lovestruck, and/or loud. But I’m willing to overlook it just this once because the writers excel in highlighting both the ladies' flaws and how we as an audience exaggerate those flaws through our own preconceptions.

Working backwards in terms of plot importance, we can start with Xiao Yinhua. Sifeng’s snake familiar in a human form, Xiao Yinhua is like most female leads from the turn of the millennium in that her only real strength is throwing temper tantrums. She’s also like most second female leads from the turn of the millennium in that she constantly prefers using underhanded tactics and harming others to achieve her goals—in other words, a snake. Oh. I guess that makes sense.

Her affections toward Sifeng cloud her already nonexistent judgment and prompt her to make some of the worst decisions made by anyone, ever. At first, I thought I was being unfair toward her because of my own internalized misogyny. But no. I can say with absolute confidence that I would abhor this character no matter what gender or creature or object she may be. She has no redeeming qualities aside from teaching us that someone foolish, lovestruck, and loud is doomed to self-sabotage. From that perspective, she’s still a valuable character to have because now we know that before we act, we should think: would Xiao Yinhua do that thing? If she would, do not do that thing.

If Xiao Yinhua were willing to grow up, she could become more similar to Zi Hu. Zi Hu almost acts as a parallel to Sifeng—hopelessly in love with someone who doesn’t return the affection for a literal thousand years. Also, both are very pretty. Ahem.

Zi Hu’s thousand years’ worth of experience gives her the skills to back up her unrelenting feelings for Wu Zhiqi. She’s a rarity in that her driving force is a man—a motivation that's typically a reputation ruiner for female characters—but you find her lovable instead of thinking that she lacks self-respect. The key is that her love isn’t blind and rash like Xiao Yinhua’s. Zi Hu has a plan to save Wu Zhiqi from his prison and she carries it out with intention. In other words, it’s okay to focus on love, but only if you can take responsibility for your feelings.

Ting Nu: Why go so far? When did Wu Zhiqi ever tell you that he loved you? Your affections are merely one-sided. Zi Hu: When did he tell me he didn’t love me? Look, once I rescue him, he’ll have to be with me to thank me.

Because Zi Hu is a literal fox, people suspect her both for being a demon and for being the demon notorious for seducing men to consume their souls. The latter is quickly debunked and becomes less of an issue than her just being a plain demon. I nonetheless find it hilarious how everyone balks when she shows them her harem of men gleefully living in her backyard. Yep, she’s a cunning vixen. You can just keep wishing you could join that harem.

Zi Hu: You're trying to shoo me away. You think I’ll storm out because of your petty tricks? You’re underestimating me. I’ve already decided, starting today, I’m going to follow you everywhere. Even if you don’t want me to, I’m going to cling to you. This old spirit isn’t going to let those thousand years of waiting be in vain. Wherever you go, I’m going with. If you dare sneak peeks at other pretty women, I’ll dig out your monkey eyes. All in all, if I’m around, no pretty woman can enter your vision. As if you could bear to leave me behind if I hang around for another thousand years!

Xiao Yinhua and Zi Hu aren’t overly victimized based on their gender within the show itself. For the better too, because whoever dares to do so would probably end up dead by a fox's claws and a snake's teeth. These two characters' existences test your innate view of female characters instead. What is it that matters to you in a female character? What standards do you hold against them?

(**Content warning for the below segment until the next purple break: brief mentions of sexual assault and suicide.)

And that's where we come to Linglong. Linglong is a loudmouthed spoiled brat. She's overbearing, and while she wants to protect Xuanji, her method of doing it is by crying crocodile tears and throwing temper tantrums in front of their father. No wonder she and Xiao Yinhua clash—two childish people who both have a compulsion to win arguments? Forget it.

A bulk of the drama sees Linglong’s primordial spirit being taken and held captive by Wu Tong. Wu Tong puts half of her primordial spirit into the body of a flower demon, whom he also forces to take on Linglong’s physical appearance. No other reason, he just wants to have his way with someone who looks and acts like Linglong, the person who jeered at him all those years ago. By the time the real Linglong recovers her primordial spirit, Wu Tong has done enough damage that she’s haunted by nightmares and memories of someone who assaulted her when she couldn't even fight back.

The lead-up to this arc is incredibly disturbing and takes root in the very first episode. On my first watch-through, I thought their relationship would take a classic enemies-to-lovers path. The directors and writers pull you in this direction with no subtlety, showing a smitten Wu Tong when he first lays eyes on Linglong. They then keep the scam going by having him act out in awful ways as he attempts to gain her attention. That’s right, it’s the brainwashing girls receive when they’re on the playground: “he pulls your hair because he likes you."

During their first meeting, Linglong is surrounded by a halo filter from Wu Tong’s perspective. Knowing what he’ll later do to her makes the seeming innocuousness of this scene revolting, but it's necessary. It's the first of many steps to prove that someone’s “affections” can’t be used as an excuse for harming whomever’s on the receiving end of them.

Linglong can be an extremely annoying person. Her outspokenness and difficult temper shape her into an unlikable character, which then ensures that by the time Wu Tong captures her, the audience almost instinctively wants to say that it’s her fault. We all know the talk track: “he liked her, so why couldn’t she just have been nicer to him? She asked for it by being mean to him.”

When Linglong first offends Wu Tong, it isn’t for no reason: she’s angry because he endangers her sister’s life over and over again. Admittedly, she goes overboard in her retaliation against him. So what? Linglong being mean to Wu Tong and Wu Tong later targeting her are indeed connected events, but the former doesn't justify the latter. If we say that the five sects hunting Wu Tong down isn’t a fair punishment, then isn’t it also unfair for him to turn the tables on her in such a way?

Essentially, Linglong isn’t the “ideal” victim. That’s what makes her arc all the more heartbreaking. To this day, society wants to find any excuses for the assailant. Any mistake, any flaw of the victim's will be used against her. As humans, maybe it’s instinct for us to hope that bad things only happen to bad people, and victim-blaming is our twisted way of making that an impossible reality.

Overcome with depression and trauma, Linglong is unable to come to terms with what Wu Tong did to her. Men gossip about her and her “relationship” with the enemy, sometimes harassing her straight to her face. Wu Tong himself finds great delight in taunting her about her “sharing his bed,” not only relishing the memories but also enjoying how much it torments her.

Linglong: It was my fault that I was captured by Wu Tong, wasn’t it? [...] Everyone thinks so. I didn’t want to be captured by Wu Tong. But after Wu Tong said all those things, everyone thinks so. Minyan: Linglong, why care about what everyone else thinks? Just pretend that you didn’t hear any of it. Linglong: But I did hear them. Why do I need to pretend I didn’t? It’s something that actually happened, so why do I need to play dumb and trick myself into thinking it didn’t? Are you going to be like them too, and mock me?

All the accusations brainwash her into thinking everything is her fault. To Wu Tong and all the people judging her, she’s nothing but a pawn to be used for their own entertainment. And once she and Minyan leave the protection of the sect, everyone finds her an easy target to push around. Hoping that her death will mean freedom for both herself and her loved ones, she attempts to drown herself before being yanked back to life and reality by Minyan.

Linglong’s struggle is many women’s worst nightmare. It’s also a diligent representation of PTSD, something that I normally wouldn’t expect from a xianxia drama. Even after she's rescued and everyone tells her that her suffering is over, it never feels over for her. At night, Lingling is awoken by harrowing dreams of Wu Tong returning to kidnap her once again:

Nightmare!Wu Tong: You’ll always belong to me. You can’t escape.

The conclusion to her arc being Wu Tong’s death and his literal letting go of her may be quite idealistic. But I prefer to think that giving Linglong her happy ending is the writers’ way of trying to assuage our fears, of showing us that there will always be another sunrise regardless of what happens.

(**Content warning end.)

Linglong becomes the drama’s strongest woman-centric plot, and I really love that the writers did it with a character whose personality isn't the most appealing. She's the imperfect woman we can find in every corner of the world, a representation of women overall instead of the minority who are considered "deserving" of justice.

Next to her, Xuanji also gets a short end of the stick. She's constantly being pushed to marry Hao Chen. Every excuse in the book is used against her: they're a fated couple, he's the only one that can take care of her, doesn't she agree that this is a part of her duty? No matter how logically she objects to it, no one really cares what she thinks. If she objects, she’s being headstrong, and that’s the end of it. (More on Xuanji to come in Part IV of this essay.)

And aside from Bai Lin’s more obvious transgressions (we're getting to those), what really irked me is just how twisted he makes the God of War’s rebellion appear in others’ eyes. The logic turns quickly from “Bai Lin must have done something wrong” into “the God of War must have been in love with Bai Lin and grew resentful that he rejected her.” I guess it’s very believable that the God of War would want to destroy the entire universe because some guy wouldn’t date her? That’s right, you can be the most accomplished woman in your field and someone will still want to attribute everything you do to being motivated by romance.

Naturally, the next question is—why is Bai Lin such a weirdo? Why does he insist on turning his friend Luohou Jidu, a man, into a woman when creating the God of War? Hmm. I smell a waft of homophobia...

---

Part III: All of Them Are Racist

And except for a small minority, I really mean "all of them" this time. Humans and celestial beings are racist toward demons. Demons are racist back toward humans and celestial beings. If you asked both sides who started it, they'd point at the other without hesitation. "They started it. By existing."

I don’t even know where to start with this topic. Part of me believes this entire section of analysis could be extraneous—do I really need to do a deep dive when you could just click a random timestamp of a random episode and have a 50% chance of finding a character saying something incredibly racist? No case studies necessary. The drama is the case study.

Obviously, while I may say that all the different races are racist toward one another, some are notably more egregious in their discrimination than others. The five sects, being in power, are the worst offenders. Every other second, someone is reminding another that they need to wipe out demons. Just the utterance of the word “demon” makes them froth at the mouth. In their possession, they have treasure troves of weapons and magical devices whose collective main purpose is to identify and kill demons. Perhaps you know someone in real life who thinks that hating something is a personality trait—that’s the five sects in a nutshell.

Zi Hu and Ting Nu are continuously snubbed for not being human even after they’ve long proven that they’re more help than harm. Ting Nu is a doctor, but even saving Hao Chen doesn’t make them think of him as anything but a demon who is evil in his very bones. Demons can do everything right, but the high and mighty humans are too pure and innocent to associate with them…aside from killing and torturing them, of course.

Highlighted Exhibit A: Sifeng almost being tortured and whipped to death based on the mere suspicion that he’s a demon. The fact that he is one doesn’t matter. His assailants operate on the doctrine that they’d rather kill an innocent person than let a demon roam free. Every action to rid the world of a demon is a virtuous one. It's a reenactment of the Monty Python witch trial but they're being completely serious.

Highlighted Exhibit B: the other sects band together to wipe out Lize Palace without solid confirmation as to whether they’re all demons. They’re operating on the same principle as in Exhibit A, so at least you can praise them for being consistent.

Highlighted Exhibit C: before Sifeng is revealed to be a pretty bird, Xuanji’s repeated defense of him consists of "Sifeng isn’t a demon." The main purpose of these lines is to instill further fear into Sifeng and give him more reason to keep lying to her, all while Xuanji's trust in him deepens. But is it also some of her lingering innate judgment seeping through? A subconscious understanding that her family and sect will never accept a demon as her boyfriend? Well, joke’s on them because he’s one hot bird.

So how are you supposed to survive as a demon? Lize Palace results from the humans’ desire to eradicate an entire race of demons. Just as Wu Tong is driven only by revenge, the demons of Lize Palace just need to survive for long enough to one day remove their masks and live as themselves. Humans’ endless thirst for blood does nothing but fuel demons’ fire of rebellion and keep the wheel of tragedy turning.

As for the “bad guys” of Tianxu Hall? At least when they commit the same acts of evil as the other five sects, they’re willing to admit that being evil isn’t beyond them.

Yuan Lang is an extremely successful villain for this very reason. All of us love Yuan Lang, so much that we start grinning whenever he comes on-screen with his fan and sarcastic mouth. So much that when it's revealed he's been consuming people's souls, all my mom had to say about it was: “Oh. That's mean of him.”

He plots and he lies and he murders, but he doesn’t put up a facade of holding himself to a lofty moral standard. It’s also quite telling that while Yuan Lang machinates behind the scenes, 90% of his time is spent standing by and calling others out on their bullshit. Everyone around him creates their own downfall. He just happens to benefit from their stupidity.

Man with a fan and a plan. I like.

Even so, Yuan Lang isn’t invulnerable to emotion. One of my absolute favorite scenes is where Di Lang sacrifices himself so Yuan Lang can make a getaway. It’s the only instance of Yuan Lang being subject to the pain of caring about someone else. Those short moments contrast so starkly against the sects’ inhumanity that suddenly, a revolution doesn’t seem all that bad.

Behind the bulky mask, his despair is apparent. Man. This actor’s come a long way since his F4—I mean, H4 days. If you've never watched Let's Go Watch Meteor Shower Together, don't.

Finally, we arrive on the topic of Bai Lin. Oh, boy. I still haven’t watched Blood of Youth because seeing the actor’s face triggers my fight-or-flight response. And it’s been years.

Bai Lin, the one racist to rule them all. The guy must have a handbook on “How to Be Racist” or something—how else could the contempt that spews from his mouth, the spark of repugnance in his eyes, and the brazen obstinacy in his opinions be so immaculate?

The entire drama consists of setting the stage for the full reveal of Bai Lin turning Luohou Jidu into a weapon of war to be used against his own people. By the time all the pieces fall into place, you’ve already witnessed the tragedy created by discriminatory practices between mortals. You've seen how Sifeng is targeted and Xuanji forced to move her hand against him. You've seen how the sects use their power to harm instead of help. You've seen how demons plot their revenge for centuries. Once Bai Lin is confirmed to be the genesis of all that, there’s nothing left for you to feel but utter revulsion.

Bai Lin: Celestial beings and demons cannot coexist. How could my Heavenly Realm possibly hold a marriage with the Devil Tribe? Luohou Jidu: Celestial beings and demons cannot coexist...Then why do you drink with me today? Why are you friends with me? Bai Lin: Naturally, Brother Jidu, you’re different from other demons and devils. Out of all the demons and devils in this world, Brother Jidu is my only friend.

Can’t believe he even pulls the "you’re one of the good ones" card.

Bai Lin, practitioner of unethical tactics: his ultimate decision to trick and use Luohou Jidu results from racism-induced paranoia. He simply can’t believe that his friend will remain his friend, not unless he becomes "one of us." He thinks the God of War should appreciate that he's given her power and invested his time and energy in her tenth reincarnation, going so far as fool her into thinking that they loved each other once upon a time. Once Xuanji shows herself capable of independent thought, he doesn’t hesitate in turning against her and manipulating her to destroy her own self. He eventually sacrifices the entire world for the Heavenly Realm's survival. After all, what's the value of an entire planet's human and demon population in the face of his power?

He's the representation of what happens when those in power, those who have the best chance of righting wrongs and preventing more from happening, decide to perpetuate the problem. At the same time, he presents the predicament that those we rely on to give us justice are also victims of their own emotions and fears.

I venture to say that Bai Lin is the best-written antagonist in modern xianxia. He’s ruthless but has a moral compass, albeit one that only points in one direction—toward himself. His hubris aside, you have to admit that he genuinely believes he's acting for the greater good. The ends justify the means because he thinks he’s bettering the world.

Bai Lin makes awful decisions that involve genocide and cruelty because he operates on a strict utilitarian philosophy. "I do what I think will bring the best results, even if it means sacrificing something huge in the process." He’s the most dangerous character and the person we should also fear in real life because he’ll stop at nothing to create his definition of a paradise.

It would be easy to dismiss him as simply being a bad person. However, this show draws from reality in that every person exists in a gray area between good and bad. You can lean one way or the other, but you don’t fall completely into either. And that’s the foundation of the show's conflicts. Everyone's so busy trying to define what’s right and wrong that they’ve lost sight of basic compassion.

When he’s finally faced with the consequences of his actions, Bai Lin is driven to despair. He feels true remorse over what he’s done, but only because he’s fortunate enough to actually witness how the thousand-year conflict wouldn't have existed without him. We as people aren’t so lucky—those “what if”s will forever remain in the shrouded realm of impossibility.

Heavenly Emperor: You always thought that evil had sparked in the hearts of the God of War and Luohou Jidu. But the one in whom evil truly sparked was you. All things and happenings in this world are originally empty. From emptiness comes meaning. Yin and yang reverse; they support and restrain one another. The Heavenly Realm was originally empty. The Asura, too, was empty. If all is empty, then how could the Heavenly Realm be superior; and the Mortal Realm, Demon Realm, and Devil Realm be inferior? Your excessive concern for the safety of the Heavenly Realm prompted evil to take root in your heart, unable to be undone.

Seeing him in such despair almost makes me feel bad for him. Maybe I do have too much sympathy.

At this point, it's already too late to repair the damage he's caused, a realization that causes him further anguish. He rids himself of his divinity to show his remorse and accepts death. But he's already caused so much pain to everyone else. Who can put back together the world that he's destroyed?

---

Part IV: Love Wins All

(We love IU for her perfect song that also gave me the best possible final section title.)

As I seek to be conscious of my own biases, I once wondered: why is it that shaking my head at a female character for being dedicated to a man comes so naturally to me, but I can’t be more gleeful to see Sifeng put his heart out on a platter for Xuanji? Perhaps I’m also sexist. Perhaps I have double standards.

Then I thought about it some more and realized everyone loves Sifeng because he’s so blatantly unrealistic that you’re immediately able to sink yourself into his fictional beauty. He transcends gender norms because there is no person of any gender who would go to the extent that he does for Xuanji, nor is there anyone who could remain as levelheaded when faced with some of the most shameless people known to mankind. Forget all the people flying on swords and uttering magic spells. The biggest absurdity in Love and Redemption is its male lead. Yes, I'm a skeptic. But we're so lucky to have him.

Sifeng grew up in a bizarrely backwards environment where—instead of girls needing to cover up to not attract men’s attention—all men need to protect themselves by wearing masks and not associating with the opposite sex. Brainwashed for years to believe that Lize Palace is the only safe space for golden fire birds like himself, he keeps cautious around people while still harboring a subconscious longing for their warmth.

In my entire life, I never knew what a "friend" is. I finally understand now, the meaning of "fervent friendship."

Sifeng is established as the loyal lover extremely quickly. He's whipped—figuratively and literally—for Xuanji, his sheltered childhood leaving him defenseless against her unintentionally flirtatious mannerisms. He teaches her about her lost senses without judgment, nurtures limitless patience with her and others by proxy, and isn't afraid to question the status quo.

We love Sifeng for his wisdom and levelheadedness. He sees things for what they are and is commonly the voice of empathy and reason within a world of selfishness. The entire show is Sifeng going, "I might as well do it myself" in every situation because no one else cares, is capable enough, or both. He's the guy in group projects who quietly does everything and doesn't even get mad that you're the most useless team member ever. What a saint.

In the xianxia universe, he's distinct husband material (which isn’t saying much since the bar there is so low that you'd need to dig yourself a grave to reach it—which is also great because then you already have a place to go once your xianxia spouse gets you killed. I digress). His loyalty to not only others, but also who he is and what he wants, leaves him able to counter the complacency with hatred and evil permeating the world around him.

With his endless empathy, he's able to understand Luohou Jidu. While Sifeng's earliest motivation in facing the greatest devil is only to save Xuanji, he later views Luohou Jidu as an individual with his own sufferings. He's the only one to truly view Luohou Jidu as himself, not someone to eliminate, not just an extension of Xuanji. To Sifeng, everyone deserves a chance to be heard before a verdict is passed over them.

Not to mention, these two’s interactions are absolutely hilarious. I wish I could've seen the extensive conversations that must’ve went on in the censorship agency over them.

Fellas, is it gay to clasp a guy’s hands within your own and stare deeply into his eyes while reminiscing about your loving relationship if he’s technically got a woman captive in his brain?

But perhaps what shines the brightest about Sifeng is how he suffers. He's so pretty when he suffers. Wait. That's not my point.

When his Lovers’ Curse triggers for the first time, Xiao Yinhua speaks the gospel that a lot of the audience probably has in mind: "you did so much for her, you were so good to her, but she doesn’t love you back." And it sounds kind of right? But also kind of not? Then Sifeng opens his mouth and you think, "oh, crap, I've been brainwashed by misogyny yet again."

She never asked me to like her. If someone wants to kill another just because she doesn’t reciprocate their feelings, then that person will never be loved. They also don’t deserve to love another.

Again and again, Sifeng puts himself in harm's way to keep loving Xuanji. Sure, he wants her to love him back, but that's secondary to his desire to be honest with his own feelings.

With the bright beacon of light that is Sifeng’s blinding love, I feel most viewers overlook Xuanji’s capabilities as a female lead. Her comparative passiveness in the relationship makes it seem as if she doesn’t love him enough. I attribute this to the same reason as our previous conclusions, that female characters in romance dramas have a harder time garnering the audience’s approval than their male counterparts. Are we innately more judgmental toward women, or is the standard for men still so low that we’re already impressed when a guy surpasses the bare minimum? Probably both.

It's easy to forget that Xuanji is the one who's nice to Sifeng first. When they first meet, Xuanji literally falls into his arms. Then he just…drops her. (And they say chivalry is dead.) But Xuanji doesn’t care.

The rules of his sect push Sifeng into being a bit of a porcupine in his demeanor. He puts up a wall against everyone, but especially Xuanji. After all, as an innocent boy, Sifeng needs to protect himself from evil women. Or something.

Xuanji is the one who can't take the hint tries to befriend him and tears down his wall with the gentle, graceful nature of a sledgehammer. She insists that she'll retrieve his lost mask because she knows it's important to him. When she discovers that Sifeng is punished over it, Xuanji is the one to point out how unfair it is. Her straightforwardness and sense of principle are the reason Sifeng begins to open up at all.

Xuanji: I’m the one who took off his mask. If you want to hit someone, hit me. [...] Not to mention, he almost died trying to get his mask back. So I'd like to ask you, Palace Leader, is Sifeng's life more important, or is that mask more important?

She knows no fear, so she doesn't consider emotionless rules to be worth anything if they cause pain for the people she cares about. In many ways, Xuanji is the one who teaches Sifeng to stand up for what he believes in.

That Xuanji lacks her six senses makes her the least susceptible to the prejudicial habits of her surroundings. She accepts what they believe, that demons are bad, but only because that's all she knows. Whereas most of her peers are content remaining in their ignorance, this supposedly heartless gal is curious about the world. She can easily abandon her preconceptions in favor of what she witnesses the world to be.

It takes constant practice and tests for Xuanji to completely shed her old beliefs. The introduction of Zi Hu marks the beginning of her growth. Xuanji, concerned and angry that Zi Hu is holding her friends captive, fully intends on killing the fox until Ting Nu reasons with her:

Ting Nu: Zi Hu isn’t a malicious demon. You shouldn’t threaten her life. Xuanji: But she kidnapped my friends. How can I spare her? [...] No. She did bad things, so I have to kill her. Ting Nu: [...] Zi Hu has never actually harmed anybody. She’s simply misguided by her anxieties. You should spare her life. […] If you discover that she’s actually committing malicious acts, you could kill her then, no?

If it were Minyan or Linglong in her position, you could bet that they'd ignore Ting Nu. For one, he's a merman, so of course he'd protect another demon. To Xuanji's credit, she really does give Zi Hu—and Ting Nu—the benefit of the doubt. Does she have to? No. But she does anyway.

If Sifeng’s love comes naturally, then Xuanji’s comes through determination. Who's to say that one is inherently better than the other? It takes ten lifetimes for her to understand a semblance of love. She wants dearly to understand what it means to "like" someone, even though she's already the least unafraid to show how much she cares about others.

After she successfully grows the heart light for Sifeng, I don't think anyone is more excited than Xuanji herself. Look how proud she is. Obviously, she's happy she can use it to protect him, but I imagine that she also views it as the clearest proof that she’s as human as anybody else and as capable of loving as anyone else. Sifeng may be stunned when the heart light disappears, but Xuanji falls despondent—she really wants Sifeng to be someone important to her.

People sometimes struggle to see past Xuanji’s initial naivety. They're especially harsh toward her for not seeing what Sifeng has sacrificed for her until it’s almost too late. It's true, the drama primarily favors Sifeng's perspective, so it's easy to only see what he’s done and ignore Xuanji’s efforts.

In spite of warnings from Sifeng himself to not do so, Xuanji emerges to save him from the third lash of the demon whip. You go, girl.

Love isn’t a competition. But for the sake of the discussion, let's say proof is needed that Xuanji’s effort in the relationship matches Sifeng’s. In that case, the important part is looking at what they sacrifice in a relative scope instead of an absolute one.

The things that Sifeng sacrifices are astronomical. He climbs a tower blustering with an eternal blizzard and puts on the Lovers' Curse mask. He stands right in the middle of the conflict between humans and demons even though there’s no way humans will spare him. He gets stabbed…a lot. But everything he does is a result of his own will and careful calculations—they’re all things he knows he can take responsibility for.

Sifeng's major flaw is that he's a massive liar. He's not right to lie, but he's also right to be scared about what would happen if he doesn't. As a demon, he knows what happens to anyone who isn't distinctly human. That's why he conceals his identity from Xuanji.

Then, once he discovers that Xuanji is also the reincarnation of the Star of Mosha, his fear is ignited again for her sake. Xuanji has almost always been defined by what she is, not who. She's berated for being useless when she doesn’t have her six senses. The moment she’s revealed to have the God of War's power, suddenly everyone finds her more than useful. If she's publicly revealed to be the Star of Mosha, then she'd be killed without question, and the person that is “Xuanji” will also cease to exist. Just as he doesn’t want Xuanji to view him and as anything other than himself, Sifeng doesn't want anyone else to view Xuanji as anyone other than herself. That's also why out of everyone, the one person he must keep the Star of Mosha secret from is Xuanji herself.

When Sifeng's lies begin to unfold, Xuanji is left to handle the mess he's inadvertently created. Suddenly discovering that he's a demon and also protective of the demon that possibly murdered her mother, Xuanji is torn. Her wavering faith in him isn't because of his identity, but because he lied to her.

Zi Hu: Do you dislike it that much, that [Sifeng] is a demon? Xuanji: Should I not? Zi Hu: Well, you healed my wounds. And you’re friends with me and Ting Nu, a merman. As for little Sifeng, he’s not a malicious demon who harms people. I don’t think he was aware of what went on with Tianxu Hall and Lize Palace. Xuanji: That’s different! He shouldn’t have lied to me. He’s the person I trust the most. But he even kept from me who he is. Then, all the things he told me and did with me in the past…what part of it all was real and what was fake? Zi Hu: What’s real and what’s fake? Can’t you just drag him over here and ask him? If he’s a scumbag, just kill him. But if there’s any misunderstandings, the two of you should clear them up. Resolve them and see what solutions there are. When two people are together, the scariest thing is misunderstanding one another for no reason. If you lose each other, that might be the end, forever. You’d regret that.

And then she eventually does try to kill him. Good going, Zi Hu.

Xuanji's main conflict in the latter half of the drama is that she wants to find a solution that satisfies everyone, an impossible dilemma. Everyone starts pressuring her to lead the charge against the demons. It's her duty as the God of War, isn't it? Oh, but if she doesn't want to, it's because she's in love with the enemy. But she can't be in love with the enemy. She's the God of War, after all.

That’s the duplicitous world that Xuanji lives in. Yet, without knowing why he's been dishonest or what else he could be lying about, she still chooses to believe in Sifeng—even if it means being treated as a traitor herself and being further guilt-tripped. She's bound to her duty, family, and the expectations that come along with that. Going against them in any capacity is a challenge to her entire livelihood and the moral standards imposed on her. If you take that into account, suddenly the things that she risks don’t pale in comparison what Sifeng does for her.

As an omniscient audience, it's easy for us to say that she doesn't do enough, that she should know better. It's an interesting thought experiment to wonder what else she could do in such a situation. Her boyfriend lies to her. She believes he has a reason, believes in him when he tells her to trust him. She defends him repeatedly to people who don't even care to listen unless it's to interrupt and call her crazy. She lies to her father that she'll devote herself to killing demons like Sifeng so they'll stop calling her crazy and threatening her. Then, when she goes to rescue Sifeng from Mingxia Cave, he's suddenly getting passive-aggressive with her: “oh, what does the mighty God of War need from a lowly demon like me that she deigns to talk to me?” Bro…if I were her, I might just ditch him in a fit of rage. That's how you want to play? Have fun turning into frozen poultry in this cave, then.

Obviously, more is going on behind the scenes that Xuanji is completely unaware of. Sifeng almost dies from her fire magic that Hao Chen stole. The broken hairpin. And okay, I'll admit that her saying that she'll kill him while he's eavesdropping outside is not a great look. But come on, Sifeng. Where have your critical thinking skills gone? If you can lie, don’t you think Xuanji can too? And after all that, she still instinctively shields him from her father’s sword.

Sifeng. In this case, I do have to criticize you in a serious manner. Do you have any idea how hard it was for Xuanji to finally try to get herself stabbed for you, only for you to go “no, me” and get stabbed again? Do you have a sword-magnet in your chest?

Then Sifeng tells her that he’s never loved her and was only using her because he’s Luohou Jidu, the world's biggest villain. And she still can't bear to hurt him. When Xuanji discovers that Hao Chen has tricked her into using a so-called “Purifying Vase” to doom Sifeng to a painful death, she's furious:

Xuanji: For my own good? You want me to practice the Method of Love, but you also want me to be heartless. I can’t be so contradictory. Hao Chen: I told you to practice the Method of Love through feelings between you and me, not for you to continuously absorb yourself in your fixation on Sifeng! Xuanji, don’t forget. Our marriage is one determined by the heavens. It’s destiny. Xuanji: The heavens determine nothing. If they do, then why did they make Sifeng and I meet in our past nine lives? What a joke of the heavens. Hao Chen: So, you’d rather resign yourself to your doomed fate with that demon than stay properly by my side? Xuanji: Fate isn’t split into a virtuous or doomed one. I hate myself for loving Sifeng before, and we won’t ever be together again. But since I already gave him my love, I won’t take it back.

But of course, Hao Chen has more tricks up his Mary Poppins sleeves. He pulls out all the stops and uses his last breath to manipulate her into stabbing Sifeng. Oh my god. Look at all these trust issues, just making themselves readily available.

Her stabbing him is, how do you say, very bad. But let’s be honest, she’s seen him survive worse. I don't have a nifty conclusion is here, but basically, she subconsciously knows he'll get over it (physically, at least).

Of course, Sifeng is heartbroken. It's intensified by the tragic fate of his father. His father’s goal was always to protect Sifeng from the dangers posed by the racist five sects, led primarily by fabricated memories that his lover Hao Feng was driven to suicide by her own family. When Yuan Lang reveals the truth, that Hao Feng's fear of demons trumped her love for her husband, it’s intense foreshadowing of Sifeng and Xuanji’s relationship. Maybe Xuanji isn't like Hao Feng and she can cross the rift between humans and demons, meeting Sifeng in the middle. But finally, she still retreats, away from him. Her betrayal, now the tenth in all their lifetimes, leads Sifeng to leave behind some of the most truthful but hurtful words for Xuanji to deal with:

I finally understand why my fate turned out as it did in all my past nine lives. From beginning to end, you have always been a heartless person.

It’s not fair to ask Sifeng to keep considering Xuanji’s feelings under the brunt of her violent wrath. But just as she has no idea what he’s been doing to protect her, he has no idea what she’s been doing to protect him. Zi Hu is right again: nothing poses a greater danger to a couple than misunderstandings. And racism.

The ultimate resolution only occurs once Xuanji recovers the memories of their past lives. Congratulations, Sifeng. After a millennium of pining, your love has finally touched the heart of your beloved. Indeed, it might take a long time getting there, but love will find a way.

I love the short scenes that show the God of War and Xi Xuan's quiet but gentle relationship. Xi Xuan is the only one who cares that the God of War wants her own identity, then gives her a moment in which she doesn't have to wear her armor, just as Sifeng does everything in his power to let Xuanji be "Xuanji." Through all their lives, Sifeng is the one who recognizes her for who she is and wants to make her happy, even if she doesn't have a heart.

Activate: Xuanji, shameless mode. After Xuanji tracks down Sifeng in his solitude, they return to their days as teenagers. Xuanji acts like a fool in front of him, demanding his attention, and Sifeng only wants to get her the hell out of his house. It's not only a reminder of the times when things were a lot simpler, but also of how far they've come.

She intends on marrying Sifeng. Even if her father doesn't approve, she no longer cares. There's not enough time left in the world to hesitate about the people you love to satiate someone who can't be satisfied. Just as Sifeng upends his whole life for her, she's willing to do the same.

And as Sifeng is dying, Xuanji makes the ultimate decision to become the Star of Mosha. This isn't a reckless move done just to save him. Rather, her faith in Sifeng has strengthened into steel after all they've been through. Even if the world ends, she knows that a little bird with unshakable resolve will come get her. For two people who have spent most of their time as a pair of parallel lines, never to coincide, this is their point of intersection—a challenge that they'll face together, even if they're apart.

Sifeng: Xuanji, stop! I'd rather die than watch you become a devil for me! Xuanji: Sifeng, I can't consider all that now. I have to save you! Whether I be the Star of Mosha or the God of War, I don't care. I just need you to be okay. Sifeng. If I become Luohou Jidu, you absolutely can't forget me. Remember to bring me back! I cry during this scene. Then I immediately start laughing at Sifeng's gobsmacked expression once Luohou Jidu shows up. It just reads "but...my girlfriend..."

And Xuanji's right. Sifeng is the solution. No one else can save Luohou Jidu, the God of War, and the world by extension. Luohou Jidu's pain results from being betrayed purely because of his identity as a devil, but Sifeng becomes the confidante that Bai Lin pretended to be. The God of War's pain comes from having no self-identity, but Xi Xuan gives her the ability to seek one and accompanies her for a thousand years to help her find it. The suffering that Bai Lin set into motion would lead to a ceaseless cycle of revenge and a destruction of the world’s good due to its sins, but Sifeng alone convinces Luohou Jidu and the God of War that there's something in life worth keeping. But you have to fight for it, and persistently, because good things only come to those who are willing to chase after them.

Xuanji to Bai Lin: I won’t mess with someone else’s life so simply due to my own matters, even if that person is someone as despicable as you. Sifeng once said that using hate to obtain vengeance is an endless cycle. In this life, I already have something that matters more to me than that. I have no space to keep my hatred.

I know it can sound cheesy to say that the best revenge is living a happy life. But Love and Redemption can convert even the most insistent of cynics—me, for example. People will practice evil whether or not there’s a reason for it and whether or not those consequences will ripple out into a tsunami that will engulf the world. Only true, honest love can hope to settle the uneasy sea. It’s why Zi Hu gives Wu Zhiqi something to live for other than war. It’s why Linglong and Minyan have a reason to persist alongside one another. It's why Luohou Jidu gives his heart and life to Sifeng. It’s why Sifeng is able to save Xuanji. It's why the three realms are blessed with the chance to keep finding a reason to persist.

Sifeng and Xuanji’s story is a journey of overcoming all odds; of learning to love someone unconditionally not because it’s easy, but because you want to; of letting that love grow into a ray of hope in the world. Yes, if we let it, love wins all.

Sifeng: Your heart has become one of flesh and blood. It couldn’t bear to destroy the three realms. Because…it’s a heart that I held and warmed in my hands, bit by bit.

#love and redemption #琉璃 #scribbles*#originally this was only going to be about the racism #then the further i got the more i thought “well you can't just talk about the racism and not everything else”#and after adding “everything else” i figured i might as well do a sifeng/xuanji relationship analysis while i was at it #so here we are #it's below 10k words though :D so still bite-sized? ...lol

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