#Supreme Council of the Armed Forces

[reasonsforhope]

"Tuesday’s [April 9, 2024] definition-shifting court ruling means nearly 50 governments must now contend with a new era of climate litigation.

Governments be warned: You must protect your citizens from climate change — it’s their human right.

The prescient message was laced throughout a dense ruling Tuesday from Europe’s top human rights court. The court’s conclusion? Humans have a right to safety from climate catastrophes that is rooted in their right to life, privacy and family.

The definition-shifting decision from the European Court of Human Rights means nearly 50 governments representing almost 700 million people will now have to contend with a new era of litigation from climate-stricken communities alleging inaction. 

While the judgment itself doesn’t include any penalties — the case featured several women accusing Switzerland of failing to shield them from climate dangers — it does establish a potent precedent that people can use to sue governments in national courts.

The verdict will serve “as a blueprint for how to successfully sue your own government over climate failures,” said Ruth Delbaere, a legal specialist at Avaaz, a U.S.-based nonprofit that promotes climate activism...

Courting the courts on climate

The European Court of Human Rights was established in the decade following World War II but has grown in importance over the last generation. As the judicial arm of the Council of Europe, an international human rights organization, the court’s rulings are binding on the council’s 46 members, spanning all of Europe and numerous countries on its borders.

As a result, Tuesday’s [April 9, 2024] ruling will help elevate climate litigation from a country-by-country battle to one that stretches across continents.

Previously, climate activists had mostly found success in suing individual countries to force climate action. 

A 2019 Dutch Supreme Court verdict forced the Netherlands to slash its greenhouse gas emissions by 25 percent, while in 2021 a French court ruled the government was responsible for environmental damage after it failed to meet greenhouse gas reduction goals. That same year, Germany’s Constitutional Court issued a sweeping judgment that the country’s 2019 climate law was partly “unconstitutional” because it put too much of the emissions-cutting burden on future generations.

Even in the U.S., young environmental activists won a local case last year against state agencies after arguing that the continued use of fossil fuels violated their right to a "clean and healthful environment."

But 2024 is shaping up to be a turning point for climate litigation, redefining who has a right to sue over climate issues, what arguments they can use, and whom they can target. 

To start, experts overwhelmingly expect that Tuesday’s ruling will reverberate across future lawsuits — both in Europe and globally. The judgment even includes specifics about what steps governments must take to comply with their new climate-related human rights obligations. The list includes things like a concrete deadline to reach climate neutrality, a pathway to getting there, and evidence the country is actually on that path...

Concretely, the verdict could also affect the outcomes of six other high-profile climate lawsuits pending before the human rights court, including a Greenpeace-backed suit questioning whether Norway's decision to grant new oil and gas licenses complies with its carbon-cutting strategy.

An emerging legal strategy

In the coming months, other international bodies are also expected to issue their own rulings on the same thorny legal issues, which could further solidify the evolving trend. 

The International Court of Justice, the International Tribunal for the Law of the Sea and the Inter-American Court of Human Rights all have similar cases working through the system.

"All these cases together will clarify the legal obligations of states to protect rights in the context of climate change — and will set the stage for decades to come," said Chowdhury, from the environmental law center."

-via Politico, April 9, 2024

[sayruq]

THE WHITE HOUSE is worried that Iran might strike a U.S. target as part of a potential retaliation for Israel’s April 1 attack on its embassy in Damascus, Syria, according to notes from a meeting involving National Security Council officials earlier this week. Tehran has vowed that “Israel will be punished” for the Syria strike and the killing of Quds Force commander Mohammad Reza Zahedi. New concern about a potential Iranian strike comes even though the Biden administration has sought to distance itself from the Israeli airstrike, stressing that it had no advance knowledge of the operation. “I don’t have anything more to say about the strike in Damascus, except that we weren’t involved in any way whatsoever,” NSC spokesperson retired Adm. John Kirby said on Monday. On Monday night, Iran conveyed to the Biden administration that if it involved itself in defending Israel were Tehran to undertake a retaliatory strike, it would consider the United States a viable target as well. The issue was discussed at a Tuesday NSC meeting, according to notes reviewed by The Intercept. (The NSC did not respond to a request for comment.)

Since then, the U.S. has quietly conducted talks with Iranian officials to seek to avoid direct confrontation between the two countries’ armed forces, according to CNN and other media reports. On Sunday, Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer said that Biden and his team are working to prevent escalation with Iran in the Middle East. On Wednesday, Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei said that Israel “must be punished and it shall be.” That same day, Israeli Foreign Affairs Minister Israel Katz said his country would respond with a direct attack. “If Iran attacks from its own territory, Israel will respond and attack in Iran,” Katz posted on X. Since April 2023, the U.S. and Israel have been in close cooperation in sharing and building common Iran contingency plans.

[separatist-apologist]

The Acolyte

Summary: When a mission on the planet Umbara goes wrong, Jedi Padawan Feyre Archeron will come face to face with the one creature the High Republic has believed long extinct: a Sith Lord.

Read on AO3

Note: This is a collaboration between the beautiful, smart, perfect, all-around talented @velidewrites who, upon watching the previous episode of The Acolyte, said, "Qimir is so Rhys coded." This has been our brain rot ever since.

DO NOT REPOST SITH RHYS

-

Drumming her fingers along the arm of the chair, Feyre waited with little patience. She ought to have it—it was unbecoming for a Jedi Padawan to be so antsy, so fidgety, but she couldn’t help it. It felt like years since she’d gone anywhere outside the temple besides hunting down street food. Master Tamlin wasn’t over their last mission.

Reckless, he’d called her.

Efficient, was how Feyre would have described herself. What was the point of tradition if it resulted in the deaths of so many innocents? Rules, protocol—it was all meaningless to Feyre in the moment. What mattered was the lives of innocents, not making sure Master Tamlin was satisfied she did everything by the book.

Tamlin loved the code, loved rules, loved everything except doing things the way Ferye wanted to. It was tempting to wonder why, of all the possible Padawans he could have had, he’d chosen her. They were a strange match even by the Jedi’s standards. Tamlin said the force had called out to him, urging him to take her under his wing.

Feyre sometimes thought he merely saw chaos where order ought to reign supreme, and made it his personal mission to bring her to heel. He was holding her back—Feyre wanted to be a Knight and free herself from Tamlin’s hold and he refused, telling the council she wasn’t ready.

She was, though. Feyre was stronger, faster, better than her pupils, a good number of whom had already graduated and were working under the watchful gaze of all Masters rather than just one. 

Let him take me on this mission, Feyre thought, sending it out into the world. One last mission—I can prove I’m ready.

Tamlin appeared from behind arched, hissing doors, his white robes swishing around beige boots. He’d tied his shoulder length blonde hair half off his face which made him look more severe, somehow. Green eyes pinned her in place, keeping her from standing even when she wanted to. Something about the hard set of his mouth made her think twice.

“The council wants you to join me,” Tamlin said, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “It’s a bad idea.”

“Who are we to argue with the will of the Council?” Feyre asked breathlessly, finally standing. It was good luck, the first of many, she decided. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

“This is too dangerous and you’re too reckless,” Tamlin said, turning for the long stretch of hall between them. Feyre’s long braid swung from her shoulder, tracing a path along her spine as she worked to keep up with his fast strides. 

“I’ll do as you say, Master,” she swore, truly believing she would. Tamlin only shook his head because he knew better. Feyre could be impulsive—it was one of her worst qualities.  

“You never do,” Tamlin replied with a heavy sigh. “It’s a mistake to bring you to Umbara.”

Umbara? Feyre practically vibrated with excitement, swallowing to keep her feelings in check. She’d heard of the Shadow World, seen it in the archives when she studied. She’d never been there, though. It felt like a waking dream, too good to be true.

“What’s happening on Umbara, Master?”

“Deaths,” Tamlin said, eyes cutting toward her as he carved a path through a gathered crowd of awed younglings. “Jedi deaths. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Perhaps they were caught by surprise,” she said, though Feyre, too, found it troubling. What was the point of training if a regular blaster bolt could end them, same as anyone else? She’d always imagined her death would be more spectacular. A fiery inferno, likely as she jumped in and out of hyperspace while Tamlin shouted at her. 

Oh, but what a way to go.

“We’re only investigating,” Tamlin said, turning so abruptly that Feyre tripped over her own white and gold robes in her haste. “Remove all ideas of grandeur from your mind.”

“I will,” she promised, but it was too late. This would be her test, she decided—one last mission to prove not just to Tamlin, who would likely never believe her ready, but to the Council themselves that she should be elevated to Knight. Tamlin had held her back for the last time.

They parted ways, Tamlin mumbling under his breath as Feyre practically skipped her way out of the temple. She wanted to tell her sisters what she was doing and knew if Tamlin realized she still had this connection, he’d march them right back into the Temple and demand she be put back in the Archives.

Feyre swore she’d tell them she couldn’t read if he did.

She, like all children, had been taken to the temple before she had a chance to truly know her family. And either by luck or the force or some other cosmic entity, she’d stumbled into Elain first—and then Nesta. How many women in the galaxy had the last name Archeron, after all? Elain was a rising politician, unhindered by an overbearing Master and Nesta the head of a Bounty Hunters Guild.  There was no denying the relation—they all had the same heart shaped faces, the same cheekbones, and the same whip-fast wit. 

Nesta ought to be back by then, though if not, Elain would be in her little office working hard to make a name for herself. Nesta had explained their family had once been wealthy before a few bad investments ruined it all. Sending Feyre away had been a mercy, and when their mother died, well…that was one less mouth to feed. 

Nesta learned to fight with vibro weapons, Elain with words. If their father was still alive, they’d never said and Feyre hadn’t dared to ask. Deep in her heart, she felt a small amount of resentment for the man who’d sent her away, depriving her of the connection with her family. Even if it had been selfless—even if he’d wanted to give her a better life. 

On climate controlled Coruscant, Feyre found herself standing amid a sunny, breezy day. Tilting her face skyward, she swore she felt a phantom breeze caress her skin. Turning, she decided she’d get something to eat, first, and to see him. It was wrong, the strange attachment she had to the man who ran the turbo dog cart closest to the Jedi temple and yet he remembered her name. Remembered the things she told him.

He was her friend. 

Feyre’s feet began moving of their own accord, body slipping into the throngs of people that lived on the planet. The cacophony of smells and noise—the chaos of it all—made her blood thrum with excitement. Feyre never felt more alive than she did just outside the Temple. Here, Feyre could pretend she was just like anyone else…ignoring the slice of hair woven into the traditional padawan braid, separate from her own thick, long hair she’d refused to cut, and the purple saber clipped to her belt. Still, she was practically bouncing as she made her way down the steps toward rows upon rows of shops advertising anything a person could ever want. Somewhere among the madness was Nesta’s little cantina, run by her friend Emerie most of the time. Feyre might stop in for a drink if she was feeling bold, though Tamlin wouldn’t approve.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, she reasoned. She’d just have to be careful to drink slow as alcohol went straight to her head.

Most things did, in truth. After a lifetime of denial, anything heady was practically a drug. 

Feyre fell into line, catching sight of the man handing out turbo dogs. Rhysand.

He’d appeared one day—or perhaps she’d merely never noticed him, though it seemed impossible that she could have walked by and not noticed him. His hair was so dark it gobbled up all the light around him, gilded blue in the late afternoon sun. Piercing blue eyes seemed practically violet when the shadows fell over his face just right, with brown skin that looked warm to the touch and just the shadow of a beard gracing the cut of his jaw. 

Not that she’d dare. She was definitely forbidden from that, though all the teaching in the world couldn’t truly stop her wanting. He looked up right on cue, smiling when he saw her just like he always did. There were people in front of her, so Feyre waited, schooling her face into careful neutrality when all she really wanted was to bound up to him and tell him everything.

What did it matter? Who was he going to tell? Feyre imagined, when she needed to temper some of her interest in this stranger, that he told stories of the Jedi Padawan to his friends in whatever local watering hole he frequented. Perhaps they all laughed.

But maybe he didn’t. 

“There you are,” Rhys said when it was finally her turn, large hands deftly putting her dog together. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. And Feyre considered herself rather well-traveled. She’d seen a lot of faces. Rhys’ was all sharp angles and graceful lines, drawn together just so—on anyone else it might have made them seem too severe or perhaps lopsided. Not Rhys, who seemed blessed by some otherworldly entity despite his rather humble profession. 

There, in a black tunic, she caught sight of the familiar black tattoo crawling up his neck, half hidden beneath the white shirt just beneath. What did they mean, she wondered? She’d never dared to ask.

“I was looking for you,” Rhys added when Ferye didn’t speak. Heat stole over her cheeks, causing her to duck her head. 

“I’m where I always am,” she replied, grateful there was no one behind her to hurry things along. 

“Still trapped in the Archives?” Rhys asked sympathetically. 

“Not for long,” she said, unable to contain her excitement. “I’ve been assigned to Umbara.”

His dark brows rose. “What business do the Jedi have on Umbara?”

Feyre shrugged, wishing she could tell him the truth. It was a betrayal, even if he was harmless enough. She’d tell him everything when she returned, besides. Likely with some embellishments to make herself seem more heroic and more skilled than she was. As if he knew the difference. 

“I thought Umbara was supposed to be dangerous,” he continued, quickly turning the sign on his stand to read closed. Another elicit thrill raced up her spine. He wanted to walk with her while she ate, dragging out their conversation just a little longer.

Feyre wiped sauce from the corner of her mouth quickly, hoping he didn’t notice how the red stained her sleeve. “It is,” she said through a mouthful, hoping Rhys found her charming and brave rather than young and a little pathetic. “But nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh, I’m certain of that. Is your Master still angry with you?”

She nodded, swallowing her bite quickly. “He thinks I’m reckless, but…” Biting her inner cheek, Feyre thought of the children who would have been swallowed by flames had she not intervened. Tamlin, and many other Jedi, would remind her it wasn’t possible to save everyone. She couldn’t let herself become so attached to simple strangers.

Feyre could feel them all in the force, just like every other Jedi. Their fear overwhelmed her, and try as she might, she simply could not block it out. Feyre let it all in, let their emotions rush over her like water until they clouded her judgment. And then she acted, honed by instinct and twenty one years of training. 

“But?” Rhys prompted, slowing his steps so Feyre didn’t have to work so hard to eat and breathe. They walked further from the temple, descending into one of the lower levels where the Jedi were unlikely to venture. He lived down there, somewhere. Did he see sunlight from his windows, she wondered? Or was he, like so many others, trapped in darkness? 

“It was wrong not to help,” she said fiercely, flooded with righteous emotion. Rhys smiled.

“I agree,” he said, running a hand casually through his hair. Feyre tried not to notice how a lock flopped into his eyes just as she tried not to imagine what it would be like to brush it away with her own fingers. 

“If I do this by the book, though, I think I can go around Tamlin to the Council and ask to take my trials,” she said, confessing to Rhys something she hadn’t even told her sisters. Again—it was harmless to tell him. He was just a man on Coruscant, her friend, truly. He had a passing interest in the Jedi and a passion for turbo dog meat. 

“What will you do then, once your Jedi Knight Feyre Archeron?” he questioned, eyes sliding to the padawan braid draped over her shoulder. 

“I don’t dare to think about it, just in case,” she said, finishing the rest of her meal and tossing the trash into a nearby bin. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Smart,” Rhys praised. “Who knows what’s waiting on a planet like Umbara.”

“Something dangerous, I hope,” she said with more bravado than she felt. If he guessed, he didn’t say.

“You should be careful,” he warned, just like he always did. It didn’t annoy her as much as when Tamlin said it, perhaps because Rhys wasn’t asking her to remain behind on Coruscant for safety reasons. Sometimes Feyre thought Tamlin wanted her to remain a Padawan until she died despite the early conversation they’d had all those years ago about her hopes and dreams. He’d been so supportive when she was younger.

Now he felt like a tyrant. 

Feyre left Rhys not long after when he said he needed to pick up a crate of meat, disappointed they never managed more than about ten minutes of time together. What she would say if she ever got more eluded her, though sometimes she conducted long conversations with him in her mind. At least there she was always witty, always charming, and he was always impressed with her. 

Feyre went to see Nesta and Elain, told them of her mission hastily, and promised she wouldn’t be gone too terribly long. How much time could it reasonably take to investigate the murders of a couple Jedi? They weren’t Masters, after all—it had been a trio of Knights she knew in passing, their bodies still missing. All that had been found were parts.

A hand here.

A torso there. 

Weapons missing. 

Feyre had a nightmare that evening, her mind grappling with what could have gone wrong to take out three Jedi in such a manner. Perhaps a bomb? A sniper hidden on a roof, cloaked somehow? 

Or, more thrilling and terrifying all at once, a long-extinct Sith somehow rose from the grave. Feyre had only ever heard stories of the legends—unlike Jedi, who were numerous, their Sith counterparts moved only in groups of two. A Master and Apprentice. Having spent so much time in the archives, Feyre read that once an apprentice finished their training, they’d kill their own Master and take an Apprentice of their own, thus repeating the vicious, cannibalistic cycle in perpetuity. 

The Sith were extinct, hunted to nothing centuries before Feyre had been born. If one managed to pop up, they’d be cut to pieces before they could manage to find and corrupt an apprentice, nevermind how they’d manage to truly immerse themselves in whatever perverse culture the Sith claimed. Still, it was an interesting fantasy and even after Feyre woke in a cold sweat, mind still racing from the shadows that seemed to press against her temple, she let herself imagine what it would be like to encounter one.

To cut one down.

Feyre bet they’d let her skip her trials if she did. Not that she wanted a Sith running around, of course. It was merely the wistful imaginings of all padawans hoping for glory. Feyre wanted to make a name for herself.

Old resentment bloomed in the morning as she packed her things into a sack, careful not to fill it to the brim. It would irk Tamlin, resulting in a lecture about how materialistic she was. Was it materialistic to not want to wash her robes every single night? In the sink, no less, while they were conserving water for drinking and washing? Tamlin would tell her to wear her tunic and robes more often between washings but Feyre got sweaty sitting in the cramped quarters of the ship. They started to smell like onions and while Tamlin might not mind, she certainly did.

Rolling them tight, Feyre packed three sets, closed up her knapsack, and made her way toward the shipyard just as dusk broke over the horizon. The light bounced off the metal buildings, half blinding her as she walked. 

What she wouldn’t have given for some shadows right then. 

Tamlin was waiting, handing over credits to the dock worker along with his clearance papers while they worked out which lane they’d take and what time they’d leave. It was all terribly boring, though she supposed it was important that they didn’t make the leap to hyperspace while another ship came out, obliterating them both in a fiery inferno.

Why did the thought amuse her? Feyre suppressed the smile forming as she clenched her fingers into fists, nails biting against her palm. Tamlin turned, eyes drifting toward her back at the pack slung over one shoulder. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. Feyre could feel his disapproval coming off him in waves.

Silence was its own blessing, she supposed. Better than having to defend herself and submitting to the eventual lecture that would go on for what felt like ever. Still, she could feel his disappointment as they took their seat in the small, sleek craft they’d be in for only the force knew how long. Tamlin did the preliminary checks while Feyre settled everything in, finally sitting in the co-pilot's chair. 

Not a word was spoken until they jumped to hyperspace. Feeling his eyes burning holes against her skin, Ferye finally sighed with exasperation. “Just say it.”

“I think it was a mistake to involve you in this,” he said in that measured way of his, unaware of how deep his words cut. “You’re not ready for this kind of mission.”

“You don’t trust me.”

It wasn’t a question but merely a statement of fact. What other conclusion was she supposed to draw? Tamlin balked at every outing, especially as of late. Feyre had heard it a million times before and though she considered herself relatively tough, she thought she might cry if she had to listen to him list her faults again.

“When did I say that?”

“You didn’t have to say it,” Feyre snapped, swiveling in her chair to face him. Multicolored lights lit up the otherwise dark cockpit, while the console separated them. Feyre could see the saber resting lightly against Tamlin’s thigh and knew if he ignited it, she’d find the familiar green blade humming before her. It had once been a comforting sight.

She didn’t know what it was now. 

“I think I do need to say it in order for it to be true,” Tamlin replied, infuriating as ever. She wanted to wring his neck, an inappropriate thought she couldn’t shake.

“No, you don’t, because you say it a million different ways. I’m too reckless, I don’t think, I’m impulsive and every other little thing. And when you’re not constantly saying that, you’re arguing passionately to the Council that I don’t belong on missions and you refuse to help me prepare for the trials—”

“Have you considered that I am not ready to let you go?” Tamlin asked in a low voice.

Feyre paused. Oh, that was a dangerous thing to admit and they both knew it. Feyre’s eyes slid to the windshield before them, suddenly nervous. “You have to.”

“I know. I know,” he said, unaware that the low, urgent way he spoke those words angered her. He’d hold her back because he liked her? Even if it wasn’t forbidden—and Feyre had to believe that any kind of relationship between a Master and a Padawan was—it was downright cruel. She could be his peer, at least, and in a position to have this conversation with him without worrying he’d drop her in the archive again while avoiding her so she had no one to practice with. 

“I want to be a Knight, Tamlin,” she told him, fingers twisting in her lap. 

“There’s time—”

“You’re wasting it!” she burst out, rising from her chair so quickly she slammed her head against the low ceiling. “For the sake of feelings you know we can’t act on!”

“It’s only attachment that’s forbidden,” he argued, as if he hadn’t just admitted he was holding her back to satisfy his own desires. Feyre wanted to scream—wanted to wrap her hands around his large neck and squeeze until his eyes bulged and a raspy apology split from his lips. 

She’d take it too far if she didn’t get away from him. There was practically nowhere to go—down a ladder and into the hold, Tamlin right behind her. 

“Feyre–”

“No.”

Her heart thudded rapidly, lodging itself in her throat as she spun around. Tamlin’s tan skin paled at whatever he saw looking back at him, palms raised in defense. 

Take a breath. You are one with the force. Take a breath. 

“Feyre, can we talk about this?” he pleaded. There would be no avoiding it, and Feyre, never known for her tact, would have to figure out a way to navigate the conversation without throwing a wrench in her entire future. 

“Not now,” she said, exhaling through her nose. “I need—I need to think.”

Hope sprung like weeds in his eyes as Feyre tamped down her fury. Feyre knew, looking up at the man she’d once loved like a brother—respected like a father—and knew he would hold her hostage until she agreed to his terms. Lying felt wrong, deceiving him worse. If she went to the council, would they listen? Would they believe her over a Master? 

Tamlin nodded, mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tried to find the words he wanted. “I just…I’m not ready to say goodbye.”

Feyre could think of a dozen Masters and Padawans who continued to work alongside each other. Was he not ready to say goodbye to her, or to the power he had over her? The thought chilled her, filling her with fear. 

“You don’t have to,” she replied in a careful, measured tone though every inch of her vibrated with panic. “Very little has to change.”

Tamlin offered a humorless laugh. “Even you don’t believe that, Feyre. You’ll race off on a dangerous mission by yourself the first moment you get.”

“I won’t,” Feyre protested. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she hated being alone. A mission by herself seemed like a particular brand of hell. Every moment Feyre got she was looking for company—seeking out the other padawans, her sisters, hell, even the turbo dog guy when she could catch him.

But rarely Tamlin. Not since he’d begun to sideline her and her resentment had grown like one of Elain’s gardens. When had that begun, anyway? Racking her brain, she realized it had been around the start of her nineteenth birthday. Two years—how foolish not to realize the underlying problem. There was so much wasted time and too much ground lost. 

Tamlin only shook his head. “Let's table this for now. You rest—I’ll keep watch.” She nodded, swallowing all the words she wanted to say as a plan began forming in her mind. She’d petition the council, she decided as she watched Tamlin climb back up the stairs. Either they’d believe her or they didn’t, but she was entitled to another Master if she wanted one.

The thought didn’t give her peace, though. As Feyre slid into the small bed hidden within the wall, her anger burned hot in her chest. This was not the Jedi way—she needed to find a way to forgive him for what he’d done to her.

But she couldn’t. Even in sleep, Feyre did not find peace. Her dreams were tinged red and shadowed, as though her anger had been made manifest. She woke to the sound of light beeping and Tamlin pulling open the small door so light flooded in.

“Can we trade?”

She only nodded, rubbing at her eyes as she scooted out of the narrow space. His fingers grazed her collarbone as she hopped to the ground, narrowly avoiding his hands reaching for her waist. Feyre had to resist the urge to slap him away, to not bark out, don't touch me. Tamlin merely watched, his disappointment obvious. What he thought was going to happen, she wondered? That he’d admit she’d been purposefully holding her back and hobbling her self-esteem simply to meet his own needs and she’d swoon? Fall into his arms? Abandon all the tenants of her teachings for him?

Feyre let him sleep longer than he had—Tamlin had only given her four hours, but Feyre gave him the remaining eight. She flung the door open just before they were about to burst out of hyperspace, and only because she was required to. He was still the Master, she his student and her whole future was in his hands.

“You’re angry.”

Feyre flipped the switches that would pull them just outside the atmosphere of Umbara, the neon blue of the stars fading as they slowed their descent.

“I’m frustrated,” she admitted, not wanting to give him any honesty at all. He was manipulating her, using the teachings of the Jedi against her and Feyre didn’t know how to fight back. She wasn’t equipped for these sorts of games, didn’t know the rules to even play. 

“I’m sorry,” Tamlin murmured, as if that was enough to erase two years of wasting her time. “Do you want to discuss it?”

“Is there any discussion we could have? Am I allowed to say no?”

“Stars, Feyre, I’m not—of course—” Tamlin set his jaw, grinding his teeth together loudly. “Of course you can.”

But everything in his body told her that he’d be angry if she did. It was written all over his face.

“Can we just wait until we’re back on Coruscant?” she asked, forcing herself to speak softer, lighter, to avoid whatever was brewing in his gut. “You don’t feel it?” Tamlin demanded.

“Tam,” Feyre breathed, invoking an old, familiar nickname. It was enough to settle him, the tension between them evaporating. “We’re in the atmosphere. Let's do our mission, go home, rest, and then we can discuss…us.”

She didn’t dare look at him. Could he taste the lie? Did he suspect she intended to speak with the council the minute her feet were back on Coruscant? Could he stop her? Feyre had too many questions as they were plunged into shadowy darkness. Umbara demanded her attention, pushing everything else to the side as Feyre stared. The local star was simply too far for its ray to penetrate, its reach beyond even the Republic. 

“What were they doing out here?” Feyre wondered aloud, breath curling around her face like shadow. 

“I don’t know,” Tamlin replied, deftly landing on the landing pad in the local ship port. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

“Where do we start?”

Tamlin knew, of course. They’d been too busy arguing over the state of their tattered relationship to discuss the mission, and now Tamlin had all the clues and all the control, just like he always did. Feyre would be given information piece-meal, rewarded when she pleased him and iced out when she irritated him. It had been that way between them for a while. At least she understood that part of the dynamic, bothered as she was by it. 

“This way,” he said, disembarking with barely a glance back. Fingers balled to fists, Feyre followed after him, eyes searching the dark hungrily. Umbara was hardly some backwater planet that barely had running water, let alone civilization. Umbara was advanced in a way that would have made the cosmopolitan Coruscanti residents weep. Towering buildings tried to banish the shadows, bathing the surface in artificial lights. If she strained her eyes beyond the urban sprawl, Feyre thought she could see rolling hills rising like mist in the distance. 

Maybe that was her imagination filling in the gaps. 

What was beyond the gloom, where not even technology and light could touch? What secrets did the shadows hold? Perhaps it hadn’t been anything sinister at all, but merely the wildlife that had gotten the Jedi. Feyre shivered in spite of herself, wishing she could step closer to Tamlin without it being uncomfortable. In one fell swoop, he’d wrecked the delicate bond between master and padawan.

Her resentment reignited, hot as any flame. Her emotions were all over the place, though carefully guarded to keep Tamlin from sensing them. She’d learned to do this as a youngling, annoyed that she broadcast her every feeling to anyone who happened to be near, but perfected it when she found her sisters. Feyre didn’t trust the Jedi not to make them leave, even if it was a little unfair. Maybe they wouldn’t have.

But maybe they would have. And Feyre simply couldn’t take the risk. 

On the busy streets, Feyre kept her eyes straight ahead even as she examined the people from the corners. Umbarians were near human—their skin pale and bluish from the lack of sunlight, their hair white or silver, though sometimes so impossibly black that Feyre wasn’t sure if it was hair at all. Pale blue eyes peered through the gloom and she’d heard they could see colors regular humans couldn’t, though who knew how true that really was. Feyre wished they could linger and she could spend some time immersed in the local culture, but Tamlin walked quickly, determined to get them both in and out. Whether that was merely to conclude his investigation or bring their conversation to the fore, Feyre couldn’t tell. He was inscrutable that way. 

Along one of the neatly laid streets stood a rather shady looking cantina, even by Coruscant's standards. Feyre felt a thrill of excitement as Tamlin walked through the hissing steam of the door into the smell of liquor and sweat. 

Feyre’s eyes snagged on the chrome bar and the two impossibly large men seated on too-small stools. They likely would have fit a regular man perfectly fine—Tamlin could have sat with no issues at all. These men were built like warriors, with warm brown skin so at odds with the milky paleness of the locals and strange, scrawling tattoos inked in black. They both turned, their hazel eyes nearly gold as they landed first on Tamlin, and then Feyre. 

The larger of the two had his wavy, dark hair pulled half off a face marked with scars, confirming her theory he was a warrior. The other, more classically handsome, with shorter hair and sharper features, seemed entirely unblemished. That didn’t mean he looked less lethal. Feyre reached out with the force, trying to get a sense of these men but nothing but oily cold greeted her. Likely mercenaries, she decided as they turned back to their cups and the beautiful blonde woman wiping down the counter with a stained rag.

She had familiar eyes, though Feyre couldn’t quite place them. Was it the dark brown, or the shape? Blonde hair cascaded over fair skin, neatly curled either by her own hand or good genetics. Tamlin’s eyes lingered for a moment, too, before his lips pressed in a severe line. He didn’t speak as he approached—he merely swept his robe to the side to reveal his saber hanging from his belt.

The two warriors sitting at the bar grinned. Feyre didn’t think Tamlin noticed. Around them, people of varying species sat at tables, the hum of chatter enough to drown out their own conversation. 

“I wondered when your lot was going to turn up,” the blonde said, offering Feyre a smile that felt less menacing and warmer than what she’d given Tamlin. “Might as well sit down.”

Feyre did before Tamlin could stop her, hand on her shoulder as she slid next to the massive, long haired man. 

“We’re not here to drink. Three Jedi were slaughtered nearby, and the last place they were seen was here. In your cantina.”

“I’m Morrigan, though my friends call me Mor. You, I think, can call me Morrigan—you don’t seem like you have a lot of friends and I don’t see that changing anytime soon,” the woman told him, filling up a tankard of ale as if Tamlin hadn’t said anything. She slid it right past him to Feyre and somehow it felt like a test.

Antagonizing the locals wasn’t going to help them, Feyre reasoned. They needed information and they sounded like police. Relax, she wished she could say to Tamlin. But he was too rigid, too set in his ways and too proud to ever admit there might be a better way to get things done. His disapproval frustrated her even as she raised the spicy brew to her lips.

It earned Mor’s approval. 

“Look,” she said, cutting Tamlin off just as he was about to speak. Her eyes were still trained on Feyre as she pulled out a holo disc. “Your friends were here—I never disputed that fact and I’m not now. They came in for a few drinks, as you can see here…and then they left. Alive.”

Feyre did see that. The holo, sped up, showed all three knights order a drink, sit at a nearby table, and eventually leave with all their limbs in tact.

“It’s a rough planet,” the man next to her said, obviously eavesdropping. “Plant probably got them.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. It was possible, of course, though it seemed unlikely.

“Did they say what they were doing out here?” Tamlin demanded, his irritation plain. 

“Bet they were following the rumors,” the other man said, his voice icy and dark. Feyre nearly choked on her ale at the sound, eyes sliding of their own accord back to his beautiful face. He wore fingerless gloves, revealing horrific scars over the little skin he had revealed. What had happened to him? 

“What rumors?” Tamlin’s temper was rising, his force signature warming Feyre’s cool skin. 

“Is this a local ghost story?” Feyre asked them, offering up her most charming smile. 

“Something like that,” the man beside her chuckled. “They say he’s some kind of force user. Powerful.”

“Impossible,” Tamlin dismissed. 

“Cassian. Azriel,” Mor murmured, though there was no displeasure on her face. It was merely an order to mind their own business. Despite her more diminutive stature, both men returned to their drinks looking a little shamed. 

“Do you think they’re true?” Feyre asked, ignoring the waves of frustration rolling off Tamlin.

“I know three Jedi walked out of this bar alive, and met something in the dark,” Mor said, leaning forward so her hair spilled across the bar. “The wildlife and fauna here are dangerous if you’re stupid or careless. I didn’t think Jedi were either.”

“They’re not,” Tamlin all but hissed.

“Then maybe you ought to start there,” Mor said, eyes still only on Feyre. 

“They say he’s just outside the city,” Cassian added, nosing his way back into the conversation. “Lives on the edge of a mountain.”

“Or was it in the mountain?” Azriel asked with a sharp grin. Feyre knew they were trying to scare her and Tamlin, but she was genuinely intrigued. A dark force user seemed unlikely, but perhaps some kind of equivalent ability, like the Nightsisters were said to have. She wanted to know more than she wanted to unravel the mystery of the dead Jedi. 

“This was helpful,” Tamlin said in a tone that suggested the exact opposite as he tossed a couple credits onto the bar. Thanks for nothing, she swore she heard him say, though his lips never moved. Feyre gulped down the rest of her drink while Cassian and Azriel went back to studiously looking anywhere but at the rest of them. 

“Take care,” Mor said only to Feyre, offering a pretty smile. “I’ll see you around.”

Cassian and Azriel both turned to look at her with those unnerving eyes, their smiles suggesting the same thing. No one looked at Tamlin at all, who half jerked her off the stool and toward the door. Feyre stumbled, looking over her shoulder to find their smiles gone, replaced by some other emotion that almost looked like fury. 

“There was something strange about them,” Feyre said the moment they were back in the dark. “Didn’t you think—”

“Why didn’t you let me handle it?” Tamlin demanded, rounding on her so quickly that she did fall back then, her ass hitting the ground hard enough to rumble up her spine. She scrambled to her feet, eyes smarting with embarrassment. “They were making fun of you!”

“They—they weren’t,” she insisted, swallowing the urge to cry. She thought of how Mor had looked at her with respect, pulling out that puck so Feyre could see the Jedi had left unharmed.

If she’d been crueler, she would have told Tamlin the truth. They spoke with derision because they didn’t like him. 

“Let's go,” he said, his eyes like ice. “We can circle back in the morning.”

“Fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Feyre stewed as they walked toward the inn they’d be sleeping in, grateful for the two beds that were provided rather than one. If she had to sleep next to Tamlin, she thought she might have flung herself out a window. They still shared the small space, dodging the other as best they could, tempers still high. He kept sighing, waiting for her to ask him what he was thinking like she often did in the past. She didn’t, though. 

Feyre fell asleep thinking not about Tamlin, but what Mor had told her. Of the man who supposedly lived in or around the mountain and the power he commanded. It seemed more like a children’s story meant to keep them from wandering and yet…had those Jedi gone looking? It would be tempting, certainly, especially if that man had been framed as a force user. She wanted to go looking, too, even if Tamlin didn’t, though she didn’t know how to convince him of it. 

Feyre woke to darkness and Tamlin already dressed. He was standing by the door, hair left around his face.

“You’re awake. Good. I’ve been thinking about last evening,” he began, hand reaching for the control panel on the wall. Feyre sat up, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm.

“What about it?” she asked.

“I think it’s best if I conclude this investigation on my own. You’re…you’re safer here, I think.”

Feyre’s mouth fell open of its own accord, snapped shut as she processed his words. “Safer?”

“I want you to remain in this room until I return—”

“No!”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. But things will move much faster, and go smoother, if you just let me handle this.”

“Tamlin!”

She scrambled out of bed, but he was quicker, reflexes sharper. He offered one last glance back, eyes hardly apologetic at all.

“Tamlin!” she yelled, but the door hissed shut just in time for her palm to smack against the cool metal. She screamed his name twice to no avail. He’d locked her in the room. Feyre turned toward the window, too small for her to crawl out of even if she shattered it. 

Think, she ordered herself, but the walls of the tiny room seemed to close in on her, the darkness heavy and oppressive. Tamlin was a lot of things, but at their foundation, he was her mentor. Her teacher.

Her friend.

Did she mean anything to him at all? Or was she merely an object for him to protect with no consideration of her own wants, needs, or desires? Feyre’s hurt shifted into anger, her mind replaying the argument in the ship. The realization he had been holding her back because he wanted to keep her around longer, that he would derail her entire life to satisfy himself. He was supposed to put his padawan above himself and yet…

Feyre went back to the door, reaching back into the force. It was wrong—so, so wrong—to use it the way she was. The once warm air chilled as she embraced, just for a moment, the hatred she felt. Metal crunched and snapped, the bolts whining before they broke entirely. When Tamlin returned, he’d know what she’d done and how she’d done it.

Let him, she thought as she gripped tight to that anger. It was a lifeline right then, antithetical to her teachings as it was. Hatred, anger, fear—all led to the dark side of the force. She needed to let it go.

All Jedi touch the dark side. 

She’d read that in one of the books in the archive. Well, here she was, touching it too. Feyre stepped from the ruined wreckage feeling more powerful than she ever had in her life. She’d atone when she returned to Coruscant, would tell the Council everything and hoped they understood her reasons, her feelings.

But right then, Feyre didn’t care about any lesson Tamlin had ever taught her. He’d betrayed her many times over, so thoroughly that it couldn’t be repaired with centuries worth of time. It was tempting to hunt him down and confront him, but Tamlin was a Master who’d been trained by someone who valued his education. He’d beat her easily—smugly.

No.

Once outside, Feyre’s gaze turned toward the darkness and the mountains she assumed lingered just beyond. For only a moment, Feyre took stock of herself. Was she afraid of what she’d find? 

Was she afraid to die?

No.

Feyre stepped with confidence, unafraid of the darkness around her. Maybe it was unchecked hubris that guided her, or some sense that the force would protect her. Feyre didn’t bother thinking too much about it, vanishing out of the city toward the mountains that loomed overhead like great, craggy fingers. All at once, Feyre understood why people would imagine a monster lived here—who else might survive it? It occurred to her, as she got further and further from the city, that this was foolish—she ought to go back to the ship and send a message to the Council before Tamlin knew what she had done. 

Feyre nearly turned back—she should have. If it hadn’t been for an overwhelming tug in her gut, she might have abandoned her plan entirely. Feyre kept moving, her body knowing the way even as her mind raced. She could feel the presence of something—someone—watching, waiting. The wind picked up, ruffling her hair around her face and too late, Ferye realized she hadn’t bothered to braid her long hair, nor had she changed from her training pants and tank-top. She’d merely run out, caring only that her feet were laced up in her white boots and her saber was clipped to her belt. It should have felt cold but Feyre was warm as her speed picked up, eyes trying desperately to cut through the dark. 

It never occurred to Feyre she might be running straight into a trap until a strong, bare arm wrapped itself like a noose around her neck. Clotheslined back, Feyre gagged as her fingers attempted to pry the grip off to no avail. She twisted, catching sight of a strange, angular mask in the gloom and familiar black tattoo’s scrawled up her assailant's strong bicep and Feyre swore smoke trailed off him, creating massive wings just behind him.

The man was strong, but Feyre was quick, kicking behind her to catch him in the knee. He grunted through the mask as she spun, heart racing, and ignited her purple blade. Whatever he was, Feyre was certain he was no match for an armed Jedi. Feyre didn’t wait for him to regain the upper hand, swinging furiously with all the skill she’d earned over the years.

Her breath caught as his own blade ignited, a brilliant, bleeding red, to block her strike. For a moment they were deadlocked, her staring up into that eyeless mask while their sabers hummed with anticipation. 

“You’re—”

He pushed back though he didn’t come forward to strike her again. Instead, he cocked his helmeted head as though curious to see what she’d do next. Feyre couldn’t breathe fully, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“That’s a Jedi’s weapon.”

The dark, mechanical laugh that sounded in response made her heart stumble. 

“Where did you get it?”

She didn’t expect an answer, though Feyre could force one from him. He wasn’t a Jedi—she’d never seen a blade that color before. Lunging, Feyre struck again, expecting to reveal his inability to truly wield it. A lightsaber belonged to a Jedi the way a person’s arm did—it was instinctual, innate. Not just anyone could pick it up and wield it. You needed a connection to the force and this person…

This person had it. He blocked her with skill, moving quicker than he should have been able to. Feyre was all offensive strikes, hair whipping around her face until she could smell the singed edges on the wind mingled with the sweat dripping from his skin. 

“Who are you?” she panted when he forced her back, just hard enough to put six feet of space between them. 

He didn’t answer, head snapping up to look behind her as something rough gripped Feyre around the navel and wrenched her back so forcefully it stole the remaining breath from her lungs. Tamlin has used the force to remove her from the fight, stepping around her with his green blade ignited. Feyre wanted to scream, though if it was to warn the assailant or Tamlin, she didn’t know. She couldn’t move, dazed and pinned by Tamlin’s superior use of the force. All she could do was lay there, desperately gasping for air, as Tamlin spoke words she barely heard. 

The warrior with the red blade made the first strike, moving in a blur of color that made her stomach roil. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might have been toying with her and yet watching him match Tamlin blow for blow, Feyre knew with sickening clarity what was coming. 

“Let me go,” she whispered. His pride would be his downfall, would get them both killed. “Let me help you.”

If he heard her whispered plea, Tamlin didn’t respond. He moved just as quickly, dodging rocks half hidden beneath the soft grass. The pair vanished over a hillside for a moment before they were back, dodging and striking like two masters determined to see the other one fall. For a moment, Feyre thought Tamlin had the upper hand when he kicked the warrior in the chest, his blade slipping from his grip. Tamlin attacked three in a row, bashing the assailant over his mask until it was cracked-useless.

Tamlin raised his own saber to make the killing blow but she knew, somehow, what was coming. The assailant reached out, his own blade flying back into his hand. He pulled, turning one red blade into two. 

Tamlin couldn’t react fast enough. With one hand, his green saber was blocked while the other humming red blade drove neatly through Tamlin’s throat. His grip on her relinquished and Feyre scrambled to her feet, noting that Tamlin had managed to cut open the warrior's helmet. 

Tamlin fell to his knees, turning his head to look at her before he died. If he truly saw her or not, she didn’t know.

He was dead before his shoulders touched the ground.

Feyre made her way over, holding her own blade with something akin to fear. Blinking, it didn’t register who was standing in front of her until she heard a familiar voice.

“Surprise.”

Exhaling a shaking breath, she drank in the sweat soaked onyx hair now falling into violet-blue eyes. Rhys cocked his head again to look at her, a half smile playing on his lips.

“You killed Tamlin,” she whispered.

“Was that its name?” he replied without remorse. “You brought him here.”

“I—” Feyre didn’t know what to say. Rhys continued to look at her with that cold amusement. “You didn’t kill me.”

“I didn’t come to kill you, Feyre.”

Her grip on her blade tightened. “Then why are you here? You…you pulled me here.”

His smile widened as he stepped over Tamlin’s still warm body like it was little more than trash. Perhaps to him it was. 

“Just as you pulled me to Coruscant,” he said, peering down at her with curiosity. 

Feyre yielded a step, keeping distance between them. Her mind was screaming static, unable to string together anything coherent. Feyre couldn’t figure out what was happening. She wasn’t adrift, but she didn’t feel awake anymore. This was a dream, somehow, and Feyre would wake up still angry with Tamlin, who would be alive.

She hadn’t wanted him to die. She’d just…she’d just wanted to be free.

“What do you mean?” she heard herself ask, her own voice taking on a dream-like quality. 

Something soft pulled against her—not the force, or, not exactly. It wasn’t like when Tamlin had pinned her to the soft grass, the force a boulder against her chest. This was more muscle memory, something that lived within her. 

“You’ve been calling me for a long time. When I was a boy, I used to dream about skies the color of your eyes,” he murmured, tilting his head again to study her. 

“You’ve been watching me.”

His grin widened. “Yes.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

He shook his head, hair sliding along his forehead. “You know that’s not true. I feel it, you know. Your pain, your anger…your hatred. I feel it all, Feyre. I could take it all away from you.”

She stumbled back another step. “No,” she whispered, unsure if she was telling him, or herself. He only smiled, his face still illuminated beneath the hum of his vibrant blade. 

“The Jedi are holding you back, Feyre,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. Feyre swore she could feel the words caress her cheek like a phantom kiss, cool against her overheated skin. “They refuse to see how magnificent you are and are afraid of the power you hold. They will never give you what you want.”

A strange, half-sob, half breath escaped Feyre. All she could do was shake her head back and forth, still stumbling back. She shouldn’t have come, she should have stayed in the room. Tamlin—Tamlin had been right. “This is my fault,” she managed, panting as she continued to move away from Rhys.

“Feyre,” he warned, stalking forward for her. Feyre broke into a sprint he interrupted with the force, lifting her off her feet and dragging her back to him. Feyre’s toes skimmed against the grass and though she could not move, Rhys wasn’t hurting her, either. He merely held her gaze, searching for something she prayed wasn’t there. 

“What do you want from me?” she whispered. “What are you?”

He stretched his neck left, and then right, his tattoos catching in the light. Too late, Feyre realized she’d seen them in the cantina the day before—Cassian and Azriel had sported the same ones. They’d told her about the force user, they’d lured her here. But worse, even, was the knowledge that they’d only been able to do that because Feyre had told Rhys before she’d left. She’d told him she was going to Umbara. She’d laid her own trap for him.

“There is no name for what I am, though I think the Jedi call me Sith,” Rhys said, his voice low and cold. “I want you, Feyre. Join me. Let me train you, teach you—not as an apprentice or acolyte. An equal.”

Sith. 

Fear won, in the end. Feyre pushed against his hold, shoving him so far back that he spun several times through the air before landing far from her in the distance, his saber finally sheathed. Feyre didn’t wait—she took off running as quickly as she could. There was no escaping him on Umbara, but if she could warn the Council, she could—stars, she didn’t know. 

Feyre made it to her ship, closing it up and turning it on before she managed to catch her breath. It was a betrayal to leave Tamlin’s body on Umbara, to not give him a proper burial befitting a Jedi Master and Feyre was afraid. 

She should have been. The moment Feyre made the jump to hyperspace, she heard him.

“Feyre, darling,” Rhys murmured, appearing seemingly from nowhere. He had her cornered in the cockpit, his larger body blocking the only way out of the ship. Anger replaced fear as she screamed, launching herself from the chair with such force she didn’t feel pain when her thigh clipped the edge of the dash. She and Rhys went plummeting into the hold, tumbling to the hard, cold steel in a tangle of elbows and limbs. He groaned when her knee connected between his legs, causing her to slam it against him again, just because she hated him.

Straddling his waist, Feyre hit him so hard a small amount of his blood splattered against her cheek. Raising her fist to hit him again, Feyre realized he was grinning with red stained teeth, eyes watching her not with anger or horror, but delight.

“Do it,” he said, pushing his hips into her as his hands held her firm against him. “Hit me. Hurt me.”

“I thought you were my friend,” she accused, trying to writhe free of his grasp. There were a pair of stun cuffs hanging just beyond the door to the sleeping chamber and if she could grab them, she could restrain him. Could at least force him to face justice for what he’d done.

“I am your friend, Feyre. You just haven’t realized it because you’re so indoctrinated,” Rhys replied, still holding her tight.

“Let me go,” she ordered and to her surprise, he did. Feyre scrambled to her feet, careful not to look at the stun cuffs even as she inched close enough she could have snatched them. Rhys, too, stood, wincing slightly. Good. She hoped he hurt, that he had bruises in places he couldn’t even mention. That they reminded him of her when he was alone in a cell buried on Coruscant. 

“I’m not going to join you,” she threatened. 

Rhys only shook his head. “You will.”

Feyre backed away slowly as he approached, letting him play predator for just a moment. She wasn’t sure she liked the look in his eye—the same she’d seen on Tamlin’s face when he admitted why he wouldn’t let her take the trials. Rhys reached for her face, fingers curled to brush her cheek and Feyre struck. Quicker than he expected, she slid the cuff around his wrist, chaining the other to a nearby beam.

Rhys only laughed. Even when she pulled his sabers off his belt he still laughed, watching her like she was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. “Feyre,” he all but crooned, still looking exactly like a predator. His eyes seemed to shift right then, the violet shifting to red and back just long enough for her to see what the darkside had done to him. “Feyre, darling. You’re acting as if I am not exactly where I want to be.”

“In a prison cell on Coruscant?” she hissed in response.

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll make it that far, do you?”

“Yes. I think I’ll testify at your trial and watch them behead you.”

Rhys only grinned. “We’ll see.”

Feyre left him there to gather her thoughts, strangely calm in the wake of the restrained Sith Lord in her hold. No one had prepared her for this—she’d never been trained for this situation. She shouldn’t be angry with Tamlin, who couldn’t defend himself, but if he’d just taught her like a Master should have, she might know. Everything Feyre knew, she’d taught herself and it showed. 

Her fingers hovered over the console, hesitating when she went to dial the code to reach the Council. She didn’t need Tamlin’s advice to teach her that, at least. They could advise her. 

Tell them. 

Feyre’s indecision cost her. She was exhausted, her adrenaline ebbing as she sat in the cockpit, warring with herself on what to do, how best to act. What even to say. How to explain that this was her fault, that she’d kept secrets even when having friends outside the temple wasn’t forbidden. She should have known, though. Should have sensed him.

Why hadn’t she?

Feyre’s fingers pulled back against her chest, her decision made when she felt him behind her. She barely had time to turn before Rhys raised his hands.

“Forgive me for this,” he murmured before he ripped the force over her head like a blanket. The world went dark, and Feyre was lost to slumber.

To peace.

Feyre woke with a start. The air was warm and she was in a rather large bed, still clothed in her tank top and trousers, though her boots were missing and her feet were bare. Reaching beneath the heavy silver blanket, she found her saber, too, was gone. Feyre kicked off the blankets and made her way across cool marble for a door that was, predictably, locked.

A note on a table just beside, in elegant cursive, read, 

Feyre,

You are not my prisoner, though the door may suggest otherwise. Please relax until I return.

I will explain,

Rhys

Would he explain why he’d disarmed her, too? Feyre crumpled it in her fist before stalking for a set of large windows overlooking an amethyst river winding down the mountain peaks. Certain he was about to give her some lecture about how she was his guest who simply wasn’t allowed to leave, Feyre took herself first to the ‘fresher to wash the blood, sweat, and anxiety from her skin before putting on the only clothing available to her.

He was a bastard, offering up those satin cuffed pants in a pale blue color, alongside a matching top that tapered to a point just above her navel. No shoes, no socks—nothing but bare feet and an exposed collarbone that offered far too much real estate for him to damage should they come to blows again. 

There was nothing to do once she was dressed but pace and ruminate. Feyre tried to hold her anger over what had happened on Umbara, and in her own way, she supposed she did. Only, instead of seeing Rhys cutting down Tamlin with ruthless efficiency, she saw Tamlin’s face as he admitted he didn’t want her to take the trials because she’d leave him. She saw his dismissal when he told her she couldn’t complete the mission with him.

Saw how he’d died because he refused to let her fight alongside him. 

And in her heart, Feyre knew that if she’d been allowed to join the fight, Rhys would have backed down. Wouldn’t have fought them both as hard because she was important to him for some twisted reason. They could have destroyed Rhys. They could have walked back to the Jedi as heroes who’d seen the faces of other Sith and could better hunt them back into extinction.

He didn’t trust her. Hadn’t viewed her as someone who could help. 

Now he was dead and she was somewhere she shouldn’t be. Feyre turned as the door hissed open, her thoughts settling as Rhys strolled in.

He, too, had showered, his dark hair pushed off his face and his beard a mere shadow clinging to his jaw. The faint red of his eyes shifted in the light, slipping into violet as he came fully into view. 

“Is there some sort of dress code here?” she asked, noting his sleeveless black attire once again. 

“Blue looks wonderful on you,” was his reply. “You look well rested.” “No thanks to you,” she snapped.

Rhys shrugged his broad shoulders. “Someone ought to attempt to take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me! I need you to let me go.”

“Where will you go?” he asked casually, glancing at the door still open behind him. “Back to Coruscant.”

Feyre opened her mouth to tell him yes, but the word didn’t come out. She’d hesitated on the ship and she was hesitating now. 

A smile spread over sensual lips. “Ah. See? You don’t want to return.”

“That’s not true.”

Rhys reached for his belt where her saber was clipped and tossed her to her with ease, eyes tracking the movement. “No, you don’t. You could have cut me down—”

“I can’t,” she said with an air of breathless desperation. “I’m only a padawan.”

His brows crinkled. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I’m just a student. I…” Feyre didn’t know how to explain it to him. “You didn’t have a Master?”

His grin widened. “Once. For a time, I suppose.”

“Did you kill him?”

Rhys only continued to smile, his silence answer enough. 

“I couldn’t have killed you,” she repeated, trying to get her point across. “You spared me.”

“I had no intention of taking your life, but I wouldn’t have stopped you from taking mine. To die at your hands…that would have been an honor. To see you take up my helm, lead my warriors…” His smile was almost dreamy.

“I thought Sith only moved in pairs.”

“I am no Sith, Feyre,” he said, cocking his head so a lock of dark hair fell against his eyes. “Those are Jedi terms, not mine. I never said I was Sith, nor do we put labels on what we are.”

“But you are evil,” she shot back.

Rhys arched one dark brow. “Am I? From where I’m standing, it seems I did you a favor. I freed you from the shackles of a man who warped his teachings and traditions to keep you under his thumb for his own selfish desires—”

“And what do you call all this?!” she demanded with a shriek.

“Liberation,” he replied easily, as though he’d practiced this very speech and it was going exactly as he hoped. “You can be free of Jedi doctrine and dogma, can do whatever you like. Feyre, your power, I—”

He ran a hand through his dark hair as he stepped toward her, more cautious than he’d been on Umbara. “I could show you.”

“Sith don’t do equals,” she said, well aware she was really asking with curiosity rather than slinging accusations. “Only Masters and Apprentices.”

“I am Sith only by your standards,” Rhys replied with more earnestness than he had any right to express. “Dark, light…it’s all just the force.”

This was dangerous and she knew it. Rhys’s eyes flashed red for just a moment, reminding her that the Sith were liars by nature. Master manipulators. It was working, though and he must have known it. When had he gotten so close? Rhys reached for a lock of her hair, curling it around his fingers.

“I feel your pain, Feyre. I’ve felt it for a long time. You’ve spent a lifetime trying to meditate it away but what if you embraced it?”

“I’d be a traitor to everything I believed. Just like you are,” she repeated, stepping away from him before she could get too lost in his words. They tempted her, pulling her down as though he were some great, all-encompassing current. 

Back turned, Feyre only heard the hiss of his ignited saber. “Fight me, Jedi,” Rhys snarled, his voice laced with condemnation. “Fight me so I can show you what you really are.”

Feyre whirled around too fast, forgetting to think about what was happening. With a pushing leap in the air, Feyre’s blade was lit and crashing against Rhys’s before her feet touched the ground again. He grinned savagely, blocking the blow like it was nothing to him. Who cared how she killed him, Feyre reasoned as she lifted her blade again. So long as he was dead.

Rhys dodged her in a flurry of swings, but didn’t move to attack her back until Feyre got a little too close to his throat. Her blade singed over his cheekbone, sparing his facial hair, drawing a neat line of blood over his otherwise immaculate skin.

He was brutal, then, eyes a burning red as he spun on her, forcing Ferye to take on the defensive position rather than the offensive. Her wrist ached from the effort to keep that saber in her hand, though Feyre did not back down, either. Feyre, perhaps, should have realized what he was trying to do when the backs of her knees hit the side of the bed, but Feyre hadn’t put Rhys’s plan together until he’d wrenched her blade from her hand, tossed it across the room, and pinned her beneath his body and the mattress.

“You hate me,” he panted, sweat sliding down his forehead. His dark hair was soaked again, falling into those unnatural eyes like branches of a willow. He was beautiful right then, unfairly so, with his cheeks flushed and his wild eyes. “Say it.”

“I hate you,” she replied, gaze drifting toward his mouth. She shouldn’t want someone like him. 

“I almost believe you,” Rhys replied, chest heaving from the exertion of their fight. She hadn’t realized she was panting, too, until he leaned close enough she could practically taste his breath. Feyre hitched her leg up over his hip in an attempt to roll away, but Rhys grabbed her thigh, holding her so she could feel how uninterested in fighting her he was. 

“I’ve waited,” he murmured, lips caressing the side of her jaw as his other hand came to her throat. Rhys pinned her by her neck, fingers squeezing just enough to make her dizzy. “You’re the only woman in the galaxy I’d pretend to serve turbodogs for.”

“You think turbodogs are beneath you?” she asked. Feyre would have laughed at the realization that this brutal Sith Lord spent years on Coruscant pretending to be little more than a vendor if she hadn’t been so turned on right then. 

“I think pretending to be something I’m not was beneath me,” Rhys said, mouth touching hers. It was brief, a whispered breath before he pulled away to look, but Feyre felt it. His touch was electric, waking up a slumbering piece of her soul she hadn’t known existed at all. Rhys saw it, his smile triumphant.

“You’re mine, Jedi,” he murmured, cocking his head to the side as he arched a brow. Tell me I’m wrong, that arrogant look seemed to say. 

She couldn’t and he knew it. Rhys had known it the moment he turned up on Umbara because Feyre had been telling him so since they’d become friends. She’d told him her frustrations, her hopes, her irritations…Rhys knew it all. Could sense her even when she’d been too clouded to sense him. Maybe this dormant part of her had always recognized him.

Or maybe she merely liked the man hovering over top her, his eyes giving away his plan. Feyre met his gaze. Rhys stopped playing his games, mouth slanting over hers with a heady, desperate groan. Feyre kissed him back, tasting the sweat and heat on his tongue mingled with the left over copper from their fight. Feyre learned quite quickly that kissing him was a lot like fighting him.

He wanted to break her down until she gave in, and this was a far more effective battle in which Feyre yielded too much too soon.

After all, it was her leg he had hitched around his waist. She could have pretended he was driving the whole thing but Feyre was rubbing against him like a cat. It felt good, his hand around her throat, his cock between her legs, his tongue in her mouth. Worse, even, were her hands slipping from where he’d pinned them over her head, stuck thanks to the heaviness of his body laid across her own. Distracted by the kissing, Rhys didn’t notice until Feyre had them against his chest, not to shove, but to run them down the smooth material of his tunic. Rhys sighed, his thumb pressing against the hollow of her throat for only a moment.

Feyre gasped, arching her neck for a deeper breath. Rhys pounced, kissing her deeper, more fervently. She’d done exactly what he’d wanted, opening entirely so he could 

“You really didn’t know it was me?” he breathed, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. “Not even deep down?”

Feyre fisted her fingers at the nape of his neck, wanting him to just shut up, even for one second. No, she thought to herself as their teeth collided in a frenzy of need, the darkside clouds everything. 

But she’d been clouded by her own anger, her frustrations with Tamlin and the lack of movement in her career. Feyre wouldn’t have noticed Rhys was sith if he’d worn a badge printed to the front of his chest declaring him such. Surely he knew it.

“I need you. Right now,” Rhys breathed, his mouth sliding from her lips to kiss a path down her jaw. His teeth caught on her earlobe, tugging just a little rougher than she thought he meant to, though Feyre enjoyed it. The hand on her thigh moved toward her bare stomach, teasing the thin material as he pushed it higher and higher.

“I don’t—I’ve never—”

“I’ll talk you through it,” he promised, taking his other hand off her throat as he slid himself down the length of her body to settle on the floor between her legs. “I’m going to lick your pussy now.”

Feyre blinked, her mind frustratingly blank. Rhys took advantage, removing the pants he’d provided for her with ease to toss them over his broad shoulders like they were nothing.

“Peace is a lie, Feyre,” he murmured, once she was bared before him. Callused fingers slid up her thighs, parting them wider and wider until she was spread obscenely. 

“No peace,” Rhys repeated, his gaze burning as it raked over her half naked form. “Only passion.”

Rhys did exactly as he promised, licking up the center of her body while holding her gaze. It felt like there was some kind of magic there, something hypnotic that kept Feyre from looking away. Maybe it was simply her need for control that kept her eyes pinned on him. Whatever it was, Feyre panted as she watched, her arousal burning through the last remaining defenses she had.

No peace—only passion. 

Peace had always been hard, even with hours of mediation. Feyre understood passion well, though—she’d been battling it her entire life. Swallow her anger, swallow her frustration—swallow everything in an effort to find some higher purpose. She’d failed over and over.

Maybe a better teacher could have shown her a clearer path.

Maybe she’d always been destined to fall. 

Feyre arched her hips as Rhys drew her closer, eyes fluttering shut as he continued to tease his tongue over her clit. Over and over, in rhythmic circles, until she felt like she might die. Feyre was too hot, the desire burning through her from the inside out.

Rhys moaned against her skin, fingers spreading her wider before teasing her sensitive opening. Inch by agonizing inch he went, pushing that finger further and further until Feyre was whimpering, hips rolling against his hand and mouth looking for relief. Rhys only chuckled. 

“Needy,” he taunted, his voice strained. “What will you look like impaled on my cock?”

“Please,” Feyre replied, though she wasn’t sure if she was asking him to return to licking or shutting up. “Rhys, please.”

He lowered his face again, eyes rolling back into his skull before he resumed his attention on her swollen clit. Feyre barely noticed the way he worked that second finger into her body until he pulled away again, swearing softly about the tightness of her body. She was so close to finishing and desperate for it. 

He knew it. Rhys began pumping his fingers in and out of her body rougher, his mouth sped up until Feyre’s head hit the mattress, staring upward at the dark ceiling. “Rhys,” she pleaded. Her body was on fire, electric and aching. Her arousal wound its way up her spine, settling at the back of her throat and in her lower belly. He sucked, fingers curling so they found some secret spot only she’d ever known about and Feyre was undone. She screamed without meaning to, half plea, half prayer—the only word that escaped his name. Rhys didn’t stop until Feyre whimpered, boneless and exhausted on the bed.

“You’re not done yet,” Rhys said, rising up to his full height. Feyre could only watch as he peeled off his clothes, head cocked like a predator once more. “I won’t rest until I’ve had all of you.”

“And then what?”

“Then you’re mine,” he breathed, fingers unclasping the button on his pants. He’d already removed his top, revealing a toned body worthy of the arms she’d seen during their fight and more muscles than she’d known one person could reasonably have. The tattoos were on full display, unbroken by clothing though still just as indecipherable. She started to ask him what they meant, but Rhys’s pants fell to the floor, revealing the thick, hard length of him and Feyre forgot about everything else.

“You can’t put that in my body,” she whispered as he crawled toward her, the muscles of his back shifting with each graceful movement.

“I can,” he murmured, lowering himself over her flushed body for a kiss, “and I will.”

Feyre let him, forgetting for a moment what was going to happen. He tasted sweet after having his tongue in her body and his hands managed to take her top off before Feyre registered how he did it.

“You’re remarkably unobservant,” Rhys breathed, shifting his hips so the tip of his cock brushed against her wetness. “We’ll work on that.” Rhys slid himself inside her just an inch, though it was enough to draw a gasp from Feyre, fingers digging into his biceps.

“Breathe,” he ordered, eyes searching her face. “You’re doing so well, Feyre, darling.”

“I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, pushing deeper. “You will.”

Even if she’d wanted to escape him, it was too late. Rhys made good on his threat from earlier, slipping deeper and deeper into her body until Feyre was certain she couldn’t take it. But he’d been right—by the time he bottomed out, she’d begun to adjust to the stretch it required to accommodate him, her discomfort turning to pleasure. 

“Look at you,” Rhys breathed, the tendons in his neck strained from keeping himself still inside her. “You take my cock so well.”

Rhys pulled out and thrust back in with the same brutality she’d come to associate with him. Feyre gasped, not out of pain, but desire. It felt good to be treated like she could handle something rough. Like she wasn’t fragile—like she was strong. 

Rhys kissed her again and she realized she was practically screaming her thoughts at him through the force. “You’re mine, and I’m yours,” Rhys breathed, nose nuzzling her own. “Those are our own tenants, the only code we live by now.”

Feyre met him thrust for thrust, kissing him rather than answering. She could feel the cold of the dark sliding through her, washing out the light that had once existed. With each new slide of Rhys’s cock, Feyre fell further and further into shadow. 

Where she belonged. 

“Take it,” Rhys moaned into her neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “Take all of it.”

As if she had a choice. Rhys gripped her hips, pulling her into him harder and faster, until all Feyre knew was the taste of the salt on his skin and the sound of his breathing in her ear. His hand found her throat again, pinning her beneath him as Rhys thrust over and over. His fingers squeezed just enough to leave her breathless without hurting her.

Feyre came again, surprised by the intensity of her orgasm. Her teeth sank into his shoulder to suppress the urge to scream again as Rhys moaned her name, whining ever so softly before slamming himself entirely into her body so he, too, could release himself.

He collapsed a moment later, face nuzzled into her neck. Sweat slicked down his back and over his forehead, making his golden skin glistening beneath the lights.

Rhys rolled over a few moments later, one powerful arm thrown over his eyes.

Feyre sat up, ignoring that she could feel the proof of his desire sliding out of her body. “What do these mean?”

Rhys glanced down at his tattoos inked over the top of his chest, arms, and shoulders. “Luck in battle,” he murmured, tracing one of the swirling lines with his finger. “According to the customs of my people.”

There was no point in asking if they worked. So instead, Feyre held his gaze as she said, “He locked me inside.”

Rhys leaned up on his elbows, hair half falling in his eyes. “I know. I know. Never again, Feyre. Never. Again.”

There was rage in his words—a promise that they would make themselves strong no matter the cost. Feyre wanted that. She wanted to be untouchable. Not a pet, not the delicate woman some man loved, but fierce. Strong.

Feared.

“Never again,” she whispered, lacing her fingers through his as he brushed a kiss over her knuckles.

“Sleep, first,” Rhys murmured, opening his arm in invitation. “Then we train.”

“And then?”

Rhys offered her a sleepy smile as Feyre pressed her head to his chest. “Revenge.”

[actual-changeling]

this post by @fellshish inspired me to write a little something as a reblog and now it is. a bit more than a little something so it gets its own post. why does this always happen. why. i simply cannot resist.

aziracrow angst with one archangel and one archduke being equally unhappy

-

"You?"

The door falls shut behind him with a loud bang, metal scratching over metal, and even after weeks in hell, Crowley still isn't used to the noise and hides his flinch with an exaggerated bow. Swallowing the dizziness, he straightens and flings himself back into his chair.

"'s me, angel. Oh, not angel anymore, is it?"

Aziraphale blinks, blinks again, and wrings his hands, turning the ring on his pinky round and round and round. In the dirty green light, he almost can't see the reddened, raw skin underneath.

"My deepest apologies, your Supreme Arseangelness," he winces when his voice breaks on angel, picking up the previously discarded bottle and taking a swig. "So, what d'ya want?"

After his question, the room grows quiet, the demons' moaning and shuffling a faded buzz, and while the Dark Council did insist on him changing his clothes, there were no requirements except 'well, evil and- and demony'. So—keeping the ever-changing temperatures in mind—he switched his usual attire for a calf-long black coat over a deep burgundy shirt, his polished high-heeled boots reflecting the light as he sprawls and the skirt ruffles and flows.

With one leg stretched out over the armrest, he regards Aziraphale through lidded eyes. He might not seem particularly present, but he would never let his guard down in hell—fuck, not even on earth.

(Not anymore. His flat was too empty and quiet, the bookshop too—well, the point is, he left.)

Aziraphale's suit is pristine, practically glowing surrounded by hell's filth, and swirling gold markings are framing his face; definitely new, Crowley decides, and entirely too attractive. Biting his lip, Aziraphale steps closer, arms pressed tightly against his body, while his eyes roam over Crowley's.

"As the new Supreme Archangel, it is only polite to introduce myself to the new duk—" he interrupts himself, his knuckles turning white, and suddenly his eyes are everywhere but on him. "I didn't know it was you, Crowley, I swear."

There is almost a tinge of desperation in his words, and he cannot decide whether to be annoyed or comforting. The urge to keep him safe will never fade; it has not wavered even once in six thousand years, and he doubts it will start now. Then again, he did warn him, didn't he?

For six thousand years, just to be forced to watch him leave anyway.

Crowley empties the bottle and throws it against the nearest wall, watching it break, shatter, crumble to dust, and sink into the floor. Hell is his to shape, yet it also shapes him, he realises, when his annoyance switches to anger.

He pushes himself upright under Aziraphale's wide-eyed gaze and closes the distance between them with a handful of wide steps. Swallowing a wave of tears, Crowley looks at him, unblinking, and waits until a familiar look of furious defiance settles on Aziraphale's face.

Now they're getting somewhere.

Earth is nothing without him on it, not just boring but driving him properly insane with the emptiness expanding around him; London had turned into the centre of a black hole, sucking him. When he couldn't take it anymore, descending back to hell had been surprisingly easy.

"Now you know," he hisses, low and long, his teeth sharp, his eyes fully golden, "so you can leave."

"But-"

"But what? Do you need something from me?" And, ohh, he does feel the alcohol now, loosening his split tongue and pushing emotions to the surface. "First you discard me, now you come back to demand my help?"

"Crowley, I didn't-"

"It's Archduke of Hell for you, and this audience is over."

A part of him had hoped that maybe allowing the anger to escape, to take form and turn his words into knives, would make him less heartbroken, yet all it is doing now is ripping badly healed wounds wide open. Seeing him, hearing him, smelling, tasting him in the stale air—it is too much. Not enough. Both.

His throne welcomes him back as he stumbles onto it, another bottle appearing in his outstretched hand, and with a snap ringing through the room, the door slams open.

Aziraphale watches him with tight lips, but he does not try to argue, does not chase after him, does not say anything, does not do anything.

Instead, he does what he can apparently do best now—he turns around and leaves.

For the very first time since his arrival, Crowley channels his anger into the walls of hell, stomping down any moral qualms as he listens to the increasing pitch of pain echoing through the halls.

It doesn't help, but neither did coming back, nor did talking to him. All he can do is lift the bottle to his lips once more and wait.

[beardedmrbean]

Scores of Iranian women posted videos of themselves celebrating the death of Iranian President Ebrahim Raisi on Monday — openly dancing on his “dirty grave” after he oversaw a brutal crackdown on 2022 protests against the Islamic “morality police.”

Raisi, a reviled leader known as the “Butcher of Tehran,” died when his helicopter crashed in a remote region of the country Sunday.

While the Islamic Republic’s supreme leader, Ali Khamenei, announced five days of public mourning in the wake of the 63-year-old death, a slew of women took to social media to share clips of themselves throwing back drinks and otherwise cheering his demise.

“We freely dance and celebrate on your dirty grave,” one woman, Mersedeh Shahinkar, tweeted.

Shahinkar was blinded by Iranian security forces after taking part in mass protests across Iran in 2022 that were sparked by the death in custody of Mahsa Amini, who was arrested for not properly wearing a hijab in public.

Shahinkar filmed herself smiling and dancing alongside Sima Moradbeigi, who lost her right arm after being shot by cops during a women’s rights protest during the same period of unrest.

The daughters of Minoo Majidi, a 62-year-old woman killed during the same protests, shared a clip of themselves toasting news of Raisi’s death with the song “Helikopter” by Bosnian singer Fazlija blasting in the background.

Meanwhile, Iranian journalist Masih Alinejad, who lives in Brooklyn, shared a video of a mom and daughter rejoicing — just months after Raisi had ordered the execution of the woman’s son.

“Just a few months ago, Ebrahim Raisi executed her son, Now, she’s dancing over his death in a helicopter crash,” Alinejad tweeted.

“I told you Iranian women are wounded, but unbowed to their oppressors. My social media is flooded with videos of the family members of those killed by the President of the Islamic Republic, celebrating his death.”

A UN Human Rights Council report this year found that more than 500 Iranians were killed in the government’s brutal crackdown on the protests, and more than 22,000 were arrested.

The report also found that Iranian security forces raped or otherwise sexually assaulted many women in custody.

Footage was also circulating on social media showing people setting off fireworks and cheering in the wake of Raisi’s death.

The scenes of celebration unfolded as government loyalists packed into mosques and squares to pray for Raisi.

Raisi’s body, as well as that of his foreign minister and six others, was found by rescuers early Monday after an overnight search in a blizzard and heavy fog.

Raisi was traveling in a convoy of choppers when his went down near the city of Jolfa, about 375 miles northwest of Tehran, Iran’s official news agency INRA said.

Early footage and images of the crash site showed scattered debris and detached helicopter parts strewn across the mountainous terrain.

[gallifreyanhotfive]

Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 46: Gallifrey at War Part 7

Spoiler warning for new content - Dark Gallifrey: Morbius.

The Doctor was involved in the Last Great Time War for millions of days. (Novel: The Day of the Doctor)

While on the planet Dust, the Third Doctor was shot in the chest by Magdalena Bishop and left to die in the street. Sarah Jane found Jim and cradled his head as he slowly began to regenerate. He thought this was very, very wrong. This weakened the Doctor's immune system, leading to the Doctor's infection with a biodata virus, which by the time of the Eighth incarnation would convert the Doctor to the perspective of the Faction Paradox. (Novel: Interference - Book Two)

As a result of this virus, the Eighth Doctor had lost his shadow. (Novel: Unnatural History)

A ghost of the original timeline's Third Doctor remained in the TARDIS databank. When the TARDIS was corrupted into the Edifice and the Edifice hung over Gallifrey, the Eighth Doctor used the TARDIS defense systems to destroy Gallifrey and Kasterborous, making the universe choose between the new timeline or the Metebelis timeline the TARDIS remembered. (Novel: The Ancestor Cell)

The civil war Morbius was involved in - usually called the Great Schism - involved the Time Lords using time as a weapon for bloodshed for the first time. (Audio: Morbius) This would technically make it a time war.

Early Time Lords destroyed the Hydran homeworld by dropping their own future on top of it. (Audio: Morbius)

By some accounts, the High Council was nervous to engage directly with the universe during this civil war as that was exactly what Morbius had said they should do, so they fought using a proxy- the Fifth Doctor. (Novel: Warmonger)

While the Supreme Coordinator, the Fifth Doctor wore a black military uniform. The Doctor’s army was composed of a mix of Sontarans, Cybermen, Ogrons, Draconians, and Ice Warriors. They defeated Morbius's forces, but the Doctor made sure Morbius would survive his 'death.' (Novel: Warmonger)

The final battle of Morbius's civil war occurred on Karn and resulted in the deaths of most of both armies as well as Karn's native population. (Short story: The Legacy of Gallifrey)

During the Vampire Wars, Gallifrey developed Anathema - a warship the size of an entire planet. It was armed with the Cold, a weapon so devastating it would break through the space-time continuum and suck everything into an alternate universe. (Novel: Interference - Book Two)

After regenerating on Karn, the War Doctor refused to allow his TARDIS to be equipped with weaponry (she would have been block transferred into a battle TARDIS) as he did not want to force her to change as he had. (Audio: Light the Flame)

Cass Fermazzi was present at the Battle of Skull Moon and was so horrified by the massacre that it embittered her to the Time Lords. (Novel: The Day of the Doctor) This hatred ironically led to the Eighth Doctor regenerating into the War Doctor, the precise incarnation who earned the title "the Butcher of Skull Moon."

The Dalek Time Strategist tried to manipulate the Eighth Doctor by finding an alternate universe version of Alex - his dead great grandson - and putting him in cryogenic stasis. The Doctor took the casket he was in and woke him up. (Audio: Restoration of the Daleks)

Bliss had been a companion of the Eighth Doctor, but due to changes in the timeline as a result of the Last Great Time War, this changed, leaving the Doctor and Alex without memory of Bliss. However, the Doctor felt as though someone was missing. They would eventually learn of Bliss from a memory recorder. (Audio: Vespertine)

Indeed, the Doctor eventually recalled enough to tell River Song about Bliss at some point. (Audio: Companion Piece)

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[lilith-kruger]

PRINCE DUNCAN TARGARYEN:The first to disobey aegon was his eldest son, Duncan, prince of rocadragon and heir to the throne. Despite being engaged for a long time to a daughter of baratheon house, bastion of storms, in 239 AD, during a journey through the lands of the rivers, he fell in love with a strange, beautiful and mysterious young woman who called herself Jenny of oldstones and lived ina state of semi-savagery among the ruins, calling herself the successor of the ancient Kings of the first men, although in the villages of the area people mocked those tales and insisted that she was only a half-crazy peasant, if not a witch.His majesty did everything possible to annul the marriage and demanded that Duncan give up Jenny, but the prince, who had inherited his father's stubbornness, refused, and did not even twist his arm when the supreme septon, the grand master and the privy council met to insist that king aegon force his son to choose between the iron throne and that savage of the woods. Instead of renouncing Jenny, he did so to his rights to the throne, in favour of his brother jaehaerys, and abdicated as prince of rocadragon.

[enigmatist17]

Catch me thinking about Anakin and him traveling back in time to right before he's about to take out the Tuskens.

He's just died in his son's arms, and that oppressiveness of the Dark Side he's dealt with for the last 20+ years is gone.

He can feel the Light and he can breathe

The Tusken's can see him, standing just outside the camp with his lightsaber in his hand. He can feel the latent anger that he'd felt the first time fading from his body, and after taking in the Light like a plant that was desperate for water, he puts his weapon away. The language he'd learn years from now helps him get across his want for his mother's body, and the Force seemed to have taken pity and spared Shmi's death. She's weak and overjoyed to see her son as he carries her out of the camp, and nearly starts when he waves a hand over her to take away the pain she felt with each breath. Her darling boy has grown up and practically vibrates with power, and wonders how he'd resisted killing the Tusken's. Padme and the small family he'd left days before were surprised to see her alive and well, and despite not knowing the man she'd married, Anakin lets Cliegg tend to her as he holds Padme close.

They all can see his anger has faded, this Anakin seeming to have aged in the few days he'd been gone. He doesn't say anything about his changed demeanor, just tending to his mother and reassuring Padme that everything was going to be alright.

He leaves Padme on Tatooine to stop Obi-Wan from being captured, but fails to stop Jar Jar from getting Palpatine anointed Supreme Chancellor.

Oh well, he can fix that easily.

Geonosis doesn't quite play out the same, Anakin sneaking up on Jango and dragging the man away for a "talk" as Obi-Wan plays bait. He promises that if the bounty hunter gives Anakin the information he has (and Anakin knows it'll be a start to freeze Palps power), that he and Boba can leave and not have to deal with the Republic coming after him.

The clones that descend on Geonosis find it an easy battle, and Anakin has to try hard to be surprised at faces that he remembered from a lifetime ago. Faces and men who wouldn't go through the heartache and rigged life from before, and when he watches the way Obi-Wan smiles at Cody for the first time, who stiffens as the gesture in confusion, it only solidifies his need to fix everything he had ruined the first time.

He meets Rex again (or well technically the first time) a few weeks later, and quickly embraces the confused captain before he can stop himself. Rex is beyond confused and a bit terrified, but Anakin composes himself and just keeps smiling as introductions are made all around.

"Sorry, I just felt like you needed a hug." Anakin responds to the unanswered question, and he can feel the relief from Rex when he realizes this weird Jetti wasn't going to do it again.

The wedding with Padme doesn't happen as early on, Anakin instead taking her to one of their hidden spots and telling her everything. The tuskens the first time, losing Shmi, Palpatine, becoming Darth Vader, all of it spills from him as she listens in shocked silence as he tells her everything, even how their future son held him as he embraced the Light before waking up back in the past. Padme doesn't say anything for a long time, and Anakin meditates as she works through what he's said. Padme speaks eventually, saying that their marriage would indeed be too early, but that she doesn't want to hide anymore.

He agrees, knowing that the Council had probably known before, and she gently holds his hand as they both watch the sun set on Naboo. Everyone can see a change in the both of them, hiding their love from the general public and those Anakin knew to be enemy or traitor, but to everyone else it was clear they were a couple. Not having the stress of hiding everything went a long way towards anxiety on both sides, and the Jedi Council aren't surprised when Anakin tells them that he plans on marrying her eventually, and no that he knows how to keep balanced. He hasn't told them everything yet, but wants to try this time instead of running to Palpatine for every little thing like before.

He knew better.

Might keep going with this, just popped in my head at work :)

[taviamoth]

🚨🇮🇷 Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps:

—

In response to the zionist regime's crime in attacking the consular section of the Iranian embassy in Damascus, the Aerospace Force of the Guards targeted specific locations in the territories of the zionist regime with dozens of drones and missiles.

🚨🇮🇷 BREAKING - Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps announces operation "His Promise is Truthful":

—

In the name of Allah, the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate

"Indeed, we will take vengeance on the criminals."

In the name of Allah

The noble and martyr-loving Islamic people of Iran, in response to the numerous crimes of the evil zionist regime, including the attack on the consular section of the Embassy of the Islamic Republic of Iran in Damascus and the martyrdom of military leaders and Iranian advisers, the brave men of the Aerospace Force, with the support of other forces, have carried out a large-scale military operation against targets inside the occupied territories, launching dozens of missiles and drones during the operation ""His Promise is Truthful" under the sacred symbol "O Messenger of Allah (PBUH)".

Details of this operation, which was conducted with the approval of the Supreme National Security Council and under the supervision of the General Staff of the Armed Forces, supported by the zealous men of the Islamic Republic of Iran and with the assistance of the Ministry of Defense and the support of the armed forces, will soon draw the attention of the heroic Iranian people and the free peoples of the world.

"And victory is only from Allah, the Almighty, the Wise."

🚨 In the past few hours, Al-Manar reported a series of intense airstrikes, heavy artillery shelling, and ground-to-ground missiles which targeted the area of Al-Kharayeb between Al-Khiam and Rashaya al-Fukhar, and the areas of Burghuz and Al-Dalafah in the Hasbaya region.

Continuous zionist artillery shelling was also reported on the surroundings of the town of Hula, Wadi al-Salouqi, the outskirts of Al-Khayyam, and Wadi Burghuz, amidst heavy presence of warplanes and drones flying over the eastern sector.

The IOF announced that it was carrying out a wide-scale attack in the heart of Lebanon.

[workersolidarity]

🇮🇱⚔️🇾🇪 🚨

CASUALTIES ARRIVE AT HOSPITALS IN YEMEN AFTER ISRAELI AIRSTRIKES ON HODEIDAH

📹 Scenes from the arrival of the wounded to a hospital in the port city of Hodeidah, in western Yemen, after the Israeli occupation forces bombed an oil refinery at the port, leading to massive fire and resulting in a number of casualties.

According to reporting in the Israeli and Lebanese media, at least a dozen, but as many as 25, Zionist F-35 stealth fighter jets, F-15 fighter jets, reconnaissance aircraft and refueling planes were brought together in a well coordinated attack, which the occupation army claims had no American involvement (Yemeni sources contradict this claim), to target a power station and other areas of the port of Hodeidah.

The city is under the control of the Ansar-Allah movement and is located on the Red Sea in western Yemen, some 1'000 miles from the occupied Palestinian territories.

According to Al-Mayadeen News, Israeli raids targeted the Ras Katheeb power station in Hodeidah Governate, leading several fires to break out at the oil refinery, which local fire and civil defense teams are struggling to extinguish as the configuration rages at the port's oil storage facilities.

In a statement by the Israeli occupation forces (IOF), "Fighter jets struck military targets of the Houthi terror regime in the area of the Hodeida Port in Yemen, in response to the hundreds of attacks carried out against the State of Israel in recent months.”

“This is a complex attack, one of the farthest and longest carried out by the Israeli Air Force. It required careful planning and preparation for a variety of possible threats in the area,” IOF Spokesman Rear Adm. Daniel Hagari said in a press conference.

Yemeni sources contradict the claim that only Israeli forces were involved in the strike, telling Lebanese News outlet, Al-Mayadeen, that the attack was coordinated between American and Israeli occupation forces.

The source noted the nature of the targets chosen by the Zionist army is "evidence that the enemy is blind," adding that "the aggression will be responded to."

Meanwhile, a member of Yemen's Supreme Political council, Mohammed Ali al-Houthi confirmed that "the Israeli enemy's bombing unites the Yemeni people, and there will be more effective strikes."

"The crime committed by the Israeli aggression would not have happened without the coalition and support from America and Britain, and their participation in it," al-Houthi said of the strike. "This Israeli crime will not deter us from continuing to support Gaza, but rather there will be operations that will disturb the sleep of the temporary entity."

Similarly, the head of the Yemeni negotiating team, Mohammed Abdul Salam, emphasized that pressuring the Arab country to stop supporting the people of Gaza is a "dream that will not come true for the Israeli enemy."

Abdul Salam warned that "the brutal Israeli aggression will only increase the determination, steadfastness and persistence of the Yemeni people and their valiant armed forces, and in an escalating manner."

Additionally, Mohammed Al-Bukhaiti, a member of Ansar-Allah's Politboro warned that the Zionist entity would "pay the price for targeting a civilian facility," adding that "we will meet escalation with escalation."

The Palestinian resistance also denounced the attacks. In a statement issued by the Hamas resistance movement, the resistance condemned "in the strongest terms the brutal Zionist aggression against the sovereignty of the Republic of Yemen and the targeting of oil and civilian facilities," affirming its full solidarity "with the brotherly Yemeni people and the Ansar Allah group, and we mourn their martyrs and appreciate their courageous positions."

The resistance group Palestinian Islamic Jihad also condemned the Zionist aggression on Yemen, and condemned "in the strongest terms the governments that allowed the Zionist aggression aircraft to pass through their airspace to carry out their crime."

#source1

#source2

#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[fuckyeahmarxismleninism]

NO FORGIVENESS FOR THE EXECUTIONERS!

On October 3, the 30th anniversary of the popular uprising against the presidential dictatorship in 1993, communist and leftist forces gathered at the memorial to fallen fighters at the House of Soviets.

Due to the actual ban on public actions in the capital, the event took place in the form of laying flowers.

In September 1993, Russian President Yeltsin, by his decree No. 1400, dispersed the legally elected parliament - the Congress of People's Deputies of Russia. The Constitutional Court recognized that with this decree Yeltsin violated the Constitution of the Russian Federation 10 times.

Based on the decision of the Constitutional Court, in full accordance with the then current Constitution of Russia, the Supreme Council of the Russian Federation dismissed Yeltsin from the post of president of the country. However, Yeltsin refused to obey the legal resolution of the Supreme Council of the Russian Federation and began an armed struggle against spontaneous popular resistance, against the people who came to defend the Constitution, the Supreme Council.

On October 3-4, 1993, on Yeltsin’s written order, a group of scum from the armed forces shot defenders of the Constitution near the White House, where parliament was then located. Many people died.

The coup d'état of 1993 opened the way for the theft of public property, the split of society into a handful of rich people and millions of disenfranchised poor.

30 years have passed since then, but until now the culprits have not received the deserved punishment, and the main culprit, Yeltsin, has had giant memorials built with money from the state budget.

Today, many Z-patriots hate Yeltsin, but praise his successor, which is completely in vain. After all, they still live in the system that was built then and its course has not changed...

НЕТ ПРОЩЕНИЯ ПАЛАЧАМ!

3 октября, в день 30-летней годовщины народного восстания против президентской диктатуры в 1993 году, коммунистические и левые силы собрались у мемориала павших борцов у Дома Советов.

По причинам фактического запрета публичных акций в столице, мероприятие прошло в форме возложения цветов.

В сентябре 1993 года президент РФ Ельцин своим указом № 1400 разогнал законно избранный парламент - Съезд народных депутатов России. Конституционный суд признал, что этим указом Ельцин 10 раз нарушил Конституцию Российской Федерации. Опираясь на решение Конституционного суда, в полном соответствии с тогда действовавшей Конституцией России, Верховный Совет Российской Федерации уволил Ельцина с должности президента страны. Однако Ельцин отказался подчиниться законному постановлению Верховного Совета РФ и начал вооружённую борьбу против стихийного народного сопротивления, против народа, пришедшего на защиту Конституции, Верховного Совета.

3-4 октября 1993 года по письменному приказу Ельцина группа подонков из вооружённых сил расстреляла защитников Конституции у здания Белого дома, где тогда располагался парламент. Погибло много людей.

Государственный переворот 1993 г. открыл дорогу расхищению общенародной собственности, расколу общества на кучку богачей и миллионы бесправной бедноты.

С тех пор прошло 30 лет, но до сих пор виновники не понесли заслуженного наказания, а главному виновнику – Ельцину соорудили гигантские мемориалы на деньги из госбюджета.

Сегодня многие Z-патриоты ненавидят Ельцина, однако восхваляют его преемника, что совершенно напрасно. Ведь в построенной тогда системе они живут до сих пор и ее курс не поменялся...

Via United Communist Party of Russia

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Peter Montgomery at RWW:

As the aggressive Christian nationalism that infuses the MAGA movement and Republican Party intensifies, journalists and filmmakers are paying closer attention to the threat this political ideology and its adherents pose to freedom in America. A must-watch new documentary, “Bad Faith: Christian Nationalism’s Unholy War on Democracy,” will be available for streaming on AppleTV, Amazon Prime, and Google Play beginning Friday, April 26. Directed by Stephen Ujlaki and Christopher Jacob Jones and narrated by Peter Coyote, “Bad Faith” makes masterful use of archival and current footage of Christian nationalist religious and political figures, infographics, and interviews with scholars, religious leaders, political analysts, and even a former Trump administration official. The film draws a compelling through line from the scheming power-building of Paul Weyrich, the right-wing operative who recruited Jerry Falwell and other evangelical preachers to create the religious-right as a political movement in the late 1970s, to the institution-destroying antidemocratic ambitions of MAGA insiders like Steve Bannon, as well as Donald Trump’s dominionist “prophets” and “apostles” and the Jan. 6 insurrectionists they inspired.

[...]

“Bad Faith” explains how that transformation happened, documenting the role played by the Council for National Policy, a partnership between anti-regulation, economically libertarian oil barons and the religious-right leaders who intended to remake the Republican Party, take over the Supreme Court, and use their political power to enforce “traditional” views of family, sexuality, and gender on the rest of the nation. The Koch brothers poured tens of millions of dollars into “a state-of-the-art political data platform” that Council for National Policy groups use to collect personal information—including personal mental health, behavioral health, and treatment data—and use that information to micro-target individuals. (In “God & Country,” another documentary released earlier this year, Ralph Reed is shown bragging that his organization tracked “147 different data points” on the conservative Christians they targeted for turnout operations.) [...]

As “Bad Faith” makes clear, religious-right leaders viewed Trump as a powerful blunt weapon in a long-term political and spiritual war against the federal government and institutions dominated by progressive forces. “The Council’s gambit had paid off,” the film notes about Trump’s time in office. “Christian nationalists were firmly embedded at the highest levels of government. The Supreme Court had an absolute majority of justices poised to overturn landmark civil and women’s rights decisions. Paul Weyrich’s vision of a Christian nation was becoming a reality.” That explains why Christian nationalist leaders were willing to dismantle democracy to keep Trump in power. Members of the Council for National Policy and its political action arm went into “full combat mode” to promote Trump’s big lie, and, as Right Wing Watch documented, they supported his efforts to keep power after the 2020 election, portraying it as a holy war between the forces of good and evil. As Samuel Perry notes in the film, viewing politics as spiritual warfare between the forces of God and Satan makes it easy for those who see themselves on God’s side to “justify just about anything.”

The Bad Faith: Christian Nationalism’s Unholy War on Democracy documentary comes out today on streaming platforms such as Amazon Prime, Apple TV, and Google Play today. Bad Faith focuses on the history of Christian Nationalism and its very real threat to democracy.

[tittyinfinity]

Yemen has vowed to continue to prevent the passage through the Red Sea of all ships that are owned by Israel or heading to the regime's ports as long as the ongoing genocidal war on the besieged Gaza Strip goes on.

"We affirm that no Israeli ships or [ships] linked to it or heading to its ports [in the occupied territories] will pass [through the Red Sea], and we are serious about that," Mahdi al-Mashat, the head of Yemen's Supreme Political Council, said on Saturday.

"Our armed forces are the guardian of the Red Sea and behind them are 40 million fighters from our people ready and present for confrontation," Mashat said, adding, “We will continue to prevent [the passage of] Israeli ships or those heading to the Zionist entity's ports, and we will not stop until the aggression and siege of Gaza stops.”

"Preventing the navigation of the Zionist enemy is a Yemeni choice to impose peace and [ensure] a dignified life for [Palestinian] people in Gaza," he added.

The Yemeni official stated, "If the United States is committed to protecting the Israeli enemy, then we affirm that we are committed to protecting and supporting our brothers in Gaza and are ready for all possibilities, and all options are available."

[pwlanier]

Kostyanitsyn Vasily Nikolaevich (1881–1940) "Portrait of Nadezhda Alexandrovna Kostyanitsyna's wife." The second half of the 1920s.

Cardboard, oil

Without a signature. On the substrate there is an inscription with a ballpoint pen: "(The inscription on the back) / Kostyanitsyn You. Nick. (1881-1940) / p-t of Nadezhda Alexandrovna's wife / Kostyanitsyna, ov. Gutwijn (1898-1972) / ballerinas in the Hermitage.

Painter, graphic artist, designer, poster artist. One of the first to join the Union of Soviet Artists in 1932. He studied at the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture with V.A. Serova. Hereditary icon painter, painted icons until 1917. After the October Revolution, he worked in the agitation trains of the All-Russian Central Executive Committee, performing the tasks of the Permanent Industrial and Demonstration Exhibition of the Supreme Economic Council in Donbass; performed posters and revolutionary lubok. In 1922 he graduated from the 1st State Courses of Fine Arts. In 1923, he was one of the first to join the Association of Artists of Revolutionary Russia (AHRR). He painted portraits-types of young builders of socialism, industrial landscapes, thematic paintings and paintings dedicated to the recent revolutionary events. Author of propaganda posters of the first years of Soviet power. The works are stored in the State Gallery, the State Central Museum of Contemporary History of Russia (Moscow), the Central Museum of the Armed Forces of Russia, the Russian State Library (RSL), the Vladimir and Lugansk Art Museums, the Chelyabinsk Museum of Fine Arts, and private Russian collections.

Litfund

[zvaigzdelasas]

President Jean-Bertrand Aristide, the slum priest who became his country's first democratically elected president, resigned today under intense pressure from the United States and the threat of an invasion of the capital by armed insurgents[...]

President Bush ordered the deployment of the Marines to Haiti as part of an "interim international force" to restore order. Both France and Canada have agreed to send troops, too. The United Nations Security Council met in emergency session to consider a resolution for a multinational force.

Mr. Aristide was once hailed as the man who could deliver peace and freedom to his nation, a slave nation that liberated itself 200 years ago from its imperial oppressor only to stifle under a blanket of strife and poverty. But his presidency crumbled as he violently cracked down on political dissent and armed rebels seized Haiti's north this month. The Bush administration, which had earlier been reluctant to suggest that an elected president step down, has shifted its stance over the past several days, increasing the pressure and finally strongly urging him to step down.[...]

James Foley, the United States ambassador to Haiti, said that an international force consisting of security, aid and administrative personnel "will rapidly be in Haiti" to help stabilize the country. Violent clashes between government supporters and armed militants have left as many as 100 people dead since early this month[...]

In sending the Marines to Haiti, Mr. Bush said: "The government believes it is essential that Haiti have a hopeful future. This is the beginning of a new chapter."

About 50 Canadian soldiers provided security at the airport in Port-au-Prince today, assisting a Hercules transport to fly Canadians out of the country to the Dominican Republic. Canadian officials promised today that they would provide further military assistance as part of an international force.

In Paris, French government officials said tonight that France, the first country to demand Mr. Aristide's resignation, was ready to participate in an international peace force in Haiti, but would await definition of the force's mandate by the United Nations Security Council. France also said it would send aid.[...]

American policy toward Mr. Aristide shifted swiftly. In July, Brian Dean Curran, then the United States ambassador here, said, "The United States accepts President Aristide as the constitutional president of Haiti for his term of office ending in 2006."

But the Bush administration decided in the past three days, as a senior administration official said Saturday, that "Aristide must go."

2004

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

April 9, 2024

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

APR 10, 2024

Yesterday, former president Trump released a video celebrating state control over abortion; today, a judicial decision in Arizona illuminated just what such state control means. With the federal recognition of the constitutional right to abortion gone since the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, old laws left on state books once again are becoming the law of the land.

In a 4–2 decision, the all-Republican Arizona Supreme Court today said it would not interfere with the authority of the state legislature to write abortion policy, letting the state revert to an 1864 law that bans abortion unless the mother’s life is in danger. “[P]hysicians are now on notice that all abortions, except those necessary to save a woman’s life, are illegal,” the decision read.

The court explained: “A policy matter of this gravity must ultimately be resolved by our citizens through the legislature or the initiative process…. We defer, as we are constitutionally obligated to do, to the legislature’s judgment, which is accountable to, and thus reflects, the mutable will of our citizens.”

The idea that abortion law must be controlled by state legislatures is in keeping with the 2022 Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization decision that overturned Roe v. Wade. But it’s an interesting spin to say that the new policy is protecting the will of the citizens. 

The Arizona law that will begin to be enforced in 14 days was written by a single man in 1864. 

In 1864, Arizona was not a state, women and minorities could not vote, and doctors were still sewing up wounds with horsehair and storing their unwashed medical instruments in velvet-lined cases. 

And, of course, the United States was in the midst of the Civil War.

In fact, the 1864 law soon to be in force again in Arizona to control women’s reproductive rights in the twenty-first century does not appear particularly concerned with women handling their own reproductive care in the nineteenth—it actually seems to ignore that practice entirely. The laws for Arizona Territory, chaotic and still at war in 1864, appear to reflect the need to rein in a lawless population of men. 

The 1864 Arizona criminal code talks about “miscarriage” in the context of other male misbehavior. It focuses at great length on dueling, for example—making illegal not only the act of dueling (punishable by three years in jail) but also having anything to do with a duel. And then, in the section that became the law now resurrected in Arizona, the law takes on the issue of poisoning. 

In that context, the context of punishing those who secretly administer poison to kill someone, it says that anyone who uses poison or instruments “with the intention to procure the miscarriage of any woman then being with child” would face two to five years in jail, “Provided, that no physician shall be affected by the last clause of this section, who in the discharge of his professional duties deems it necessary to produce the miscarriage of any woman in order to save her life.” 

The next section warns against cutting out tongues or eyes, slitting noses or lips, or “rendering…useless” someone’s arm or leg.

The law that Arizona will use to outlaw abortion care seemed designed to keep men in the chaos of the Civil War from inflicting damage on others—including pregnant women—rather than to police women’s reproductive care, which women largely handled on their own or through the help of doctors who used drugs and instruments to remove what they called dangerous blockages of women’s natural cycles in the four to five months before fetal movement became obvious.

Written to police the behavior of men, the code tells a larger story about power and control. 

The Arizona Territorial Legislature in 1864 had 18 men in the lower House of Representatives and 9 men in the upper house, the Council, for a total of 27 men. They met on September 26, 1864, in Prescott. The session ended about six weeks later, on November 10. 

The very first thing the legislators did was to authorize the governor to appoint a commissioner to prepare a code of laws for the territory. But William T. Howell, a judge who had arrived in the territory the previous December, had already written one, which the legislature promptly accepted as a blueprint.

Although they did discuss his laws, the members later thanked Judge Howell for “preparing his excellent and able Code of Laws” and, as a mark of their appreciation, provided that the laws would officially be called “The Howell Code.” (They also paid him a handsome $2,500, which was equivalent to at least three years’ salary for a workingman in that era.) Judge Howell wrote the territory’s criminal code essentially single-handedly.

The second thing the legislature did was to give a member of the House of Representatives a divorce from his wife. 

Then they established a county road near Prescott.

Then they gave a local army surgeon a divorce from his wife. 

In a total of 40 laws, the legislature incorporated a number of road companies, railway companies, ferry companies, and mining companies. They appropriated money for schools and incorporated the Arizona Historical Society.

These 27 men constructed a body of laws to bring order to the territory and to jump-start development. But their vision for the territory was a very particular one. 

The legislature provided that “[n]o black or mulatto, or Indian, Mongolian, or Asiatic, shall be permitted to [testify in court] against any white person,” thus making it impossible for them to protect their property, their families, or themselves from their white neighbors. It declared that “all marriages between a white person and a [Black person], shall…be absolutely void.”

And it defined the age of consent for sexual intercourse to be just ten years old (even if a younger child had “consented”). 

So, in 1864, a legislature of 27 white men created a body of laws that discriminated against Black people and people of color and considered girls as young as ten able to consent to sex, and they adopted a body of criminal laws written by one single man.

And in 2024, one of those laws is back in force in Arizona.

Now, though, women can vote.

Before the midterm elections, 61% of Arizona voters told AP VoteCast they believed abortion should be legal in most or all cases, while only 6% said it should be illegal in all cases. A campaign underway to place a constitutional amendment protecting abortion rights on November’s ballot needs to gather 383,923 verified signatures by July; a week ago the campaign announced it already had 500,000 signatures.

It seems likely that voters will turn out in November to elect lawmakers who will represent the actual will of the people in the twenty-first century. 

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON