#Western House of Assembly

[thornshadowwolf]

I don't remember why but I dreamed about looking up the common religions in different regions of Thailand last night

[cathkaesque]

The local population in countries that export bananas typically eat different varieties grown primarily by small farmers. The ones for the Americans and the Europeans, Cavendish variety bananas, are grown in huge, monoculture plantations that are susceptible to disease. The banana industry consumes more agrichemicals than any other in the world, asides from cotton. Most plantations will spend more on pesticides than on wages. Pesticides are sprayed by plane, 85% of which does not land on the bananas and instead lands on the homes of workers in the surrounding area and seeps into the groundwater. The results are cancers, stillbirths, and dead rivers.

The supermarkets dominate the banana trade and force the price of bananas down. Plantations resolve this issue by intensifying and degrading working conditions. Banana workers will work for up to 14 hours a day in tropical heat, without overtime pay, for 6 days a week. Their wages will not cover their cost of housing, food, and education for their children. On most plantations independent trade unions are, of course, suppressed. Contracts are insecure, or workers are hired through intermediaries, and troublemakers are not invited back.

Who benefits most from this arrangement? The export value of bananas is worth $8bn - the retail value of these bananas is worth $25bn. Here's a breakdown of who gets what from the sale of banana in the EU.

On average, the banana workers get between 5 and 9% of the total value, while the retailers capture between 36 to 43% of the value. So if you got a bunch of bananas at Tesco (the majority of UK bananas come from Costa Rica) for 95p, 6.65p would go to the banana workers, and 38p would go to Tesco.

Furthermore, when it comes to calculating a country's GDP (the total sum of the value of economic activity going on in a country, which is used to measure how rich or poor a country is, how fast its economy is 'growing' and therefore how valuable their currency is on the world market, how valuable its government bonds, its claim on resources internationally…etc), the worker wages, production, export numbers count towards the country producing the banana, while retail, ripening, tariffs, and shipping & import will count towards the importing country. A country like Costa Rica will participate has to participate in this arrangement as it needs ‘hard’ (i.e. Western) currencies in order to import essential commodities on the world market.

So for the example above of a bunch of Costa Rican bananas sold in a UK supermarket, 20.7p will be added to Costa Rica’s GDP while 74.3p will be added to the UK’s GDP. Therefore, the consumption of a banana in the UK will add more to the UK’s wealth than growing it will to Costa Rica’s. The same holds for Bangladeshi t-shirts, iPhones assembled in China, chocolate made with cocoa from Ghana…it’s the heart of how the capitalism of the ‘developed’ economy functions. Never ending consumption to fuel the appearance of wealth, fuelled by the exploitation of both land and people in the global south.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

An Invisible Thread | Illyrian Warrior!Bucky x Fae!Reader | Oneshot - 5k

After the war with Hybern your village is left defenceless. Despite only having picked up a sword to play with your brothers, you’re sent into the wilds of your island to track down the monster that has been stealing from the farms. 

But the monster is also on the move, and it won’t just be your limited skills as a hunter that are required to tame it or just your village that's pushing you to find it.

Warnings: the biggest warning here is Illyrian!Bucky, 18+ for language maybe, nothing scary here. Injuries, whump, hurt/comfort, some fluff, ACOTAR themes including fated mates/mating bonds. Rated W for whump and F for fluffy

Created for @buckybarnesevents Alternate Juniverse with all four prompts - fae, hunter, nurse and monster.

A/N: No ACOTAR knowledge required apart from Illyrian’s have big bat like wings and are hot as fuck. 

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and @reveriesources

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

You stood at the edge of the village, one hand on the pommel of your father’s sword and the other tucked into the fur lined pocket of your cape. 

After the war with Hybern the village’s protector’s had been depleted and, though you’d never shied away from practising with the bow and sword alongside your brothers, you had never imagined that you would become your communities only hope of protection. More suited to healing wounds than causing them, you shied away from the responsibility as much as you could. Spending your time replenishing your stocks of herbs and ointments and checking on the older residents of the village. 

Honestly, you hadn’t imagined there’d be any need for you to protect anyone. But then, isolated as you were on the Western Isles, you’d never thought that war could touch you either in your community of lesser fae. You’d never been bothered before, content to live quietly and ask for nothing. Yet here you were, back to the decimated houses and cottages of your villages, poised to leave them to hunt a monster. 

If the rumours were true, though, rumours of a beast running amok in the wild forest along the coast, then you had no choice. 

With a final look back at the squat white washed cottage where you’d left your mother, you set out towards your destiny. 

Across the island, by the shore, a towering figure bent to drink from the ice meltwater trickling into the sea beyond. 

Blood dripped from their open mouth and they howled as the salt water mixed with the fresh. They raised themselves again and slunk back into the shadows of the forest, following the waterline. 

—

As you trudged you recounted the tale the farmers had told at the inn the night before. A huge beast, black as night, had been spotted raiding their barn. The island was small enough that everyone knew each other, every sheep and cow and ploughed furrow was accounted for by name and the farmers shared the large barn that stood guard over the far end of the open fields. No stranger could have arrived without them knowing, no stranger could have tied their boat without the fishermen being alert. 

But this thing was no man, it was a beast, a fury, sent to torment them and the assembled village had turned to you. 

If it truly was a beast, something that could fly and steal cattle and destroy crops as the farmers claimed then you had no clue how you would slay such a thing. Your sword was heavy and sharp, but your skills were still basic no matter how you tried, this was not your calling. Your bow was taught and your arrows true, but practising with your brothers was a jest. 

After the weeks and months without them, perhaps it would be a blessing to sacrifice yourself for the village as they had. To be relieved of the torment of their passing. 

Sighing you pulled a hard biscuit from your pack and continued on into the dense trees that occupied one side of the island. You could remember far enough back to when the forest took over almost the whole island, your brothers and father clearing a space for the now well tilled farmland that insulated the village from the wildness beyond. The forest and the farm lived together side by side, each animal and plant having its own sacred place within the system. Each farmer conscious of keeping the wheel moving each season. 

No one had ever feared the forest as they did now. 

Your first night amid the trees past uneventfully, used to spending most of your time outside the creatures of the night didn’t scare you, neither did they fear you, choosing to approach your fireside. You weren’t entirely convinced of their being a beast within the forest either, no beast liked to cross the salt sea from the mainland, even if they could escape the Prison, there would be little for a monster here. You told yourself over and over, as sleep took you, that any monster would head to the middle, and not to the Isles. 

It seemed more likely that there was something trapped in the trees. Nevertheless you made sure to set traps around the clearing before finally laying down to sleep. 

There was a light in the forest, smoke pluming briefly before dying down into soft trails of grey that mixed with the iron sky, fading into the stars as the moon rose. Tempted by the smell it approached, its gait unsteady in the soft ground, weighed down by its own body, blood still spilling into the dry leaves. 

Closer, closer,  heaving its mighty body along the ridge of rocks that crawled across the middle of the island. It had been this way before, it had taken vegetables and savoured the earthy taste of them, raw and unwashed against its tongue. It had slipped into the barn and stolen a pail of fresh milk, still warm and buttery. 

Perhaps the smoke meant more food. But its body was tired, it groaned and slumped against a tree, wrapping into itself, a darkness thicker and colder than the world around. 

In the morning you kicked dirt over the small fire, putting out the flame. The forest was still yours to protect, even if it did harbour a threat. 

You’d sharpened your sword before sleeping, leaving it unsheathed by your side. Every arrow in your quiver had new fletching, the ash carefully crafted from the few small trees the village grew at its centre, a protection against any further cruelty coming to your shores. 

The forest was alive in the brisk early morning air, the sky pink and lilac through the canopy, rising with the mist like a slumbering dragon, stretching and yawning into a bright spring day. 

As you ventured deeper you found the ground already disturbed. When you were younger you may have doubted yourself, wondering if the tracks were your own. But you could navigate well enough now, the sun high above you leaning into the west of the island, its heat peaking. 

Whatever it was that had stumbled through here had done so some days ago, dragging itself if the scars in the soft soil were true. It was larger than you as well, larger by at least a foot. You trained your eyes up into the trees and sure enough there were broken branches there too. 

At a trot you ran between the trees, following the path of broken twigs and scored earth. There was something else, something in the air by each tree, metallic, like iron. Blood, you could almost taste it it was so strong. But it wasn’t until the seventh tree that you saw it, marked high on the bark, as if this tall beast had propped themself against it, a red smear. And underneath there were a few bones, feathers and leftover vegetables.

If this was a beast, it was a beast that didn’t like carrot tops.

It grew tired again. Sooner than last time. It looked into the sky, its eyesight blurring, as it made its way back to the cave it had begun to call home. Inside its howls were louder, but at least the rain couldn’t find a way in, at least the air was warm and the ground soft. 

It lay down and closed its eyes. 

The sky turned darker, thick clouds billowing overhead, the muggy heat of an oncoming storm weighing you down. It was too far to return to your village, you’d never make it before the rain started and you knew what could happen if the lightning struck the trees, so a camp in the forest was out of the question. 

At this rate you could make the other coast before the sunset and you knew there would be shelter there in the rocky outcrops before the dunes crept into the island. With a sigh you hefted your pack higher and began the uneasy walk through the rougher terrain. 

The rain began to fall just as you crested over the cliff top. A fisherman had advised you of the safest ways across this portion of the island but your feet still slipped on the shale as you made your way down the rocky face. You’d spotted the cave while the sun was still high. With a view down the banks of rock and sand it gave you a good look out, close enough to the woods for shelter but open enough to watch the weather change. On closer inspection there was a significant plateau in front of the cave, perhaps enough to start a small fire to heat the stone inside and cook something hot if you were lucky. 

Slowly you inched closer, sword drawn in case something wild was also sleeping inside. You hadn’t seen the blood trail for some time but you had a lingering sense of something that had you tightening your grip on the handle. It tugged at you, tempting you closer and making your heart beat wildly. 

Once inside the lip of the cave you dropped your pack and pulled out a box of tinder and some twigs you’d collected along the way, stacking up the kindling into a small fire. But without the light from the sun it was hard to even find a spark. With a sigh you abandoned your plans for heat and decided to set out your blanket and try to sleep instead, hopefully that strange feeling would pass while you dreamt and you could wake up refreshed and ready to search anew. 

The raindrops were heavier now, fat and cold and insistent, driving you deeper into the cave in search of a dry space where the wind couldn’t blow the weather inside.

As your eyes adjusted to the dusky darkness you began to pick out details of the cave, the jagged rocks on the other side, the low rock just right for resting your sword and bow on and, at the back, something large. The darkness seemed to move differently there, a different shade of black that sucked the light from the rest of the cave. Whatever it was, it was huge but still. 

Slowly you reached for your dagger, too frightened to lunge for your sword in case it made the darkness move too. But it stayed still. Carefully, you moved your feet over the rocky ground, your toes light and body ready to fight. 

The darkness didn’t move, but it did make a noise, a deep grumble and for a moment you wondered whether it was the darkness inside or the darkness outside that had startled you. 

Then it moved, slow and deliberate, the darkness expanded and flared outwards, turning towards you and despite everything your brother’s had taught you, despite your own mind begging you to stay silent - you screamed. 

It hurt, it hurt everywhere and all of the time. Its body ached, its stomach felt concave from lack of food and its head pounded from dehydration. The storm was close, the wind spoke to it through the rustle of the trees and the feel of the salt air, it spoke to it and told it to sleep, that the storm would pass but it should sleep. It shifted, stretching its aching body -

And then there was a scream. 

You lurched back, scrambling for your sword as you fell, grasping for anything that would protect you from the monster that continued to grow before your eyes. Up and up it stood filling the entire back of the cave, its body unfurling and its wings spreading into the rock above. The tip of one unholy claw scratched at the cave roof and you screamed again, turning to run from it, to take your chances in the rain rather than stay a moment with this beast. But it had other ideas, reaching for you with one huge arm it grabbed you and held you, the other came up to cover your mouth, its hand so large its thumb pressed against your nose. 

Not a monster. A male. With hands and arms, tanned and windburnt from days in the forest. 

“Please, stop screaming.” It growled again and you went silent but you didn’t still, wriggling and writhing in an attempt to free yourself. “Please,” it said again, and it was almost sad, pleading. So you stopped. 

He held you tight against his chest, his heart hammering, his muscles burning with the effort of his movement. Steadily he lowered you to the floor, careful to avoid the rocks that might trip or scratch you, and then let himself slide down the cave wall until he was once more huddled on the floor. 

“Please, don’t scream - my head.” He bent to lay his forehead against his knees, “the storm, lightning in the trees, don’t.”

He was so weak, so worried, so tired, he allowed his eyes to close, focusing on the sound of you moving. 

“Don’t.” He repeated and your footsteps moved again, closer, little rocks skudding under your boots, and then a small palm on the back of his neck. 

“You have a fever.” Your voice was gentle, now that the screaming had stopped, and your touch a relief, so cold, so soothing. “Rest.” 

Now that he wasn’t towering over you, there was something vulnerable and sad about the so-called monster. His voice stuttered as he begged you for quiet and, against your better judgement, you allowed the sound of rain rushing over the lip of the rock and into the sea to fill the space, echoing into the cavern like a heartbeat. 

Lightning flashed, lighting up half of his face in clammy, pale light. You took a step towards him, still wary, still conscious of the stories told to you by your brothers, and you touched his neck where his hair had fallen away in long strands about his face. His skin was clammy too and cold to the touch, but he shivered nevertheless. 

“You have a fever.” You said, matter of fact, “rest.” 

He nodded and all but fell sideways into the blanket roll tucked against one side of the cave. 

“You too.” He grunted, and for the first time you assessed your own damp clothes and the way you’d begun to shiver. Quickly you stripped out of your waxed cape and boots, placing them carefully in a dry spot. Your shirt and vest were dry, protected by the cape, but the long trousers you’d worn were soaked through. 

Peering at the male you made sure his breathing was steady and even before you removed your trousers and slipped between your folded blanket in just your shirt and cotton bloomers.

Sleep did not come easily for the male. He kept to his side of the cave but his fever made him grunt and shout in his sleep, his arms and hands lashing out along with his thrashing body. So you didn’t sleep, you observed him instead. Waiting for dawn to break the storm. 

Even in the moonlight he was still big, tall and broad, his muscles showing even through the dark leather and ripped linen of his clothes. And he was winged. The source of the fear and confusion for your neighbours, as well as yourself. Airborne he must have looked as majestic as he was terrifying. An Illyrian warrior, so far from home, circling the village. No wonder those who had glimpsed him had been afraid. 

Now those enormous wings were tucked around him, glowing a deep red every time the lightning crashed across the sky, tiny veins picked out around the edges as well as a large gash in his left wing. It lay almost limp on the ground while the right was tucked in tight to his side. It looked painful and blood oozed slowly from the delicate membrane but only slowly. The cut to his side looked much worse. 

The sun was almost back now, a wan light filtering into the cave and allowing you to survey the Illyrian more closely, especially the cuts and bruises that littered his body. 

At some point, he had removed part of his leather armour, discarding it to one side where the dark blue siphon blinked with light whenever he groaned. Without the protection of the armour and siphon, his side was entirely revealed through the matching cut in his shirt. It was deep and already looked swollen at the edges - infected, you were sure, probably the cause of the clammy fever. 

Despite yourself you allowed your tired eyes to rove over his body, the gaps in his shirt revealing the details of his toned chest, the swirling black ink running from his left arm, up over his shoulders and then down between his pecs and towards the v of his abdomen where the ink disappeared among a smattering of hair. 

Heat flooded your cheeks. He was an injured male, an Illyrian warrior, a revered race bound to protect your people. You were certainly not supposed to be drooling after him while he slept. 

You swallowed heavily and tried to concentrate on his needs, rather than your own. 

Daring to look again you followed the tattoos back up towards his face, long dark hair still tangled at his shoulders, a stubbled beard covered his chin, his lips tilting into a smile because - oh -  his eyes were open, bright summer sky blue, and tracking your every move. 

“Hello,” he croaked and watched as you shuffled back against the wall. 

He closed his eyes again, as if even having them open was painful. 

“Hello,” you whispered, keeping a keen eye trained on him. 

“I’m Bucky,” he said, his head still pounded. “Can you pass me the canteen from my pack?” Without looking he gestured behind him. 

“Yes.” 

He listened to the sound of you moving and then the cool metal of the canteen touched his fingers. You introduced yourself but as soon as he started to move you hurried back to your side of the cave.

Slowly, so as not to frighten you, he sat up and took a long swig before offering it to you. 

You looked tired, wrecked, but not injured. You were back under your own blanket and he noticed the too-big trousers you’d been wearing were now carefully arranged on a rock to dry. Bucky hummed to himself, that was why you’d scurried back when he’d opened his eyes. 

Your eyes flicked to the trousers too, and then back to him. “They were wet, I didn’t want to catch a chill.”

“Sensible,” he agreed, putting a hand to his side. 

“You’re hurt, and sick, you were feverish.” 

“I was, I probably still am.” He agreed looking you over with the same interest that he’d found in your eyes. 

You were a very pleasant sight after so many nights alone, a wildness to your bonny face and full body. Even hidden under the folds of your shirt he could tell that you would be soft and warm to hold. With a groan he closed his eyes again. To be held and cared for by a female, to smell the spring breeze in your hair, to taste the salt of the sea on your skin. Maybe he was halfway to the afterlife and an angel had been sent to rescue him. 

“Thank the cauldron and the mother.” He sighed happily, swaying sideways and passing out. 

The Illyrian had watched you with eyes that toed the line between hungry and hopeful. His bold gaze made you feel warm again, heat sitting heavy in your stomach, and then he mumbled something and slid to the side. 

Thankfully his arm stopped him from bumping his head, but looking at his now glazed eyes he had definitely fainted. 

Without thinking you sprang into action, rolling him carefully so that if he was sick he wouldn’t choke or swallow his tongue. His skin was cold again, but sweaty, sticking the strands of his hair to his forehead in curls. 

He needed help, quickly, but you had nothing of any great use in your bag. There was the canteen of water and some food in his own pack and a flask with what smelt like whisky in the side pocket. You withdrew the mess tin from your own pack and tried to make a fire again, hoping to boil enough clean water to be able to clean and dress his wounds. But the damp air and howling wind blew wet dirt over your kindling. 

Instead you tugged a strip of linen from the end of your shirt, trying to find the cleanest corner first and ripping higher until the long tails no longer brushed over your thighs but sat as high has your belly button, revealing your midriff to the chill air. Goosebumps raised over your arms, but you didn’t hesitate, tipping some of the whisky onto the cloth and gently dabbing at the gash to his side. There were splinters still protruding from the edges, which you pulled out as quickly as you could. 

Ash, an arrow, perhaps, or a long lance fired into the sky, judging by the way the gash lined up with the tear in Bucky’s wing. Bruises bloomed under his tattoos like flowers, colouring in the gaps of the patterns. He’d fallen, then, after the hit. Probably outside of the village. 

“Why didn’t you ask for help.” You muttered under your breath, placing a square of whisky soaked cloth over the wound and pressing down. 

“Because I was already ashamed.” Came the pained whisper. 

“Why would you be ashamed?” With a tug on his arm you helped him sit, passing a long length of cloth around his back, bandaging the makeshift plaster into place. 

With your arms around him you had no choice but to lean in close, your face below his, his breath fanning over your cheek. He held one end in place, leaning drowsily into you while you tied a tight knot on his right, well away from the injury. His left hand, clearly weakened by his fall, sat lightly on your hip, keeping you steady. 

“I let my battalion down, my friends down,I couldn’t fight.” His eyes closed again but his hands didn’t move, their hold surprisingly delicate until he began to slump to the side again, dragging you with him. “I was injured and, I’m not really sure why, but I flew here. It felt like the right thing to do, like the Mother was guiding me, so I let her.”

With a huff you tried to wiggle away, but his hand tightened. 

“I’m so cold, please stay.” His breath tickled your neck where he’d pressed his face into your collar bone and you couldn’t deny him. The tugging sensation in your chest was back and the thought of staying with him made you want to release it in a long contented purr.

Curling beside him you let his hand settle on your now bare waist, his broad palm on your back a relief from the cold air gusting through the entrance of the cave. 

Bucky’s breathing slowed to an even beat, his body relaxing into his dreams and you fell with him, pulled tighter against his chest, the smell of the whisky washed over you and his wing curled in, cocooning you in his embrace. 

You woke to find yourself surprisingly well rested. The storm, having blown itself out battering the beach and forest, had made way for a bright morning. Bucky’s hand was still at your waist, but you’d moved in your sleep you were now facing away from him, his fingers sneaking under the hem of your shirt and tickling your ribs. From his steady breaths you assumed he was still asleep and allowed yourself a moment to enjoy the closeness of his body, the way his wing curved over you both, filtering the light into a pink glow and blocking the boisterous breeze now coming in off the sea. 

There was something right about the way he held you, comforting and close. Despite knowing you should rise, you simply couldn’t, as if that invisible rope that had led you in now kept you beside him. In his sleep he dragged you closer, his hand splaying higher on your stomach, his thumb pressing the underside of your breast. In response, your nipples pebbled and you promised yourself it was just the cold air, just the breeze and the morning chill and nothing to do with the wonderful pressure of the male’s body behind you. Nothing to do with his rich scent of whisky and peat and possibility. 

He hummed in his sleep again, nuzzling the back of your neck and then, suddenly, he was awake. His hand was gone and your chest felt cold without his touch. The sound of his wing claws catching on the jagged roof had you whipping your head around and staring into his eyes. 

“I’d say I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but that was the best sleep I’ve had in a long while.” A flirtatious smile played at the corner of his lips and you returned it. 

“Pretty warm under the wings,” you agreed, looking at the expanse of tense skin and complex structure that curled over you both, now flared out along the walls of the cave, and then, as quickly as the butterflies had taken flight in your stomach, they fell like lead weights.“Your wing, it’s not healing.” 

You reached out and ran a finger close to the gash. Bucky sucked in air and bit his bottom lip, his top lip curling over his teeth and eyes crinkling in pain. 

“Please - don’t touch me there.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No - yes - it’s - just don’t touch me there.” Bucky grit his teeth and shuffled uncomfortably, placing a large hand over his lap and using the other to guide your hand away gently. 

“I could try and heal it - if you let me touch. Like I did with your side.” 

Bucky looked down at the bandage around his middle as if it was a surprise, perhaps he really didn’t remember. Leaving his wing, you reached out and touched his forehead instead. He felt a little cold, you both did, but not clammy. The fever had broken. 

“Can I check your bandage?” 

He nodded, sitting up and pulling his ragged shirt up with one hand. Slowly you untied the knot and removed the linen, it was clean on the top layers at least and the bottom ones showed the blood slowing. His healing had kicked in, once the ash had been removed, and the previously angry and infected gash was now a pink cut, knitting together slowly. 

“It looks a lot better.” 

You sat back on your heels, unable to look away from the cut in his wing. It too had started healing, but it would be a while before it was closed. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said, sincerely. “I’ve been out here a while and - I should have sought help sooner.” 

“I’m sure it’s not easy, last night you said you didn’t want to let your battalion down.” 

Bucky flushed, his nose and cheeks going rosy and you watched as the colour disappeared down his neck and under his collar. 

“I understand, it’s hard to be brave sometimes, you want people to trust you and know that you’re doing your best.” 

He hummed in agreement again, “and is that why you’re out here?” He raised an eyebrow, lounging back against the cave wall. The movement made his stomach tighten and you watched the muscles flex under his shirt, trying to recall a time when you’d seen any other male like this, when anyone at all had made you feel so hot all over. 

“I was sent to hunt a monster.” 

“A monster?” 

“It’s been stealing vegetables and eggs, a pail of milk as well. Scaring the farmers.” You looked out towards the brightening sky and then back towards him with a grin. “He’s not so scary though.” 

Bucky returned your smile, his eyes softening as he reached out to guide your gaze back to his own, “I’m glad I didn’t scare you too much.” 

“Only a little.” You laughed. 

Despite the gash in Bucky’s side healing over the next few days, he still remained in the cave during the few warm hours the afternoon afforded. His wings lay heavily behind him, the muscles weak and aching from his time spent dragging them around the woods and his injured wing searing with pain when he tried to extend it. 

With some help he made it to the cave entrance and watched as you picked your way around the storm swept beach in the distance. You’d been kind and gentle, despite your initial fear, despite the clumsy way he’d tried to get closer to you. And his heart swelled, hoping he could hold you in his arms again when the sun got low. 

Each night he'd asked you to stay next to him, and each night you'd agreed. But he was no fool, you pitied him and that would only last for so long until you refused. So he treasured every moment like a precious gift. 

It’d been a long time since a female had looked his way, weeks spent dragging himself around the woodland, months spent fighting Hybern on their borders, years spent training in isolation at Windhaven. All to miss this, the feel of the salt wind in his hair and the sun on his healing wings, to miss the feel of a gentle, feminine touch and the way his body responded, singing with happiness at the warmth of your body and scent of your hair. He ached to have you near again, just to know you were safe and cared for. Something in his chest pulled, as if his heart had truly skipped a beat and he closed his eyes against the delicious pain only to open them and see you again, your eyes locked on his, the driftwood you’d collected scattered around your feet, shock on your features. 

In a heartbeat you were climbing back towards him, running over the sand and up the dunes, scaling the rocky cliff face with strong, knowing leaps, and then you were in his arms, knocking him backwards with the strength of your embrace. 

“Bucky?” His name was half question and half exaltation on your lips and that feeling tugged at him again until his arms closed around your back, a hand on the nape of your neck drawing you closer. 

“Kiss me-” it was neither question nor demand, simply a statement of what you both so clearly needed. 

His lips were chapped when they brushed against yours, but warm nevertheless, he tasted of the sweet berries you’d found this morning on the edge of the woods and this close, your nose brushing against his, he smelt divine, perfect, the whisky on the bandages and the deep, musky, scent that was all his own. 

His uninjured wing curled around your back, folding you in a bubble of warmth where there was only you and Bucky and whatever this new thing was between you. You felt that tug again, the same deep feeling that you’d felt so often, and you pulled back enough to rest your forehead against his own. Bucky didn’t let you remove yourself too far, nudging your nose with his and pressing featherlight kisses to your cheek and jaw. 

“Bucky -” you sighed again and this time he answered, as sure and confident as the strong arms that tugged you against his body. 

“Yes, my mate?” 

[ideas-on-paper]

On Carlo and Romeo's relationship & homosexuality in Victorian schools

In my quest to find out more about Carlo and Romeo's lives at Monad Charity House, I have once again resorted to my tried and tested method of historical research, this time with a primary focus on Victorian boarding schools.

Along the way, I stumbled upon Lord Alfred Douglas, aka "Bosie" Douglas, the lover of Oscar Wilde. As people familiar with them may know, their gay romance caused quite a stir in 1895 due to the (in)famous trials of Wilde for “gross indecency”, the tragic result of which was that the latter was convicted to two years of hard labor that ruined his health.

Both already had their fair share of gay affairs beforehand though - Bosie specifically was very popular among his peers during his time at Oxford University, being excellent at sports, artistically gifted and incredibly handsome, so it's not too surprising he hooked up with some of his fellow students. What absolutely had me rolling on the floor was this statement, however (quoted from this page):

"[...] we argue that the English public schools in the last part of the nineteenth century tolerated, if they did not actually encourage the development of strong homoerotic friendships between students."

Apparently, homosexuality in boarding schools was so common people made off-hand jokes about it. In the novel Rites of Passage by William Golding, the protagonist finds a fellow traveler engaged in oral sex with a sailor, thinking of it as "that silly schoolboy prank". Admittedly, Golding wrote his novel in the 20th century, so we don’t know for sure if the 19th-century attitudes portrayed in it are accurate, but this might imply that sexual interaction between schoolboys was fairly common.

In the first edition of Tom Brown's School Days by Thomas Hughes, published in 1857, there was even a passage of the protagonist insulting two boys who were clearly in a sexual relationship with senior boys, with the author commenting that "everyone who studied at Rugby would understand why this passage was necessary". (Hughes himself was Christian and condemned homosexual relationships; the concerning passage was cut out in later versions).

This does not mean, however, that all the boys attending boarding schools were gay - rather, because boarding schools were restricted by gender, they had their first sexual experiences in this male-only environment. Many of them would try the exact same thing out with a girl later and find they enjoyed it much more. However, there were also those who never felt any desire to try it out with a girl - and given how close Carlo and Romeo were, I would honestly be more surprised if there wasn’t anything romantic going on between them.

I mean, it’s not like the entire LoP community isn’t already shipping Carlo and Romeo, but in case there was ever any doubt about it, take it from me: I’m positive these boys were gay.

And in case anyone feels like pointing out that “well, actually, the setting of Lies of P is based on France”: Homosexuality was already decriminalized in France as early as 1791 by the National Constituent Assembly, making France the first Western European country to do so - or rather, the penal code drafted with the intention to only punish "real crimes" made no mention of homosexual acts in private. Still, it was a major step for gay rights.

[metamatar]

Literature produced in the ex-colonial countries but produced directly in languages which had been imported initially from Europe provides one kind of archive for the metropolitan university to construe the textual formation of ‘Third World Literature’; but this is not the only archive available, for the period after decolonization has also witnessed great expansion and consolidation of literary traditions in a number of indigenous languages as well [...] Not much of this kind of literature is directly available to the metropolitan literary theorists because, erudite as they usually are in metropolitan languages, hardly any of them has ever bothered with an Asian or African language. But parts and shades of these literatures also become available in the West, essentially in the following three ways. By far the greater part of the archive through which knowledge about the so-called Third World is generated in the metropolises has traditionally been, and continues to be, assembled within the metropolitan institutions of research and explication, which are characteristically administered and occupied by overwhelmingly Western personnel. Non-Western individuals have also been employed in these same institutions – more and more so during the more recent, post-colonial period, although still almost always in subordinate positions. The archive itself is dispersed through myriad academic disciplines and genres of writing – from philological reconstruction of the classics to lowbrow reports by missionaries and administrators; from Area Study Programmes and even the central fields of the Humanities to translation projects sponsored by Foundations and private publishing houses alike – generating all kinds of classificatory practices. A particularly large mechanism in the assembly of this archive has been the institutionalized symbiosis between the Western scholar and the local informant, which is frequently re-enacted now – no doubt in far more subtle ways –between the contemporary literary theorist of the West, who typically does not know a non-Western language, and the indigenous translator or essayist, who typically knows one or two. This older, multidisciplinary and somewhat chaotic archive is greatly expanded in our own time, especially in the area of literary studies, by a developing machinery of specifically literary translations – a machinery not nearly as highly developed as the one that exists for the circulation of texts among the metropolitan countries themselves, but not inconsiderable on its own terms. Apart from the private publishing houses and the university presses which may publish such translations of their own volition or under sponsorship programmes, there are state institutions such as the Sahitya Akademi in India, as well as international agencies such as UNESCO, not to speak of the American ‘philanthropic’foundations such as the Rockefeller-funded Asia Society, which have extensive programmes for such publications. Supplementing these translations are the critical essay and its associated genres, usually produced by an indigenous intellectual who reads the indigenous language but writes in one of the metropolitan ones. Some of this kind of writing becomes available in the metropolises, creating versions and shadows of texts produced in other spaces of the globe, but texts which frequently come with the authority of the indigenous informant.

Aijaz Ahmed, In Theory: Nations, Classes, Literatures

[dutch-and-flemish-painters]

Jacques-Albert Senave - Copyist in a gallery of the Louvre -

oil on panel, height: 28.5 cm (11.2 in); width: 36.2 cm (14.2 in)

Louvre Museum

The Louvre or the Louvre Museum is a national art museum in Paris, France. It is located on the Right Bank of the Seine in the city's 1st arrondissement (district or ward) and home to some of the most canonical works of Western art, including the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo. The museum is housed in the Louvre Palace, originally built in the late 12th to 13th century under Philip II. Remnants of the Medieval Louvre fortress are visible in the basement of the museum. Due to urban expansion, the fortress eventually lost its defensive function, and in 1546 Francis I converted it into the primary residence of the French kings.

The building was extended many times to form the present Louvre Palace. In 1682, Louis XIV chose the Palace of Versailles for his household, leaving the Louvre primarily as a place to display the royal collection, including, from 1692, a collection of ancient Greek and Roman sculpture. In 1692, the building was occupied by the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres and the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture, which in 1699 held the first of a series of salons. The Académie remained at the Louvre for 100 years. During the French Revolution, the National Assembly decreed that the Louvre should be used as a museum to display the nation's masterpieces.

The museum opened on 10 August 1793 with an exhibition of 537 paintings, the majority of the works being royal and confiscated church property. Because of structural problems with the building, the museum was closed from 1796 until 1801. The collection was increased under Napoleon and the museum was renamed Musée Napoléon, but after Napoleon's abdication, many works seized by his armies were returned to their original owners. The collection was further increased during the reigns of Louis XVIII and Charles X, and during the Second French Empire the museum gained 20,000 pieces. Holdings have grown steadily through donations and bequests since the Third Republic. The collection is divided among eight curatorial departments: Egyptian Antiquities; Near Eastern Antiquities; Greek, Etruscan, and Roman Antiquities; Islamic Art; Sculpture; Decorative Arts; Paintings; Prints and Drawings.

The Musée du Louvre contains approximately 500,000 objects and displays 35,000 works of art in eight curatorial departments with more than 60,600 m2 (652,000 sq ft) dedicated to the permanent collection. The Louvre exhibits sculptures, objets d'art, paintings, drawings, and archaeological finds. At any given point in time, approximately 38,000 objects from prehistory to the 21st century are being exhibited over an area of 72,735 m2 (782,910 sq ft), making it the largest museum in the world. It received 8.9 million visitors in 2023, 14 percent more than in 2022, but still below the 10.1 million visitors in 2018, making it the most-visited museum in the world.

Jacques-Albert Senave (1758–1823) was a Flemish painter mainly active in Paris during the late 18th and early 19th centuries. He is known for his genre scenes, history paintings, landscapes, city views, market scenes and portraits.

[good-old-gossip]

"Last month, EU foreign policy chief Josep Borrell called Gaza 'a graveyard for tens of thousands of people and also a graveyard for many of the most important principles of humanitarian law'. The reality may be even worse.

I fear it may become the graveyard of liberalism itself. Three decades ago, liberalism was the lead chariot in the procession of the liberal democratic project.

New democracies were emerging in Europe; the Soviet Union had crumbled, and Russia was in transition; the Berlin Wall had fallen; and South Africa's apartheid regime was collapsing.

Even China exhibited signs of change. Liberal democracy appeared invincible, both in practice and in theory.

There appeared to be no real competition as it stood out as a triumphant and principled form of governance. Ask any well-versed liberal arts student and they will recite that liberalism is a political and philosophical ideology centred on the principles of individual liberty, equality and limited government.

They will point out that it emphasises the protection of individual rights and freedoms, including freedom of speech, religion and assembly, as well as the rule of law and democratic governance.

While advocating for a market-based economy with private property rights, free trade and minimal government regulation, liberalism also promotes social welfare programmes to alleviate disadvantages and ensure equal opportunities for all citizens.

Additionally, liberalism supports the idea of pluralism, tolerance and diversity, aiming to create societies where individuals can pursue their own interests and live according to their own beliefs without undue interference from the state.

The essence of liberalism lies in its commitment to the rule of law and human rights. Sounds amazing, so what’s the problem, you may be asking? Those observing the “plausible genocide” without a propaganda lens over the last six months have had front-row seats on a systematic erosion of liberal values and ideals.

Gaza has exposed western hypocrisy and double standards, and it has shaken liberalism to its core. Both domestic and international commitment to the rule of law, human rights and a rules-based order are being undermined by, arguably, the most powerful lobby in the world. Pro-Israeli lobbies have hijacked most western liberal democracies.

The whole world is now privy to the shameless pimping of western politicians previously documented in Congressman Paul Findley's 1985 book They Dare to Speak Out and reinforced by the 2007 book The Israel Lobby and US Foreign Policy, by political scientists John Mearsheimer and Stephen Walt.

As an anonymous commentator wrote: “People think Gaza is occupied, but in reality, Gaza is free but the whole world is occupied.” Liberal elites and leaders who joined millions in support of free speech and proclaimed “Je suis Charlie” in solidarity with the French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo after terrorists killed 12 people at its Paris offices in 2015 to try to shut it down, are now calling for suppression of free speech. By a vote of 377-44-1, the US House passed a resolution that the "slogan, 'from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free' is antisemitic and its use must be condemned".

Of course, the statement is not threatening or condemnable if you substitute “Palestine'' with “Israel”, as you see being done by many Israeli supporters and in the Likud manifesto.

The University of Southern California, in an unprecedented move, cancelled its Muslim valedictorian, Asna Tabassum, who minored in genocide studies, from delivering her address because of alleged threats from pro-Israeli groups.

They cited unspecified “security concerns”. I thought the idea was to never give in to what are clearly “terrorist” demands. To make matters worse, due to the fallout, in another unprecedented move, the university subsequently cancelled all other speakers and honorary doctorate presentations during convocation. Where are the “Je suis Asna” calls from liberal elites and institutions? Hundreds of students and faculty at Columbia, Yale and New York University have been arrested peacefully (in the words of the police chief) protesting against the killings by Israel.

Another 200 mostly Jewish protesters were arrested in front of Senate majority leader Chuck Schumer’s Brooklyn residence, where they gathered for the seder, a ritual that marks the second night of the Passover holiday celebrated as a festival of freedom by Jews worldwide. No free speech mobilisation by liberal elites anywhere to be seen.

Those who championed freedom of expression are now banning the keffiyeh, the traditional Palestinian headdress, because it is making some people uncomfortable.

Last week, the Ontario legislature banned the headdress, forcing a scheduled meeting between legislators and pro-Palestinian protesters to be held outside the legislative buildings because the activists had donned their keffiyehs. Israeli military dog tags, Israeli flags and other political symbols, of course, are not political in the same way.

The situation is no different in many European countries. Who thought that liberalism was so fragile and malleable by those who seek to subvert it for their own illiberal goals, namely promoting ethnic cleansing by the ethno-nationalist and racist state of Israel.

In the wake of the mass killings of the Second World War and the Holocaust, the new liberal world order enacted human rights treaties and enacted humanitarian laws to make sure that such massacres and abuses were "never again" repeated. Rising out of the horrors of the Second World War we saw the establishment of the United Nations and the drafting of the international bill of human rights that would obligate "every state to recognise the equal right of every individual on its territory to life, liberty and property, religious freedom and the use of his own language".

The bill consisted of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights. We also saw the enactment of the Geneva Conventions of 1949, which sought to improve the legal protection of non-combatants, medical personnel, medical facilities and equipment, and wounded and sick civilians.

Despite these advances claimed by liberals, today we are witnessing war crimes, crimes against humanity and “plausible genocide”, according to the International Court of Justice, being live-streamed to our devices.

If liberalism cannot offer a moral and ethical form of governance, then what good is it? What are the grandiose declarations, pronouncements and treaties good for? In the midst of such an unprecedented attack on a corralled civilian population by a western colonial implant and ally, if liberalism shows no will, ability or desire to protect civilian life, regional security, a nation's own national interests and global order, then its mission-defining claims of principle and competence collapse.

Liberal intellectuals have long claimed the moral high ground by championing justice whether it be in favour or against western interests. Why is the Israeli situation different? When blind loyalty becomes the sole or primary consideration, then what makes liberalism different from tribalism? When global security and safety can be sacrificed at the altar of friendship and similarity, then what becomes of the West’s claim to authority as a political and military custodian of a rules-based international order? Might and dominance can be mistaken for right, but let's not forget that dissenting minorities, the oppressed and colonised may conclude that their only choice is to resist by any means necessary, and revolution is always a higher likelihood.

Even domestically, history has proven that societies that combine responsiveness to the will of their people with robust protections for individuals and minority groups are in the best position to strike a flexible and sustainable balance among these competing forces. We can only hope and pray (sorry are we still allowed to do that?) that this is some sort of glitch or malfunction, and liberal elites and intellectuals will wake up from their slumber and remind liberal politicians that the very raison d’etre of the liberal democratic project is under threat of collapse. It is almost too late, but there may be a sliver of hope.

How liberal elites respond to the Gaza challenge and salvage whatever shreds of credibility remain will dictate the legacy of liberalism.

Liberals must stand up for their principles or forever hang their heads in shame. ✍️ Faisal Kutty

[phoenixyfriend]

Suggested Listening

I've heard a few distinct takes on the UN vote and the comparison of the US and Israeli actions in light of it. I don't fully understand everything about the politics around this vote, because it's a complicated dance and trying to understand what people are thinking is close to impossible when we don't know what's going on behind the scenes and what's just political theater... but I think listening to multiple perspectives might get us closer to understanding than just listening to one.

I have provided approximate bias/political spectrum position for each, as well as giving my reasoning or summary of why I think it's a useful listen.

This post includes The NPR Politics Podcast, Democracy Now!, Al Jazeera: The Take, and the BBC Global News Podcast.

To support my blogging so I can move out of my parents’ house, I do have a ko-fi. Alternately, you can donate to one of the charities I list in this post.

The NPR Politics Podcast - March 27, 2024 - Left-leaning, though not as far as some of the others. This contextualizes the relationship between Netanyahu and Biden among the history between Netanyahu and multiple past presidents, including Trump, Obama, and Clinton. It focuses in part on the domestic political dynamics and ramifications that Biden is facing, the question of funding, and the apparent self-contradiction of the US government when it comes to the possibility of conditions, sanctions, or other reprisal if Israel continues to disregard US concerns about the ground invasion of Rafah.

Democracy Now! - Several parts of the March 26, 2024 episode were focused on the UN vote and results - This is a far-left radio broadcast show that gets repackaged for online video and podcast dissemination. This coverage is much more critical, without 'well, maybe they're trying to [action]' as we see in some others, of the United States and its handling of the UN vote and subsequent fallout. The interview with Craig Mokhiber gets into some nitty-gritty details of something called the "General Assembly under the Uniting for Peace," which I didn't really understand. I can't speak to supporting that we take that part at his word, because it's not something I understand enough to endorse. He also refers to the United States as not only Israel's principal sponsor, but also its co-belligerent.

Short section: U.N.-Commissioned Report Lays Out Evidence of Israeli Genocide in Gaza

Short section: UNSC Approves Its First Gaza Ceasefire Resolution Ater U.S. Abstains

Full story: Ex-U.N. Official Craig Mokhiber: Israel Must Be Held Accountable for Violating Ceasefire Resolution

Full story: Jeremy Corbyn Applauds U.N. Ceasefire Resolution, Says World Must Prevent “Another Nakba”

Al Jazeera - March 26/27, 2024 (timezone-dependent, it was the 26th for EST) - I hesitate to place Al Jazeera on the standard left-right scale since it's outside the Western framework, as an independent Qatari news organization with some degree of funding from the government of Qatar. What I will say is that Al Jazeera provides a vital non-Western lens, even if some of the reporters are Western, when viewing politics in the Middle East. In this particular case, it also appears that they had a reporter much closer to the action in the UN than the others, as Al Jazeera has an office in the UN headquarters in NYC.

They also address a few curious things about last-minute negotiations on the floor of the UN, the immediate consequences of the US ambassador referring to the resolution as 'non-binding,' and asserts that the US warned Israel that they would be abstaining this time, which is why the US is seemingly confused at how upset Israel is about it. I'm not sure how intentional it is, but the message I got is that Israel tried to call the US's bluff and was then upset when the US followed through, because the US... wasn't bluffing. And did in fact abstain.

BBC Global News Podcast - March 27, 2024 - Dead center, variably left or right depending on the issue - This is a twice-daily podcast and generally contains three or four separate stories. Their coverage of Netanyahu walking back the cancellation of his officials' trip to the US is first, however, and I'm not sure how much it adds to analysis of the vote, but it is the most recent and has the latest of the updates.

To support my blogging so I can move out of my parents’ house, I do have a ko-fi. Alternately, you can donate to one of the charities I list in this post.

[starlightshadowsworld]

Let's do a recap shall we (28.10.2023)

Internet and phone networks have been cut off in Gaza. It's a near total blackout.

Meaning people in the region are struggling to contact loved ones.

And ambulances are struggling to find the people that need their help.

Fuel has been banned from getting into Gaza. And the fuel they had is running out.

Which will affect hospitals, ambulances. Premature babies in incubators and people utilising dialysis machines etc.

The ground invasion of Gaza has begun, with the Israeli military "stepping up" its air and ground forces in Gaza.

Daniel Hagari, an Israeli spokesman tweeted "For your immediate safety, we urge all residents of northern Gaza and Gaza City to temporarily relocate south.”

Because it's not like the last time the Israeli government told Palestinians to go south, they didn't bomb the safe routes and kill at least 40 people?

Also... Probably shouldn't be tweeting when almost no one can get the message.

Because of you guys bombing the area.

The infamous tunnels under Gaza have been used by the Palestinians to get in goods that Israel has not allowed them to have.

These goods have ranged from cheap gasloline to sheep, to women's underwear and plastic chairs for a school Israel had demolished.

For years they were called Gaza's lifeline

The UN... Continues to do fuck all.

I mean, they called an assembly which had a resolution lead by Jordan.

Which had an overwhelming majority agree for an “immediate, durable and sustainable humanitarian truce."

It demanded unhindered aid to the Gaza Strip. As well as the immediate release of all hostages.

Condemning attacks on both the Palestinian and Israeli civilians.

It passed with 120 votes.

45 abstained and 14 that were against it.

Though it's not legally binding but "carries political weight and reflects the degree the US and Israel are isolated internationally."

And apparently the White House are "pressuring Israel to reach a ceasefire."

Which, I call bullshit because the US has the power in this situation.

If Biden demanded a ceasefire or said if you don't stop this at once I'm gonna pull all our funding and military support.

Israel would fold so fast.

That's how much power the US government has over this shit. Israel has nothing without the western powers supporting them.

More than 100 Palestinians have been killed in the West Bank.

By Settlers, aka people who lived abroad and settled to live in occupied Palestine.

Gun laws have been relaxed for settlers and they are killing Palestinians with the full support of the IDF.

Their blaming it on terrorism but the West Bank is a place that has no Hamas presence in it.

So their own justificactions don't even add up.

Not that they ever did.

Also they are killing Palestinians for just existing, 4 settlers killed a Palestinian who was harvesting olives.

So keep an eye on the West Bank and Gaza.

Apologises if I've missed anything because I probably have, cos there's just a lot going on.

[lectorel]

Modern Thedasians in Inquisition:

(Yes, I am riffing on the Modern Girl in Thedas concept.)

Post-Reformation Qunari: Viddathari mage, under the arigena as silversmith, who only ever learned about the pre-reformation Qun's attitude towards mages as 'a product of what was known at the time'. Went through 'possession-proofing' at ten, which was mildly traumatic, but, you know, fair trade-off for being able to live without things trying to crawl inside their head.

The pre-reformation Qun, as embodied by the things the Iron Bull says about it, deeply troubles her, and she's constantly having small crises of faith. She grew up being taught that the problems of pre-reform were only due to what was not known to them at the time, and that any pre-reform qunari given the correct information would naturally adopt the post-reform view. The fact that this is not proving true is leading her to wonder how rational their society's beliefs actually are.

Especially troubled by the gender thing, since post-reform Qun has moved to seeing gender as a function of role: all those governed by the ariqun use zi/zir pronouns, those by the arishok use he/him, and those by the arigena use she/her. She's very bad at remembering what people's genders are, since to her, everyone is walking around with very clear gender signifiers that are not correct. Except Dagna, who is, in her mind, the only damn person in Skyhold who makes sense. 

Western Tevinter Vulgerati: Tevinter split in two in a massive civil war several generations before his birth, the outcome of which has resulted in the western liberationist province, and the eastern slave-holding province. Technically still the same country, but only because neither side will acknowledge the other as its own nation.

Western Tevinter has a split government - The House of the Magisterium and the Publicanium Assembly. The Magisterium's members are all mages, elected from a limited pool of candidates put forward by Altus houses. The Publicanium is non-mages from Vulgerati Houses, and seats are inherited.

Western Tevinter has a semi-regimated society, with Altus (mage) and Vulgerati (non-mage) houses theoretically being equals at the top of the heap. Below them are the Lanteans, land-owners, and below them the Soperati, the working class.

The herald is the adopted son of a vulgerati house, specifically adopted because the blood heirs all developed magic, and under western province laws, they can't inherit a vulgerati title. (The blood heirs are less than pleased with this, and their parents are trying to find an Altus house they can be married into.) He has vague memories about learning about Corypheus, but only in the context of 'that guy who pissed off the rest of the world so bad we spent a couple decades in a cold war. Did something to the fade, I think? I don't know, it's not exactly relevant to my life. If you want to know the past 50 years of covert warfare and political maneuvering, that I can tell you about.'

Is continuously appalled by Dorian 'allegedly a progressive' Pavus, because "by the old gods, man, there are a lot of possible outcomes between 'being comfortable as a slave' and 'being poor while free', how do you not see this?"

[13lunarstar]

Vastu Shastra

Vastu Shastra is the ancient Indian science of architectural design and spatial configuration which assigns specific Earth directions to each planet. This practice aims to harmonize the living environment with pure cosmic energies, enhancing well-being, prosperity, and overall harmony.

Directions and Associated Planets in Vastu Shastra

East

Associated Planet: Sun (Surya)

Significance: The east direction is governed by the Sun, representing vitality, growth, health, and energy. It is considered a highly auspicious direction

Best use: it is recommended for the main entrance of a house, clean living rooms with big windows and open space for better air ventilation, and places where important activities are conducted.

What to avoid: staircases, bedrooms (Solar energy is too active for relaxation and sleeping), bathroom or a toilet or a closed storage space

West

Associated Planet: Saturn (Shani)

Significance: The west direction is governed by Saturn, representing discipline, hard work, and stability

Best Use: It is suitable for storage areas, bathrooms, and spaces requiring calm and concentration

What to avoid: excessive furniture, kitchens and fireplaces, big openings in a room or a living area ( the Eastern, i.e., solar energy isn't stored in the West if there are big openings. Solar Energy rises from the East and sets in the West, hence it will spoil the prospect of income with big openings in the Western direction)

North

Associated Planet: Mercury (Budha)

Significance: The north direction is governed by Mercury, symbolizing intellect, knowledge, communication, and business. It is considered favourable for business activities, cash flow, and studies

Best Use: Minimalistic offices, open study rooms, and places for financial transactions

What to avoid: bedrooms, storage rooms, toilets, heavy structures, fire elements ( might cause accidents)

South

Associated Planet: Mars

Significance: The south direction is governed by Mars, representing energy, strength, and courage. It is recommended for areas that require protection and fortification

Best Use: Closed areas with thick walls (e.g., storerooms), workshop areas (especially for fire-related works) and kitchens (close to the fire and heating elements)

What to avoid: placing other elements (unfriendly to fire), bedrooms, office and study areas

Northeast

Associated Planet: Jupiter (Guru)

Significance: The northeast direction is governed by Jupiter, representing wisdom, spirituality, prosperity and growth. It is highly auspicious and should be kept clean and open, with minimal construction

Best Use: Prayer rooms, minimalistic meditation spaces, water elements, all kinds of quiet corners, home libraries, home gardens and clean living rooms

What to avoid: assembling toilets, heavy structures, kitchen and storage areas, places with excessive electronic devices

Northwest

Associated Planet: Moon (Chandra)

Significance: The northwest direction is governed by the Moon, symbolizing emotions, psyche, care, nutrition ( especially milk and dairy products), relationships and travel. It is suitable for guest rooms, kitchens, and storage areas

Best Use: Guest rooms, children's bedrooms, calm places, bathrooms and water elements, kitchens (dining area where the meal is served), organized storage areas, study rooms with

What to avoid: heavy storage, places with excessive electronic devices, workout zones ( too active for Moon energy), open spaces with direct sunlight

Southeast

Associated Planet: Venus (Shukra)

Significance: The southeast direction is governed by Venus, representing feelings, leisure, arts, style, pleasures, wealth, luxury, and harmony

Best Use: marital bedrooms (enhances marital harmony, romantic relationships), living rooms, dressing rooms, kitchen (dining) area, art studios, music rooms

What to avoid: calm places for meditation, guest rooms (better for the Moon energy and the northwestern direction)

Southwest

Associated Planet: Rahu (Upagraha - a shadow planet or a Nothern Lunar Node)

Significance: The southwest direction is governed by Rahu, known for its intense and transformative energies. Rahu represents power, material desires, and nighttime. It has a profound influence on the physical and psychological aspects of an individual's life. A well-arranged zone can boost confidence, popularity and wealth. A badly arranged zone can cause behavioural issues (anxiety, depression), feeling low and energy loss.

Best Use: Master bedrooms on a high floor, organized storerooms and wardrobes; areas requiring stability, structure, confidence, grounding and protection

What to avoid: main entrances, water elements (including aquariums), bathrooms, children's areas (might be too overwhelming for kids), and lightweight furniture (this area benefits from solid and substantial structures)

[darkmaga-retard]

By M.K. Bhadrakumar Indian Punchline

U.K. Prime Minister Keir Starmer met with U.S. President Joe Biden in the White House on Friday with the question of the use of long-range missiles by Ukraine to hit deep inside Russia on their agenda of conversation. But there were no announcements, nor was there any joint press conference.

Starmer later told the media that the talks were “productive” but concentrated on “strategy” rather than a “particular step or tactic.” He did not signal any decision on allowing Kiev to fire long-range missiles into Russia. 

Starmer said no final decision had been taken on the Storm Shadow missiles and hinted that further developments may follow at the gathering of the U.N. General Assembly later this month. “We’ll obviously pick up again in UNGA in just a few days time with a wider group of individuals,” he said.

One reason for such extreme secrecy is that the U.S. and U.K. are intensely conscious of the Russian President Vladimir Putin’s explicit warning on Thursday that any use of Western long-range missiles to strike Russia “will mean that NATO countries, the United States, and European countries are parties to the war in Ukraine. This will mean their direct involvement in the conflict, and it will clearly change the very essence, the very nature of the conflict dramatically.” 

Putin added in measured words: “This will mean that NATO countries – the United States and European countries –- are at war with Russia. And if this is the case, then, bearing in mind the change in the essence of the conflict, we will make appropriate decisions in response to the threats that will be posed to us.” 

[mercerislandbooks]

Section Revival: Manga

Some of you may have noticed a lower shelf tucked away near the mysteries; many of you haven’t. Walk past the fiction, take a left at the games, and get low to browse an assortment of books read from right to left, with the cover on the "back" and the description on the "front". This is our little collection of Japanese graphic novels, known as manga. Reviving and curating this section has been high on my personal project list for two years now, and I’ve finally been able to tackle it. With the Netflix release of the live-action One Piece (a kid who wants to become King of the Pirates assembles a ragtag crew), an adaptation of one of the biggest and longest-running manga and anime (Japanese animation) series in existence, we’ve had countless kids (and their parents) beginning their journey into the world of manga.

I stumbled upon manga and anime when I was in high school with Fruits Basket. Here was an animated show, based on a beloved manga, that told of a quiet girl without much confidence who found her place in an odd and rambunctious family that just so happened to turn into the animals of the Zodiac when hugged by the opposite gender. A wild premise? Maybe. But it was also so engaging and sweet and entertaining. Fruits Basket was something my sister and I could share, and we began to find other manga that we could read together and discuss. This was our introduction to an abundance of stories that had been previously unknown to us.

The great thing about manga is that there's something for everyone. It covers a range of genres, from sweet slice-of-life series like Insomniacs After School (two high schoolers with insomnia restart their school's defunct astronomy club in order to have something to occupy their sleepless nights) to postapocalyptic worlds like Heart Gear (a young girl is raised by a robot after humanity has been wiped out).

There are the One Piece-level classics:

Naruto (a troublemaking kid wants to become a ninja)

Fullmetal Alchemist (two brothers pay the price in an alchemical ritual gone wrong and become state alchemists in their quest for the Philosopher's Stone)

If you like reading about people learning to use magic, try:

Witch Hat Atelier (a young girl learns the secret to being a witch)

If you prefer short vignettes, consider:

The Way of the House Husband (a retired gangster takes over the household chores and goes grocery shopping)

Mr. Villain's Day Off (a member of the Evil League of Villains just really loves pandas)

Or try current customer favorites, which are popular for a reason:

Spy x Family (a spy, an assassin, a telepath, and a dog that can see the future must form a fake family to prevent war)

Cat + Gamer (a woman who loves video games adopts a cat)

For many of the same reasons that Western graphic novels are so popular today, manga lets us enjoy amazing storylines with impressive art but with a different culture's perspective. I’ve long enjoyed the many ways people find to share stories and bring others together, and it’s been so rewarding to see a new generation and new readers discover a medium that means so much to me. If you want to try something new, we can point you in the right direction of our little (but hopefully not for long) shelf of manga. 

—Becca

[rauthschild]

Communist History Of V. P. Kamala Harris

 This is a really revealing history of of this nation's Vice President and presidential candidate. It is a long article but is necessary because it is so very important for you to know. This editorial is by Major General Higginbotham U.S. Marines (Ret)

This timely editorial that exposes the hidden background of Kamala Harris is from the Combat Veterans for Congress Political Action Committee. It is posted here with permission of the author. CVFC PAC supports the election of US military combat veterans to the US Senate and House of Representatives.

The editorial begins:

Kamala Harris' father was an avowed Marxist professor in the Economics Department at Stanford University in Palo Alto, CA. Both of Harris' parents were active in the Berkeley based Afro-American Association; Fidel Castro and Che Guevara were the heroes of the Afro-American Association. The group's leader, Donald Warden (aka Khalid al-Mansour), mentored two young Afro-American Association members, Huey Newton and Bobby Seale; they created the Maoist inspired Black Panther Party which gained strong support from Communist China; the Black Panther Party served as the model for creation of the Black Lives Matter Marxist organization Khalid al-Mansour subsequently went on to arrange financing and facilitated for Barack Hussein Obama to be accepted as a student to matriculate at Harvard Law School.

Following her graduation from college, Harris returned to California and subsequently became the mistress of the 60-year-old married Speaker of the California Assembly, Willie Brown, Jr. Brown's political campaigns were supported and funded by Dr. Carlton Goodlett, the owner of The Sun Reporter and several other pro-Communist newspapers. Brown was elected as Mayor of San Francisco, and strongly endorsed Harris' Marxist political philosophy; he guided Harris' political rise in California politics, leading to her election as California's Attorney General. Willie Brown, Jr. is a well-known long-time Communist sympathizer.

Willie Brown, Jr. was initially elected to public office with substantial help of the Communist Party USA. Today, Willie Brown is widely regarded as one of the Chinese Communist Party's best friends in the San Francisco Bay Area. While serving as San Francisco District Attorney, Kamala Harris mentored a young San Francisco Radical Maoist activist, Lateefah Simon, who was a member of the STORM Revolutionary Movement; Simon currently chairs the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) Board. Simon has always been close friends with the founder of Black Lives Matter Marxist Domestic Terrorists, Alicia Garza, as well as STORM member and avowed Communist, Van Jones. Harris has been openly and aggressively supporting Black Lives Matter Marxists; Kamala Harris is still closely associated with Maoist Lateefah Simon and Marxist Alicia Garza.

 Kamala Harris's sister Maya Harris was a student activist at Stanford University. She was a closely associated with Steve Phillips, one of the leading Marxist-Leninists on campus and a long-time affiliate with the League of Revolutionary Struggle, a pro-Chinese Communist group. Phillips came out of the Left, and in college he studied Marx, Mao, and Lenin, and maintained close associations with fellow Communists. Phillips married into the multi billion dollar Sandler family of the Golden West Savings and Loan Fortune. He funded many leftist political campaigns, and the voter registration drives in the Southern and South Western states in order to help his friend, Barack Hussein Obama, defeat Hillary Clinton.

Phillips has been a major financial sponsor for Kamala Harris's political campaigns for various California elective offices. Harris' husband, Doug Emhoff works for the law firm DLA Piper, which "boasts nearly 30 years of experience in Communist China with over 140 lawyers dedicated to its 'Communist China investment Services' branch. He was just appointed to Professor at Yale to school future lawyers in the fine points of Communism. When she was elected to the US Senate,Kamala Harris appointed a Pro-Communist Senate Chief of Staff, Karine Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre was active with the New York-based Haiti Support Network. The organization worked closely with the pro-Communist China/Communist North Korea Workers World Party and supported Jean-Bertrand Aristide, the far-left Communist former president of Haiti and the radical Lavalas movement.

Fortunately for Harris, but potentially disastrous for the Republic, elected office holders are not subject to the security clearance process. If the FBI did a Background Investigation on Kamala Harris, she never would have passed, because of her 40-year close ties with Marxists, Communists, Maoists, and Communist China. Harris would never have been approved for acceptance to any of the 5 Military Service Academies, been appointed to a U.S. Government Sub-Cabinet position, or would have been approved to fill a sensitive position for a high security defense contractor. Yet, since Joe Biden was elected, Harris could be a heartbeat away from being President. The U.S. constitutional Republic is being threatened by the People's Republic of Communist China (PPC) externally, and by their very active espionage operations within the United States. The People's Republic of Communist China (PPC), with 1.4 billion people, is governed by the 90 million member Chinese Communist Party (CCP), that has been working with Russia to destroy the U.S. Constitutional Republic for over 70 years.

 If the American voters read the background information (in Trevor Loudon's article) on Kamala Harris, they would never support her election as Vice President of the United States. Joe Biden is suffering from the early onset of dementia and will continue to decline in cerebral awareness; he will never be able to fill out a four-year term of office. Since Biden was elected, the Socialists, Marxists, and Communist who control Kamala Harris, are planning to enact provisions of the 25th Amendment, in order to remove Joe Biden from office, so Harris can become the first Communist President of the United States. Since Biden was elected, because Biden would not be up to it,

Kamala Harris would lead the effort to appoint very dangerous anti-American Leftist, Communist, Socialists, and Marxists to fill highly sensitive positions in the Washington Deep State Bureaucracy. She would fill all appointive positions in the US Intelligence Agencies, in the Department of Homeland Security, in the Department of Defense, in The Justice Department, the Department of State, the FBI, the CIA, most cabinet positions, the National Security Council, and in the White House Staff. American voters must alert their fellow Americans that Kamala Harris is a very serious National Security threat to the very survival of the US Constitutional Republic; she has been a fellow traveler of Marxists, Communists, Maoists, Socialists, Progressives, and Chinese Communists for over 35 years.

President Trump had much more background information on Kamala Harris than we presented here, and he was correct, when he accused Kamala Harris of being a Communist subverter.

Geoffrey B. Higginbotham Major General, USMC (Ret).

Ernest Rauthschild's Response

Further, Geoffrey B. Higginbotham is standing in front of the foreign corporate British Territorial United States and Vatican Municipal United States BANNER; and not our Autochthonous Preamble Posterity General Government Flag enacted by the General Congress Assembled July 14th, 1777.

None of the "presidents of the United States" in my lifetime have been elected either in accord with Art. 2, Section 1 or Amendment 12 of the United States Constitution. There is no Constitutional provision that allows the Winners of the partisan conventions, who somehow become a candidate the Electoral College Select from, to choose or pick the candidate for Vice' President.

Since Congress has never declared war during Higginbotham tenure and lifetime, his resume is merely that of a foreign corporate Indentured 13th and 14th Amendment White Negro Slave in a foreign corporate Mercenary uniform.

[mariacallous]

A Russian missile strike on Lviv, in western Ukraine, left Yaroslav Bazylevych the sole survivor of his family this week. His wife and three daughters were killed, victims of a war where, in the words of Lithuania’s Foreign Minister, "Russian planes are better protected by Western guarantees than Ukrainian civilians."

Yaroslav, his wife, Yevheniya, and three daughters – Emilia, Daryna and Yaryna – all lived in Lviv, a city near Ukraine’s border with Poland which has long been considered a safer haven within Ukrainian territory. Until recently, it has experienced limited Russian attacks. This recent bombardment came after devastating missile strikes on the central Ukrainian city of Poltava, which claimed the lives of over 50 people, making it one of Russia’s deadliest attacks on Ukraine to date.

Russia’s war of aggression against Ukraine is intensifying, and yet still the Western posture seems to be utterly stuck in a rut. Ukraine complains – rightly – that Western weapons deliveries are simply not enough, that they take too long to arrive and that too many restrictions are placed upon their use. This has become a particular point of focus as Western partners – principally the Biden administration – insist on a blurred policy when it comes to using American-made weapons to strike military targets within Russia.

Nuclear sabre-rattling

Although the White House lifted its blanket ban on targeting assets in Russia earlier this year, they continue to dole out a whole range of excuses as to why certain weapons systems must not or should not be used. Usually, “unnamed officials” at the State Department reference the risk of nuclear escalation or claim that the use of longer-range weapons hitting inside Russia won’t change the strategic outlook of the war because the targets aren’t worth hitting.

If the war has shown us anything, it’s that Putin’s nuclear sabre-rattling is just that. But the idea that Ukraine can’t change the strategic outlook is simply for the birds. A recent study from the US-based think tank, the Institute for the Study of War, argues that there are around 250 military objects – airfields, military bases, communications stations and logistics hubs – within range of Army Tactical Missile Systems, a tactical ballistic missile built by Lockheed Martin and supplied by the US.

Ben Hodges, a former commander of American forces in Europe, told The Economist that the “constant excuse-making is both misleading and inaccurate. There is no moral or legal reason for not going after these targets.” He was even more blunt when he took to X/Twitter after the Russian bombing of a housing block in Kharkiv when he said: “US policy is protecting Russia’s ability to do this.”

Biden says no

Another example would be the UK and French-supplied Storm Shadow/Scalp cruise missiles. Ukraine wants to use these to target legitimate Russian assets but because they contain American components, the US gets an effective veto.

The supply of Storm shadow missiles – albeit limited – is not insignificant. They have a long range and can, for example, penetrate hardened aircraft hangers. They would present a headache for Russian military planners, who have already moved significant assets further away from the Ukrainian border. But Joe Biden says no. With his pushback, Russian bombers sleep a little more soundly.

In recent days, Ukrainian officials have travelled to Washington in the hope of securing a readjustment to the current policy of ‘yes but, no but’. It’s understood Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky will also raise the issue directly with Biden when the pair meet at the upcoming UN General Assembly in New York.

Prolonging the war

A change is indeed needed if Ukraine is to win, and this war is to come to an end. How can it possibly be that we – politicians and citizens of the West – allow Russian bombers to be better protected than Yaroslav’s wife and three children? Ukraine must be allowed to strike back if they are to protect their sovereignty, which is entirely the point of article 51 of the UN Charter.

What we are witnessing in Washington is the slow boiling of a frog. Biden’s stubbornness, and his inability to see the bigger strategic picture, will prolong the war, deteriorate European security even further and only encourage Russia to push the envelope as they seek to create a new wave of Ukrainian refugees in Europe.

John Foreman, the former British Defence Attaché in Moscow, put it rather well to me earlier this week when he said: “The US strategy is the inverse of Roosevelt's. Biden speaks loudly but carries a small stick.”

China is watching

As the war against Ukraine has slowly slipped down the headlines and the political agenda, it is worth pausing to remind ourselves that Ukraine isn’t only fighting for their existence and freedom, but also for ours. They fight to defend the international system that has given Europe the longest period of relative peace in its history. When we say we will stand with Ukraine, we shouldn’t do it whilst chaining one hand behind their back.

All of this, of course, is being noted in China – which is, it’s worth remembering, a party to Russia’s war against Ukraine – where President Xi Jinping will be licking his lips as he weighs up any future moves on the free people of Taiwan.

The limits of the liberal international order are being assaulted, violated and probed every day and across every continent. War, climate change, economic uncertainty and technological advancements are all contributing to what former Prime Minister Tony Blair described this week as an “anxious zeitgeist” that characterises today’s mood.

This period of messy transition requires clear-eyed leadership and the boldness to defend what’s right. Ukraine knows better than anyone else how to win this war and secure their freedoms and ours. We must give them it.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

Perc'ahlia Week Day 4: Shoot/Reborn

over halfway through @percahliaweek! also available on ao3!

This is the second time Percy's killed Vex.

To be specific, this is the second time Percy's curiosity, his inability to think before he acts, his insatiable thirst for information, has resulted in Vex's eyes staring up, dull, sightless, unmoving.

It started with a book, a dusty tome written in a language Percy does not understand. News of such a book, which, he was told, contains depictions of the advanced magical technologies of the Age of Arcanum, deep knowledge once thought lost along with the two-thirds of the mortal population of Exandria, reached Percy through his various connections to houses of research—the libraries of the Cobalt Soul, the Alabaster Lyceum, the Soltryce Academy. Percy was sure that this ancient text contained information that, in the right hands, could result in technological advancements that would set the Exandrian population on a path of untold wonder and discovery—or, in the wrong hands, on a path toward autocracy and ruin. Either way, Percy wanted the book in his hands, and now his hands are wrapped around his dead wife's cold, clammy fingers.

It was a challenge, carrying her body into Castle Whitestone without alerting any of the townsfolk or, more importantly, the de Rolo children of the Lady's death. She is laid out on a bed in the guest wing, far from where Vesper or the twins normally play and study, and Percy cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot understand the story being told to him in pieces by the other members of the Grey Hunt.

The mission was not one they normally undergo, its purpose outside of their purview, but when has the Mistress of the Grey Hunt ever denied her beloved husband anything? And the old ruins where the tome was rumored to reside were only a week's ride away, at the tip of the northern peninsula that frames the western side of the Shearing Channel. Go in, get the book, get out. It was simple enough.

"She wouldn't leave until the rest of us could escape," her deputy mistress, a slim human woman with tight, dark curls, says quietly. "She was incredibly courageous. We're the ones with firearms, she just had her bow and arrows, but...she wouldn't stop shooting at it. Over and over, relentlessly, facing down the naga like it was nothing. She was a hero."

"Is," Percy snaps, and the deputy mistress falls silent. He twists his head around to look at one of the castle servants, who is standing vigil by the door. "Where is Pike?"

The young man flinches at the acid in Percy's tone. "She...is coming, my lord. I believe she has joined those assembling the diamonds required for—"

He's cut off by a low, throaty croak. Percy slowly turns the other way to look toward the open window, where an enormous raven, so big it can barely fit on the sill, glares at him, its beak a threatening dagger. The shame that washes over him is staggering, knocks the wind clean from his lungs. It has been so long since Percy has discovered a new way to hate himself.

Are they together now? Is Vax once again bargaining with his matron on his sister's behalf, begging her to help him clean up Percy's mess? How much will the Raven Queen allow him to get away with? At what point does she decide he's run out of chances?

There is a knock on the door, and the servant opens it to reveal Pike, flanked by two other members of the household staff carrying enormous, lumpy sacs. "We've got them," she says quietly, scurrying inside. She needs assistance climbing up beside Vex on the bed, but once she's there, she withdraws a flask of holy water from her pocket. "This will take some time, Percy. But I'm going to bring her back."

She sounds so certain, and Percy wants to take comfort in it. But as she begins to trace symbols in the holy water along Vex's forehead, cheeks, arms, chest, he cannot stop the simmering fear in his blood that his wife will not be returned to him, a fitting punishment for his endless hubris.

The diamonds, worth more than twice what this castle spends in a year, are strewn about Vex's body in an intricate pattern that Percy is sure is divinely significant. It takes about an hour to prepare all of the pieces of this spell, and when she's done, Pike merely reaches up and taps Vex's forehead. She then sits back on her heels and waits.

Nothing happens. Percy frowns, sure that Pike is messing with him, because clearly that cannot be all that there is to a spell of this magnitude. But she sits patiently, eyes watching Vex's still-unmoving face.

The minutes tick by. Pike's neutral expression darkens. Percy knows that something is wrong. "Why...is she..."

"I don't know." Pike reaches forward to lay her tiny hand on Vex's cheek, which remains unflinching. "It should have worked." Pike then grips the holy symbol around her neck and begins to murmur low in what Percy is sure is a prayer to Sarenrae.

Another bassy croak from over his shoulder makes Percy wince, and when he looks, the raven is flapping its wings in agitation. It takes off from the windowsill, flying in a tight, anxious pattern outside the castle. Percy can only guess at what Vax is trying to tell him. He watches the raven, and up in the sky, he notices a strange phenomenon occurring: dark, thick clouds seem to be at war with the sunbeams that stream down onto Whitestone. The resulting shadows on the lawns below seem to pull and stretch as light and dark engage in some kind of battle.

"They're fighting." Pike slides down off of the bed to peer out the window herself.

"Who's fighting, Pike?"

"Pelor and the Raven Queen. Look." She points up at the sky. "Vex is his Champion, but right now, she belongs to the Raven Queen. They're fighting over her."

And just like that, Percy's sinking shame is evaporated by the hot flames of rage that ripple up his spine. If there is a fight for Vex'ahlia's soul, how dare it happen without him! He leaps to his feet, storms to the window, and throws open the sash as wide as it can go. Pike has to cling to the hem of his shirt to keep him from falling out as he stretches himself toward the sky and yells, "Whitestone belongs to the Dawnfather, and she belongs to Whitestone! Give her back now!"

The inky black clouds swirl and dance angrily, and for a moment, Percy fears that all of Whitestone will burn for his arrogance. But then a single sunbeam, wide as a road and brighter than anything Percy has ever beheld, breaks through, and Percy and Pike both duck out of the way before they're blinded. Percy brings a hand up to shield his eyes as he watches the white light surround Vex's body, and in a flash that he is sure will kill them all, he loses sight of her entirely.

He doesn't know how long it takes him to be able to see again—he's sure he'll have spots in his vision for the rest of his life—but when he does, he claws his way up off of the floor to rest his arms beside his wife's body—his wife's warm, breathing body.

"Vex'ahlia."

Her eyes flutter open, and Percy takes her face in his hands. "Oh. Hello darling." She looks around, confused by the crush of people surrounding her. "Have I missed something?"

And he kisses her, his lips seeking hers like a drowning man seeks air. There are so many things he needs to say to her, not enough time in the world to apologize, but the first thing she must understand after being reborn in the Dawnfather's light is that he loves her. There is no knowledge, no wonder, no curiosity he would ever trade for one fewer moment in this life with her, so as he breaks the kiss and tips his forehead down to hers, he murmurs, "Thank you for coming back to me."

She smiles up at him. "As if you could ever be rid of me." And outside, the raven croaks once more before taking off up into the dissipating storm clouds above.