#Through his consulting practice he casts vision

[twilightzonecloseup]

1.01a Shatterday

Director: Wes Craven

Writer: Alan Brennert (teleplay) & Harlan Ellison (short story)

Cinematographer: Bradford May

Opening Narration: 

“Some push for what they need; some push for what they want. Some people, like Peter Jay Novins, just push. If they do it hard enough and long enough, something might just push back… from The Twilight Zone.”

Summary: 

One night, in a crowded Manhattan bar, Peter Novins (Bruce Willis) distractedly makes the mistake of dialing his own phone number. In an unexpected turn of events, Peter Novins, having a cozy night in, answers the call. Over the course of the next few days, the two Novinses battle for ownership of his life. Novins #1 closes out his bank account and cancels his grocery delivery all while locked out of his apartment by Novins #2. Novins #2 meanwhile pulls out of a deal to do PR for an environmentally destructive company, and takes decisive steps to repair relationships with his mother and ex. As the days go by, Novins #1 shows distinct signs of illness and of wasting away, while Novins #2 becomes more vibrant and vigorous. Through phone conversations, the Novinses argue over what they’re experiencing, Novins #2 posits that Novins #1 had been leading a life filled with self-serving cruelties and that maybe this split was Novins’ personified last shred of decency taking a stand. In the end, when they finally meet face-to-face, Novins #1 comes to terms with his loss, and Novins #2 sympathetically casts off his old self.

Closing Narration: 

“Peter Jay Novins, both victor and victim of a brief struggle for custody of a man’s soul. A man who lost himself, and found himself, on a lonely battlefield, somewhere… in The Twilight Zone.”

More about Shatterday:

One of the guiding principles at the conception of TZ ‘85 was that it was going to be a writer’s TV show. The writer’s voice was going to be paramount in the creative vision of the show. Alan Brennert, TZ ‘85’s Executive Story Consultant, chose the short story “Shatterday” by Harlan Ellison for adaptation. Ellison, who was already a big name in speculative fiction, had also been hired on as a Creative Consultant for the series. While Brennert wrote the teleplay for this episode, Ellison contributed to the script and was on set for filming. (Though Ellison stated later that he didn’t contribute much on set as he didn’t quite jive with the episode’s director, Wes Craven.)

Shatterday serves as a great kick off to the series—it shows so much promise in capturing that elusive Twilight Zone-iness. The story is effectively wrought with a lot of great visual storytelling elements to contrast the two Novinses. The music gives the right eerie discordant tones at the right moments. The character journey of Novins #1 is essentially grieving over the loss of his own life and Willis’ performance is pitch perfect. Willis captures the disbelief, anger, desperation, and resignation of Novins #1, while on the flip side capturing Novins #2’s calm determination.

Shatterday is a familiar type of speculative story for The Twilight Zone. A preternatural challenge to the natural order is introduced and the story then follows a person’s journey to cope with it and/or reevaluate their perceptions. A factor that I think is important to this type of story from the original TZ is its shorter length at ~24 minutes. When executed well, you are left with plenty to mull over or expand your imagination with, but it’s told in a short enough burst that too many thoughts of practicality don’t seep in and distract you from the point of the story.

The TZ ‘59 episodes that Shatterday most reminded me of were Nervous Man in a Four Dollar Room (S2E3) and In His Image (S4E1), particularly the element of someone choosing to make a foundational change in the way they live their lives necessitating the old version of themselves becoming just a memory.

✨Support✨

[the-littlest-goblin]

*shows up to @essek-week 6 days late with all the prompts shoved into one fic*

based on this post by @slayerscake​

___________________________________________________________

Essek, for all his magical skill, had very little experience being a fighter. But you pick things up when you travel with a group that gets in as many scrapes per day as the Mighty Nein—you don’t necessarily learn how to fight well, but you certainly learn how to fight alongside the Mighty Nein.

While Jester is a cleric, try to go unconscious near Caduceus. 

“It’s not that she refuses to heal,” Fjord explained gently as he inspected the gash across Essek’s sternum for signs of poison. They were all a bit paranoid now since discovering that their previous monster encounter had, unbeknownst to them, injected a slow-acting venom into every bite. “She just prefers to take the enemy out first. It’s a strategy thing, you know. Save the healing for after the fight, once the danger’s gone.”

Essek turned his gaze over to Jester. In their post-battle huddle, while Caduceus hummed a healing prayer for the group and Fjord dressed Essek’s wound, she was several yards away helping Veth saw off one of the beast’s talons as a trophy.

 Fjord continued, “Of course, if you’re like, actually dying in front of her, she’ll heal you. I mean…” he trailed off. Sure, Essek hadn’t exactly been dead-dead when he’d collapsed next to Jester during the fight, but he wasn’t far from it. The last, ironic thought he’d registered before consciousness slipped away was how fortunate it was to fall in battle right next to a cleric. As his eyes fell shut, it was with anticipation that he would be up again in a second to rejoin the fray. 

When he had finally awoken, it was Caduceus’ face smiling over him, not Jester’s, and the ferocious monster had long since been turned into a carcass.

“Mm-hmm.”

Fjord sighed and sat back on his heels. “Just, maybe next time, if you have to go down, try to go down closer to Caduceus.”

“Noted,” Essek grumbled, watching with nauseated fascination as his skin knit itself back together in time with the melody of Caduceus’ spell.

When in doubt, polymorph.

“I am a bit surprised you don’t already have this in your repertoire. I have found it to be incredibly useful.”

Essek shrugged, shoving off the automatic sting of embarrassment that came with admitting ignorance. He didn’t need to feel that way around Caleb.

“Well, I have rarely found myself in a position to fly over rough terrain or transform a terrifying monster into a sloth. Until now, that is.” 

Caleb laughed lightly. “Such is the adventuring life, I suppose.” He smiled, taking a break from flipping through his spellbook to look up at Essek. Even this brief moment of eye-contact felt so charged with energy that Essek had to avert his gaze, the sense-memory of guilt welling up in his throat threatening to choke him. The intensity of Caleb’s undivided attention was still difficult for him to bear. His fingers twitched to rub at the burning spot on his forehead. Instead, he gripped his pen tighter. 

“Here.” Caleb flipped his book around to show Essek the page dedicated to the Polymorph spell, covered in transmutation runes. Essek recognized a few of the symbols in passing. “This should be easy for you to copy down. Then we can practice a bit. I think you’ll find casting it on yourself makes for a rather enjoyable pastime.”

Buff the lesbians. 

Essek’s eyes darted between Caleb and Caduceus, unsure how to interpret this piece of advice. “Um, can you be more specific?” 

Caduceus blinked at him, seeming confused. “Specific how? You mean like, which spells you should use on them?”

“No, I meant specific as in to whom you were referring. I just…” Essek glanced awkwardly around the table. Most of the group was distracted, digging into the enormous feast provided by Caleb’s clowder of feline servants. They were all worn out from a long day of hard travel and enjoying the warm reprieve of the tower.

Essek cleared his throat, trying to discreetly lower his voice without making it obvious that he was being secretive. “I have not exactly been given a briefing on all of your individual sexual preferences.”

“Oh, I can fix that!” Jester cut in. Apparently Essek’s attempts to be clandestine had failed, as they always seemed to with this group. “Caleb is—”

“That is alright, thank you,” Essek swiftly cut her off. His cheeks were already burning red-hot. “Can you please just tell me who ‘the lesbians’ are in this circumstance?”

He could feel Beau’s glare boring through him all the way from the other end of the table as she stared incredulously over her magical flask of whiskey. “You should really be able to figure that out yourself, man.”

Squishy wizards stay away from fights.

“Stay. Here.” Yasha’s growl was twice as terrifying as the insectoid beast screaming over their heads, and Essek was pretty sure the force from her shoving him behind the rocks was going to leave just as big a bruise as getting smacked by the creature’s tail, if not bigger. “Hide.”

“I was trying to help,” Essek muttered, a mixture of shame and indignation pushing him to defend himself to her.

“I know. You can help by staying alive.” A hint of softness entered Yasha’s gruff voice, although its effect was mitigated when she hefted up her massive sword. Essek instinctually slunk away from the arc of the blade. “Fighters get close, wizards hang back. That’s how we do things in this family.” She smiled at him, and another layer of the ice around Essek’s heart melted. “That’s how we keep you and Caleb from snapping like twigs. Save the close-range spells for when things are really desperate.”

Essek nodded his affirmation. Yasha turned and began running back into the melee, letting out an almighty roar. Just before she went out of range, Essek reached out his hands, whispering the incantation and twisting his fingers around the fabric of time that surrounded her large frame. Yasha paused for a moment as the effects of the Haste spell hit her, then turned to flash Essek another smile and a thumbs up.

That’s how we do things in this family.

You have to look sexy when using spells.

“I really do not understand the purpose of this.”

“We’re just trying to help you out!” Veth grinned at him mischievously. Somehow, the ghost of a goblin’s snarl showed through her straight halfling teeth. “Every good adventurer knows aesthetics are crucial to effective spellcasting.”

“That’s not—”

“Plus, we’re not fighting in the cold anymore,” Jester added. “We don’t want you to get overheated in the middle of battle.”

“That… really isn’t an issue.” But he knew resistance was useless when it came to these two. Resigned to his fate, Essek dutifully lifted the mantle over his head and began undoing the fastenings of his cloak. 

Outer layer discarded, he lifted his arms up half heartedly to show his self-appointed image consultants the results. “Is this satisfactory?”

“Hmmmm,” Jester tilted her head to the side, considering him. “Can you try rolling up your sleeves?”

“I’m not taking off my shirt!”

“No one asked you to!” Veth hopped off her chair to circle around Essek, studying him with an intensity she usually reserved for things she was about to shoot. “Now, show us your stance.”

“My what?”

“You know, your sexy fighting stance.” Veth stopped in place, whipping out her crossbow and striking a dramatic pose. 

“Um…” Essek attempted to mimic her, one hand on the meteorite pendant that served as his arcane focus, the other reaching out as if he were about to cast a spell. “Like this?”

Jester tapped a finger to her lips thoughtfully. “You know, now that I’m thinking about it, that tank top did look really good on you, Essek.”

Essek put his head in his hands.

If you get charmed there is going to be a very high chance of Beau punching you to snap you out of it. 

A constellation's worth of stars swam in Essek’s vision, pain bursting through his head like a reverberating drum; he could feel the nasty bruise blooming at his temple where Beauregard had struck him. Blinking away the stars, he turned just in time to see Beau’s fist heading towards him once again, this time making expert contact with his jaw. The force of this second blow sent him hurtling toward the ground, knocking the wind out of him. 

Amid the pain, a sense of clarity slowly came over him, cutting through the pleasant, misty haze that had overtaken his faculties. It gave him just enough presence of mind to scream an indignant, accusatory, “Ow!” at Beau.

She flashed him a cocky grin, seemingly amused by his tone. “Look man, this is what happens. Get charmed, get hit. Now square up.” 

Essek held up one hand in an attempt to stave her off, gasping for breath. The buzz in his brain was receding; somehow, Beau had punched the spell’s effect right out of him. “No really, I’m fine now, it worked—”

But she was already going in for another punch. Helpless to stop her, Essek braced himself for the hit, thinking that if nothing else, he had to admire her thoroughness. 

[lailoken]

The Faery Physicians of Myddfai

—or—

The Farmer and the Water Maiden

“The legend of the Meddygon Myddfai again introduces the elfin cattle to our notice, but combines with them another and a very interesting form of this superstition, namely, that of the wife of supernatural race. A further feature gives it its name, Meddygon meaning physicians, and the legend professing to give the origin of certain doctors who were renowned in the thirteenth century. The legend relates that a farmer in the parish of Myddfai, Carmarthenshire, having bought some lambs in a neighbouring fair, led them to graze near Llyn y Fan Fach, on the Black Mountains. Whenever he visited these lambs three beautiful damsels appeared to him from the lake, on whose shores they often made excur- sions. Sometimes he pursued and tried to catch them, but always failed; the enchanting nymphs ran before him and on reaching the lake taunted him in these words:

Cras dy fara, Anhawdd ein dala;

which, if one must render it literally, means:

Bake your bread, ‘Twill be hard to catch us;

but which, more poetically treated, might signify:

Mortal, who eatest baken bread, Not for thee is the fairy's bed!

One day some moist bread from the lake came floating ashore. The farmer seized it, and devoured it with avidity. The following day, to his great delight, he was successful in his chase, and caught the nymphs on the shore. After talking a long time with them, he mustered up the courage to propose marriage to one of them. She consented to accept him on condition that he would distinguish her from her sisters the next day. This was a new and great difficulty to the young farmer, for the damsels were so similar in form and features, that he could scarcely see any difference between them. He noted, however, a trifling singularity in the strapping of the chosen one's sandal, by which he recognized her on the following day. As good as her word, the gwraig immediately left the lake and went with him to his farm. Before she quitted the lake she summoned therefrom to attend her, seven cows, two oxen, and one bull. She stipulated that she should remain with the farmer only until such time as he should strike her thrice without cause. For some years they dwelt peaceably together, and she bore him three sons, who were the celebrated Meddygon Myddfai. One day, when preparing for a fair in the neighbourhood, the farmer desired her to go to the field for his horse. She said she would, but being rather dilatory, he said to her humorously ‘Dôs, dôs, dôs,' i.e., ‘Go, go, go,' and at the same time slightly tapped her arm three times with his glove. The blows were slight—but they were blows. The terms of the marriage contract were broken, and the dame departed, summoning with her her seven cows, her two oxen, and the bull. The oxen were at that moment ploughing in the field, but they immediately obeyed her call and dragged the plough after them to the lake. The furrow, from the field in which they were ploughing to the margin of the lake, is still to be seen—in several parts of that country—at the present day. After her departure, the gwraig annwn once met her three sons in the valley now called Cwm Meddygon, and gave them a magic box containing remedies of wonderful power, through whose use they became celebrated. Their names were Cadogan, Gruffydd and Einion, and the farmer's name was Rhiwallon. Rhiwallon and his sons, named as above, were physicians to Rhys Gryg, Lord of Dynevor, and son of the last native prince of Wales. They lived about 1230, and dying, left behind them a compendium of their medical practice. A copy of their works is in the Welsh School Library in Gray's Inn Lane.'

In a more polished and elaborate form this legend omits the medical features altogether, but substitutes a number of details so peculiarly Welsh that I cannot refrain from presenting them, This version relates that the enamoured farmer had heard of the lake maiden, who rowed up and down the lake in a golden boat, with a golden oar. Her hair was long and yellow, and her face was pale and melancholy. In his desire to see this wondrous beauty, the farmer went on New Year's Eve to the edge of the lake, and in silence awaited the coming of the first hour of the new year. It came, and there in truth was the maiden in her golden boat, rowing softly to and fro. Fascinated, he stood for hours beholding her, until the stars faded out of the sky, the moon sank behind the rocks, and the cold gray dawn drew nigh; and then the lovely gwraig began to vanish from his sight. Wild with passion, and with the thought of losing her forever, he cried aloud to the retreating vision, 'Stay! stay ! Be my wife.’

But the gwraig only uttered a faint cry, and was gone. Night after night the young farmer haunted the shores of the lake, but the gwraig returned no more. He became negligent of his person; his once robust form grew thin and wan; his face was a map of melancholy and despair. He went one day to consult a soothsayer who dwelt on the mountain, and this grave personage advised him to besiege the damsel's heart with gifts of bread and cheese. This counsel commending itself strongly to his Welsh way of thinking, the farmer set out upon an assiduous course of casting his bread upon the waters—accompanied by cheese. He began on Midsummer eve by going to the lake and dropping therein a large cheese and a loaf of bread. Night after night he continued to throw in loaves and cheeses, but nothing appeared in answer to his sacrifices. His hopes were set, however, on the approaching New Year's eve. The momentous night arrived at last. Clad in his best array, and armed with seven white loaves and his biggest and handsomest cheese, he set out once more for the lake. There he waited till midnight, and then slowly and solemnly dropped the seven loaves into the water, and with a sigh sent the cheese to keep them company. His persistence was at length rewarded. The magic skiff appeared; the fair gwraig guided it to where he stood; stepped ashore, and accepted him as her husband. The before-mentioned stipulation was made as to the blows; and she brought her dower of cattle. One day, after they had been four years married, they were invited to a christening. In the midst of the ceremony the gwraig burst into tears. Her husband gave her an angry look, and asked her why she thus made a fool of herself. She replied, ‘The poor babe is entering a world of sin and sorrow; misery lies before it. Why should I rejoice?' He pushed her pettishly away. ‘I warn you, husband,' said the gwraig; 'you have struck me once.' After a time they were bidden to the funeral of the child they had seen christened. Now the gwraig laughed, sang, and danced about. The husband's wrath again arose, and again he asked her why she thus made a fool of herself. She answered, ‘The dear babe has escaped the misery that was before it, and gone to be good and happy for ever. Why should I grieve?' Again he pushed her from him, and again she warned him; he had struck her twice. Soon they were invited to a wedding; the bride was young and fair, the groom a tottering, toothless, decrepit old miser. In the midst of the wedding feast the gwraig annwn burst into tears, and to her husband's question why she thus made a fool of herself she replied, ‘Truth is wedded to age for greed, and not for love—summer and winter cannot agree—it is the diawl's [devil’s] compact.' The angry husband thrust her from him for the third and last time. She looked at him with tender love and reproach, and said, ‘The three blows are struck-husband, farewell!' He never saw her more, nor any of the flocks and herds she had brought him for her dowry. In its employment of the myth to preach a sermon, and in its introduction of cheese, this version of the legend is very Welsh indeed. The extent to which cheese figures in Cambrian folk-lore is surprising; cheese is encountered in every sort of fairy company; you actually meet cheese in the Mabinogion, along with the most romantic forms of beauty known in story. And herein again is illustrated Shakspeare's accurate knowledge of the Cambrian goblins. 'Heaven defend me from that Welsh fairy!' says Falstaff, 'lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!' Bread is found figuring actively in the folk-lore of every country, especially as a sacrifice to water-gods ; but cheese is, so far as I know, thus honoured only in Cambria.

Once more this legend appears, this time with a feature I have nowhere else encountered in fairy land, to wit, the father of a fairy damsel. The son of a farmer on Drws Coed farm was one foggy day looking after his father's sheep, when crossing a marshy meadow he beheld a little lady behind some rising ground. She had yellow hair, blue eyes and rosy cheeks. He approached her, and asked permission to converse; whereupon she smiled sweetly and said to him, 'Idol of my hopes, you have come at last!' They there and then began to 'keep company,' and met each other daily here and there along the farm meadows. His intentions were honourable; he desired her to marry him. He was sometimes absent for days together, no one knew where, and his friends whispered about that he had been witched. Around the Turf Lake (Llyn y Dywarchen) was a grove of trees, and under one of these one day the fairy promised to be his. The consent of her father was now necessary. One moonlight night an appointment was made to meet in this wood. The father and daughter did not appear till the moon had disappeared behind the hill. Then they both came. The fairy father immediately gave his consent to the marriage, on one condition, namely, that her future husband should never hit her with iron. ‘If ever thou dost touch her flesh with iron she shall be no more thine, but she shall return to her own.' They were married—a good-looking pair. Large sums of money were brought by her, the night before the wedding, to Drws Coed. The shepherd lad became wealthy, had several handsome children, and they were very happy. After some years, they were one day out riding, when her horse sank in a deep mire, and by the assistance of her husband, in her hurrry to remount, she was struck on her knee by the stirrup of the saddle. Immediately voices were heard singing on the brow of the hill, and she disappeared, leaving all her children behind. She and her mother devised a plan by which she could see her beloved, but as she was not allowed to walk the earth with man, they floated a large turf on the lake, and on this turf she stood for hours at a time holding converse with her husband. This continued until his death.”

—

British Goblins:

Welsh Folk-lore, Fairy Mythology, Legends and Traditions

by Wirt Sikes

[sarita-daniele]

Hi, angel! Hope you're doing alright 💓 (hola ángel! También hablo español :) ) I was wondering if you could give some advices in starting out in an arts career?

Hola amigx, ¡perdón que nunca vi tu mensajito! I’m not on my Tumblr very often and definitely forget to check my messages. Luckily my favorite causita @luthienne told me you’d messaged me! 

I don’t know what arts discipline you’re in, so feel free to let me know if the advice I have doesn’t apply to you (and ignore it!). There are so many ways to build an arts career, but I’m happy to share some things I’ve learned through trial and error along the way. 

(Outrageously long post below break!)

Educate yourself in arts technique, but also study widely. 

Techniques are important in art, but only as important as the concepts behind them. When I was younger, I wowed people by drawing near-photographic portraits, but that technical talent and skill alone couldn’t make me a professional artist. Memorable artwork has not just a how, but a why. It isn’t just the object but the story behind the object, and the meaning of the object in the world. Art is about what interests you, what makes you think, what you most value and want to change in this world. So as you build an arts career, learn the techniques behind drawing, woodworking, casting, writing, music-making, whatever your discipline is, but take time, if you can, to also study history, sociology, anthropology, ecology, linguistics, politics, or whatever else you’re drawn to conceptually. Study as widely as you can. 

The studio art program I went through (a public university in the US) was very technique-forward; we signed up for classes according to technique, like printmaking or small metals, learned those techniques, completed technique-based assignments. Then I did a one-term exchange at arts university in the UK that was very concept-forward. We had no technical courses, just exhibition deadlines, and what mattered in critique was the concept. Both of these schools had their strengths and flaws, but what I learned was that, to be a practicing artist, I needed both technique and concepts that I genuinely cared about and could stand behind. If I could go back and change anything, I would probably take fewer studio courses (after graduating, I couldn’t afford access to a wood shop, metal shop, or expensive casting materials, and lost many of those skills) and more courses in sociology, Latin American studies, linguistics, ecology, anthropology, etc., because my artwork today centers on social justice, racial justice, Latinx stories and histories, educational access and justice, the politics of language, and community ethics. 

And please know that whenever I talk about seeking an education, I’m not talking solely about institutional spaces. College career tracks in the arts (BFA, MFA, etc., much less high-cost conservatory programs) are not accessible to everyone and aren’t the only way to establish an arts career. You can study technique and learn about the world using any educational space accessible to you: nonprofits that offer programming in your community, online resources, Continuing Education programs. And of course, self-education: read as much as you possibly can!

Know the value of your story. 

I come from a Cuban/Peruvian family and grew up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA. My father’s family fled political violence surrounding the Cuban Revolution and came to the U.S. when he was a teenager. My mother was born in Brooklyn to Peruvian parents on work visas and moved back to Lima in her childhood. I grew up with these two cultures present and deeply embedded in our household, in our language, our food, our sense of humor, our sense of history. And yet, some residual assimilation trauma still affected me. I drifted towards the most American things, the whitest things, English authors and Irish music, in part because I enjoyed them but also because those were the things I saw valued in society. I wanted to fit in, wanted to be unique but not different, wanted to prove that I could navigate all spaces. The reality of marginalized identities in America is that our country tells us our identities are only valuable when they can be seen as exotic, while still kept inferior to the dominant, white American narrative (note that this “us” is a general statement, not meant to make assumptions about how you identify or what country you live in). 

But as an artist, all I have is my story, and who I am. I wasn’t willing to look at it directly. For years, I avoided doing so. It turns out, though, that I couldn’t actually begin my career until I reckoned with myself and learned to value everything about myself. To fully acknowledge my story, my history, my cultural reality, my sense of language, and my privileges. So I encourage young artists to look always inward, to ask questions about themselves, their families, and what made them who they are. 

The reason for doing this is to understand the source from which you make art.  Sometimes, however, for marginalized artists, the world warps this introspection into a trap, pigeonholing us into making art only “about” our identities, because that work is capital-I-Important to white audiences who want to tokenize our traumas. This is the white lens, and if anything, I try to understand myself as deeply as I can so that I can make art consciously for my community, not for that assumed white audience. 

Know that your career doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s, or like anything you’ve envisioned up to this point. 

As a high schooler I imagined that a life in the arts meant me in a studio, drawing and making, selling my work, getting exhibitions near and far, and gaining recognition. It was a solitary vision, one with a long history in the arts, rooted in the idea of individual genius. My career ended up completely different. Today, my arts projects involve teaching, collaborating, collecting interviews and oral histories, and creating public installations, rarely in traditional galleries or museums. 

As you work towards an arts career, figure out what does and doesn’t work for you: the kind of art you like and don’t like, the kinds of spaces that feel comfortable and those that don’t. I always thought I wanted to be part of traditional galleries, so I got a job working in a high-end art gallery in Boston during my grad program. Once in that space, however— even though I found the space calming and the work beautiful— I realized that there was something that I deeply disliked about the commodified art world. I didn’t like that we were selling art for over $10,000, that our exhibitions were geared exclusively towards collectors and wealthy art-buyers. The work was often technically masterful, but didn’t move or connect with me on a deeper level, and I realized that was because it wasn’t creating any change in the world. I liked work that shifted the needle, that made the world more inclusive and equitable, that centered marginalized stories (that gallery represented 90% white artists). I liked artwork that people made together, which drew me to collaborative art. I liked artwork that was accessible to everyone, not just the wealthy, which drew me to public art. I liked art exhibited in non-institutional spaces, which led me to community spaces. Since I was in an MFA for Creative Writing, I liked interdisciplinary art that engaged performance, technology, text, that was participatory and not just a 2D or 3D object. Figuring out all of these things led me to apply to my first major arts job: as a teaching artist in a community nonprofit that made art for social change in collaboration with local youth, in a predominantly Latinx neighborhood. 

My career path didn’t look like anything I expected, but I love it. The bulk of my income comes from teaching creative writing and art classes for nonprofits, working as a core member of a public arts nonprofit, and freelance consulting for book manuscripts. I love being an educator and consider it part of my creative practice. I love that I’m constantly collaborating with and talking to other artists. I love working with books and public art every day. I publish poetry, fiction, and literary translations, and exhibit artwork I’ve created in the studio and through funded opportunities. 

Fellow artists tell me often that I’m lucky, that my “day jobs” are all within the arts. But there are downsides to the way I’ve chosen to structure my career. I’m constantly balancing many projects, and my income is unstable. It’s difficult to save and plan towards the future,. I get by, but financial instability isn’t an option for many artists with families and dependents, with debts, medical expenses, and just isn’t the preferred lifestyle for a lot of people. I know artists who worked office jobs for years to support their practice and gain financial stability. I know artists who had entire careers as lawyers or accountants before becoming artists full time. I know artists who teach in public schools or work as substitute teachers. I know artists who are business owners and artists who work in policy and politics. I know artists who work in framing stores and shipping warehouses while being represented by galleries. These are all arts careers, and I admire every one of them. So as you build your career, don’t feel like it has to look like anyone’s else’s, like there’s anything you “should” be doing. Focus on the kind of artwork you want to make and what kind of work-life balance is best for you, then structure your career around that as best you can. 

Any job you use to support yourself can connect to an arts career!  

I get asked often by young people looking for jobs what kinds of jobs will best propel them towards an arts career. I believe that any kind of job can connect to and support an arts career, and I know that some suggestions out there in the arts world (like “get an unpaid internship at an art gallery!” or “become a studio apprentice to a well-known artist!”) assume a certain amount of privilege. So I want to break down how different kinds of jobs can connect to your art career: 

1) Jobs that allow for the flexibility and mental capacity to create. My friends who work restaurant jobs while going to auditions fall into this category. Who work as bartenders in evening so that they can be in the studio by day. Who dog-walk or babysit or nanny because the timing and flexibility allows for arts opportunities. My friends who are Lyft drivers or work in deliveries. These are often jobs outside of a creative field, but they can be beneficial because they don’t drain your creative batteries, so to speak. You still have your creative brain fully charged, and some jobs (like dog-walking) even allow for good mental processing (you can think through creative problems). As long as the job doesn’t drain you to the point where you have no energy at all, these kinds of jobs can be great because they allow time and space for your creative work. 

2) Jobs that place you in arts spaces, arts adjacent spaces, or spaces where you can learn about material/technique. My sculptor friends who work in hardware stores, quarries, foundries, or in construction. My printmaker friend who interned with graphic designers. My writer friends who work in bookstores and libraries, artists who work in art supply stores. My friend who worked with her dad’s painting company and got to improve her precision as a painter, which she then took back to the canvas. My teen students who get paid to work on murals or get stipend payments for making art at the nonprofit I work for. My filmmaker friends who worked on film crews. Friends who worked as theater ushers, in ticket sales, or as janitorial staff at museums. All of these jobs kept these artists adjacent to their artwork, whether through access to tools, materials, supplies, or books, through networking and conversations with other artists, or through skillsets that could enhance their art. 

3) Jobs that deeply engage another interest of yours, that bring you joy or can influence your work in other ways. If there’s a job that has nothing to do with your art but that you would love, do it! First, because I believe that the things we’re passionate about get integrated into our art, and second, because any job that gives you peace of mind and joy creates a positive base from which you can create. My friend who worked at a stable because she got to be around horses. My friends who worked at gyms or coaching sports because it kept them active. My friend who worked in a bike repair shop because he was obsessed with biking. An artist I knew who worked at the children’s science museum because she loved being around kids and planetariums. An artist who worked at a mineral store because rocks made her happy. If you have the opportunity, work doing things you like without worrying about whether it directly feeds your arts career.

Because believe it or not, all jobs you work can intersect in some way with your art. You’re creative— you find those connections! A Nobel-Prize winning poet helped his dad on the potato farm and wrote his best-known poem about it. Successful novelists have written about their time working in hair salons and convenience stores. A great printmaker I know who worked in a flower shop began weaving botanical forms and plant knowledge into her designs. The key in an arts career is to see all your experiences as valuable, to find ways that they can influence your art, and to be constantly thinking about and observing the world around you. 

As for me, I worked as a tennis instructor, a tennis court site supervisor, an academic advisor, an art gallery intern, and a coffee shop barista before and during my work in the arts!

Let go of objective measures of what it means to be good. 

I was always an academic overachiever. Top of my class, merit scholarships, science fair awards, AP credit overload, the whole thing. On the one hand, I grew up in a house where education was valued and celebrated, and my parents emphasized the importance of doing my best in school— not getting good grades, but working hard, doing my personal best, and reading and learning all I could. I loved school. I loved academics. And I’m not saying this to brag, but to lay the groundwork for something I struggled with in the arts.

It is jarring to be an academic overachiever and enter an arts career. I thrived off of objective value systems: study, work hard, get an A. If I worked hard and learned what I was supposed to learn, I earned recognition, validation, and opportunity. 

And then I entered the arts. The arts are entirely subjective. We hear it over and over— great artists get rejected hundreds of times, certain art forms require cutthroat competition, etc. —but it’s hard to understand the subjectivity of the art world (and the entrenched discrimination and commercial interests that affect who gets opportunities and who doesn’t) until you’re trying to live as an artist. That you can work hard on something, give all of your time and physical effort and mental and emotional energy to it, only to have it rejected. That what you think is good isn’t what another person thinks is good. That there is a magical alchemy in the act of creation that can’t be taught, or learned, but must be felt, and that you can be working to find that light while actively others try to extinguish it. That you can be good and work hard, yet still not get chosen for the awards, the exhibitions, the publications. If you chased being “the best” your whole life, you’re now in a world where there is no “best”, where greatness is subjective, where the idea of competitive greatness is actually detrimental to artists supporting each other, and where work that sells or connects to white, cishetero traditions is still the most valued. 

After struggling with this for a long time, I came to the conclusion that the most important thing to me now is making the art I want to make, the art only I can make, whether or not it fits what arts industries are looking for or what’s going to win awards. If I make art I believe in from a healthy mental and emotional place, doors will open, even if they aren’t the doors I expected. So try to let go of any sense that worth comes from external validation. Learn to accept critical feedback when it is given kindly, thoughtfully, and constructively. Surround yourself with friends and artists who who can talk to about your work, who build up your work and help you think through it rather than cutting you down. Don’t believe anyone in the arts world who thinks they get to be the arbiters of what’s “good” and who has “what it takes”. People have probably said things like that to the artists you most admire, and if they’d listened, you wouldn’t have experienced art that changed your life. 

Work to gain skills in basic business, marketing, and finances for artists. 

Many artists (at least where I am in the U.S.) go through an entire arts education without receiving resources or training in the financial side of the arts world. Your arts career will likely involve some degree of self-promotion and marketing, creating project budgets and grant proposals, artist statements and bios, sorting out taxes, and other economic elements. I can’t speak to other countries, but for artists in the U.S., taxes can be extremely complex. If you’re awarded a stipend, grant, fellowship, or employed for gigs or one-time projects, you’ll likely be taxed as an independent contractor and have to deduct your own taxes. Through residencies and exhibitions, you may pull income in multiple states and countries, which can also affect taxation. If you’re an artist who doesn’t have access to resources about finance and taxation in your arts program or who doesn’t independently have expertise in those fields, I recommend finding ways to educate yourself early: online resources, low cost courses, or even just taking your financially-savvy friends out for a coffee!

ANYWAY SORRY FOR THE LONG POST I HOPE SOMETHING IN THIS DIATRIBE WAS HELPFUL I HOPE THERE WEREN’T TOO MANY TYPOS AND I hope you have the most wonderful, fulfilling arts career! <3 

[fan-fantasies]

Shadow Queen (P.2)

A/N: I know I haven’t been writing as much as I was a few weeks ago but life is becoming a bit much again. I’ll get to all of my requests in the coming weeks, please just bare with me! And a special thanks to @teenagephilosophersandwich​ who comments and is very active on this blog. Every comment of yours makes me smile and I just wanted to let you know how much your support has meant to me these past few weeks. So this one’s for you <3 -Heather

Pairing: Sigtryggr x Reader

Warnings: Smut

Masterlist 

Part One

After letting the men celebrate to their hearts content and finally settle down, Sigtryggr finally allowed you to venture from your room. He had made it very clear that you were not to be harmed or harassed in any way, which was respected by his men. You ran into the two men that had accosted you the first night and they didn’t do so much as make eye contact with you. You noticed that one of them had a blackened eye and it made you smile to yourself. 

You never strayed too far from Sigtryggr, as was his wish. He said he liked being close to you because it was like being close to the gods. Truth be told, he had taken quite a liking to you and wanted to make sure that no one snatched you away from him, plus you were easy on the eyes and he enjoyed the envy from his men having you at his side. 

A wild woman, Brida, who had been captured by your late husband, was thirsty for revenge but you knew her need for violence would never be quenched. She wanted to invade Wessex, having heard that the king had left his throne vulnerable. Sigtryggr wanted to consult with you first which angered her, but she knew that those who walked with the gods were not to be crossed. 

You cast the runes and told him that it was a favorable time to attack and that it would be an easy takeover with minimal bloodshed, but it did come with a warning. You warned him not to let Brida take control over him because she was only after revenge and nothing more. Everything she did was fueled by anger and the need for blood which would ultimately lead to her demise and if Sigtryggr was not careful, she would take him down too. 

He heeded your warning and let Brida and his men know that they were going to march to Wessex and take Winchester. Some of his men were skeptical, as no one had successfully taken Winchester and kept it before, but with you by his side, he reassured them that it was their time to be victorious. So they marched- and they won. 

Sigtryggr was impressed with the history kept in the walls of Winchester. He wanted to learn as much as he could about the Saxons so he could understand them better. He was not a violent man and that was something you admired. You had seen so many men fall because their first choice was always to fight. 

After being in Winchester a while, you knew that the Saxons would return to reclaim their kingdom. You could feel it in your bones that their return was coming quickly and that night you went to sleep only to wake in a cold sweat. You ran to Sigtryggr’s chamber, not far from your own, and didn’t bother to knock. 

Despite being the middle of the night, he sat up by candlelight looking over maps. He jumped from his seat when you flung his door open and didn’t have time to react before you leapt into his arms. When he realized that it was you, his arms wrapped tightly around your torso.

“Shh, hush, darling. What is the matter?” He asked, his hand stroking your hair. When you managed to stop shaking and calm your breathing you spoke. 

“The gods came to me in my dream in a fury of fire and smoke. They showed you gasping for air at the hands of the Saxons. They will be returning, in no more than a day, and they will be out for blood. If we are not prepared, you will burn in the flames.” 

“We will be prepared, I swear to it,” he whispered. He sat the both of you down on his bed with you still in his arms. 

“But the gods showed me your demise. You must be careful, Sigtryggr, or they will take you from me,” you cried. He held you against his chest tightly. 

“No one will take me from you; I would never allow it,” he told you. You sat up so you could look at him. You placed a tender hand on his cheek.

“The gods are not to be underestimated,” you sighed. 

“And neither am I,” he chuckled. “Please, calm your mind, my dear.” 

You finally took a moment to take him in in the candlelight. You noticed that he was shirtless and you drank in the sight of his smooth skin, marred in some placed by scars. You ran your fingers over them without thinking but he didn’t seem to mind. You trailed your fingers up his chest to rest on his face. 

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered. He let out a small laugh. 

“Your vision must be compromised by your dream,” he chuckled. 

“No. I have never seen so clearly as I am now,” you told him. You closed the distance between the two of your and connected your lips to his in a slow kiss. His hands found your hips and pulled you so you were straddling him. 

You deepened the kiss and his grip on you tightened. All of your senses were overwhelmed by him. You nipped at his lip and he practically growled, sending sparks through your body. He pulled away much too soon for your liking, holding your face a few inches from his. 

“I don’t want to take advantage of you. You’re not thinking clearly,” he said. 

“I swear to the gods that you are not taking advantage of me. If this is the last night that we are to be together-” He stopped your mid-sentence by crashing his lips to yours. 

“This will not be our last night. This will be the first of many I am sure,” he mumbled. He pulled at the hem of your nightgown before you pulled it over your head. He pressed hot kisses down your chest and he nipped at your breasts.

“Why aren’t you naked yet?” You asked breathlessly. He grinned up at you before flipping you over and discarding his pants. He stared down at your naked body below him with a hunger and desire in your eyes that made you feel like you were on fire.

“And you’re certain you want this?” He asked again. You gave him a sincere smile and nodded. He slid his cock between your wet folds and your body shivered. He slid into your inch by inch and your head fell back against the bed. Your eyes shut and you reveled in the feeling of his cock filling your pussy. When he was fully inside you, you felt a hand on your cheek.

“I want to see you; look at me as I devour you,” he growled. Your eyes locked onto his as he pulled out and slammed back into your. You had never felt so full, your body feeling sparks throughout.

His thrusts were hard and calculated, reaching depths within you no one else could. His fingers entwined with yours as he held them above your head. His cock pounded into you and nothing but the sound of your moans and his grunts filled the room.

He could tell you were getting closer to finishing when your pussy clenched tighter around his cock. His pace quickened and your body was overcome with pleasure. A wave crashed over you and your vision went blurry. Ecstasy filled your veins and Sigtryggr was soon to follow, stilling deep inside you.

When he was certain that you had ridden out your high, he slowly pulled his cock from you, leaving you feeling empty. He pulled the furs around the two of you, encompassing you in warmth.

“Sleep, my darling. Tomorrow I will again be successful with you by my side,” he said softly. Your eyes fluttered shut and a sense of safety washed over you. Images of the gods dancing in victory filled your mind. You were able to sleep soundly wrapped in Sigtryggr’s arms, knowing that he was yours in this life and the next.

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Permanent Taglist: @lokilvrr @m-a-t-91 @blueeyedbesson​

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[marshmallow-phd]

Midnight Hours

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Wolf!AU

Pairing: Sehun x Reader

Summary: For you, being a good witch was easier said than done. Something dark was lurking inside of you and the others knew it. When you’re forced to tag along with Soomi and help a local wolfpack face a coming evil, you’re sent on a path that breaks into a crossroads. While you struggle with your inner demons, could the wolf Sehun be the key to your ultimate fate?

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13 I 14 I 15 I 16 I 17 I Final

**

You scrambled back, falling back on your butt as you shook your head feverishly. “No. I don’t want that. Not ever.”

“It’s not so bad,” Molia cooed. She tried to reach out comfortingly, but you flinched away from her touch. It was an involuntary reaction, fearful that she would force the change upon you anyway. She “hmphed” at your response, pursing her lips in a very displeased manner. “I don’t know what you’re finding so bad about living forever – especially as a person free to choose whoever she wants.”

Your head was spinning. Here she was, offering you a way out… and you didn’t want it. As if fighting against her words, your own mind reminded you of the better moments with Sehun – moments so soft and so loving that you’d wondered if you were dreaming. You thought of his smile when he looked at you or when one of his brothers did something dumb. Your hand burned from the absence of his. And that’s when you knew you couldn’t do it. 

Can I tell you something?

Sure.

I love you.

A tear nearly fell down your cheek as you listened to that brief exchange over and over in your head. What had you been doing this whole time? Going on some misguided quest to prove that you were someone who could stand on their own two feet? Your entire life was testament to that. 

You’d screwed up. And at this point, it didn’t matter how pretty a picture Molia painted of a possible future, it was worthless without him.  

“I’d still choose him.”

The vampire blinked. “Excuse me?”

You smiled, wiping away the tear that had indeed fallen down with your sleeve as you stood to your feet. “Even if things were different and I had a choice, I’d still choose him.” It sounded so cheesy to your own ears, but you couldn’t hold back to the truth. “Yeah, he said some things that were hurtful, but I’m not innocent either. So, I’m sorry, Molia, but I can’t help you. No matter how nice it sounds, I can’t go through with it if it means fighting Sehun.”

Molia’s reaction was not what you expected. She didn’t yell or explode. She didn’t bare her fangs or pounce. No, all she did was sigh, as if she’d expected this all along.

“Some bits of magic really irritate me,” she murmured to herself. Straightening up, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I wanted to avoid this, (y/n), but you leave me no choice.”

Before the thought of running could even cross your mind, Molia had you pinned to the ground, the air forced out of your lungs from the impact. The back of your skull bounced off the dirt, causing little black dots to dance around your vision. 

“What are you doing?” you grunted through your teeth as you tried to fight her off. But the vampire was stronger, sturdier. You were no more than a fly entangled in the black widow’s web. The more you struggled, the more trapped you became. 

“When you have unlimited time, you tend to practice a few things,” Molia laughed. Her eyes shined at your sad attempts to get away, like it was her favorite game. “I can’t do this without you and if that mutt is the reason you won’t be by my side, then I guess I’ll just have to take away your knowledge of him. Don’t worry, you’ll get back the memories by sunrise. But by then he may be nothing more than a pelt on my wall.”

“NO!” 

You fought harder, screaming Sehun’s name over and over, praying he would hear you. The sun was already beginning to set in the sky. Soon, the blood moon would rise. You couldn’t let her do this; you had to stop her. But as Molia placed her ice cold fingertips against your temples, murmuring an incantation, you could already feel yourself losing grip of the one thing that kept you grounded. Molia’s laugh echoed in your ears as your vision went black. 

**

Sehun stared up at the stars, shifting from foot to foot. It was here. 

Well… not here here, but tonight was the night. Tonight, the moon would rise high in the sky, the earth moving just so in between the moon and the sun, casting a reddish shadow on the large rock. How that could have any bearings on magic, Sehun didn’t know, but according to Soomi, magic stirred when nature chose so. 

The woods were quiet. It was unnatural how little sound was coming from the trees. 

On an average night, creatures of all sizes could be heard scurrying the forest floor, searching for their evening meal or getting ready to hide for the night so they would be safe while they slept. The silence that came from the lack of life was eerie, causing the hair to stand up on the back of Sehun’s neck. Had they all deserted the area knowing what was coming? That was common, wasn’t it? The animals in a certain area running for their lives just before a natural disaster? Even if it was a miniscule amount, Sehun hoped the damage wouldn’t be so devastating. He wasn’t sure how much more he could lose. 

“It’s time.”

Sehun snapped his head to look at the old woman he recognized from all those years ago when the pack rescued Jiyoung from being sacrificed. She hadn’t changed much since that day, but then again, she was already pretty haggard looking so there probably wasn’t much change that could be done. 

The old woman shifted her gaze from the sky to the crowd around her. Wolves and witches alike intermingled in the clearing outside the farmhouse. 

After two days of constantly searching the woods and still finding no trace of you, Junmyeon and Kris consulted with Soomi on any other options. The decision was made to bring in the head witches of the local coven to strengthen the power behind the locator spell. But they, too, had to wait for the moon. Thankfully not the blood moon, just for that stupid rock to be in the sky. At this moment, it was starting to peek over the pines, its white glow illuminating the area as if it were mid-day. 

The witches gathered in a circle around, joining hands around the unlit cluster of logs Soomi had carefully stacked earlier in the day. Sehun stayed close, not understanding a word the head crone was saying. After one stanza, the rest of the witches joined in. Their eyes were honed in on the logs. At first, nothing seemed to be happening. But magic always worked that way. 

A spark. A flicker of fame. A tiny fleck of ember rising into the sky. Then the ground shook, nearly knocking Sehun off his feet. The witches stayed in their positions unaffected. A fire burst forth from the wood, dancing nearly five feet in the air. But as quickly as they came… they disappeared. Only the slightest wisps of smoke gave any sign that a fire had been present. Not even the logs glowed in the aftermath. 

The witches broke the circle and the old woman shuffled over to Soomi, nodding once. 

“She knows where they are,” Soomi announced to the rest of the group.

“How?” Baekhyun asked. A few others in the pack exchanged similar looks of skepticism. 

“The flames told her,” was all Soomi explained. 

Junmyeon, Kris, and Sehun approached the two witches, eager for more details. 

“Where is she?” Sehun’s desperation was coming to a boiling point. The very edge of the moon was starting to darken. They were running out of time. 

The old woman pointed north. “There’s a hidden clearing a few miles out hidden by magic. Strong magic.”

“But you did find it?” asked Junmyeon. She nodded. “Then we go. Now.”

Kris frowned. “If we come across the clearing, will we see it?”

“Not at first,” Soomi answered. “That’s why we’re going with you.”

“It’s too dangerous.” Junmyeon shook his head, as if that was all it would take. 

“Junmyeon,” Soomi’s voice came out even and low. There was not an ounce of her usual bubbliness or positivity. Her face was ashen and grave. “Right now, the only thing we know is that (y/n) is out there. We don’t know if she’s hurt or if she’s joined with the witch that is hiding the two of them. Either way, you’ll be facing something powerful.”

“We’re immune to your magic.”

Soomi shook her head. “To direct spells and attacks, yes. But there are always loopholes. That immunity will not save you from drowning, or fire, or being crushed by rocks. You will need power on your side.”

As much as Sehun agreed with her, there was one part of her speech that stuck out to him. 

“Are you saying that we might have to fight (y/n)?” Sehun could feel his throat closing in, cutting off air from the lungs that were screaming for relief. 

“I don’t know what possibilities await us in that clearing,” Soomi admitted. “But we should be ready for every possibility.”

“What makes you think (y/n) might have sided with this… other witch?” Kris questioned. 

Soomi chewed on the inside of her cheek, not wanting to answer. But she had to. She was the one who’d voiced the original theory. “She’s been gone for several days. And she’s a fighter. She would have tried to escape or gotten out word where she was. Unless she was staying voluntarily.”

Kris cursed. Loudly. “So now Sehun’s mate might try to kill us.”

“She wouldn’t do that!” Sehun roared. You wouldn’t. He had enough faith in you to believe that. An exasperated huff pushed its way out of Kris’ mouth as he ran a stressed hand through his hair. 

“We still have to go, Kris,” Junmyeon said in a quiet voice. 

“I know,” Kris grumbled.

“Then let’s go.” Soomi looked back between the alphas before walking away. 

The rest of the pack joined them, waiting for orders. 

“We’ll shift here. Our wolveselves are our strongest forms, so it’s best to go all in.” As much as he tried to hide it, nervousness and anxiety was clearly exposed on Junmyeon’s face. This was the battle they all wish they could avoid.

Years ago, they were worried about an average witch. Easy enough to battle. Then there was the pack of hybrids. A harder fight, but they still came out on the other side. Even the hunters didn’t seem to be as big of a threat as they would have guessed. But this was different. This felt… impossible, if anyone were to ask Sehun. He couldn’t fight you. He certainly couldn’t watch his brothers try to harm you. 

So what was he going to do?

“Sehun!”

Snapping back, Sehun looked up to see the rest of the pack - save Junmyeon - had already shifted and was slowly working their way over to the northern treeline. Eight of them had a witch straddling their back. Sehun only nodded once before stripping away his shirt and pants, hitting the ground with all four paws in the blink of an eye. 

“Sehun?”

This time the voice was quieter, softer. Soomi approached him slowly. “May I?”

He motioned hard for her to get on. As soon as she was sitting on his back and her fingers were interlocked into his fur, he took off. 

Browning trees blurred all around him as he raced through the forest behind Junmyeon and the old woman. Sehun knew her name, but right he just couldn���t muster the concentration it would take to remember. All he could think about was going, keep going.  Get to the clearing. Get to you. Said old woman suddenly waved her hand in the air, prompting the rest of the witches to do the same. 

A shimmer caught Sehun’s eye in the darkness. The line of trees up ahead faded away to reveal the clearing they’d been searching for. Up in the sky, the moon was nearly completely in shadow. Only a sliver of silver remained. They were running out of time. 

Junmyeon screeched to a halt and they all followed suit. The witches slid off the backs of the wolves, ready for a fight. And one was apparently waiting for them. 

Near the center of the clearing were two figures, one familiar, the other… the other sent a shiver down Sehun’s spine. Standing next to you was a small woman with white blonde hair and ghostly skin. Even from this distance in the dark, he could make out the glowing red eyes. 

Definitely not Mina. But who the hell was she? An immortal, bloodthirsty witch could not be a good thing. 

“You came just in time,” the vampire said loudly. 

Sehun ignored her. His eyes went to you.

You were standing there, hands clenched into fists by your sides. You weren’t looking at him. Instead your eyes roamed over the entire group, settling on Soomi for a moment. He couldn’t help himself. He charged forward towards you. From the ground shot up a column of solid rock. It sent Sehun off his feet, flinging him to the grass and landing on his side hard enough to make him whimper. 

Shaking off the sudden attack, Sehun growled and looked up. But it wasn’t the blonde witch that had blocked his path. It was you. 

It was your hand that was outstretched, eyes narrowed at him. The witch next to you smirked. 

“You can’t fight us all,” Soomi yelled. “Just give it up now and we’ll have mercy on you.”

“Silly girl,” the vampire laughed. “You underestimate the both of us. Before you are the most powerful witches that Mother Nature has ever blessed. And together, we’ll make you all see who should truly be in charge of the covens.”

Soomi shook her head. “We’re not meant to be under one person. There is a reason the covens are individually self-ruled. (y/n), please, listen to me.”

You scoffed. “Listen to you? Why would I listen to you? All you’ve ever done is lie to me. You were always telling the elders what I was up to. Did you even think about defending me when they wanted to bind my powers? All the elders have ever wanted to do was take away the thing that made me special? Were you that jealous that you were willing to go along with them?”

“(y/n), I would never let them bind your powers!” Soomi stepped forward, arm outstretched towards the one she always thought of as her sister. 

“LIAR!”

With a scowl on her face, you swiped your arm in front of you, sending a burst of air that sent Soomi backwards through the air. Several witches ran towards her to see if she’d been hurt. From the way she gently pushed her helpers away, she seemed fine. For now. 

Pushing herself from her feet, Soomi started chanting. The witches next to her joined hands and started citing the incantation along with her. The vampire seemed unaffected. Her eyes turned up to the sky and she smirked. 

“The moon is red, (y/n). Can you feel it?”

You nodded, staring at the bright red-orange orb in the sky. “I can.”

“Remember what I told you.”

Again, you nodded. In sync, the two of you lifted your arms, curling the fingers to make claws of the hands that had once held Sehun so kindly. You shoved your gnarled hands downwards and the line of witches crumbled as well, crying out in pain. 

What were you doing?

Sehun took a different approach, crawling towards you with his ears back, hoping you would recognize him in this form. It was the wrong choice. 

Your eyes flickered towards him. Still keeping one hand towards the witches, you switched your concentration, twisting your fingers. 

Sehun cried out in pain as he stopped. It felt like his very veins were being stretched and choked. He had no control over his muscles no matter how loudly he commanded his limbs to move. Was this your doing? How was this even possible?

Sehun, what’s wrong? Junmyeon cried out in their shared connection

I don’t know, Sehun huffed back. I can’t move. And it hurts. I can’t fight it. I think- I think it might be (y/n) doing it.  

Chanyeol, Minseok, you approach from the front, Kris ordered. Tao and I will come from behind and take them out that way. 

No! Sehun let out a warning growl. 

I don’t take orders from you, Sehun. 

They won’t harm her, Junmyeon promised. 

Sehun whimpered. He didn’t want them going anywhere near you with their claws and teeth. He just needed to get closer to you then you would see, then you would be fine. 

Chanyeol and Minseok charged forward, flying past the line of witches. It was distracting enough. 

You let go of your hold on some of your coven and on Sehun to block the wolves’ way. You sent column after column of soil and rock into the air, but they were quick, dodging each strike with only the slightest of hesitation. 

The vampire’s attention was also occupied by the oncoming wolves. Behind the two of you, Kris and Tao rushed, tackling you both to the ground. Sehun was quick to shift as his gray brother pinned you down. 

“No! Tao!” He ran to you on his slower, human legs. Tao wasn’t harming you, but he was strong enough to keep you from escaping. Until you sent a kick into his stomach with your boot.

Tao whined and you were able to somehow get him off of you with a gust of wind. You struggled to get up to your feet. Tao was disoriented enough to not attack you a second time. 

“(y/n)!” Sehun was just about to reach you, just about to hold you again when suddenly a wall of water grew from the ground, freezing solid and blocking his path once more. 

A whimper cut through the air. The vampire’s hands were on fire and Kris was now sporting two charred spots near his shoulders. Sehun ran around the wall to find you hovering in the air, staring down at the old woman who had made her way to you. 

“(y/n), you know in your heart this is wrong.”

Your face twisted into one of rage. “You were supposed to protect me! But what have you really done? You’ve stopped me from using my own gifts. I’ve learned more in the past few days than I ever have under you.”

“And that was wrong of me,” the old woman admitted. “I should have nurtured you better. Your parents left you in my care and I failed in letting you understand your true self. But I know this isn’t it. This person who is raising herself above others, talking of ruling the witches of this world, that’s not you.”

“You don’t know me at all,” you hissed. 

“I know the little girl I raised, that I held when she was sick and sang to sleep when she had nightmares.”

If the old woman thought bringing up those memories would get through to you, she was utterly wrong. All it did was fuel your long suppressed anger.

Vines sprung up from the dirt. The tick green ropes wrapped around her wrists and ankles, holding her hostage. 

“(y/n), come down please!” Sehun pleaded. Even though he was sure this wouldn’t work, he’d hoped that maybe he could get you to lower yourself enough for him to pull you down the rest of the way. While chaos was happening all around you, in the sky, there seemed to be nothing but peace. Your hair wasn’t whipping around you nor your clothes ruffled. You simply stood there, feet supported by nothing, as you stared down at him curiously. 

“How do you know my name?” you asked calmly. 

What? “(y/n), it’s me. It’s Sehun!”

“I don’t know a Sehun.”

If he had the ability, Sehun would have disintegrated into a million pieces right then and there. How could you not know who he was? He clutched his chest, but the emptiness of a severed connection wasn’t there. He still felt you as strongly as ever. 

“I don’t know you,” you repeated. “And you don’t know me.”

Sehun swallowed. He had to pick up the challenge you’d unconsciously thrown down. To his left, the pack and witches were busy fighting your still unnamed partner. The blonde threw balls of fire at their heads with one hand, barely missing within centimeters of their ears. With her other hand, she controlled the few she could with the strange, impossible magic he’d experienced from you. 

“I know you pick at your fingernails when you’re nervous.” He took a cautious step. When you didn’t strike him down, he took another. “I know wind and fire were easier for you to handle, but you like the way the rain feels against your skin. I know you still hurt from your parents leaving you behind.” You seemed to be listening, even lowering your altitude little by little until your feet were once again on solid ground. “I know what makes you laugh and smile. I know the different ways you roll your eyes, when you’re trying not to laugh and when you’re truly annoyed. I know you like to be alone when you need to think and I know you care about others even though you’re afraid to show it.” 

There was almost no room between the two of you now. Tears made your eyes glassy. He was touching something inside of you, he just knew it.

“How do you know all that?” you whispered. Deciding to take another risk, he reached out and took your hand. He placed your palm against his bare chest, letting you feel the warmth of his skin and beating of his heart. “Why do you feel so familiar?”

“Because you’re my mate, (y/n). I don’t know why you don’t remember that, but I will help you remember. I would go to the ends of the earth for you. Because I love you.”

You snatched your hand away, a coldness left behind. “No, you don’t. No one does. No one really cares.”

“That’s a lie,” Sehun snapped back. “You know it is. We all love you. Soomi, Harper, Chanyeol, even Little Mei. You are loved, (y/n). And you don’t need to take over the world to see that.”

They were losing. Sehun didn’t know if he was winning in getting through to you, but the others were now locked in a ring of fire. The blonde laughed maniacally as she forced two of the witches to their feet, seemingly forcing them to walk towards the flames. He needed to succeed. He knew only you could defeat this woman. 

“I don’t want to take over the world,” you said so quietly it was almost as if the words hadn’t really been said at all. “I just want to be myself.”

“With me, you will always be yourself. You’ll be free. I swear to you.” And with that, he took his final risk. He reached out and tucked your hair behind your ear. Leaning in little by little, he came closer with your lips in his sights. If there was one thing you should remember, even subconsciously, it was how he showed you his love. 

Whoosh! 

Pain flared on his back. A cry left his throat and he fell down to the ground. Already he could smell burning flesh, the stinging singe spreading between his shoulder blades. 

“No!” You dropped to your knees just as fast. 

“Don’t listen to him, (y/n),” the vampire ordered. “His pretty words are meaningless.”

But it was too late. He could see the recognition in your eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” you sniffed, taking his face in your hands. “Sehun, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re back,” he sighed. “That’s all that matters.”

You pulled your gaze away from him to the woman who’d caused all of this. “It’s over, Molia. Just let them go.”

The woman named Molia took a deep breath before letting it out slowly. “I’m disappointed. I didn’t realize you would be so weak, so easily swayed.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you replied as you and Sehun stood. You positioned yourself in between the witch and Sehun. “But this isn’t right. You know it isn’t.”

“You know nothing, child! And I’ll show you what happens when you turn against me.”

“Molia, don’t- AH!” 

Your arms constricted to your sides and your knees buckled. Sehun charged at the witch, claws bared. But she took him down with another shot to the chest. 

“No! Sehun!” 

The witch stood over him. Triumph sang in her eyes. “Maybe when I get rid of you, she’ll see reason again.”

“That won’t matter,” Sehun choked out. “She knows what’s right. She always has.”

Flame burst forth from her fingers, the oranges and reds telling Sehun exactly what his fate would be. However, a miracle happened.

The blood moon was over. Once again, silver shined in the moon. Sehun didn’t understand the connection, but he was thankful for it. 

Somehow that event allowed you to break free from the witch’s power. As she raised her hand, you screamed out. Blue lightning sparked on your fingers before shooting forward and hitting the vampire in the chest. Cries of agony echoed through the clearing as she burst into flames, transforming into ashes that would never again cause harm. 

Sehun was happy. He was relieved. But he could feel something was wrong. His vision was beginning to blur. He knew you were calling his name, but it sounded far away. As hard as he tried to fight it, soon, the darkness took over.

[waritawrites]

A Secret: Watch Out for the Evil Eye Symbol!

https://followerofthewayforever.wordpress.com/2021/02/22/a-secret-watch-out-for-the-evil-eye-symbol/

The Evil Eye has made a reappearance into popular culture, particularly in fashion, jewelry and accessories, and alleged "art." It is a hateful stare that is used to place curses on others. In John H. Elliot's Beware the Evil Eye: The Evil Eye in the Bible and the Ancient World: -Volume 1 Introduction, Mesopotamia, and Egypt, He tells the truth about the evil eye by sharing Jesus' sermon on the mount:

"Beware the Evil Eye: The Evil Eye in the Bible and the Ancient World: -Volume 1 Introduction, Mesopotamia, and Egypt

In his celebrated 'Sermon on the Mount,' Jesus of Nazareth makes reference to one of the oldest beliefs in the ancient world the malignity of an Evil Eye (Matt 6:22-23): 'If, however, your Eye is Evil, your entire body will be full of darkness.' Another of Jesus's references to the Evil Eye appears in his parable concerning workers in a vineyard and an eruption of Evil-Eyed envy (Matt 20:1-16). At the parable’s conclusion, a generous vineyard owner chides disgruntled workers envious of their fellow laborers: 'Is your Eye Evil because I am good?' (Matt 20:15)."

According to Britannica.com

"Evil eye, glance believed to have the ability to cause injury or death to those on whom it falls; pregnant women, children, and animals are thought to be particularly susceptible. Belief in the evil eye is ancient and ubiquitous; it occurred in ancient Greece and Rome, in Jewish, Islamic, Buddhist, and Hindu traditions, and in indigenous, peasant, and other folk societies, and it has persisted throughout the world into modern times. Those most often accused of casting the evil eye include strangers, malformed individuals, childless women, and old women."

Personally, I have noticed when certain acquaintances and relatives come around catastrophe strikes not long after, especially after they have acted condescending and hateful. Once my grandmother wanted to know why I didn't want to go the wedding of one my cousins. I told her that it was because certain of our other relatives were going to the wedding and I noticed that every time there was a new encounter that would cause more frequent contact with them, catastrophes would strike. I told her that I suspected that they were practicing witchcraft. My grandmother didn't defend them - if it weren't true she would have. My grandmother said nothing. She is a woman who went out of town to the casino with her sister when I had gotten seriously ill in high school. She picked me up from school, took me home, then she and my great aunt told me that they couldn't stay - they left town told no one that I was at home sick. I almost died.

Be careful of the company that you keep - no matter who it is. Everyone who seems to treat you nice doesn't have good intentions towards you. Witches often offer gifts and favors as a way of cursing people. Do not accepts gifts if you can avoid it. Don't keep them because those may be cursed objects - THROW THEM AWAY!

!!PAY ATTENTION!! When people who you hardly ever see come around and weird things happen, pray to GOD for help and put those people in GOD's hands.

The Evil Eye is Witchcraft

Deuteronomy 18:9 - 13

9 When thou art come into the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee, thou shalt not learn to do after the abominations of those nations.

10 There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch,

11 Or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer.

12 For all that do these things are an abomination unto the LORD: and because of these abominations the LORD thy God doth drive them out from before thee.

13 Thou shalt be perfect with the LORD thy God.

Rhonda Byrne's The Secret and The Law of Attraction: It is the manifestation of an evil eye

Witches often use the evil eye in various ways. They practice its use in The Law of Attraction, which is a metaphysical principle which purports that by positive thinking you can control your world and the world around you. Kerby Anderson's The False Teaching of “The Secret” – A Christian Evaluation states:

“The Law of Attraction.”{6} You can summarize the law with three words: “Thoughts become things.” In other words, if you think hard enough about something, it will take place. Think good thoughts, and you will reap good things. Think bad thoughts, and bad things will happen to you. You create your own circumstances, and you can change those circumstances with your thoughts.

A central teaching of “The Law of Attraction” is that nothing can come into your experience unless you summon it through persistent thoughts. Thus, everything that surrounds you right now (both good and bad) has been attracted to you. As you focus on what you want, you are changing the vibration of atoms of that thing so that they begin to vibrate to you.{7} Ultimately, you determine the frequency or vibration so that you can best acquire wealth, health, and fulfillment."

Vision boards are forms of evil eye law of attraction witchcraft as well. Do not use the practices of witchcraftvto manifest the things that you want. Galatians 5:16 - 26:

Galatians 5:16 - 26:

16 This I say then, Walk in the Spirit, and ye shall not fulfil the lust of the flesh.

17 For the flesh lusteth against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh: and these are contrary the one to the other: so that ye cannot do the things that ye would.

18 But if ye be led of the Spirit, ye are not under the law.

19 Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are these; Adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness,

20 Idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, variance, emulations, wrath, strife, seditions, heresies,

21 Envyings, murders, drunkenness, revellings, and such like: of the which I tell you before, as I have also told you in time past, that they which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of God.

22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith,

23 Meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.

24 And they that are Christ's have crucified the flesh with the affections and lusts.

25 If we live in the Spirit, let us also walk in the Spirit.

26 Let us not be desirous of vain glory, provoking one another, envying one another.

Pray and Trust in GOD for what you want according to HIS Will. James 4:2 - 17 states:

James 4:2 - 17

2 Ye lust, and have not: ye kill, and desire to have, and cannot obtain: ye fight and war, yet ye have not, because ye ask not.

3 Ye ask, and receive not, because ye ask amiss, that ye may consume it upon your lusts.

4 Ye adulterers and adulteresses, know ye not that the friendship of the world is enmity with God? whosoever therefore will be a friend of the world is the enemy of God.

5 Do ye think that the scripture saith in vain, The spirit that dwelleth in us lusteth to envy?

6 But he giveth more grace. Wherefore he saith, God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble.

7 Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

8 Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you. Cleanse your hands, ye sinners; and purify your hearts, ye double minded.

9 Be afflicted, and mourn, and weep: let your laughter be turned to mourning, and your joy to heaviness.

10 Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and he shall lift you up.

11 Speak not evil one of another, brethren. He that speaketh evil of his brother, and judgeth his brother, speaketh evil of the law, and judgeth the law: but if thou judge the law, thou art not a doer of the law, but a judge.

12 There is one lawgiver, who is able to save and to destroy: who art thou that judgest another?

13 Go to now, ye that say, To day or to morrow we will go into such a city, and continue there a year, and buy and sell, and get gain:

14 Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.

15 For that ye ought to say, If the Lord will, we shall live, and do this, or that.

16 But now ye rejoice in your boastings: all such rejoicing is evil.

17 Therefore to him that knoweth to do good, and doeth it not, to him it is sin.

In pure Christianity, we recognize that witchcraft is an attempt at usurping GOD's Authority by trying to become your own god. GOD's understanding is infinite. Man's understanding is limited and finite - we don't see the whole picture - we don't know the whole situation. 1 Corinthians 13:12 says:

1 Corinthians 13:12

12 For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

GOD sees clearly therefore leaning unto our understanding via witchcraft will bring about unholy, selfish, unrighteous results. Proverbs 3:5 - 8 says:

Proverbs 3:5 - 8

5 Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.

6 In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

7 Be not wise in thine own eyes: fear the LORD, and depart from evil.

8 It shall be health to thy navel, and marrow to thy bones.

#GOD #Jesus #HolySpirit #TheBible

#TheSecret #TheLawOfAttraction #RhondaByrne #Oprah #NewAge #Witches #Witchcraft #EvilEye

[powermaknae]

I’m the Biggest Hit

NCT 127 x Idol! Reader

In which you, a member of NCT 127, get in a car accident that changes your career.

~Idol! au, best friend! Johnny, Boyfriend? Yuta, blood, car accident, graphic scenes, lot of medicine

Word Count- 4.3K~

A/N: I originally wanted to use Lily for this one, but I started writing and it made more sense to do a reader au. I’m really interested in medicine rn, so I used some stuff I learned from uni. I am also fully aware that some parts make absolutely no sense, from a medical stand point. I just tried to make it work :). Enjoy!

Cherry Bomb was one of your favorite dances to perform. It was so fun to learn and made you smile every time you practiced it. When the boys had their hair cut and dyed various colors and shades, you became overwhelmingly excited. You had yours done with purple and pink highlights. You loved this era.

You were devastated when you couldn’t perform it anymore.

Heading home one night after a schedule, you hopped in the second of two vans required to fit all nine of you. You sat in the passenger seat, Doyoung, Winwin, Taeyong and Yuta in an array behind you.

You sat with your right ankle on your left thigh, wedged and pushing against the door and middle consult. You propped your arm on the windowsill, leaning your head on it slightly as you turned to participate in conversation intermittently. After the energy behind you had calmed significantly, you checked your phone for notifications.

John: Hey

You: Hm

John: Wanna play overwatch later?

Before you had the chance to answer, you heard a loud SMASH. Almost instantaneously, pain surged through your whole body and you yelled out instinctively. The vehicle stopped spinning.

Again, you felt a crunch accompanied by another loud SMASH and everything went blank.

As your body lay limp in the front seat, several people surrounded the vehicles. The others in the first van quickly ran over after the traffic had haltered. Johnny was frantic, panicking once he realized who was missing; you. He clawed through the others trying to pry the concave metal away from the body of the vehicle. His strength mixed with the adrenaline coursing through his veins allowed him to free it with a single jerk.

The sight of your mangled body made him take a step back in shock. “We have to be careful not to move her, it may injure her worse,” one of the staff called to him. He started to break down in front of the open side of the car, completely consumed by panic. The other members caught a glimpse of the gruesome sight, covering their mouths and backing away. Taeyong rushed to Johnny’s side, holding his large frame and allowing him to collapse onto his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.

Your head hung down, your purple and pink highlights hovering around your face. The beautiful, soft white shirt you had worn had been punctured by a shard of your fractured rip, blood staining and soaking the once elegant fabric. Parts of your arm were bent awkwardly and bruising quickly, and what was left of your right leg looked bloody and shredded, pieces of flesh mixed with muscle, cartilage, and bone shown under the bright streetlights.

An ambulance arrived swiftly, rushing to safely extract you from the van. You were unconscious until you arrived in the emergency room, where they administered several doses of epinephrine. The other members had also been brought for monitoring. Johnny, you were told, collapsed from hyperventilation in the ambulance, but refused to leave your side when he came to.

You woke with a start on the gurney in the confined space of the trauma room. Your eyes shot open, but you had a hard time focusing your vision. Your entire head ached and shot pain signals all over your body. You were barely alive, but you tried your best to stay conscious.

Several voices echoed in your ears, doctors barking orders, asking you questions you couldn’t answer. Above everything, you heard a soft muffled voice, praying for you to come through. You looked around to find the voice and saw a tall figure in the doorway, hands clasped in front of his face. Johnny.

Behind him you saw several other clouded figures pulling him away to let the doctors focus on you. But you didn’t want him to leave. He backed away slowly and turned to go back to the members. You heard a doctor confront you again, but you couldn’t process what they were telling you.

Three doctors lined up holding your arm with a strong grip. The one closest to you gave a quick count down and you felt pressure in your shoulder, then a massive amount of excruciating pain. Your cry was muffled by the mask sending oxygen to your face but was still heard throughout the room. You teared up and felt a tear sting the corner of your eye. Either the pain was too much or you’d lost too much blood, but you blacked out again shortly after that, and didn’t regain consciousness until you were waking up from surgery.

Your eyes flurried slowly, trying hard to focus. Your entire body was numb from the waning anesthesia and all you could take in was white. You felt surrounded by the color white, its bright hue clouding the little you could see. You felt drowsy and uneasy, mind unsettled. What had happened?

As more of your surroundings came into view, you saw several people sitting around you. Some had white coats and others wore mostly black. You were hooked up to wires, a heart monitor, an IV with multiple fluids. You were breathing through a tube, and you choked on it slightly when you went to breathe yourself.

Someone beside you must have heard because a nurse was quickly summoned to take the tube out. Your eyes were more adjusted to the bright room now and you could see all the blankets covering your body, the bustling hall outside your room, and you could make out faces now. Several doctors came to check your vitals, but you were more focused on the black figures by your side. The boys had stayed with you: Taeyong, Jaehyun, Yuta, and Johnny, all standing now at the side of the bed, your manager in the corner of the room.

Johnny looked like he hadn’t eaten or slept in days. His eyes were puffy and red. Yuta had scratches and some stitches along the side of his face. He had been sitting behind you in the van and had taken some of the blow, but it was evident that you were impacted the most. Taeyong however, looked fine physically, but the expression on his face said he had been sick with worry and Jaehyun had just returned with his arms full of coffee for everyone when you had awoken.

You went to grab the closest hand to prove your wellbeing and became acutely aware of your state of injury. Your right arm was up in a sling, unable to move and your abdomen was wrapped tightly in multiple layers of bandages. Everything below your waist was numb.

Your attention was whisked away by the abrupt voices of the doctors at your feet. “Hello, Y/N. How are you feeling?” You were taken aback by the English you weren’t used to hearing. You tried to speak for the first time but only air came out. “That’s ok, you don’t have to talk just yet. We’re going to do a few tests to make sure everything is how it should be, ok?” You nodded slowly.

A nurse shined a bright light in your eyes. “Pupil are equal and reactive.” That’s a good sign. “Can you wiggle your fingers for me?” You successfully moved each one in small slow motion. You looked at your friends. Yuta kept a stern face, watching every movement carefully, but Johnny and Taeyong gave you reassuring smiles.

The doctors and nurses wrote down notes on your chart, took your vitals again, then turned to the other men in the room with a kind face. “Would you mind giving us a minute?” They turned to each other then to you with a questioning look. You nodded in approval and they shuffled out behind one another and stood just outside the closed door.

“I know this might be a little scary. Just stop me if it’s too much.” You gave a concerned look. “You’re conscious enough to know what all has happened.” You relaxed slightly.

“You suffered a mild concussion; you may feel a little dizzy for a few days. Your right humerus has a small hairline fracture right here.” They pointed to the base, next to your elbow. “Your shoulder was also dislocated but was fixed when you first arrived. Your arm will need to be in a cast for a couple of weeks but shouldn’t cause any trouble. You also suffered several rib fractures on your right side. One punctured through the abdominal wall, but there were no internal injuries.” That explains the multitude of bandages.

“The worst of your injuries may be a bit shocking, so prepare yourself.” They gently pulled your covers away, revealing the numb part of you body. In front of you laid your left leg, slightly bruised, and battered, but otherwise fine, and a stump ending right above where your knee should’ve been. Your eyes burned as your heart filled with panic. “Your knee and the cartilage around it had been pulverized. There wasn’t much we could do to save it. I’m so sorry.” At that, the room cleared. You felt a deep sadness as you stared at the empty space.

Your sinuses began to burn as tears plummeted from the corner of your eyes. You quietly sniff, trying your best not to show your heart. You found Yuta standing up by your head, sweetly stroking your hair as you cried. Johnny held your weak hand tightly, holding back his own tears, Taeyong quietly comforted him, his bubblegum pink hair covered his eyes. Jaehyun sat at the foot of your bed and rubbed your calf affectionately.

They stayed with you as much as they could in between schedules, drifting in and out with other members. Johnny and Yuta stayed most nights with you instead of going back to the dorm. They would come right after the schedules and sleep in a spare cot next to your bed, then leave early to go get ready. Taeyong, being the leader he is, drove with them and made sure you were all doing alright. Other members would bring you food when you were able to eat again and gifts like stuffed animals. Some of them even brought your things from home like your clothes and books and your toothbrush.

You felt like, after being in a hospital bed for so long, that you lived there more than anywhere. The boys always insisted on helping you with normal tasks. At first, you tried to deny it, pushing them away, but after a while, you just let them do it. If Taeil wanted to wheel you to the cafeteria, you’d let him.

As time went on, schedules become more frequent, Johnny arrived later and left earlier, and Yuta stayed less frequently, practicing during the night instead. You also became busier, focused on regaining your mobility on your own. You had been working with new technology that was pioneering new prosthetic limbs that would allow you to regain the ability to dance and would be discharged soon, going back to the dorm.

The sling holding your arm has been removed, leaving only the purple plaster of your choice, peppered in black ink where your friends had signed. Many of the other bandages have become lighter and less abundant as well. You’d been practicing walking with crutches and were able to get around without a wheelchair, but they planned to send you home with one anyway.

The day they bring you home is much less excited than you’d hoped. The boys were at schedules all day, doing interviews, with an award show that evening, so no one would be home. You had to sign all this liability paperwork before you could leave, which took quite a bit of time. You are not supposed to be left alone while at the dorm, for fear of your mental health and of possible injury, so a staff member will be accompanying you while the boys are away. Lame.

The familiar company van is loaded with equipment instead of men in shiny outfits. Your heart aches from the feeling. You sit in the back seat this time, far away from the impact point, fear creeping in your mind.

You make it to the dorm safely. Nothing to worry about. No one is present upon your arrival. You’re not even sure they know you were discharged today. The rooms are quiet and tidy as always. The silence is unnerving.

You get settled, putting all of your things that had been brought to you in the hospital, back in there original place, sitting on your bed, admiring the sight before you. You still had so much time before they got back.

Their faces light up with big smiles, when they first open the door to find you sitting at the high countertop. A line formed to give you hugs and encouraging statements, Johnny being the first and taking the longest, telling you how glad it was to have you back.

You wanted to make the members some food. You knew they’d be hungry after the show, maybe you could make some quick ramyeon for them to share on your first night home. Unfortunately, you still hadn’t gained full independence yet, so you asked the staff charged with your company, Minjae, to help you. He does most of it for you as you sit in your wheelchair, cutting vegetables and monitoring what you can. When it is ready you cover it with the lid and hoist yourself onto the bar stool and patiently wait for the energy to fill the room once more.

***

Living in the dorm after the accident was much different. Someone was always by your side, whether you wanted them or not. Taeyong had given them assignments of who would watch you without your knowledge and of course himself, Johnny and Yuta offered the most time. You became closer with other members too, going to dinner with Mark, playing games with Haechan, and watching movies with Doyoung.

You almost resented them for looking down on you. You were not lesser even though a part of you was missing, but you never told them that. Yuta was the only one that still treated you normally. He pushed you to be better. The others just did everything for you and you started to believe you were inept.

One night, you had been so depressed from lack of sunshine and human contact. You were home alone with Johnny while the others went out to celebrate a birthday. Johnny, being so much larger in stature that you, liked to carry you everywhere, but you hated it because it didn’t allow you to progress. He fell asleep early that night, exhausted from all the activities, but you couldn’t sleep. Your mind just kept spinning. Why me? Why did this have to happen to me? Why am I stuck in this house, unable to live a normal life?

You got out of bed using your crutches, being careful not to wake Johnny, as he made you sleep in Haechan’s bed when you had to stay with him. You snuck out quietly, going to the bathroom and looking as your own somber expression.

You feel your eyes start to tear up at the thoughts racing through your head. You go to take a step back, shifting your weight to you right side and CRASH. You hit your back on the cold tile floor.

The crash of the crutches were enough to wake Johnny from his deep sleep and he rushes to the bathroom, panic coating his handsome face. You don’t move for a second, but you feel no pain. Your emotions just slam through your whole body, letting all the pent-up sadness out in one foul swoop.

You prop yourself up on your hands, moving to sit with your back against the decorated wall. Johnny’s worry and panic quickly fades as he sees you sob against the wall and for once, he doesn’t offer to help you. He sits down next to you, holding his knees close to his body, allowing yours to take up more space. You lean your head on his shoulder and he lets you only saying in a soft voice, “Are you ok?” You let everything out, every emotion since the crash, all the anger, frustration, depression comes rolling out of you.

 Since the accident, you almost never dream. The dreams you do have are nightmares that keep you awake, but they’ve subsided over time. You haven’t spent very many nights alone, sneaking into the other members bedrooms. You confided in Johnny most nights and even roomed with him for a while. He was your best friend, after all. But you found yourself around Yuta a lot more than you had in a while.

After that, he doesn’t carry you. He offers a hand that you brush away, but he doesn’t insist, only hands you the crutches and waits for you to leave first, trailing behind your smaller figure.

***

You have always considered him a close friend, being the same age. It wasn’t awkward between you and you shared your innermost feelings with each other. Recently, everyone had decided that having roommates on tour is no longer necessary, so you all got separate rooms. But you hate being alone. You hate being left to your thoughts.

You got a notification on your phone, hoping for Johnny to invite you to come jam with him, but it was V App alerting you of a new live stream. “It’s been a while,” it read. Who is on this late? You open it in a state of curiosity. A familiar face appears in your hand, his wavy brown hair hanging in front of his forehead. He looked tired and depressed from the long day you’d had. You’ve been worried about his mental health recently, but he won’t tell you if something was wrong.

After waiting for some time, hoping the live would end, you grabbed your phone and key card and quietly strolled a few doors down, knocking softly, careful not to wake any other residents. The door cracks and suddenly flies open at the recognition of your face. “Hey, I’m on V App. What’s up?” He puts his hands in his pockets as you offer him a soft smile.

You don’t say anything, you just hold your arms open for him to hug you. He obliges and hugs you tightly, bending down slightly to reach you. His hugs are always so warm and lovely, but never long enough. “Can I stay?” You look up at his kind face as you pull away. “Of course.”

Yuta doesn’t really care if you stay or not, he enjoys your company but is fine to be alone. He surely cares for you and could never say no to you, especially if you pouted. There isn’t much to do, so the two of you talk with fans and mess around on your phones. There is only one chair in the room and Yuta lets you have it. “Can you talk to them for a bit, I’m gonna wash my face.” You nod with a bright smile and return to the eager fans, introducing yourself.

Throughout the live stream, Yuta seems to have his hands all over you, giving you back hugs and having you sit on his lap when the fans ask questions about you. You end up falling asleep on his fluffy plush bed and he leaves you alone for the time being, courteously trying to keep his voice down for you.

You were walking down a long stretch covered by sakura trees. That’s all you could see. It was peaceful and serene, not another living soul to be found. You move in a circle, looking for absolutely anything else, but only see the beautifully blossomed trees. What is this place?

Suddenly you see a bright flashing coming toward you and BANG. You fall to the ground, pain surging down your spine and out to every limb. You prop yourself up, checking for injury and only see one: Your leg. You could see the blood pooling around it. The pain was so realistic, you hollered and jolted yourself awake, your eyes shoot wide open and you sit up, hold your hands behind you.

Yuta turns around quickly. He then quickly turns back to the camera saying in a calm voice, “Good night, everyone. Hope you’re doing well.” He turns the camera off and puts all of his attention on you. “Another one? Are you ok?” His voice is soothing, even though it’s laced with concern. “Yeah, I think so.”

You had forgotten to take off the prosthetic leg before falling asleep. You did on most occasions, but this time, it slipped your mind. It wasn’t uncomfortable to wear, so it didn’t bother you. But as you sit up in Yuta’s bed, you avoid eye contact, only staring at the leg, still feeling the hyper realistic pain from the dream in the phantom limb.

Yuta follows your gaze and realizes why you haven’t moved yet. You typically shake off the terrifying feeling after having a nightmare, but he also knows that the spirts of phantom pain have become more frequent during dance practice and at night. He knows that the only way to make it go away is to take the prosthetic off, so he motions to help you undo the latches holding it to your body and you don’t stop him.

Once removed, Yuta sits in the shadow of where it used to lay on the bed and gently props it up against the nightstand. You relax back into bed, the pain subsiding from your body. He holds your hand and pulls himself fully onto the bed now, sitting up behind you, placing an arm around you. You adjust your position, leaning on his chest and letting him comfort you.

This is how your relationship with Yuta is. You are closer than just friends, but not allowed to date. If you could date him, you would, but it’s against company policy and you would both lose your positions.

Taeyong had helped you learn how to dance again. He and Johnny would accompany you to the doctors office when you were first getting acquainted with the new technology. Johnny still goes with you to physical therapy and has even gone as far as to help you with home exercised. Taeyong was curious about the technology at first but studied it in order to help you learn better.

He shows a lot of affection towards you, takes you out for dinner and is always saying how pretty you look. When you were first recovering from the accident, he would take you outside to play soccer. Not proper but enough to get you used to the difficult tasks. He was always supportive and was willing to help you get back on your feet.

***

You had bought yourself a pair of Heelys and made the strong decision to learn how to use them proficiently and maybe even cover a dance with them.

You had an implant in the end of your thigh, just above the incision, that acted as a neuro pathway to the prosthetics. This allowed you to consciously use the joints in your mechanical knee and ankle, allowing for better mobility. The first leg was much more advanced in the technology and easier for you to use, but looked very obvious. The second was ordered by Lee Soo Man himself, to give you a better image. It had a realistic cover that made it look real, and it was waterproof so you could swim in it. It made you feel pretty again, you could wear clothes other than pants and go swimming, but it made dancing significantly more difficult. The neuro pathway didn’t reach the ankle joint very well. You have to dance in heals in order to have proper balance. You preferred the metal one, but understood the other was also necessary.

Cherry Bomb quickly went from your favorite performance to the hardest, particularly the killing part at the end. You were one of the people supposed to drop to the floor because you were so flexible, but the balance of it became an issue. You always fell too early and would hit the ground too hard. Yuta offered to switch your positions which made you upset at first, but gave you time to perfect it again.

It wasn’t a difficult change and it would put you closer to the center at the end, but surely the fans would notice and it would hurt your pride a little. But you weren’t confident in the split part either. You practiced more by yourself or with someone else like Taeyong or Yuta in the room, but you never practiced together. So whenever you would work on that part, you would get about halfway down, then fall either onto your hands or back on your butt. You just couldn’t figure out the balance. You never even considered what it would be like as a group.

You hadn’t practiced older songs with the other members in a while, unable to actually perform, but when all nine of you were together, it was different. Your ability to dance the first part of Cherry Bomb wasn’t a problem at all, but you became nervous when you approached the ending. The switch with Yuta was smooth, unwavering, flawless. And when you formed the line down the center of the room, Taeyong turned his head to check on you, you nodded to him inconspicuously. He reached behind his back and grabbed your right hand lightly, placing it across his left shoulder, offering you stability in the front. He then glanced farther back to Yuta who also nodded to him in understanding. He softly placed his own hand in the curve of back pushing slightly when you starting to lean backwards.

Between the two of them, you had perfect stability and balance to move all the way to the correct position. A wide smile beamed on your face as the song ended and you turned to them both. “How does that work?” Taeyong inquired. All you do is hug him, then Yuta after. Gratitude filled you as you felt whole again. You were back.

[fatehbaz]

Imperial botanist from London, visiting the Great Lakes on a survey sometime in the 1790s, watching with his own two eyes as Indigenous people harvest wild rice: “No. Nope. They’re just passively harvesting it. No way do Indigenous people deliberately selectively cultivate wild rice, or harvest specific patches of vegetation growth with attention to local habitats or climates. They don’t know what they’re doing. Wild rice practically harvests itself, it takes no work at all. It’s so easy, we could introduce it to any of the Empire’s colonies across the globe. It’s cheap; feed it to the poor to keep them satiated, and we’ll pacify potential uprisings. It will be the Empire’s ultimate food crop.”

About 20 or 30 years later: ‘Through 1819, he maintained a patch of wild rice at Spring Grove, where he appointed a gardener experienced in cold climate horticulture [...]. But the plants in Lincolnshire he had intended to use for popularizing wild rice “as a food for the poor,” died out when he drained the fens. Despite Banks’s confident outlook when he published “Some Hints,” he never tested his vision for establishing wild rice plantations across the cooler temperate climates of the empire. [...] Neglecting Native American practices, the exploitation of Zizania on a larger scale would be the realization of a biblical and imperial dream of guaranteed abundance: a self-reproducing, prodigious staple impervious to unexpected change [...]. Zizania never fulfilled this dream.’ [From: Anya Zilberstein.]

More from the same article:

Traders watched Indian men and women harvesting wild rice “at the time of maturity,” which varied somewhat by region and seasonal conditions, but usually occurred in late summer or early fall. According to Kalm, on the border between New York and Quebec, Zizania that was “in full bloom” in July was harvested in October. [...] Winnowing wild rice was also quick work. [...] Stored in barrels or leather sacks and buried underground, wild rice could be preserved for years without spoiling. [...]

Officer Robert Rogers explained that Nipissings ate only “what the lake and wild desarts afford them,” including “a kind of wild maize or rice,” which he thought they “never pretend to plant or improve.” A British naturalist in Quebec seemed delighted by the fact that Indians’ “rude kind of Harvesting” allowed a considerable quantity of grain to fall into the water, which waterfowl proceeded to eat -- a desirable result, but one that he assumed was wholly unintentional.

Moreover, all European observers assumed that Zizania “sows itself” -- that Indians only harvested but did nothing to control or develop the plant, which reproduced as independently and copiously as a weed. Believing that Zizania thrived “in Abundance spontaneously,” requiring little expertise or labor […].

White’s Gentleman’s Magazine article was inspired by Carver’s suggestion that, “in future periods,” wild rice could “be of great service to the infant colonies, as it will afford them a present support, until, in the course of cultivation, other supplies may be produced.” White encouraged English farmers to create an “enlarged” variety with a hypertrophied fruit like other grains “we have at present in common use.” Once domesticated, seed could be planted as “a substitute for rice in our lately-attempted settlement in the Southern hemisphere [...].

In his fitting epigraph to “The Natural History of the Wild Rice,” Thomas Holt White, brother of Gilbert White, quoted Ecclesiastes 11. 1: “Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.” The potential rewards of this North American grass recalled a biblical parable: one could simply broadcast seeds into unimproved wetlands and return later to find a harvestable foodstuff. [...]

If they had consulted Indian cultivators, they might have predicted the difficulties in breeding Zizania. [...] Wild rice might have become the consummate alternative foodstuff of the British Empire, but when improving it was not as simple as it first appeared, Banks and other enthusiasts simply gave up. Zizania briefly inspired their beliefs in the malleability and improvement of nature.  Ultimately, it confronted them with the limits of their ability to subsume local climates and the species they deemed useful into the political economy of empire.

--

Anya Zilbertein. “Inured to Empire: Wild Rice and Climate Change.” 2015.

[spookyrobbins]

what have we done (can i be undone?)

pairing: bellatrix x hermione

description:

in the midst of the hogwarts repairs, hermione granger comes across the absolute last person she expected to see.

xx

bellatrix black wakes up to hogwarts in ruin and the year is certainly not 1968.

chapter six. 

plenty more tears in the sea

links: ao3 || ffn 

“Why do you think she keeps passing out?” Hermione asked as Hagrid laid the prone body of Bellatrix Black down in the hospital wing. “I mean, this is the second time.” 

“Gentle, Hagrid,” scolded McGonagall when Hagrid almost knocked Bellatrix’s head into the bed frame. Hagrid grunted in response. “I’m afraid Miss Black’s condition is beyond my magical expertise. I have called in Poppy. I doubt Poppy would recognize Bellatrix in her current state and even so,” she cleared her throat, “I trust that Poppy would keep this to herself.” She fixed Hagrid with an even state. “The pandemonium that would ensue if her existence got out would be beyond anything we could contain.” 

Hagrid swallowed audibly and nodded. “Er, I best be gettin’ back to the forest. Lots to do.” Hagrid ran a hand through his beard, glancing between Hermione and the professor nervously. “I’ll be seein’ ya around.” He nodded again before making his way out of the hospital wing. 

“When will Madame Pompfrey be arriving?” Hermione brushed her fingertips over Bellatrix’s wrist, marveling at how delicate and breakable she seemed, like a porcelain doll. 

McGonagall pursed her lips. “Hopefully before the Minister arrives.” 

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “You called the Minister? What are you planning on telling him?” 

“I don’t know, Miss Granger,” sighed McGonagall, pinching at the bridge of her nose. “But the longer we wait, the worse it may be for Miss Black.” Hermione’s response was stalled by the flurried arrival of Poppy Pomfrey, fresh off a shift at St. Mungo’s. 

“Minerva, what is so urgent?” She stopped in front of Bellatrix. “Who is this? A student?” 

“Of sorts, it’s very complicated and I would be happy to appraise you of the situation after you have uncovered what is wrong.” 

Pomfrey furrowed her brow, but aquiested, turning back to Bellatrix. 

Hermione watched with fascination as the medi-witch performed a series of diagnostic tests over Bellatrix. Most of the time, Herrmione was on the receiving end of such tests and as such, had no opportunity to study the techniques. 

Pomfrey, after some long minutes of testing, looked up and motioned for Hermione. “Miss Granger, I need to examine the patient’s ribcage and chest.” Hermione gingerly lifted the patterned sweater she had lent Bellatrix, far too amused by the other witch’s moaning about wearing ugly muggle clothes. A gasp fell involuntarily from her mouth. 

The black bruise that Hermione had attempted to treat the previous day had spread even further up towards her chest. The magic radiating off of Bellatrix was so dark it made Hermione’s skin crawl. 

“Sweet mother of Morgana. It is as I suspected. Dark magic, very dark magic indeed has taken ahold of this girl.” 

“What can be done, Poppy?” 

Pomfrey shook her head, looking up to McGongall. “I can make her comfortable for now, but it will come down to her own strength. Both physically and that of her magical core. This is dark magic unlike any I’ve ever seen. It feels ancient, untouchable. I have a colleague at St. Mungo’s who specialises in the effect of dark curses, I think I will consult with her. For now, I can make the girl comfortable until she wakes, which may be any moment or may not be for a while. I’m sorry, there is little I can do.” Pomfrey looked down sadly at Bellatrix. “What is her name?” 

“Bella,” said Hermione quickly, briefly squeezing Bellatrix’s fingers. 

“I’ll be back shortly. I’m going to send a message to my colleague.” 

Hermione found herself fully engrossed by the young woman asleep before her. Her dark lashes brushed against pale cheeks with a faint smattering of freckles. Hermione wanted to reach out and touch and feel how soft Bellatrix’s skin would be. 

“Minerva, Miss Granger, is everything alright…?” Kingsley’s appearance thankfully broke Hermione out of her creepy trance as she snapped her attention to the new Minister of Magic. The man’s gaze fixed on Bellatrix in the bed. “Who is this?” In a few short steps, Kingsley covered the length of the hospital wing. He stared at Bellatrix for a few long moments, trying to place her. “Minerva?” 

“That is Bellatrix Black.” 

“Black? Not Lestrange?” 

“Miss Black appeared not two days ago, plucked out of 1968. She has no memory of her life after the 9th of May, 1968, which was the last month of her final year at Hogwarts. She has no memory of marrying Rodolphus Lestrange, or becoming a Death Eater, or Azkaban,” McGonagall explained in a cool tone. 

Hermione braced herself for the inevitable explosion that would come upon the revelation of their hiding of one of the most dangerous witches in Britain.  

But it never came.

“Time turner accident then?” 

“No,” Minerva explained the circumstances of Bellatrix’s arrival, of her reincarnation. 

Kingsley sank down onto one of the nearby beds, his head falling into his hands. “Minerva, Merlin, what do you expect me to do? It’s not as if she was insignificant between 1968 and 1998. I would say after Voldemort, her death would be the one most would celebrate. What do you expect me to do about this?” 

“That is why I have asked you to come.” 

Kingsley swept a hand towards Bellatrix. “Did you stupefy her or something? Why is she asleep?” 

“She’s been having fainting spells. According to Poppy, it is the result of ancient magic.” Hermione quirked an eyebrow at McGonagall’s omission of Pomfrey’s assessment of dark magic. If even the faintest hint of dark magic was sensed around Bellatrix, the Ministry would happily obliterate her. 

Neither of the adults in the room spoke for a long while until Kingsley said, “You’ve put me in a terrible position, Minerva.”

“I understand, Kingsley,” began McGonagall, her steady voice betrayed by the way her eyes darted towards Bellatrix’s prone figure. “Perhaps for now, it would be for the best if Miss Black  remained here in secret. A leak to the public would only cause panic.” 

“A panic is the last thing we need at the moment.” Kingsley removed his glasses, revealing dark circles. “Do you know what kind of ‘ancient magic’ has afflicted her? Have you spoken with Albus?”

McGonagall shook her head. “I have consulted with Albus, which is how we determined that this was Miss Black. It’s still unclear exactly how she ended up here. Poppy is reaching out to a colleague of hers who specializes in dark and ancient magic at St. Mungo’s. Hopefully we will know more with their help.” 

The small part of Hermione’s mind that was solely focused on academic work couldn’t help but be thrilled by the potential of meeting an advanced healer. It was an area of research that Hermione had been intimately concerned with practically from the moment she met Harry Potter, but resources on the subject were few and far between. To have the opportunity to not only meet, but also observe a treatment would be amazing. 

The rest of her was highly concerned with the impending trouble of what Kingsley might do upon Bellatrix’s waking. 

(And she was certainly not thinking about the fact that she was still holding Bellatrix’s hand.)   

xx 

For what felt like the millionth time in the past few days, Bella was woken by the sensation of not being able to breathe. She clawed at her throat, her eyes still heavy from the darkness. 

The entirety of the time she was in darkness, it was as if she was falling. There were flashes. Flashes of faces that she didn’t recognize. Screams that felt as if they might tear at her skin. So much of it she didn’t recognize, except for one thing. Except for the crackling red light that had filled her nightmares longer than anything else. But it wasn’t the usual voice casting the curse. It almost sounded as if were her voice. 

“Bellatrix, you have to stop. You’re hurting yourself!” Someone finally managed to tear her hands away from her throat, half their body covering hers. “Bella!” 

Bella’s eyes flew open. 

Barely a wands-breadth away from her face was a pair of warm brown eyes, wide and terrified and again, so familiar. 

“Granger?” The other girl shifted slightly away from her, her fingers still tight around Bella’s wrist. “Granger,” she sighed with relief as she focused on the weight over her, letting it ground her. “Why’re you always staring at me?”

Granger rolled off of Bella, dropping her wrists as if Bella’s skin burned her. “You were trying to claw your own skin off.” Wordlessly, she summoned a mirror from the other side of the ward. 

Bella almost wished that this was the worst she had ever looked, bright red scars crisscrossing over her neck, but tragically, like most things in her life, it wasn’t. “Oh….” She traced a finger gingerly over the deepest mark where a thin bloody line had emerged. “What happened?” 

“You passed out again. Did you, you know, see anything maybe? The nurse thinks your fainting spells are linked to the black mark on your side.” Granger gestured to Bella’s damaged ribs. 

Bella blinked slowly, the edges of her vision still foggy. “I, hm, maybe. I’m not sure. Have you ever gone in a Pensieve?” Granger shook her head. “It was almost like that, but as if you were falling through it, rather than actually viewing a memory.” 

“What did you see?” 

Bella scrubbed a hand over her face roughly. “I-I-I don’t quite know. It was only flashes of things. Like faces I don’t recognize, but they seem familiar. And so, so much screaming.” Bella shuddered violently as a wave of cold crashed through her. To her surprise, Granger gingerly rubbed her arm as if to comfort her. “It was terrifying.”

“I’m sure, Le-Bellatrix. I can’t imagine it. How horrifying everything…” But Granger caught herself before she said anything further on the screams. Bella was so sick of the secrets, but Granger spoke before she could press the issue, “So you saw faces and heard screams? Could you make out any words?” Bella turned away from Granger, one word, in particular, echoing in her mind. “Bella, please.” The soft sound of her name, spoken in such gentle, caring way, caused her to turn back to Granger. “What did you hear? Anything could help you at this point.” 

“Not this word.” 

“Just tell me. It can’t be that bad.” 

Bella let out a high pitched laugh, her voice cracking on it. She purposefully chose to ignore the flinch that crossed Granger’s face. “Crucio.” At this, Granger all but lept away from her. Her skin went an ashy shade as her eyes widened in what Bella knew must be fear. 

Almost imperceptively, if not for the deathly silence of the hospital wing, Granger’s breath picked up. “Th-th-the Cruciatus curse?” 

“Yes,” Bella said shortly. “Only, it, it was the wrong voice.” 

“The wrong voice?”

Bella nodded. “It was my voice. Or I think it was. And there was so much light.”

Even more blood drained from Granger’s face as the girl moved towards the door, her hands trembling slightly. “I-I need to go speak to Professor McGonagall. There’s a healer coming from St. Mungo’s to check you and they’ll be coming through the Floo in her office so I’m sure we’ll be back soon. There’s, uh, feel free to read my book. I think you’d enjoy it.” Without another glance towards Bella, Granger took off like a fox fleeing a hound. 

Bella ignored the foreign ache in her ribcage as she pulled up the borrowed sweater to examine the bruise. A small gasp escaped her lips. It no longer looked like a bad Quidditch hit. No, now it stretched across her torso, as if reaching towards her heart. 

“What the actual Hades…?” 

Shaking her head a bit, she figured there was no point messing with it while she waited for the healer. 

“Gone With the Wind, oh great, I’m sure this will be the pinnacle of Muggle brilliance,” she scoffed, but opened the first page anyway. 

xx 

Hermione all but burst into the Headmistress’s office, her heart still pounding in her chest like a rabbit’s. 

“Hermione, is everything alright?” McGonagall was at her feet in an instant, moving quickly past Kingsley to catch Hermione’s arm before she stumbled over the stones. 

Hermione sucked in sharply. “I’m sorry, sorry for intruding like this, Professor, Minister.” 

Kingsley waved her apology away. “There is no need for such formality, Hermione.” 

Hermione nodded sharply, slightly shifting her weight away from McGonagall. “Uh, she’s awake.”

“Thank you for telling us so promptly, but you could’ve sent a Patronus or an elf.” McGonagall was still appraising her carefully as if searching for some hidden wound. “Are you sure you’re quite alright?” 

Hermione’s hands twisted into the sleeves of her sweater, tugging at any loose string she could find. “I asked her if she could recall anything. She said there were faces she didn’t recognize and screaming. Lots of screaming.” 

“Azkaban,” declared Kingsley, his voice low and solemn. “Within weeks, all the inmates can think to do is scream. It is truly a breeding ground for madness.” 

Hermione’s expression pinched and a brief tangent on prison reform floated to the forefront of her mind, but she pushed on. “She also said she could hear one word through all the screaming. Crucio. But, but she said that it was the ‘wrong voice’, that it was her voice. Do you think she could be remembering her life?” 

McGonagall shoved a bit of chocolate into Hermione’s hand. Where she got it from, Hermione had no clue, but nibbled at it nonetheless. 

“From what Minerva has told me, the Bellatrix who is currently in the hospital wing exists slightly outside of our reality as she is physically and mentally Bellatrix Black, but she exists after Bellatrix Lestrange’s death. Have you heard of the Muggle theory of past life regression or remembrance?” 

Hermione scoffed, “The sort of thing you’d see on late-night telly?”

Kingsley chuckled, “Precisely. Perhaps Miss Black is experiencing only brief moments or images from her later life rather than remembering its entirety.” 

“I suppose that’s possible. But it doesn’t explain why she keeps fainting.” Hermione conceded after finishing off her bit of chocolate. “The fainting and the flashes seem to be directly linked to the magic on her body.” 

“And her emotions, but I suppose Miss Black has always had a close relationship between her emotions and her magic,” McGonagall inserted, an almost wistful look on her lined face. 

“Is that,” Hermione began, but paused until McGonagall motioned for her to continue, “Is that why she went so mad and her magic became so corrupted?” 

“Perhaps. As Kingsley said, Azkaban breeds madness and Bellatrix, with her family history, would be at special risk for madness. The emotional connection with her magic would only worsen it. It is part of what makes her such a dangerous dueller, that she taps into instinct and emotion, rather than intellect as she fights. Rather like Mr. Potter, I’d say.” 

Kingsley hummed in acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on Snape’s portrait, which was conspicuously empty. “We still have the issue of what to do with her. Obviously we can’t reveal her to the public, but sooner or later people will recognize her.” 

“She does have a rather recognizable face,” Hermione said as images of bright eyes and wild hair flashed before her. 

“And most of the wizarding population has become intimately acquainted with it,” Kingsley continued, “Even if she is thirty some years younger and without the impact of Azkaban, I think many would make the connection.” 

“For now, I suggest she remains at Hogwarts. There will be few visitors at the castle for nearly four months, giving us further time to come up with a plan. Perhaps, if you would be amenable to it, Minister, you could send an Unspeakable to run further tests on Miss Black. If there’s a chance she can be returned to her time, I think that would be in everyone’s best interest.” 

As the two adults discussed the logistics of an Unspeakable at Hogwarts, Hermione couldn’t help the strange twinge in her chest at the idea of Bellatrix leaving. On the one hand, she was terrifying and her potential for violence and terror cast fear into Hermione’s heart. But on the other, all Hermione could see was a brilliant girl who had her potential snuffed out at seventeen. 

Even as she ruminated on Bellatrix’s potential innocence as she was now, that prickle of fear when Bellatrix had said Crucio reappeared. There was no denying the deep wounds Lestrange had imprinted upon Hermione both physically and mentally and she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be free of them. Everyone carrying scars from the war, but few were as emotionally taxing as the one carved into Hermione’s arm. 

To put it frankly, Hermione wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to separate the bright-eyed Bella from the manic Bellatrix. 

xx 

Bella was curled up on one of the beds in the hospital wing, waiting for the medi-witch to arrive. 

The magic along her torso felt like it was slowly eating away at her, corrupting her. 

Whoever this witch was, she hoped they could at least tell her what was happening. 

She had just been introduced to Rhett Butler and found him to be a rather infuriating character when the fireplace in front of her bloomed green flames. 

A witch emerged, shaking soot from her hair. 

The witch’s face was so familiar, just older than when Bella had last seen her. 

“Andy?” Bella’s voice cracked on her sister’s name. Everything in this time was so strange and unfamiliar to her: the broken castle, Headmistress McGonagall, screeching elves, the lot of it. So to see her most beloved sister’s face was a balm unlike any other. “Andy, it’s really you!” 

She launched at Andromeda, her book long forgotten. She wrapped her arms around her sister’s neck, burying her face there. Andromeda still wore the same perfume, even after all these years. It was as close to the smell of home as Bella ever would get. The soft notes of gardenia never ceased to settle Bella from even her most dangerous states. 

But it was gone too soon as Andromeda pushed her away, her eyes wide and wild. 

“Bellatrix!” Andromeda had never said her name with so much, with so much hatred. “Get away from me, you, you monster!” 

“Andy?” Bella’s lip trembled as she stared at her sister. “Andy, please…” 

“Stay back.” 

But Bella had never been very good at listening to directions and took a step towards her sister. “Andy, it’s me, it’s Bella.” Bella stumbled back as Andromeda punched her, her wedding ring slicing across Bella’s left cheek. 

“Oh god,” Andromeda gasped, taking a step towards Bella, but Bella stumbled back, trying to fight the fog threatening to overtake her mind. 

Bella didn’t linger to hear what Andromeda had to say. She just took off running. She wasn’t even aware of where her feet took her until she collapsed at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Her chest ached painfully as if her heart was trying to escape her ribcage.

Something dropped onto her hand, shocking her slightly. She glanced down to find a dark droplet of blood on her pale skin. The moonlight made it almost luminescent. She brushed her fingers along her cheek as blood spilled from the cut along her cheek. 

It was too much. Too much. That Andy, her Andy would raise a hand to her. 

After everything Bella went through to protect her. 

Of course, Bella would do anything to protect both her sisters. But what she was doing and had done to save Andy. 

Did this mean she failed? 

It must be. She must have failed to protect her. 

The voices of two little girls came softly to Bella as she curled into a corner of the Astronomy Tower. 

“Andy, can you hold Cissy for a while? You havta keep her sleeping.” 

“Of course, Bella. Cissy loves me holding her.” 

“You hold Cissy and stay quiet while I go down stairs and talk to Father.” 

“Where’s Mother?” 

“In the bottle, I’m sure. Don’t you worry, little bird, I’ll always keep you safe.” 

“I’ll always keep you safe. I’ll always keep you safe.” Bella kept repeating the words over and over to herself, rocking slightly as the cool night air cut through her sweater. “I’ll always keep you safe.” 

[delhi-architect2]

Journal - Niemeyer and Beyond: A Guide to Modernist Brazilian Architecture

Architects, interior designers, rendering artists, landscape architects, engineers, photographers and real estate developers are invited to submit their firm for the inaugural A+Firm Awards, celebrating the talented teams behind the world’s best architecture. Register today.

An end of an era came in December 2012 when Oscar Niemeyer passed away. For many, Niemeyer’s name was synonymous with modernism in Brazil, or even in Latin America. In his 104 years he managed completed dozens of iconic projects, gaining global recognition.

However, Niemeyer was not the only modernist architect working in Brazil, which is full of elegant, imaginative buildings from other home-grown masters. Following our recent dig into Mexican modernism, we now turn to look at Niemeyer’s work, as well as some of Brazil’s lesser-known modernists.

Oscar Niemeyer – a name that is synonymous with Brazilian modernism. Top: Church of Saint Francis of Assisi in Pampulha, Belo Horizonte. Bottom: Mac de Niteroi Museum in Rio de Janeiro. Photos: Via + Wikimedia

Oscar Niemeyer

Niemeyer was born and raised in Rio de Janeiro along with his five siblings. His father was a graphic designers who recognized his son’s visual talent early on. The young Oscar was sent to study at the National School of Fine Arts, where he was trained as an architect. Fortunately for him, the school’s dean, architect Lucio Costa, noticed him. Costa “adopted” Niemeyer and included him in a team of designers who worked on the Ministry of Education and Health in Rio (a project for which Le Corbusier was a consultant). Funnily enough, the building today is associated with Niemeyer more than with any other architect.

Though the two collaborated again later, Neimeyer soon outgrew his mentor. Through the 1940s and 50s, he shaped his free-form modernist language, a language so strong and communicative it soon became synonymous with Brazil’s modernity and Latin America’s advancement.

Niemeyer belonged to the far-left parties in Brazil and for most of his adult life was associated with Brazilian communism. His most well-known project is in Brasilia, where in 1956 he designed a series of governmental buildings. Niemeyer was active in other parts of the world, too; he participated in the planning of the UN Headquarters in New York, planned a desert-city and a university tower in Israel, and much more. Like Le Corbusier, he was one of the first “global” architects. In 1988, he was awarded the Pritzker Prize. Later in 2003, he designed the summer pavilion for London’s Serpentine Gallery. His buildings are instantly recognizable: They exhibit an outstanding continuity of design in colors, daring geometry, and extravagant simplicity.

Niemeyer’s designs in Brasilia, 1956: an architectural project of international importance. Lucio Costa was in charge of the project’s master plan, yet his name is hardly as commonly associated with it as is Niemeyer’s. Photo via

Niemeyer’s pavilion for the Serpentine Gallery in London, 2003. Continuity in design. Photo via

A view of the UN Headquarters on the East River bank in Manhattan—a project designed by Niemeyer with Le Corbusier, Harrison and Abramovitz and others in 1952. Photo via

Lucio Costa

Architect and urban planner Lucio Costa was director of Niemeyer’s university, the National School of Fine Arts in Rio De Janeiro, from 1930 on. This was the beginning of a complex, lengthy professional relationship between the two. After hiring Niemeyer for the planning of the Ministry of Education and Health, a massive modernist project in the heart of Rio, Costa and Niemeyer collaborated again on the project of Brasilia, for which Costa was the master-planner and Niemeyer a central designer.

Another mutual project was their Brazil Pavilion at the New York City World’s Fair, 1939. With his political connections, Costa pushed for the modernization of Brazilian architecture his whole life, and is responsible for the approval and execution of many of the country’s modern assets.

Interior lobby, ground-floor colonnade, and garden-terrace of Rio’s Ministry of Education and Health, designed by Lucio Costa and his (then) ambitious intern Oscar Niemeyer. The garden terrace was designed in collaboration with landscape architect Roberto Burle Marx (see below). Photos via and via flickr

Brazil’s Pavilion at the World’s Fair in New York City, 1939, by Costa and Niemeyer. Already a distinct modernist language. Photo via

Costa’s plan for Brasilia: A modern utopia. Image via

Joao Batista Vilanova Artigas

Artigas was a prominent figure as a practicing architect and educator in Brazil. Born in Curitiba, he studied at the Polytechnic School of the Sao Paulo University, where he later taught. In the 1940s, he was among a group of professors that pushed to establish the university’s architecture faculty. The faculty’s building was designed by him with Carlos Cascaldi in 1960. Other notable projects of his include his own home in Sao Paulo, the Itanhaém School, the Guarulhos Building-blocks, and the Santapaula Marina.

Top: Edificio FAU-USP (Architecture Faculty at the University of Sao Paulo) by Artigas and Carlos Cascaldi. Photo via. Bottom: Artigas’s own residence in Sao Paulo. Photo via

Paulo Mendes Da Rocha

Though not nearly as famous as Niemeyer, Paulo Mendes Da Rocha (born 1928) is one of Brazil’s better-known architects, receiving the Mies Van Der Rohe Prize in 2000 and the Pritzker Prize in 2006. Mendes Da Rocha practiced “Brazilian Brutalism” — a method of concrete usage to produce casts inexpensively and quickly. His most striking projects include Cais das Artes in Vitoria and the Gerassi House, the Saint Peter Chapel, and the Pinacotheca, all in Sao Paulo.

The “Cais Des Artes” by Mendes Da Rocha and architecture office METRO. Photo via

A brutalist detail of one of Mendes Da Rocha’s early works, the Gymnasium in the Paulistano Athletics Club of Sao Paulo. Photo via

Chapel of Saint Peter, Campos de Jordão, São Paulo, Brazil, 1987 by Mendes Da Rocha. Photo via

The Brazilian Museum of Sculpture, São Paulo, Brazil, 1988. Photo via

José Augusto Belluci

A distant relative of Felix Candela in style, Jose Augusto Belluci is a Brazilian modernist with few still-existing works. His cathedral of Maringa, however, is one of the country’s mid-century icons.

The Cathedral of Maringa by Belluci (1959-1972). A strange, but loved, piece of mid-century modernism. Photo via

Roberto Burle Marx

Burle Marx, born 1909, was perhaps Brazil’s most notable landscape architect and artist in the 20th century. His vision was clear: He took Brazil’s tropical fauna and gave it grammar and discipline. Burle Marx collaborated with Niemeyer and Costa on Rio’s Ministry of Education and Health, designing the building’s gardens.

His additions to the project were so noticeable, so modern and striking, that his name became as known as those of the architects. Burle Marx was also a painting and a jewelry designer. An exhibition marking his 100th birthday was exhibited in Rio De Janeiro and Sao Paulo in 2009.

House: Niemeyer. Landscape: Burle Marx. A private residence in Petropolis, Brazil.

Another collaboration with Niemeyer, this time in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Brasilia.

The Copacabana boardwalk by Burle Marx, later copied in different places around the world. All photos via

Museum visitors viewing paintings by the multitalented Burle Marx. Photos via

Affonso Eduardo Reidy

Though his career was brief, Affonso Eduardo Reidy was a strong force within Brazil’s push for modernism. As a teacher in the National School of Fine Arts, he worked alongside Lucio Costa to develop a distinct architectural school of Rio De Janeiro. His boldest project was the Museum of Modern Art of Rio, a rib-shape building made of exposed concrete.

A sensual housing block (“Conjunto Residencial Prefeito Mendes de Moraes”) in Rio, designed by Reidy in 1947. Photo via

The Museum of Modern Art in Rio (facade and staircase detail). Photos via flickr and via

Rino Levi

Born in Sao Paulo, Rino Levi was a Brazilian of Italian descent. In 1926, he graduated from the Superior School of Architecture in Rome, where he studied after a brief period in the architecture department of the Brera Academy in Milan. Once returning to Brazil, Levi started working in different firms and later established his own practice. Influenced by Italian modernism, Levi’s designs are colorful and simple, less extravagant than his contemporaries.

One of Levi’s iconic designs is this residence, designed for Olivo Gomes. Photos via

Intricate facade compositions in Rino Levi’s skyscraper – Banco Sudamericano de Brasil – in Sao Paulo. Photo via

Lina Bo Bardi

Lina Bo Bardi, born in Italy, was one of Brazil’s most prolific modernist architects. Before moving to Brazil, she was active as an architect, writer, and illustrator, and even ran Domus magazine in Milan for a few years. After her arrival in Rio De Janeiro, 1946, Bo Bardi established her own practice.

She developed a large body of work and a distinct language, using exposed concrete in sculptural ways and contrasting it with bright, warm colors. Bo Bardi’s work was shown at the Venice Architecture Biennale and the British Council in London; she was also was the focus of an exhibition curated by Hans Ulrich Obrist (in two buildings she herself designed).

Lina Bo Bardi’s masterpiece, the SESC Pompéia Building, photographed by Pedro Kok. Photo via

The Museum of Art of Sao Paulo, designed as a lifted rectangular mass with a red constructive frame. Photo via

Bo Bardi’s Glass House (her own residence) in Mata Atlantica (near Sao Paulo). Photo via

Sergio Bernardes

Originally a pilot, Sergio Wladimir Bernardes graduated from the faculty of architecture at the National University of Brazil in 1948. Even as a student, Bernardes caught the attention of the public when a theoretical project of his was published in the French magazine L’Architecture D’Ajourdhui.

Later, as a young architect in Rio, he worked with Niemeyer and Costa and by 1951 had already built his first commission, a private home. Of his most eccentric designs are the utopian Hotel Tropical Tambau, as well as a stadium, an airport and some case-study-style houses.

Hotel Tropical Tambau by Sergio Bernardes. A utopian design of socialism and leisure. Photo via

Drawings and a facade of the Lota de Macedo Soares house, designed by Bernardes in Petropolis, Brazil. Drawing via, photo via

Icaro de Castro Mello

Icaro de Castro Mello was not only an architect; he was also an award-winning athlete. After studying architecture, he founded the Castro Mello firm (still practicing), devoted to the design of sports facilities. Specializing in this area, Castro Mello was able to execute numerous stadiums and other arenas in Brazil, including the national stadium in Brasilia.

Top: The Stadium of the University of Sao Paulo. Bottom: The National Stadium in Brasilia. Photo via and via

Osvaldo Bratke

Mainly active in the residential-project sphere, Bratke was in charge of building a viaduct in Sao Paulo followed by private residences around the city. His most central project was the house of Oscar Americano, completed in 1953.

Inside and out at the residence of Oscar Americano. Photos via

Deccio Tozzi

Though much younger than most of the honorary members above, Deccio Tozzi (born 1936) was already active in the 1960s and continued the modern movement into the 21st century. His 2002 project, the Veneza Farm Chapel, could have easily been built 50 years before.

Deccio Tozzi’s school “Jardim Ipê”, 1965. Photo via

The Veneza Farm Chapel by Tozzi. Photo via

Recommended books on Brazilian Modernism: Brazil’s Modern Architecture by Elisabetta Andreoli / Phaidon Press, When Brazil Was Modern by Lauro Cavalcanti / Princeton Architectural Press, and Oscar Niemeyer and Brazilian Free-Form Modernism by David Underwood.

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The post Niemeyer and Beyond: A Guide to Modernist Brazilian Architecture appeared first on Journal.

from Journal https://architizer.com/blog/inspiration/stories/oscar-niemeyer-brazil-modernism/ Originally published on ARCHITIZER RSS Feed: https://architizer.com/blog

[legobiwan]

Whumptober #3 (delirium)

TW: some gory imagery, more than what is considered a reasonable word count

Fandom: Star Wars (Obi-wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Ahsoka Tano)

Notes: this got out of control so a lot is under the cut and yet I’m already behind and hopefully going to work on Day 4 RIGHT NOW. Learning how to let go of my obsessive need to edit and just churn it out, for better or worse.

—–

Obi-wan strode down the abandoned corridor of the Star Destroyer. If his steps tapped a click too fast, rhythm disjointed, anxious - well, it had been an exhausting week.

Not that Anakin was helping matters at all.

Still, for once Obi-wan couldn’t criticize his former student’s tetchy behavior, at least not entirely. One did not touch the Dark Side, have it fill their unwilling body, without consequence.

Obi-wan paused, reaching out with the Force. Not that he needed to extend much effort - the agitated waves were likely being broadcast all the way back to Coruscant.

Ahsoka, resilient as always, seemed to be faring a bit better. If she hung around Rex a bit more than usual, spent twice the time necessary doing inventory checks, and joined in the secret sabaac-tournament with some of the shinys - well, no one saw fit to say anything, especially Obi-wan himself. For now, distraction was the best strategy. There would be time, he hoped, when they returned to the Temple - after the inevitable debrief, the mandatory meeting with a mindhealer, the consultation with another member of the Council - there would be time for her to grapple face-to-face with she had briefly become. Her faith might be shaken, but Ahsoka was solid, a series of roots reaching deep into an albino plains, a landscape neither of the light or dark, but something else entirely. Obi-wan would be lying if he said it didn’t concern him just a bit, this idea that Ahsoka seemed to drifting from how the Jedi would traditionally define the light.

Then again, being a student of one Anakin Skywalker was bound to place one on a more nontraditional path.

Obi-wan paused the the intersection of two hallways, long, grey expanses stretching on either side, dark pinpricks looming at the the edge of his vision somehow casting a long shadow curling near his boots. He ran a tired hand over his face, ignoring the slight flutter in his chest.

There. In the secondary mechanic’s bay. Not that he had needed to use the Force to deduct that turn of events. Anakin tinkering with old droids had been his favored coping mechanism since he had been a small, blonde ragamuffin. Obi-wan would know, having hauled his oil-streaked, wayward Padawan from every possible room that even breathed the promise of chaotic mechanics.

It had been easier, then.

Well, in a manner of speaking. As a child, Anakin had still been prone to bouts of temper and melacholy, but it was far easier to mollify a nine-year old boy with the promise of a trip to the junk heaps and a sweet than it was a twenty-something man burdened by unfair expectations of prophecy.

Obi-wan preferred not to think about where those expectations had originated.

It was craven, in a way, sneaking up on Anakin like this, shrouding his Force presence from his former student. Force knew the two of them had had so many confrontations over the years, adding one more to the list wasn’t going to change the balance of anything.

But Obi-wan was concerned, and even a short glimpse into Anakin’s unprotected Force presence might tell him something.

And besides, Obi-wan was so very tired.

True to form, Anakin was hunched over some ridiculous piece of machinery eight-armed, head whirring as it made angry buzzes, spewing a stream of night-black lubricant Obi-wan managed to avoid by a careful inch.

Anakin let loose a string of curses, throwing his hydrospanner to the floor.

Some things didn’t change.

“It’s not supposed to do that,” Anakin muttered, kicking at the disposed tool, sending it skittering across the bay.

Irritation, impatience, guilt - these were all par for the course with Anakin. Not that Council would approve of a Jedi Knight broadcasting his ill-temper but at the very least, Obi-wan couldn’t sense anything more malevolent.

“Do what,” the older Jedi drawled, “imitate a swarm of angry bees or act as a rather disgusting garden hose?”

Anakin jerked around, wide-eyed expression folding in to a practiced pout as he swung around to the droid in question with an irritated grunt.

“You again.”

Obi-wan crossed his arms over his abdomen, frowning. “Yes, me again, Anakin.”

The beleaguered hydrospanner flew into Anakin’s open had. Obi-wan bit back a comment regarding inappropriate use of the Force as Anakin attacked the droid’s mechanism with vindictive dedication. Whatever Anakin’s plan (or lack thereof), his newest ministrations resulted in the droid hopping off the table, all eight arms akimbo, flailing wildly as it let out of violent buzz before it crashed out of the mechanic’s bay with a series of loud, clunky hops.

The cacophony was not doing wonders for the beginnings of the headache curling behind Obi-wan’s eyes.

“Well, that was…something,” Obi-wan observed, pressing his thumb and forefingers into his eye sockets, hoping to forestall the inevitable headache and series of stimsticks needed to pretend it wasn’t there.

Anakin whacked the side of the abandoned metal table with his hydrospanner.

“I know what you’re doing, Master.”

This time, Obi-wan did allow himself a loud, frustrated sigh.

“Anakin, I told you before - “

“Yeah, I know. That you needed to keep an eye on me in case I’m contaminated, in case I go dark side on you.”

“That’s not at all what I said - “

In one step Anakin’s angry face filled his vision, his breath hot on Obi-wan’s nose. “You didn’t need to,” he hissed. “I see the way you look at me, how you prod at my Force presence, like I’m something dangerous.”

Obi-wan winced, memories of an ill-timed comment made in the heat of frustration threatening surface.

“You don’t get it, do you? You’re too much of a perfect Jedi, wouldn’t understand how we could be so weak, to let the Brother take us, to fail!” Anakin’s voice rose, the Force swirling in tandem as he hurled the hydrospanner across the room.

“I never asked for any of it!”

Obi-wan swallowed over the panic balling in his throat, the image of Anakin’s yellowed eyes overlaying the angry brown eyes staring back at him.

“Please, Anakin,” the words tumbled from Obi-wan’s lips before he could stop them, a plea, anything to keep that terrible visage from Mortis away from Anakin.  “You need to know, I should have told you - “

But Obi-wan’s overture played to deaf ears as Anakin huffed, anger draining to a shadow of frustration, of well-worn feelings of betrayal.

“Save it for the Council, Obi-wan,” Anakin said, sweeping from the room without a second glance back, footsteps fading down the long, grey corridor, leaving Obi-wan at the mercy of an oppressive, accusatory vacuum.

The confession died, foul and rotting on his tongue.

I did feel the Dark Side on Mortis.

You just weren’t there to witness it.

No one was.

Knees buckling, Obi-wan lowered himself to the floor, back sliding against the side of the mechanic’s table. It would be against every tenet of the Jedi Code to compel the nearest sentient being into bringing a bottle of something cheap and alcoholic, and the only stopping him was the complete lack of company in this section of the ship.

Abandoned, even by his own Padawan.

It wasn’t that he had only felt the Dark Side on Mortis - they all had borne the overwhelming weight  of it, the impossibly density of the Son’s increasingly malevolent presence, Anakin most of all.

I did feel the Dark Side on Mortis. Not only felt, but was taken by it, allowed it in.

It had been the cave. Ahsoka slept as Obi-wan had taken first watch.

And then the specter of his dead Master had come to converse.

Obi-wan chuckled, a dark and twisted sound.

Hadn’t been much of a conversation. They had picked up right where they had left off, Qui-gon dying in his arms, his final moments in the universe dedicated to his ridiculous prophecies, extracting a promise Obi-wan could not in any way deny.

I didn’t believe in the prophecy. I believed for him.

I still do.

This illusory Qui-gon - it was too real, his old Master returning with nary a word for Obi-wan, his whole attention (so hard to gain, yet overwhelming when granted) focused on Anakin’s progress, on the promise made for Anakin, on the prophecy about Anakin -

Even now, the Force shrieked, metal grinding on metal, an echo of the discordant psalm of his anger.

On Mortis, that same sensation had swollen, sickly and throbbing, an untreated, festering boil growing rotted teeth, jaws, a fecund mandible unhinging in an impossible manner, devouring Obi-wan in his entirety.

Qui-gon’s ghost had been but the prelude to a terrible symphony.

Warmth trickled down his chin, sputtering a path from nose to beard. Obi-wan felt at his face, frowning as his gloved fingers came back sticky and viscous.

“I’m sorry, Obi-wan.” Qui-gon’s specter looked on with stony disapproval. “You’ve failed the test.”

Something hooked at Obi-wan’s stomach, sharp and painful. It pulled at him, waist first, legs and arms trailing his midsection. Qui-gon remained steady, his stare fixed as Obi-wan was wrenched through the air, slamming onto his back as he fell to the unforgiving, stony earth.

He tried opening his eyes, but the lids were too heavy, his skull to rattled as his brain tried to throb out of his head. Finally, he wrenched one bloodshot eye open,  only to be met with a long corridor of grey stone in either direction, Qui-gon nowhere to be seen.

Failure. That’s all he had been. All those years, every effort he made to obey, to predict what Qui-gon wanted (an impossible task) - and for what?

Capable.

Not good, not even trying. Just…capable.

Obi-wan sat up, groaning as he clenched his battered midsection.

Too fast. The world tilted at a sickening angle and immediately Obi-wan leaned over, retching, his stomach empty for too many hours to produce anything but a thin, interrupted stream of bile.

Failure.

It shouldn’t tear at his fragile stomach the way it did. He had accepted this fact, come to terms with it years ago. And still, it ripped open that unhealed sore, a vulnerability he had long since considered well and buried.

So much time, so much effort following the Code, adhering to the Council, trying, with all due diligence, to combat the invisible mark upon himself, to prove that it was only an illusory scar, some minor inconvenience rather than a virus embedded into his cells, a virus that would always resurface, no matter how many time he would lance the wound with white-hot repentance.

And for what?

Hours spent for someone else’s vision, for someone else’s development, for someone else’s betterment. And there Obi-wan was, capable, reliable Obi-wan, the bedrock, never-changing, steady and solid and ground digging into his flesh.

Obi-wan burned.

It was like Qui-gon had said.

He was a failure.

Velvet temptation coiled in Obi-wan’s chest.

Without faith in the Light, his path to being a Jedi, to being the Master of the so-called Chosen One, to occupying a seat on the Council - his path’s true form was exposed. An iron lattice wrought from lies and condescensions, from last-ditch choices and desperate measures.

Nothing but a convenient excuse, a capable beast of burden for Qui-gon’s prophecies, for the Council’s unsolvable problems.

Obi-wan stood in one fluid motion. He reached to his side, weapon igniting as he held it over his head.

(He’s on Mandalore, the terrorists who would dare threaten Satine impaled on his weapon, one by one. He eliminates Tal Merrick with an easy gesture, an open hand, fingers curled as the useless traitor falls to the ground, face ashen. He sees his mortal enemy, the red and black phantom, now bisected once, twice, his head lopped bouncing off the sides of the reactor shaft with a series of satisfying plops. He raises his weapon again, blue turned a darker shade, violet as he eliminates the criminals who wish terrorize some poor defenseless farmers. He’s dressed in a black cape, hidden in shadow, the corrupt Senator falling dead to the floor, the untraceable poison having done its work, securing a brighter future for Thy’llda. He confronts the cowardly Rael Aveross, does what the Council should have done decades ago, leaving his fresh corpse as a monument to Pijal’s bloody history. His weapon turns darker again and he’s in the Council room, angry, the Jedi have become as corrupt as the Senate and skwers Mace Windu with his crimson blade, lops off the arms of Kit Fisto with a sharp smile, and there’s Anakin and Ahsoka, hands bloody with their own crimes, and he raises his weapon to, satisfaction pooling in his stomach and brings it down - )

Obi-wan opens his eyes and screams.

The floor of the cave is cold and damp, the chill seeping past his robes, past his clammy skin, burrowing into his chest, which rises and falls in sharp, shaky movements. Obi-wan shivers, craving a warmth he think he’ll never touch again, the memory of that sickly, viscous satisfaction still lying heavy in his groin.

He runs a hand over wet eyes, arm bumping against cool metal on his side. Obi-wan jumps to his feet, world spinning, illuminating his lightsaber, his eyes closed.

He’s afraid to look, doesn’t want to know what judgement has been passed on him in this terrible place the sees past all his defenses into his darkest desires.

But Jedi or not, he has to know, and so he peels his eyelids open, relief and disbelief flooding his body as a familiar blue light shines in the dark.

Ahsoka is still asleep and Obi-wan watches the steady and fall of her shoulders with a strange cocktail of relief and guilt.

He would have killed her. Killed Anakin. Killed them all.

Shutting down his saber with a shaky breath, Obi-wan comes to his knees in a simple meditation pose. He won’t meditate, he knows, but the gesture of penitence - the small, sharp rocks digging into his skin, the cramp in his muscles after hours of not moving - it will be something, a mere drop contrition weighed against the vast ocean of his imagined crimes.

He will let Ahsoka sleep into the second watch, allow the innocent, the unmarked the kindness of oblivion on this cursed planet.

legobiwan does whumptober

[politicalmamaduck]

The Last Shot

A Smuggler Ben Solo/Dark Side Rey arranged marriage fic for @the-reylo-void. Many thanks to @rapturousaurora for betaing, @cosetteskywalker for the above moodboards, and @aionimica for her drawing of Rey in her wedding dress!

Read it on AO3 here, and listen to the playlist here!

Now complete, and rated M!

Epilogue | Chapter Thirty: The Throne Room | Chapter Twenty Nine: The Plan | Chapter Twenty Eight: You’re Not Alone | Chapter Twenty Seven: Balance | Chapter Twenty Six: Light to Meet | Chapter Twenty Five: Darkness Rising | Chapter Twenty Four: The Betrayal | Chapter Twenty Three: Stay | Chapter Twenty Two: The Storm | Chapter Twenty One: The Fulcrum | Chapter Twenty: In Darkness | Chapter Nineteen: Rey’s Dream | Chapter Eighteen: Jakku | Chapter Seventeen: The First Flashback | Chapter Sixteen: The Rendezvous | Chapter Fifteen: Tatooine | Chapter Fourteen: The First Mission | Chapter Thirteen: Goodbye to Naboo | Chapter Twelve: The Wedding Night | Chapter Eleven: The Aftermath | Chapter Ten: The Wedding | Chapter Nine: Naboo | Chapter Eight: The Time in Between | Chapter Seven: The Negotiations | Chapter Six: The Duel | Chapter Five: The Discovery | Chapter Four: The Bargain | Chapter Three: The Bounty | Chapter Two: The Meeting | Chapter One: The Treaty

Her fingers traced the spines, soft and yet firm, precious bound flimsis that held the wisdom of the ancients. She both longed and feared to read them, though Ben assured her they contained nothing that she did not already know.

She and Ben would deliver the original Jedi texts to the royal library on Naboo, a gift from Luke Skywalker himself. They were looking forward to the privileged access they would receive to the rest of the collection, the poetry in particular. Rey also wished to consult the genealogy tables, and ask about updating that of House Palpatine’s.  

Rey walked to the Falcon’s cockpit, seemingly within a trance, thinking about how beautiful and peaceful it was on Naboo, and the overwhelming spectacle that had been their wedding. She sat back down next to Ben, who took her hand and smiled. They remained sitting there for a moment, until Ben speaking once more about the poetry on Naboo drew her out from her reverie. 

He continued, “I used to write really bad poetry in Alderaanian. It was a good excuse for me to practice calligraphy, which was my favorite hobby. Besides reading history, and asking my mom if I could braid her hair. I was good at calligraphy, not nearly as good at hair braiding as she was.”

“Will you braid my hair? It seems like a convenient hairstyle.”

“Alderaanian braids are not just convenient, they’re beautiful, and each has a meaning,” Ben replied. “I’ll teach you,” he continued. “I’ll ask my mother about a wedding braid.”

Rey looked at Ben, startled. 

“Is that a proposal, Ben Solo?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

She did not expect what she received as an answer. Her eyebrows raised while Ben got down on one knee, the blue streaks of hyperspace casting light and shadow across his face and dark hair, illuminating him while the Falcon safely cruised on auto-pilot. 

He handed Rey a scroll wrapped with a ring. 

Intricate calligraphy spelled her name. Inside was an equally beautiful calligraphy poem in multiple languages. 

Rey felt tears spring to her eyes. She looked down at Ben, whose eyes also glistened. 

“Will you marry me? For real this time?” 

Rey nodded and sniffed, forcing the tears back. 

“Yes, Benjamin Bail Organa Solo, I will marry you for real.” 

Ben grinned and laughed, sweeping Rey up into his arms, twirling her about the cockpit. He placed the ring on her finger, savoring how it looked.

They kissed, and their bond opened up between them once again, incandescent with joy, their flaws and fears and anger and insecurities laid bare and accepted. 

Together, they were balanced, their whole made greater than the sum of their parts. Neither was a Jedi, and that suited them both. They both overcame their anger and darkness and recognized it as a part of themselves. 

They kissed their way to the captain’s cabin, slightly stumbling as they went, for their hands and mouths were busy exploring the other. 

Ben walked backwards to the bed, Rey pushing and leaning him into it. 

Ben pulled off his shirt, and Rey straddled him, running her hands down his chest. 

She grinned wickedly, and Ben grinned too, reaching up to push a lock of her hair back behind her ear. 

She began unbuckling his pants, while he wound his hands under her shirt, feeling her skin’s warmth and savoring its softness, before pulling it off, causing her hair to have loose strands framing her face. 

Rey stopped what she was doing for a moment, and Ben sat up. 

“Rey, are you alright? We can stop. We don’t have to do this now.”

She laughed once more, to Ben’s ears the most beautiful sound in the galaxy. When they first met, he never thought he’d see her smile, let alone hear her laugh. 

“I’m fine. It’s just that I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

He smiled, and pulled her to him for another kiss. “Me too.”

Ben leaned back down onto the bed, and they both relaxed into their bond, the Force entwining them as their bodies entwined. Their breathing deepened, their pupils dilated, and their hearts beat together as if one. 

Rey kissed her way down Ben’s broad chest while he undid her hair, both taking their time, stroking and admiring as they went. Ben’s hands moved to her back, caressing and kneading the knots away. 

Rey ground against Ben’s length. He moaned, and she savored the sound, another wicked grin upon her face. 

It was then that he sat up, gently pushing her down onto the bed and smiling softly back at her. 

“Trust me,” he murmured, kissing her once more, and then pulled off her pants and undergarments. He knelt before her, kissing his way down her body, then took her into his mouth. 

Rey moaned in turn and grasped the sheets beneath her. Ben would have grinned as wickedly as Rey if his lips had not been put to better use at the moment. He sucked and lapped her with his tongue, producing a variety of further moans and heavy breathing from Rey. 

“Ben, please,” she begged until she came. He sat up, felt her climax through the bond and held her hands through it, not wanting to let go, to lose their physical connection. 

After recovering, Rey straddled Ben once more, wanting to give him some of what he had given her. Their hearts and bodies moved as one, uniting and joining with each hip roll and thrust. 

They climaxed together, and it seemed as if their bond burst with light. 

Ben and Rey spent the rest of the night peacefully sleeping, free of nightmares or visions, their bodies still entwined. 

…

It was a bright, sunny day on Naboo when Rey and Ben renewed their wedding vows. This time, the ceremony was much smaller; only their intimates attended, including the Knights, who had elected Falisa as their new Master. 

Rey wore another stunning black gown for the occasion. There was none of the awkward formality of their previous wedding, but rather, a true celebration of two people truly becoming one, having found their peace with themselves and one another.

[bodegacowboy]

Heartwork

I am aghast I almost forgot about NaruSaku day. Not even sure if it’s still going on (on tumblr) but if it is....Happy belated NaruSaku day. Here’s something I put together very quickly that was inspired (ripped off) by a P.G. Wodehouse short story and one or two Macy Gray songs.

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Custom dictated that every December the elder monk at the Fire temple and the Hokage of Konohagakure would each display a work of calligraphy that encapsulated their respective thoughts of the previous year. If the year happened to include an incoming Hokage-elect, the villagers would be treated to three works being put on display. The Hokage-elect would be given the privilege of brushing a phrase or a single kanji that encapsulated his or her thoughts for the upcoming year. Though most had forgotten the reasons why this tradition had begun, it was nevertheless held as semi-sacred to those inhabiting the leaf village.

Naruto felt nothing but gratitude as he lifted his ink drenched brush from the rather large and framed sheet of mulberry paper spread against one of the walls of the Hokage residence.

“What do you think of this one?” Naruto beamed.

Manuba Yamanaka gazed upon Naruto’s calligraphy with his face illuminated by a frown.

“I must apologize again that my criticism of your work has to be a little harsh”

“No worries Manuba, I am relying on your expertise.”

Naruto was not too familiar with the man who now cast a critical eye upon his work. Beyond Manuba’s familial ties to Ino, Naruto only knew what he had heard. He’d heard Manuba was an established artist readily accepted by Konohagakure’s bohemian elite. It was said by some that he had his finger on the pulse of the village's artistic vision.

“Your brushstrokes continue to come across lifeless, your words nor your spacing nor your characters truly live on the page.”

“I think it’s lovely.” Sakura said from the back of the room.

The customs of any festivities that involved a Hokage-elect were clearly defined by years of tradition. Every single activity that Naruto participated in that was directly or indirectly related to his future title was a ritual onto itself. Tradition recommended that Naruto complete his artwork in solitude, preferably after hours of quiet meditation and or contemplative prayer. Having a consultant for his art was a questionable act. Visitations from his girlfriend during the ritual was also pushing the envelope. For the sake of custom, compromises had been negotiated. The consultant was allowed two hours of Naruto’s time during the day. Girlfriends, or any other guests could also visit, but they weren’t allowed more than three steps into the entrance of the room where Naruto would be doing his duty. If they wanted to stay for awhile they could sit in a formal sieza position near the entrance of the room.

Manuba puffed his chest out. “Yes, perhaps it is lovely to the eyes of the amateur.”

Sakura was not fond of Manuba Yamanaka. From her seated position she had watched Manuba Yamanaka savage Naruto’s efforts. And he did so without a trace of empathy or leniency. Naruto still inflated with gratitude at being elected Hokage took the beatings with good humor. Sakura’s blood on the other hand had long since boiled.

“At least you both can agree that I wrote something. It’s something you can read. See that’s progress” Naruto grinned.

“Yes but progress isn’t always progress, do you understand?”

Naruto shook his head. “Manuba  I am beginner. You’ll have to dumb it down for me.”

Manuba nodded. “Oh I know, I know. The fact that you are a beginner is readily apparent. That said, your defects are not so much technical as they are emotional. It doesn’t engage the audience, it doesn’t make them feel enough.”

“What do you feel when you look at it?” Naruto inquired.

“I feel bored. I feel common.”

“That’s not enough feelings?”

“The work, it should speak to the hearts and minds of the audience, it should speak life!”

“Is my calligraphy not speaking?”

“It is speaking...in it’s own way.” Manuba grimaced.

“What is it saying?”

“To be frank it is saying ‘I am written not by a Hokage but by an unconscious plebeian.’ Of course I say that with all due respect.”

“Of course.” Naruto nodded.

“You should heed his advice Naruto, Manuba Yamanaka is a true artist.”

Naruto turned and despite the length of the distance between them he found himself startled by the cold glint in Sakura’s eyes.

“Yes a true artist indeed Naruto, I’m sure you’re familiar with his famous works.”

“I uh...Unfortunately I haven’t seen any of Manuab’s stuff” Naruto stammered. “But I heard he is an up and coming star in the art world.”

“Yes...he is held in high regard among the art community. And why wouldn’t he be? He sold a painting to the Fire Daimyo.”

“Really?” Naruto said impressed.

“Indeed the daimyo’s household paid a hefty five dollars for the artwork. It’s a well known fact that the painting can be found in the daimyo’s palace, in the bathroom, right over the toilet.”

A tense silence crept into the room. .

With feigned cheerfulness Sakura turned to Manuba. “And of course Ino has told me you write the greeting cards that her parents sell at the flower shop.”

Naruto scratched at cheek. “Ah well I admit I have seen those. I’ve bought some for Sakura. I like them. They’re usually cute.”

Manuba cleared his throat. “Miss Haruno seems to be focused on my more commercialized works. My deeper more complex contributions have done much to spur on the current artistic movement that ....

“How could I forget!” Sakura exclaimed. “The police sketches that you do on the weekends for the Konoha military police.”

“Maybe it’s time for a  break” Naruto declared.

Bowing stiffly the red faced artist stomped away from the Hokage-elect. He paused for a moment at the door just long enough to scowl at Sakura and then with his nose held high he departed the room.

“Hmmm your punches are sharp today Sakura.” Naruto stated.

“I’m sorry.”

Naruto shrugged, “Hey it wasn’t my ego you just KO’d. Are you alright?”

Sakura sighed. “I am fine. Look I will apologize to him...eventually. Really, it’s just that he was so horrid to you.”

“But he’s a great artist, it's only natural that he criticize.”

“Who told you he was a great artist?”

“I heard...”

“It’s all hype” Sakura snapped. “Most of it is coming from his friends.”

“Well he walks and talks like a great artist”

“He would.That doesn’t mean much.”

Naruto considered her point.. “So he’s not a genius?”

“He’s incompetent...in my opinion. But art is very much subjective Naruto.”

“How do you know all this Sakura?”

She hesitated before answering. “I’ve done some research on him. You’ve been very busy and joyful these last few weeks Naruto. You haven’t exactly paid a lot of attention to everyone around you.”

Naruto studied her with curious eyes before commenting musingly. “I see”

“It’s understandable. You’re preparing to fulfill your life’s ambition.”

A look of gratitude returned to Naruto’s face and a smile followed in its wake. “There really has been a lot going on lately.”

“You should get used to it. There will be a lot more to do after the first of January.”

His smiled deepened. “Yes, when I am sworn in as Hokage.”

Naruto looked off to the side and sighed deeply, happily. But when he looked back at Sakura the curious eyes had returned. “Are you sure you are alright?”

Sakura smiled back. “Couldn’t be better. I am happy for you.”

He nodded in silent appreciation before glancing back to his calligraphy “You think I can get this down before the ceremony?”

“I’m sure you will. And when you’re the Hokage you can do whatever you want...”

Eyebrows raised Naruto returned his full attention Sakura. “The Hokage can do whatever he wants? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Now I really can’t wait to be Hokage”

Sakura laughed softly. Naruto smiled thinly.

“Sakura....”

“Yes?”

“There is something wrong isn’t there?”

She sighed, she sadly sighed  “Remember when you mentioned how people from other villages were mobbing Shikamaru because they were hoping to gain more access to you.”

“Yeah he hasn’t really been enjoying that kind of attention.”

“Were any of those people representing some of the more prestigious clans....were any of them proposing marriage alliances?”

Caught off guard by the question Naruto simply blinked in response. When he recovered as best he could all he could say was, “yes.”

He waited for a follow up question.

When no further questions came Naruto asked one of his own.

“How do you know about that?”

“I’ve been approached as well.”

Stunned, Naruto sputtered, “That’s crazy-I mean they..why-to you...I mean we’re dating.”

“They don’t really care about that” Sakura said cooly. “They just want to get in your ear. Get the message out there.”

“Sakura why didn’t you say anything about this?”

“I’m saying something now. I think it’s something you should consider.” Sakura said indifferently.

At a loss for words Naruto stared at her for a moment. Eventually he blurted out “WHAT?!”  

 “You should consider it” Sakura said.

Anxious laughter escaped from Naruto’s lips. “Wow these guys must be very persuasive.”

“They make sense, they make practical sense for you, for the village really. These are very logical, pragmatic opportunities that will be very beneficial for you, but more importantly for the village.”

“Sakura, I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t going to waste my time-you know I have to be honest, I am a little annoyed you are taking this so well.....”

“What? Did you expect me to hit someone?”

Naruto ran his free hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t expect you to hit anyone. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you did. At least In this specific scenario anyway.”

Sakura licked her lips. “Honestly I did punch the first representative. But then I thought well that didn’t really help anything. You will need these people politically right? In the future. So I was polite and I listened. By the fourth and fifth representative they were starting to make sense.”

Naruto shook his head. “Plenty of things sound like they make sense but that doesn’t mean they actually make sense Sakura.”

“I am just saying you should consider it. These people can be vital allies.”

Naruto pointed towards the entrance “Manuba Yamanaka is technically an ally and you destroyed him.”

“He was a hack who had no right being that awful to you!”

“Sakura I-” Nartuo stopped to draw in a breath, “My allies and my potential allies, they may have good intentions but they obviously won’t always know what is right for me.”

“Just think about it Naruto” Sakura said with a small voice. “Your future and the village’s future are linked.”

Naruto groaned out loud. “Yeah I’ve thought about my future and the big problem with this plan is the minor fact that I am going to marry you!”

Sakura’s eyes flashed with sudden surprise.

“Yeah you, I want to marry you!” He shouted. Then he paused and with sudden softness he said “well I mean, well you’d have to say yes first.”

Naruto dropped the paintbrush in his hand when Sakura suddenly burst into a flood of tears.

Bewildered Naruto stated, “I’m sorry - I-- I take it back.”

“No! Wait!” Sakura said before placing her face in her hands. “J-Just turn around I need some time to think.”

“Alright, alright.”

Picking the brush off the floor Naruto turned his attention back to the art. In a subdued mood he replaced the paper on the wall with a new sheet. He dipped the brush in ink and with slow methodical strokes he went to work. He’d just about finished the latest draft when he heard faint sniffing followed by a few big gulps of air. He waited to hear from her but when nothing came he resumed his work. Once he was finished he took a few steps back from the wall and knelt down before it.

“I’m sorry Sakura. I’m sorry you had to go through all that. They shouldn’t have insulted you like that.”

She responded with silence.

“You know we’ll be very happy if you say yes.” Naruto said with his back still turned to her.

Silence

“But I guess I have to consider that you may say no for whatever reason.

After a moment’s consideration Naruto continued. “You said before that I’ll have plenty to do as Hokage. That’s probably right. Maybe I’ll have enough to keep my mind off you.”

He drew in a deep breath and released it.

“But you know Sakura-chan it’s the heart that’ll be the problem.”

“You’ll have everything.” She said finally.

He shrugged. “Everything but what my heart wants. It’s my heart that wants you. It’s my heart that won’t forget. It’s my heart that loves you.”

Suddenly Naruto heard footsteps. Sakura strolled across the room and knelt beside him.

“I am an idiot” She said.

“Sakura....”

She looked up at his calligraphy.

“The future is in the air, the past is in the ground, all is right in Heaven and on Earth,” She read aloud.

“I’m not sure if it’s pessimistic or optimistic” Naruto said.

“It’s lovely”

“Do you think Manuba will like it?”

“I don’t care, it’s lovely.”

“But do you feel anything?”

“I feel foolish, but very much loved. I feel that I am in love with someone wonderful.”

“That’s great! But I don’t know if that has anything to do with the calligraphy. Does it speak to you?

“Yes.”

“What does it say to you?”

“It’s saying “I am written by the the man whom Haruno Sakura will marry. It says ‘she will be happily married to my author for the rest of her life’.”

Naruto laughed happily, “I am thrilled, but again I don’t know if that has anything to do with the calligraphy. How will the villagers feel about it?”

Placing her head upon Naruto’s shoulder Sakura said, “They’ll love it-or else they’ll deal with me.

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Welp that’s it. Leave a comment if you like it.

[queer-author]

Escapade

Summary: After consulting the Arcana for help solving the mystery ahead, Auriel gets a reading that sends him on an adventurous night at the tavern.

Word count: 3,166

Pairing: Julian Devorak x Auriel Drake (Original male apprentice)

Fandom: The Arcana (Visual Novel)

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The shop was quiet, despite the chaos that occurred that day. Between preparations for the Masquerade and searching for clues to clear Julian's name, Auriel felt like he hadn't been calm enough to hear himself think since this whole situation began. That's why he came back to the shop; the place that he had come to call home. He always found peace there and had always known warmth and safety amongst the menagerie of herbs and magical paraphernalia that filled the small shop. The calming smell of lavender that permeated the space made Auriel's body relax almost immediately upon entering, and all of the tension that had built up during the past few days finally started to release.

      After a deep breath to collect himself, Auriel made his way to the table in the back of the shop. Even though he yearned to head upstairs and collapse onto the bed and sleep for about a week straight, he knew that there was work to be done. There were questions that needed to be answered. And while he didn't know how to find all of the answers, he knew where to start looking.

      Reaching into his bag, he pulled out Asra's tarot deck and laid it on the table in front of him. It was a familiar action, (he had done hundreds of readings at that very table for as long as he could remember) but for one reason or another, he was nervous of what he might find. Slowly, he sat down, gauging the energy he read from the deck. The cards were practically buzzing in his hands, but maybe that sensation was just shakiness from lack of sleep. Whatever it was, it was clear to him that they had something to tell him.

    Auriel started to shuffle the cards and allowed his mind to quiet so he could focus. It was hard, truth be told. Even with all the practice and training under Asra, there were a million questions running through his mind. Was Julian truly innocent? If Julian didn't kill the Count, then who did? Was there a connection between Julian's missing memories and Auriel's own elusive past? Did they somehow have a history with each other that neither of them remembered, and is that why Auriel felt so drawn to the roguish doctor? His fingers fiddled with the cards of their own accord as his mind was taken with these questions. Then suddenly-

    Stop.

It was more of a feeling than a command. The familiar sensation of finding the card he had been searching for shook him back to reality. His fingers felt electric where they touched the chosen card. With a flourish, Auriel flipped the card over to reveal the face and, hopefully, the truth.

    The Lovers.

    His face immediately filled with heat, even bringing a touch of pink to the tips of his ears. Asra had always warned him of the dangers of letting your mind wander while doing a reading. "The cards have a way of telling you exactly what's on your mind, even when you don't realize it." Well, Auriel guessed that Asra could tell him 'I told you so.'

    Heart still slightly elevated, Auriel wondered what this meant. He knew that the cards often had double meanings and were hardly ever literal, but he was still very caught off guard. Surely there was another interpretation. Either way, the Arcana always had something to say. Whether or not that something was helpful was an entirely different story. Regardless, Auriel picked up the card and listened for the voice of the Lovers to tell him their message.

    Immediately, and to Auriel's chagrin, the image of Julian Devorak popped into his mind. The phantom doctor had a wolfish grin on his face and seemed to be looking right at Auriel, as if he was in the same room. Julian's eyes held a familiarity that Auriel hadn't seen before. Or... had he seen it before? Was this a memory, or just some vision conjured by the Major Arcana?

    In one fluid movement, the image of Julian raised his hand and gestured for Auriel to follow him. A single hooked finger that beckoned him and also seemed to grasp onto something deep within him.

    Now, usually, Auriel would proceed with caution if a vision like this told him to follow them. Asra would urge him to think about what the Arcana wanted to show him, and whether or not he wanted to see it before doing anything. But Asra wasn't there. And yes, the Arcana could be mischievous in their ways, but Auriel was hopeful that whatever this was, it would give him insight into how to prove Julian's innocence, and he was going to take whatever chance he got to do it.

    So, Auriel rose from the table and made his way back toward the front of the shop, making sure to grab the deck before heading out the door and locking it. Not Julian appeared down the alley next to the shop, now a full-body apparition and Auriel watched as he disappeared around the corner heading south. Okay, that was a little suspicious. Maybe Auriel would cast a protection spell just in case.

    Auriel followed the vision like that for a while; watching Julian's doppelganger appear in the distance and walk out of sight around the next corner before Auriel could reach him. It was a game of cat and mouse, but soon it was over. Auriel finally rounded a building and saw where he was being led. Warm light spilled out of the door of the Rowdy Raven as Not Julian (?) made his way inside, his cloak swishing behind him. Quickly, the apprentice slipped inside and was met with a wall of loud pub-goers milling about the place that stopped him in his tracks. There was no sight of Julian, which Auriel only thought fitting. Of course, a hallucination wouldn’t have to worry about crowds getting in the way.

    With a sigh, he weaved his way towards the bar, hoping it would be a better vantage point to scope out the place in order to figure out what exactly he was doing there.

    He finally popped out of the throng of people, a bit breathless, and walked over to the bar to take a seat on one of the honestly rickety looking stools.

    "Can I get a pint of... something?" Auriel asked the barkeep. He was too distracted to think of the name of the drink he wanted, so he just decided to take a leap of faith and hope the barkeep had good taste. The apprentice twisted around on the stool to take another look around the pub, his eyes scanning for some kind of sign. Maybe a long cloak, or a shock of red hair.

    "Here you go." The voice of the barkeep was gruff and somewhat tired. Looking out over the sea of drunken patrons, he could understand why. Grabbing the tankard by the handle and taking a swig, Auriel was pleasantly surprised by the taste. It warmed his chest as it went down and soon Auriel felt a wave of calm lightly lap over his body. Hell, maybe the cards just wanted him to relax and get a drink, Gods knows he needed one. He took another long drink, savoring the taste, when someone spoke right next to him, making him sputter mead back into the glass.

    "Hello, Goldy," Julian said with a bright eye and a charming smile. Auriel almost choked on his drink and had to set it down and cough.

    "Gods, you could have at least tapped me on the shoulder," Auriel said indignantly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Or, maybe he couldn't have tapped him, seeing as this still might be the vision of Julian and not the man himself.

     "I'm sorry." The doctor did look genuinely sorry. "But I was just so surprised to see you here that I couldn't help myself." His smile widened as he leaned towards Auriel. The faint smell of alcohol caught Auriel's nose, and he recognized the drink immediately. Salty Bitters. Julian seemed to have had at least one so far. And seemed to be getting another, as the man turned to the barkeep, empty glass in hand, and asked for a refill. The barkeep poured him one, and shot a glance to Auriel, as if to wordlessly convey that yes, he was at least a few drinks in.

    So, the barkeep acknowledging Julian meant that this was probably the real one, but just to be sure... Auriel held his hand out tentatively and, before he could change his mind, placed it on Julian's arm. Soft leather met his touch, and Auriel breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't want to deal with any more apparitions tonight, especially not after dealing with that wretched goat.. thing. Julian gave Auriel a questioning look, his brow raised above his eyepatch, and Auriel squeezed his arm lightly and gave him a quick smile, his own brows wiggling playfully. Hmm, maybe this drink was a bit stronger than he thought.

    "So what are you doing here?" Julian asked, returning the touch with a nudge. "Other than for the great drinks." Auriel barked a laugh as he eyed Julian's drink with a mixture of amusement and mild disgust.

    "I just seemed to wander in," Auriel muttered, knowing that it would take too much time and effort trying to explain how he really got there. Julian wasn't too knowledgeable of magic in the first place, so trying to get him to understand something as high concept as some weird vision leading him to a bar was probably going to go right over his head.

    "I see," Julian mused, and he took a swig of his drink. "Come on, how about we go grab a booth? Sitting at the bar is a bit too out in the open for me." Julian stood and held out his hand for Auriel to take, which he did, glad to be headed somewhere a bit quieter. The pair passed a few tables with patrons crowded around them, sharing tales or playing games. The patrons barely gave them a second glance, which was good. Julian was still on the run for murder despite the bits of evidence that said he might be innocent, so the less attention they attracted, the better.

    Julian led Auriel to a table towards the back of the tavern, and there were a few people sitting quietly at separate tables, drinking and eating. The two of them settled into a booth, sitting across the table from one another. The benches, Auriel noted, were scored from years of bar brawls and stained with alcohol spills. He felt the energy of hundreds of memories of reveries made at that very booth, and some of them, Auriel guessed, were Julian's. He looked across the table and watched Julian as he took another long drink from his cup, almost draining it completely. How he could drink so much was beyond Auriel's comprehension.

    "Now, Auriel," Julian sighed, "do you want to tell me why you're actually here?" Julian's gloved hands steepled in front of his mouth, and the brow above his eyepatch quirked. Auriel blushed, feeling sheepish about having lied to him, and scratched the back of his head.

    "I... followed you here?" Auriel replied, his voice unsure and quiet.

    "Unless you've been here for hours and I miraculously haven't seen you in all of that time, you did not follow me here." Julian searched Auriel's face quizzically.

    "Well, it wasn't you... per se."

    "...What?"

    After a lengthy and confusing explanation from Auriel, Julian finished off his drink in one big gulp and sighed in exasperation. "Wait, so what were the cards even telling you to do? Come and get drunk?" Auriel decidedly didn't tell Julian that he had pulled the Lovers card. He decided that it wasn't relevant. He really hoped that it wouldn't become relevant.

    "I- uh, I guess so," Auriel said, and took a long drink from his glass, hoping that would be the end of that line of questioning.

    "Well, then, who's to argue with the ever-wise Arcana?" Julian mused, wiggling his brows mischievously at Auriel. Oh, no. Auriel definitely did not like that look. "Barth, another round!" Julian shouted, and slapped his hand down on the table and looked Auriel up and down.

    "Tell me, Auriel, have you ever played Ring of Fire?"

    Auriel gulped thickly.

................................................................................................................................

   "And so I told him, 'If this is your ship, then why are you the one walking the plank?'" Julian roared with laughter, and Auriel clapped a hand over his mouth trying to stifle the giggle that bubbled in his throat.

    "You did not!" Auriel shouted incredulously.

    "I did! And then I almost fell overboard myself!" He went into another fit of laughter, and Auriel couldn't help but join him. His face felt warm and his head felt light. How many drinks had he had? He seemed to have lost count after 5.

    Suddenly, the band in the corner switched songs, this one a sultry tempo with a thick bass line. The singer's grumbling voice crooned the lyrics as he swayed to the music. The accordion and violin played a hypnotizing melody that captured Auriel's attention. He couldn't help but move along to the tune.

    Julian gasped almost melodramatically. "This is one of my favorite songs!" He was stood up before Auriel could even process it, and his hand extended toward him.

    "Auriel, would you care for a dance?" Julian's uncovered eye sparkled in the flickering candlelight, his handsome features perfectly shadowed. Auriel felt a bit taken aback, but the prospect of dancing with Julian, to this song, in the dim back room of the Rowdy Raven... He would hate himself if he didn't.

    "I thought you would never ask," Auriel replied, his voice low, his eyes lidded. Julian's mouth crooked into a smirk as he took Auriel's hand and led them to the middle of the room. The pair took up a stance; Auriel put one hand on the space where Julian's neck and shoulder met. His thumb absentmindedly brushed against the skin below Julian's ear, and Julian almost shuddered. Julian's hand fell instantly to the small of Auriel's back and pulled him closer, leaving Auriel just the tiniest bit breathless. Auriel grabbed Julian's free hand and laced their fingers together, and he couldn't help but note how much bigger his hands were, and how the doctor’s calluses felt against the sensitive skin of his palm.

    And then nothing existed but the two of them and the tempo of the song. Julian’s gaze was taken by Auriel. His hair, his face, his golden eyes. Julian couldn’t look away. And neither could Auriel.

    “You know, Auriel, I’m glad we did this.” Julian’s voice was low as he leaned next to Auriel’s ear. “I’m glad I got to know you before…”

    “Before?” Auriel leaned back to look at the taller man, concern lightly furrowing his brows.

    “Ah, it’s nothing. I’m just happy to be here with you.” Julian spun Auriel away from him, twirled him back into his arms, and dipped him. Auriel could barely breathe, and his cheeks burned.

    Julian smiled knowingly. “There’s no one else I’d rather dance with.” He pulled Auriel back up to standing and held him close against his chest. Auriel felt the doctor’s heartbeat against his, and it felt like the room was spinning. Hopefully, that was just the drinks. The final notes of the song faded into silence and all the pair could hear was their breath coming out in quiet huffs against the other's skin.

    “Bravo! Bravo!” The few patrons left in the pub applauded them from their seats, and the band even gave them an appreciative nod. Oh, Gods, was it hot in there, or was it just Auriel?

    “Thank you for the dance,” he managed to say, looking up at Julian and smiling softly.

    “My pleasure, dear,” Julian replied, and brought Auriel hand to his lips and kissed it sweetly.

    “Guards!” The barkeep ran into the room, looking pointedly at Julian, to which Julian gave a curt nod.

    “I hate to dance and dash, but I’m afraid it’s time to run.” Julian gave Auriel a wink and snatched his drink from the table, chugged the rest of it, and headed towards the back door.

    “Wait, I’m coming with you!” Auriel grabbed his bag and followed suit.

    “Well, after you, darling,” Julian purred as he opened the door.

    And then they were running. Flying through back alleys and around corners. Past flickering flames of fireplaces through windows and over the canals sparkling under the full moon. They lost the guards blocks back, but they weren’t stopping. A laugh bubbled in Auriel’s throat, and he couldn’t help but watch Julian as he smiled, steam puffing out of his open mouth and hanging in the air like a cloud.

    Finally, and much too soon, they skidded to a stop in front of the shop. Julian should be safe here. Now, to get past the warding. Auriel was a bit lightheaded, but he managed to open it and unlock the door. The two of them stumbled into the shop, and Auriel all but collapsed onto the nearest chair.

    “That was… the stupidest thing… I’ve ever done.” Auriel huffed, his chest heaving, head spinning.

    “You drank with me, I feel like it actually turned out well, considering.” Julian raked a hand through his auburn hair and let it flop back down over his eye. “Now, let’s get you to bed, you’re definitely going to need your rest.”

    “What, no, I’m fine! You still might be in danger.” Auriel stood up, but far too quickly, and he had to brace himself on the chair as to not fall over. “Well…”

    “It’s alright, Auriel, there’s no way they could find us here. Anyways, you had quite a few drinks. You can hold your liquor surprisingly well.” Julian appeared by his side and draped Auriel’s arm around his side, half picking him up. He helped Auriel upstairs and up to the bed, taking off his cloak and boots and covering him with the blanket.  

    “Now, there you are. Nice and cozy.” Julian smiled softly and sat down at the foot of the bed. Auriel felt sleep coming over him like the tide coming in, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of the doctor.

    “Thank you,” he whispered and sat back up to lay a hand on Julian’s arm.

     “No need to thank me, Auriel. Showing you a good time was a prize in itself.” Julian held Auriel’s hand in his and looked down thoughtfully.

     “Auriel?”

     “Hmm?”

     “What card did you draw?”

     “...The Lovers.”

    “Ah, of course.” He kissed Auriel’s hand and stood from the bed to stand next to Auriel.

    “Tell them I said thank you.” Julian smiled and leaned down to kiss Auriel on the forehead. And then Auriel was asleep.