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dishonoredrpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, ALEXANDRA! You’ve been accepted for the role of TEMPERANCE with the faceclaim of ZOE BARNARD. I was wholly unprepared for the straight-up laughter that your application would pull out of me, but Meraud is, like, perfect. She’s that even mixture of haughty and beautiful and hysterically arrogant that makes all of her blend together and form exactly what I was looking for in Temperance. The hints and touches of outright ridiculousness -- and the acknowledgment of that -- was icing on top of a delicious pastry. Still, there was an implied human quality to her that had me fully in-love by the end; you really showed to me how she could grow and change if given the chance. Just, completely enraptured -- you encapsulated both the gold filigree and the melting of that filigree as mentioned in the skeleton perfectly. I can’t wait to see what you both do!

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OOC NAME: Alexandra PRONOUNS: she/her AGE: 22 TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST, fairly active? i have no job, and no university classes, and so my time is extremely free! ANYTHING ELSE?: Apologies in advance if i’ve spelled it ‘dishonoured’ at any point in the app, I’m a Canadian and sometimes the ‘u’ just pops out! Also - going through the worldbuilding tag and seeing ‘Brethren Lundqvist, Emissary Konecny’ made me wheeze irl Buzzfeed Unsolved style. TK as a religious emissary… the world trembles at the concept IN CHARACTER SKELETON: Temperance NAME: Meraud Cyrielle Azenari Meraud is a medieval Cornish name, with varying meanings depending on the source. Its connection to the sea within ‘mer’ is unquestionable, and it was that connection I enjoyed: the Azenari family draws their wealth through their connection to the sea, and while they are no longer seafaring, and instead profit off of other sailors, the family’s tradition of honouring that mercurial power. The fact that a different source I found says Meraud actually means ‘a profit from the sea’ is almost too perfect. Cyrielle, a French name, and the feminine variant on ‘Cyril’ — Meraud’s maternal grandfather’s name. Chosen not only to appease the man, a harsh fellow, who disapproved of his only daughter marrying a man whose family’s money was earned rather than inherited (her mother, you see, was from old money, since lost, but the name, and the pride, lingered). The selection of ‘Cyrielle’ appeased him, in part, and while he dotes on all his grandchildren, Meraud is a particular favourite as a result of her name. Azenari is a Basque surname, drawn from ‘azeri’ or ‘fox’. A rather good name for a family that makes their money through cleverness, isn’t it? FACECLAIM: Zoe Barnard (1) or Anya Chalotra (2)! AGE: 23 DETAILS: I found myself so, so torn between Temperance & the Lovers — I tend to go for the sapphic characters, and for Dishonored it was no different. I just adored Temperance when I read her skeleton, the way she was snobby and spoiled but still cultivating a friendship with the Hanged Man, the way she was spoiled and proud and too caught up in herself to appreciate or understand the pure love held by the World and the Lovers. She dreams of being a femme fatale, the protagonist, the heroine, but all she really is, is a spoiled little girl, with dreams and rages in turn, and no real understanding of the world around her beyond what she cares to see. There’s so much potential there, so much capacity for growing and changing, and, given the opportunity, my fingers itch to write it for her! BACKGROUND: What is this character’s history? Where do they come from? What makes them the way that they are? and little girl, who do you think you are? / you think you need it, you think you want love / you wouldn't want it if you knew what it was. The Azenari family was an old one, though not always a noble one. Dust off Tyrholm’s yellowing records and you will find them mentioned, a seafaring heritage, both in legal (merchant) and illegal (pirate) business. It was an easy profit, certainly, bringing luxuries and delights from across the world to bring tastes of warmth to the rocky city, and as they prospered, their power and influence grew. Gold and goods streamed into the city, and, newly ennobled — a gift from a long-past king, pleased at the benefits the port drew into his city, and seeking the influence he’d gain through their inclusion within his court — they flowered even as did the new exotic blooms in the castle’s greenhouse. Skip, then, ahead in the books by a century or two, to a more recent entry: a marriage, a joyful day, the union of Elazar Azenari and Nessa Enys. Scorned by a few in the bride’s family (no matter the hundreds of years which had passed since the Azenari family had been anything but noble, some clung to old prejudices, and a disdain for new money) but celebrated by most, the happy young couple set about their lives with futures light bright by Tyrholm’s most gifted candlemakers. Elazar was the oldest child, the heir to the docks and their wealth, raised to it all his life, and with the inevitable and long-expected passing of his mother provided him with all the responsibilities that came along with the family’s legacy, he shouldered them easily. Nessa was a sweet girl, enchanted by Elazar’s enthusiastic manner and the curious, whimsical gifts he brought her during their courtship, and any familial doubts about his heritage were more or less stifled by the economic reality: she was the youngest daughter of five, and her family could afford very little in the way of a dowry. And they did love each other, perhaps the most important detail of all, with a baby only eight months after, and another two years after, and a third, their only daughter and last child, a year after. Kenver & Ruan, born two years apart, and thick as thieves. Despite identifying quirks (the latter far prefers books and records, a born bookkeeper, the former in search of a knighthood even at a young age), many had trouble telling them apart, and the Azenari household was a rowdy thing before the birth of their youngest, their only girl, a long sought-after daughter: Meraud. She was spoiled, naturally, plied with treats, doted upon by her brothers, showered in delicacies from far-off lands, and grew to expect it all. Her mother taught her elegance, beauty, poise, things necessary for a lady of the Tyrholm nobility, and Meraud’s list of accomplishments and talents only grew as she grew older. She was an elegant thing, long legs, long eyelashes, a skilled dancer and successful flirt, the broken-hearted youth she left trailing after her as a teen only building her confidence, with nothing seeming to even approach shattering it. She had a place in the court, growing up alongside the World, never envying the other’s position or power, but simply glowing on the outskirts, a beautiful flower within the castle’s grey walls. She lacked nothing, and never really learned to distinguish between wants and needs — she received both, after all. Even a shattered engagement did little to impact her, at least not publicly, though inside she burned, hurt even though she refused to admit it to herself. After that, though, the world seemed a little less vibrant than it once had. Envy, loss (both of a friend who grew apart from her, a would-be engagement dissolved seemingly over nothing) hooked their claws in, and she grew spiteful, petulant. A girl who’d been raised to be good even to her lessers instead became disposed to throwing things at them, and many a servant quit rather than face one more morning of lighting a fire in her room only to face Meraud’s petulant rage at being awoken. Her parents refused to see the spoiled girl they’d raised, and continued only to dote upon her, and she grew consumed by herself. Whether the spell would break upon them, as her own refusal to see Tyrholm’s dark corners for anything beyond the home of velvet secrets, whispered confessions, has begun to fracture, remains to be seen. all the feeling was all or nothing / and i took everything I could Grew up very much spoiled by both & mom n dad who always wanted a girl both are awfully protective of her PLOT IDEAS: Regarding the Lovers & the World — I want Meraud to learn! To grow! It’s not as if she grew up without proper models of love in her life (her parents have a rather happy marriage, after all), but the rather superficial experiences she’s taken from the endless spoiling have rather overshadowed it all. Dependant on what the Lovers & the World’s writers want, and how those characters end up being written, I could see Meraud’s fascination with both going in a few directions. Temperance upright: peace, patience, harmony Meraud moves to a deeper comprehension of L&W’s relationship, learning to appreciate it rather than let it dig its claws deep with jealousy. The fire within her turns to soft, warming embers, rather than an inferno that threatens to consume her. Perhaps she learns to love the two platonically, appreciating their love for the beauty it holds, and embracing the importance of her own as different rather than lesser — maybe even finding a love of her own? (A little addition to this can be found in my headcanon regarding ‘Love’) Temperance reversed: discord, recklessness Meraud’s jealousy builds, spilling over, and she finds herself driven to hatred, rumours, gossip: she’s a rather experienced socialite, after all, and could very easily be pushed to attempts at driving a wedge between the two. I don’t see it working at all, really, rather a more tragic bitterness, perhaps that even leads her to work against the World in more political, less personal ways. Meraud! Getting! Woke! She’s closed her eyes to all that is wrong in Tyrholm for far too long, and though the process of opening her eyes has started, there’s a long path ahead for her. Though, frankly, the way she struggles with the dark side of the world may appear ridiculous to other characters, in light of all her privileges and a rather evident love of the luxurious, it’ll be rather overwhelming for her, and I foresee a great deal of gentle weeping on velvet couches with silken cloth dabbing gently at her eyes. I also do, eventually, imagine her pushing for the World as a leader. She does have a certain level of respect for them (fascination at them, longing for them?), and though I’d imaging depending how the above plot idea turns out, I can see her becoming a rather enthusiastic political supporter. Power She’s incredibly ineffectual, a spoiled young girl rather than the powerful figure she could be, if she wasn’t far too self-centered and petulant to achieve it. I’d like to see her grow into this potential, whether for good or ill in the end. She’s intelligent, witty, charming, if she tries, and if she gained a little more awareness of her own flaws, could certainly be a force to be reckoned with. CHARACTER DEATH: Strong yes! The ability to write a romantic, tragic ending for a character has so much potential, creativity-wise and can be incredibly satisfying, I’d love to write one for Meraud. WRITING SAMPLE Wide eyes veiled with dark lashes blink softly, brows furrowed. She’d been late in exiting her father’s office at the docks, summoned there for one reason or another, and had walked over with more than a little frown visible on her face. The gall he had! Meraud had things to do, and besides, the docks were the domain of Kenver and Ruan — she had little interest in the origins of the gilded jewelry upon her wrist, the satin gowns that draped delicately across her body. And then! Adding insult to injury, he father had forgotten their appointment. She’d waited, a dutiful daughter on occasion, but as an hour, then a second, passed, and his tousle-headed figure had remained absent, a fury had grown within her. She cared little for his rule about walking the docks alone. She’d not be here another minute, not wait around like one of her neglected dolls, but would return home herself. It was then, though, that the flaw appeared: far from the docks appearance on days she walked it with her brothers or her father, it was filled to the brim with loud, boorish men. She could smell the alcohol on their breath even from the office’s second-story window, and the things they said! Horrific, scandalous, disgusting, all of them. She shivered at the things they said, words about women that she’d never heard spoken before, ducking as one turned to face the open window. Their conversation turned to her father, and then, of course, to his family, filth in their words and in their intent shrinking her down upon the floor, silent sobs even as she drew her gown around her carefully. It was there her father found her, in the morning, a miscommunication evident in her day-early arrival. But the damage was done, then, in the vicious words of dockhands and pirates, merchants and sailors alike, even those she’d known as a child, her worldview shattered like a poorly-treated bit of porcelain. EXTRAS Anything you’d like can go here, whether that be a playlist, a pinterest board, some headcanons, or whatever you’d like to show us! pinterest board here: https://www.pinterest.ca/draconiform/01-meraud-azenari/ my occasionally serious occasionally not tag for meraud: https://draconicwrites.tumblr.com/tagged/ch%3A-meraud Also wow wow I listened to a lot of ‘Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812’ while writing this app and Natasha……. kindred spirit? So I’ve included some applicable lyrics below that I feel really apply to Meraud (or in many cases, apply to how she sees herself) From Natasha & Bolkonskys: And from the first glance I do not like Natasha / Too fashionably dressed / Frivolous and vain / Her beauty, youth, and happiness From the Opera: Pearls and silk / Glittering before our eyes / Feminine envy / A whole crowd of memories / Desires and emotions & They are looking at me / They are talking about me! / They all like me so much / The women envious / The men calming their jealousy Headcanons Pets — Meraud has two primary animals in her life. The first, a fluffy black longhaired cat, is named Parceval, and is more of a family pet. Not the typical mouser seen at the docks, he’s elegant, perhaps even a little snooty, despite his questionable origins. Meraud’s father brought him home as a kitten, even then filled with disdain, a stray discovered by a merchant among his wares. He had no interest in the childrens games, and instead grew, well, not fat, per say, but certainly a little plump, spending nights in front of the fire, well adored (as he should be). The second is Eme, a little songbird named for the emerald she so resembles. She’s a beautiful little creature, who adores Meraud, and is perhaps the creature she most loves (and loves unselfishly) outside members of her own family. Love — Were Tyrholm the modern day, we could call Meraud pansexual. She sees little difference between her capacity for infatuation for men or for any other gender (I hesitate to call it ‘love’, as she doesn’t quite understand the concept, but she could certainly be attracted romantically and sexually to anyone.) The problem, however, is that she’s picky. Meraud is rather self-centered, and the person she’d allow herself to care for must be similarly high-quality: wealthy, pleasing in appearance, fascinating in conversation… I’d rather like her to fall for someone that doesn’t meet these standards, because I think it’d be a good learning experience for her.

#accepted #accepted: temperance

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ressarioth · 7 years

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Salt [Luna x Crowe]

She's the ocean as wild and fierce as the storm which aroused its waters. She's prepared to douse the fires of those who scorn her, yet your vessel she carried safely to shore without as much as a question.

A take Luna's journey through Eos to form the covenants with Crowe accompanying her.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, Gen

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV

Relationship: Crowe Altius/Lunafreya Nox Fleuret

Characters: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Crowe Altius

Additional Tags: Character Study, Relationship Study, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, POV Second Person

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 8649

Notes: Back in early January I wanted to write something "short" and "quick", over three months later I finally get it done. I was salty about certain character deaths and that's literally where the title comes from. Now I'm so used to it that I can't think of anything else.

AO3

In the light of the breaking dawn she's the fairest being you've ever seen. Like the words you've learnt to choose with grace since your early upbringing enchant those who listen to your gentle voice she has caught you under a spell of her own. She's not delicate like you were taught to present, she's unfamiliar with the etiquette you were conditioned to follow. She isn't like the stream that runs through your backyard with gentle pattering. She's the ocean as wild and fierce as the storm which aroused its waters. She's prepared to douse the fires of those who scorn her, yet your vessel she carried safely to shore without as much as a question.

The ring weighs heavy in your hand, a whisper of duty and responsibility drifting off with the cries of the wind in your hair. You know them well — both of them your constant companions since childhood — yet you have no ear for them now; a prophecy lost to the calamity of this day — and to her, covered in ash and blood and sweat as she's taking in the fires of the city in the rising sun.

You've been watching from a distance, unsure of what it means to her to see Insomnia burn, heavy smoke seeking to cover up the sky like a veil of black to mourn the dead. The memory of Tenebrae is on your mind, clouds above it grey with a promise of rain when the empire came down upon your home like a hungry hawk in hunt for its prey, just that its forces left a trail of destruction in their path. You mourned that day in silence, a growing child only in numbers while your manners and thoughts were groomed to be like those of an adult.

You sacrificed yourself in a way different from your mother who shielded your brother from the attack with her own life, yet with just as much nobility as her. Letting go of King Regis's hand was giving up on the promise of safety for yourself so that he could escape with Noctis in his arm. You chose to stay with your family which by then was nothing more but Ravus desperate and furious to see the Lucian king flee without much of a fight and the dead body of the oracle whose position you came to inherit later.

It's been twelve years since then which is half a lifetime for you and you've forgotten the details of the emotions which filled you that day. You wonder if you ever felt all there is to feel when you learnt to put your mind over your heart, because your duty requires composure and thoughtfulness which cannot be derived from passion. Yet you spotted a glimpse of it on her face, that fire in her eyes which spoke to you of so much emotion, unchecked in a way you've never seen before. It entangled you like a vine growing around your ankles and wrists and now you feel yourself drawn to her — or maybe you're just looking for an excuse to stay.

Tentative like a child whose instinct tells them not to come closer while their curiosity beckons them to do so, you approach her, yet stop halfway out of worry you could intrude. You want to respect the moment she's allowed to have after a long chase through the dark streets of Insomnia; as far as you understand it she lost a friend with Nyx who dared to challenge the late kings of Lucis for their power. You would have done it yourself had he not intervened and as much as his words felt haughty to you he was right not to let you sacrifice yourself there when your biggest task awaits you yet.

"I ought to thank you for taking me out of the city," you offer with the humble grace fit for one holding the title of oracle. "And may I offer my apologies about Nyx. I understand he was your friend."

She turns and looks at you like a stranger and it hurts you for an instance until you remember that that's all you are to her. Then her eyes stray again while her lips remain sealed and the movements of the muscles in her throat as she swallows are your only indicator that she was affected by your words at all. You're at a loss of what else to say. Though you understand she's in pain you lack the means to connect with her. Such is the cost of growing up in isolation with people never getting closer than the rules of your noble calling would allow.

How often have you yearned for that kind of contact in your life, the way you experienced it with Noctis for a few fading weeks? Yet even with him you were unable to discard the respectful politeness which ensures a formal distance between you and everyone around you according to your social standing. Before you got ever close to breaking through your own limitations he was carried away from you and the distance became a physical obstacle.

How often have you yearned for it and yet never as much as right now, not because of her, but because of the road which lies ahead. You know your fate, you know your duty, you cannot ever forget the promise you made. While you whispered it to the world in silent dedication, you gave Noctis your word to guide him with unwavering voice. So that's what you must do no matter the cost: to clear the path for Noctis so that he may live up to his calling. It's something you never allowed yourself to question, because if you do it might all be over.

Yet here you are, hesitating to leave — you cannot even take your eyes off of her. She feels so strong and determined — the things you always aspired to be and worked your hardest to maintain. Now you need them more than ever and yet you feel like you're failing yourself and everyone as you're trying your best not to fall apart from the inside out. So you turn to her as she stands there like the image of who you want to be, even covered in dirt and with torn clothes. You wish for her to give you the resolve you're lacking even though you have no right to ask that of her.

"I don't think I caught your name earlier," you try to reach out for one last meaningful encounter before you have to walk the lonely path which may be your last. "I'm Lunafreya, but you may call me Luna."

"It's Crowe," she replies after twelve and a half heartbeats which you all counted.

Crowe, the name tastes of endurance and survival. You will carry it with you as a token in your heart, a source of strength should your steps falter. It's one of the few sentiments you allow yourself to have, along with the notebook you use to keep in touch with Noctis. You will make it your beacon of hope that you, too, can prevail no matter how tough it gets, while Nyx will remind you of the sacrifices which have been made so far and which will remain necessary if you don't succeed in your duty.

It is that duty which calls you now and reminds you that you have lingered long enough in this place. Time is crucial and you cannot afford to waste any more of it. You don't want to part from Crowe, imagining that she could support you every step of the way as she did when you were escaping Insomnia. But that is selfish and you never allowed yourself to linger on such sentiments, it would be irresponsible to start now.

"You have my thanks, Crowe." You bow your head in a suitable gesture of gratitude. Her features remain unchanged, her eyes scanning your face before she turns away again. There's no point in lingering, you remind yourself. "I must be off now, so this is where our paths separate. Farewell and may the gods watch your steps."

You have to fight the urge to stay and say more until she looks at you one last time. It won't matter in an hour, even less so in a few weeks as the world comes closer to falling into darkness. You know what is at stake and the smile of a stranger who earned your admiration won't have any weight in the grander scheme of things. So you guide your steps away from her with a heavier heart than you ever carried in your life. You try not to think about it: how scared you are of the sacrifice you're going to have to make, of walking this path alone. The ring is cold in your hand and you wish that you'll be able to see Noctis once more, not just to hand it over to him. You don't want to die alone.

"Wait." Crowe speaks of her own accord for the first time since the two of you passed through the city gates. Her voice is hoarse and you don't know if it's from the road which lies behind you or if she always sounds like that. You wish you had a way to find out.

There's no need for you to tell your feet to stop, they've halted on their own accord as if your body is in her thrall. Yet you hesitate to turn around, too scared that what you might find will make your weak resolve crumble. Reason is persistent to remain your very essence even as your heart is growing a will of its own.

"Where are you going?" Crowe wants to know and you cannot help but wonder why it should matter to her.

You lift your hand and open it to reveal the ring in your palm. She cannot see it, because your body is hiding it from her view, but you're not showing it to her. You just want to remind yourself of its significance. "To deliver the Ring of the Lucii to its rightful bearer."

"Will it change anything?" she questions and you ready your response, but she continues: "If you deliver the ring will that give us a chance against the empire? Can we hope to win?"

You peek over your shoulder and see that Crowe is standing unchanged with her back to you. From what you can tell she's still watching the burning city whose ashes are the mere indication of the demise which is yet to come and befall so many more if you and Noctis fail. She doesn't know that, you're the only one who does and it's a secret you've sworn to keep.

"It will, I have faith it will bring peace to Eos!" you assure her and face her to proof your conviction.

Crowe looks at you over her shoulder and then turns her back on Insomnia, ready to let the dead rest. "Then I'm coming with you."

By the time you've processed her words she's walking past you, taking the lead on the dusty path into the valley. You remain frozen to the spot, struggling to comprehend what just transpired. It's less a matter of wondering why she decided to accompany you and more the inner conflict developing inside of you. The road ahead is perilous and holds pain, so you are thankful for her offer, yet you know where it will lead you and you mustn't drag anyone down with you.

You should tell Crowe no, yet you can't get yourself to.

The wind tucks at your loose hair beneath your helmet like a current in the ocean wanting to sweep you along. You haven't worn it open like this since before your mother's funeral, when danger still seemed so far away and you were sewing flower crowns in the sylleblossom field with Noctis. Crowe asked you to untie the braids and knots to let it down and obscure some of the recognition factor of your face.

You obeyed the request without arguing like you put on the clothes she organised for you — simple jeans and boots, a flannel shirt and a cargo jacket. (She did not tell you where she got them from and you did not inquire if she stole them or spent her last money on them.) They make you feel like a different person, a young woman who knows the sweetness of freedom rather than the bitterness of duty.

It's only an illusion, you know — you're destiny still awaits you along this road you're following. And yet, as you're leaning against Crowe's back on the motorcycle she's navigating along the winding pavement through Leide's countryside, it's almost like you're escaping — not Insomnia and the empire's forces which are after you, but your role in the greater scheme of things. For a moment you can close your eyes and pretend that it's just you and Crowe and the current of air playing with strands of your hair.

But there's no freedom for you, no escape. Every step forward is just taking you closer to your destination and you know there can be no turning back. Crowe asked where it is that you're going and you told her that you have to seek out the gods to ask for their blessing. The prospect of it aiding in the fight against the empire seemed to satisfy her and you remained silent about the rest. She knows about sacrifice and loss, you're not going to mourn your fate in her presence.

When you stop for the night Crowe asks you to stay out of sight, her concern about you being recognised and your pursuers getting word of your location enough for you to follow her request. You can't imagine the people would sell you out — for eight years you have acted as the oracle and were greeted with kindness and thankfulness for your generosity. But who knows what lies the empire might tell, you should know the false words they spin to enthrall people in their service like they did with Ravus. You can't quite recognise him as your brother since the empire came down upon your home and slew your mother. His scorn is misplaced and you kept telling him so, but he would not listen, would not open up to you.

In the morning Crowe heads off on her own to hunt for money so that you can continue your journey. You stare out of the window in the shabby motel room and wonder about Noctis. Where is he in this moment and is he doing alright or is he starting to feel the weight of his burden already the way you can feel it, heavy on your shoulders like a shawl made of iron? There's not much you can do for him, you know that. All you can do is to fulfill your duty and prepare the way for him.

You hope that Crowe will be okay out there in the wild dealing with monsters. It's been just a day, but you wouldn't know where you'd be without her. As much as you tried not to rely on her, she made each step easier simply by being there. She remains steadfast like a rock in the stormy bay and you cling to her to keep yourself from drowning. There's comfort in company and relief in someone else taking care of your means of transport and where you can sleep. Now that you know the difference, you're not sure if you could keep going without her, too scared to face all the pain on your own when you can no longer tell yourself that the only way you can walk this road is in solitude.

The woman at the counter stares at you as she's waiting for Crowe to count out the required amount of gil to pay for a room. From outside you can hear the happy sound of guitar music playing, but you don't feel at ease like the citizens of Lrstsllum. It's not just being gawked at while you're trying to avoid attention, it's the knowledge that you're getting ever closer to the Archean and you don't know how willingly he'll offer his blessings. Gods can be fickle and moody from what you've heard — not everyone is as favourable towards humans as the Glacian — and you're hoping you don't have to find out how bad that can get. You don't feel very convincing today — once you stop believing your own poise of strength it's hard to imagine that anyone else would. In light of the recent developments this insecurity dug its roots into your mind and is growing like the weeds in a garden which keep coming back no matter how often they're being removed.

"Aren't you—" the woman at the counter starts, still staring at you with open curiosity.

"—the oracle?" Crowe finishes for her before you can do much more than freeze up while your heart is beating out a nervous rhythm in your ears which to your surprise no one else can hear. With one swift step she's at your side and wraps an arm around your lower back. "We get that a lot, actually."

Crowe laughs, her voice a little raspy as always, but at ease like she isn't tense out of fear of you being found out. She's so close, her hand on your hip while she wraps tresses of your blond hair around a free finger. Her eyes are on you and you alone, she doesn't even look at the woman behind the counter whom she's talking to. "But believe it or not, it's just an uncanny resemblance — isn't that right, dear?"

If you were frozen to the spot before, then then now the state has taken over your very core, even making you hold your breath. She captivates you, draws you in and you don't know how to escape — you wouldn't want to. It's like you're waiting for something though you can't tell what it is and it might as well take as much time as the tide in the beach sneaking up to your ankles. The worries about being recognised are pushed from your mind as you're holding Crowe's, the only remnant being the wonder what she's up to somewhere in the back of your mind. When she leans in your breath hitches in your throat, the need for air struggling back and forth with your awe which imposes perfect stillness over your body. You wouldn't know to expect it, because trivialities like this were never part of your upbringing, and yet when her lips connect with yours, chapped and roughened like a rock from the sea, you feel a tingling in your stomach.

You've never been kissed before, never been held by anyone who wasn't your family or a trusted servant looking after you as a child. After your mother's death you sometimes wished for someone to hug you tight and told you it would be alright, but Ravus grew distant and your trusted servant Maria did no longer dare to show you affection like that. This is nothing like the comfort you've been craving and really it is quite unspectacular — just a slow peck, a gentle brush of your lips before Crowe retreats again — but it still makes your heart beat in your throat as if it forgot its place.

Crowe keeps smiling as she pulls away, her eyes locked with yours as if there was nothing she'd rather look at — and you're not sure how much of it is a charade for any potential onlookers and how much is how she feels about you. It must be wishful thinking though, you reprimand yourself, you're reading too much into it, because you're trying to compensate for your constant struggle. You're looking for comfort in every look and every gesture of the woman accompanying you on your journey, because there's none to be found in your future. The better days you're working towards are none you can hope to see for yourself. Yet despite your own reasoning, none of it can explain your racing heart.

Remembering the woman behind the counter you quickly look over to her, feeling embarrassed now that there's a witness to your weakness. Though you're trying not to let it show you feel like it must be written all over your body and face. But to your relief the woman has stopped staring at you. Instead she seems incredibly busy with putting away the payment and getting the keys from the board at the wall behind her. She doesn't even look up when presenting them to Crowe as if her shame was bigger than your own embarrassment.

"Your keys," the woman says, pretending that she didn't witness the kiss you're still trying to convince yourself was meaningless.

Crowe accepts with a wide smile nonetheless and this time you can tell it is fake. "Thank you."

You're perplexed by what just happened, pulse still throbbing in your ear. You feel self-conscious and uncertain but also somehow giddy as if you just experienced a rare joy you've been denied for your entire life. You cannot place these feelings, they're unfamiliar and no one prepared you for them. So you let them run wild in your body like puppies rolling around on the grass while you're calm facade is being upheld by a mixture of shock and confusion.

You would've stayed there in the lobby, gazing upon Crowe with wonder and surprise, had her hand not found yours and started pulling you along. In your current state you didn't even notice when her arm slipped from your back — and there you thought the enchantment you felt was only temporary after she you alive and escorted you out of Insomnia. But now it seems to be back and stronger than you ever felt it before.

Crowe pulls you along and you let her, the memory of the kiss fresh and enticing. You follow her up the stairs and to the door which she unlocks with the key from the counter. The whole time she doesn't let go of your hand, only once the door is safely shut behind you she releases her grip. You miss her touch almost instantly, but it's not a notion you'd think to voice. In fact you say nothing, you don't even ask the question on your mind.

What was that? It was nothing, you tell yourself, another fleeting moment which will be meaningless once they tell the stories about how Eos was saved from darkness.

"So what is it that you're doing exactly?" Crowe wants to know as you trail through the grass, away from the roads.

It's an unusual feeling to sit on the back of a chocobo, different from what it's like to sit on the motorcycle and leaning against Crowe's back. You can feel the movements of the flightless bird in your entire body and it took you an uncounted number of its quick steps to adjust your breathing. But it moves faster than you would on foot and unlike the motorcycle it can take you across the fields and along unpaved paths where you need to go right now.

"I speak to the gods and I form a covenant so that the True King may claim their power to aid him on his quest," you explain the aspects that seem to be most relevant to her question.

Crowe remains silent and for a moment you think she's satisfied. But then she continues and it sounds like she's trying to piece things together even though she didn't bother before as long as she had your word that it would help fight the empire. "The "True King", huh? Is that the one you're holding onto the ring for?"

"That's ight," you affirm. "He's the one who's going to deliver our star from the darkness."

If Crowe wonders about your cryptic choice of words, she doesn't have the time to say before you stop in front of your destination and announce: "We're here."

Crowe halts her chocobo next to yours and inspects the hole in the rock that leads down into the dark. "Is this one smaller than the last one or how does a god fit into that?"

"There's another runestone inside like the ones I used to guide us here." You don't bother to answer her inquiry directly. You're unsure of the size of the Fulgurian, but it doesn't matter as long as he'll listen to you when you offer yourself up for the covenant. "Through it I will be able to commute with the Fulgurian."

"Whatever." Crowe doesn't seem interested in discussing the topic further, though you can feel her skepticism.

She dismounts her chocobo and gives it an absentminded pat on the neck while still eyeing the cave entrance. You get caught up watching her a moment too long, thick strands of dark hair framing her face even though they'd easily fit into the loose knot she tied on the back of her head. She not the type you'd ever describe with the words 'strict' and 'orderly', but maybe that's her appeal. In that sense she's so unlike you and anyone who's been around you for most of your life. Even the people who came to you for healing always seemed to make sure to maintain a proper appearance.

Pulling yourself together, you force your eyes away from Crowe. You cannot afford to dawdle here, it is yet again time to act. So you follow her example and put your feet back onto the ground. For a moment everything around you seems to sway and your knees feel weak. You have to steady yourself by placing a hand on your chocobo's back who endures your unwarranted reliance on it. You know this is a side-effect of your quest, as unwelcome as it is. The covenants you already formed are starting to take their toll and it's only going to get harder from here on. But you must prevail, giving up is not an option.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Crowe inquires, a sliver of worry coming through in her voice. It seems she was watching you the whole time. "Maybe you should've taken another day to rest."

She has been keeping an eye on you since you formed the covenant with the Archaean, it almost seems like she's been sticking to your side more closely. Maybe it's because you stumbled and nearly fell when leaving behind the Disc of Cauthess or maybe you're just imagining things. It could be your wishful thinking, because you want someone to look after you in this trialling time and who better to fill that role than Crowe who's been with you for the past couple of days since you left Insomnia behind.

Regardless of what it is, you shove the thought and Crowe's concern aside. There's no point in resting, you already know it won't make a difference. The longer you wait, the worse it will probably get. A day of sitting idle is a waste and you can't afford it, this world can't afford it.

"I have no time for rest," you declare, squaring your shoulders in determination. "Time is of the essence and this world doesn't have much left."

Crowe doesn't press the point, though you're getting the feeling she's less accepting of the way things are unfolding than she originally seemed. You're not sure what it is that might bother her, but you can't afford to think about it regardless of whether you know or not. You have your duty, you have your path stretching out before you and you can never stray from it. There's no imagining what might happen if you fail.

So you walk towards the hole in the rock formation, keeping your feet as steady steady as you can. The image of you walking at the edge of an abyss where you can't make a single misplaced step presses into your mind, but you chase it away. For now the dizziness only lasts for a short period before you can regain your balance, so you remind yourself that you don't have to worry about falling. When you stop short of entering the cavern, it is to steel your will.

"There may be daemons waiting in the darkness," you note as you call the trident out of thin air. You wouldn't need it just yet, only once you call upon the Fulgurian will it be required, but you find it comforting to have something to hold onto.

Crowe comes up beside you. "What would you have done if you were alone?"

"Continued all the same," you respond, though you're trying to hide how heavy your heart gets at the thought. "It is vital that I fulfill my duty here, I cannot allow myself to be delayed by anything."

The determined act you're putting on seems to be convincing, because Crowe doesn't question your resolve. You want to interpret her silence as acceptance or acknowledgement even though you're still not sure what's going through her mind. She is still a mystery to you most of the time, you can't see through her or guess why she does the things she does.

"Though I'm glad to have you on my side for this." It's an aside you mutter under your breath. Part of you doesn't want her to hear it, yet you needed to get it off your chest. You don't want any reaction from her, you can't even look at her in fear of what you might find on her face.

Crowe complies with your silent wish and doesn't respond. You can't even be sure if she heard you, but that suits you just fine. Brushing aside any further distracting thoughts or emotions, you step into the shadow of the cool darkness of the tunnel leading you into the mountain.

It's becoming harder to ignore, the weakness that is taking hold of your body at random times and forcing you almost to your knees. But you insist to continue, you can't see any other option for yourself. It was ingrained into you how much depends on you at the stage before the prophecy's fulfillment. You just have to hold on a little bit longer until your duty is done. Then you can rest.

You refused to stop for long after you entered the covenant with the Fulgurian, even though you had to lean onto your trident while catching your breath. Crowe was insistent to support you the whole time as she guided you along the winding paths in the rock and out into the open. Once outside, she helped you into the saddle of your chocobo and made sure to keep the pace slow to minimise the risk of you falling off. Back at the ranch she kept her arm wrapped around your hip even though you assured her you could walk on your own until you could take a seat inside the rented caravan.

"We should head out while it's still light outside," you begin, doing your best to ignore how everything in your head seems to be swimming. "I need to get to Altissia as soon as pos—"

"The hell you will!" Crowe interrupts you and her tone is harsh. "I won't take you anywhere before you didn't get a good night's sleep."

Your limbs are screaming for a break, it's hard to concentrate, but you cannot let that stop you. Noctis needs you to pave the way for him, it's important that you make it to Altissia. There you'll call upon the Hydraean and pass on the ring to Noctis. Until that is done you must persist, no matter how hard it gets. "I told you, I don't have time for that."

"You're going to have to make some." Crowe kneels down in front of you and leans in to get a look at your face while you're too weak to hold up your head. There's that fire in her eyes again which you marvelled at the first time you met her, but now it's because of her anger with you and an entirely different feeling grips you. "Act as brave as you want, it's not going to change the fact that you nearly collapsed in that hole full of daemons."

A cold shiver trickles down your back. Your heart feels heavy like a rock sinking to the bottom of the ocean. You don't want her to be upset with you. She's the one who carried you this far, more of an anchor than any thought of Noctis could've ever been. You need her with you to continue, if not to lean on her than at least to know that someone is there with you, that you aren't alone. If only you could explain to her, if only there was a way for you to make her see how important this is.

"This isn't right, something isn't right." Crowe's face softens and you can detect a pressing worry. "These covenants you're entering — they shouldn't be taking such a toll on you."

"No," you object softly, "this is how it has to be."

She blinks, her resolve to argue fading further from her face as she looks up to you with questioning eyes. Her concern with you is touching, it gives you back some of your dwindling strength. But it makes what you're about to say all the harder.

"Everything comes at a price and in accordance to that the gods don't offer their power for free." You pause, gathering the determination to say the next line. "I know the price of the covenant and I'm willing to pay it."

Crowe's eyes wander over your face as she studies your features. You force yourself not to look away even when your gazes meet. Her expression tells of a bad premonition she's having, but still she asks: "What's the price of the covenant?"

A piece of your resolve chips off and you lower your gaze again. You can't afford to look into her eyes and also you cannot say it. It's one thing to know in your head that the ultimate price for the covenants is your strength, your future, the very essence of your life — it's quite another thing to spell it out. You aren't ready for that, as much as you reprimand yourself for that weakness.

"Whatever it is, if it doesn't include you not getting rest I see no reason for us to head out before tomorrow morning," Crowe declares and gets back on her feet, dropping the topic unexpectedly. If she has a suspicion she doesn't address it, maybe she wants to spell it out just as little as you. She's changeable like the waters away from the coast, throwing harsh waves at your ship's bow in one moment and then mellowing down again until it's like you're travelling across the surface of a peaceful lake.

You push those thoughts aside and conclude that Crowe's right. Wondering about her won't get you any closer to your goal, but you feel like you could use some rest if you're being honest — if only to gather the mental fortitude to continue. The Hydraean will still be in the depths of the waters around Altissia and Crowe will remain at your side like a loyal companion. You didn't ask her to and yet it almost feels like she's here for you as a person and not because you promised her that your journey would lead to the salvation of Eos.

When she helps you back onto your feet you don't protest. You let her guide you towards the bunk bed with small steps and allow yourself to lean against her shoulder. If your body has to be robbed of its strength by the covenants, at least Crowe is steadfast as ever at your side. She won't let you slip, she let you fall. It will be hard once you've reached your destination and you'll have to tell her that it's time to let go.

It was only a matter of time for the imperial forces to catch up to you. Actually, it's a wonder they didn't intercept your path sooner, though maybe you have to thank Crowe for that. Now that you've reached Altissia, Camelia Claustra, the first secretary of Accordo, is granting you asylum, but the empire is pushing for you to be handed over and you know she can't hold them off forever.

The time to act is soon, from what you heard Noctis has made it to the city as well and the empire is lying in wait. Camelia has been cautiously forthcoming and you doubt she'll put rocks in your path, though Crowe remains suspicious of her. It may be her serious concern about you or simply the fact that she doesn't like the look on Camelia's face — or anything in between. You could make a guess, but it wouldn't change a thing.

Your time with Crowe is coming to an end. You've considered this inevitable fact since boarding the boat which carried you here. It's not something you were keen on admitting to yourself, but you'll have to face it sooner or later. Considering the state of things you concluded that it better be sooner than later.

It's hard. The prospect of it winds itself around your heart like thickets which could be made of iron for how much they're making you hurt. She has been your companion for weeks, your support, your solace. You wish she could be with you as you take your final steps, stand by your side while you commune with the Hydraean like she witnessed the forming of the two covenants before. But with the empire closing in, you're not sure what will happen and your instinct tells you it's better for her if she won't be around.

The sunlight shines brightly upon the city, yet the room feels gloomy like the inside of your head. You sit in the red armchair near a window from which you've barely moved since your arrival, trying to conserve your strength. The weakness comes and goes, creeping up your legs and stretching out into your fingers, and you'd rather not test your luck. Crowe is standing one window over, looking out on the city. Neither of you has spoken in a while.

You're still debating how to say it, how to tell Crowe to leave you here. It requires the kind of bravado you've been struggling more and more to keep up. You can't even worry about how she'll take it, if it will bother her at all. Your concern has to be with your duty and the final steps which are required for you to fulfill it. No matter how much you feel like breaking down inside, you must hold on a little longer.

"The price for the covenant," Crowe begins before you have finished organising the thoughts in your head, "is it your life?"

It's the first time she brings it up, but she must've pieced it together some time ago. If she wasn't sure when you first mentioned it, then she probably figured it out not long after. Chances are that she debated all this time how to address it, but you wouldn't know. Somehow it makes things a little easier now that she's made the first step. You have to worry less about how she might react.

"The price for each covenant is life energy," you admit quietly. "Though it may not cost my life directly, I doubt I'll have much strength left after this one."

It's going to be the fourth covenant you enter and regardless of whether you live or die it's going to be the last. As the betrayer, the Infernian could not be expected to lend his power, maybe he will even interfere and get in Noctis's way. The covenant with the Draconian was formed ages ago when he presented your ancestor with the trident and the first of the line of Lucis with the crystal.

You entered your first covenant with the Glacian a few years back after she was nearly destroyed by imperial troops and merged with the messenger spirit Gentiana who has been residing at your home since then. It has been eating away at you year after year and there may be no relief from it until you die. Though the Glacian promised to lend her power to Noctis, it won't happen before the other covenants aren't concluded, since it is her that will also hand the trident to him should you be unable to do it yourself after calling upon the Hydraean.

The toll on you might not even be so severe, were it not for the healing service you've been providing to the people. It is part of your duty as the oracle to deliver the people of the ailments which befall them due to the starscourge. You executed it with great diligence and care, always considering it just as important as the role you play in helping the chosen king. It is all for the people of Eos whom you promised to serve and protect.

Crowe doesn't have this insight, nor does she seem susceptible to it. Clenching her fist, she punches against the window frame. "Well, that's bullshit!"

The volume of her voice has you jump a little in your chair. Unaware of your reaction, she pushes herself away from the window and starts pacing up and down the room, restless with anger at things you've been conditioned to accept. "Why do you have to shoulder it all? Who decided this?"

The questions she raises have been on your mind as well, pushing into your consciousness with doubt and resentment. You've been battling them for years, refusing to give in to their beckoning and follow down their path. There would be nothing for you there but despair — despair over your own fate, despair over the doomed world. You think it would eat you up inside like a parasite feeding on you from within until you have nothing left to give, more painful than any toll the covenants could ever take on you. That can't happen, you can't let it happen!

"If it saves the people of Eos, then I'll gladly give my life for it."

It sounds like someone placed the words in your mouth, because you practiced them in your mind over and over to convince yourself. But the truth is that you only ever had two alternatives — to follow your calling or to reject it — and this is the path you chose. Somewhere deep down inside you know it's a matter of picking the lesser evil, but you've never allowed yourself to lament your fate, it would only make things harder than they already are — like how it's happening now.

Crowe stops in her tracks and seizes you up. Though her voice is less forceful, she still sounds sceptical when she asks: "Is that really what you want?"

"What I want doesn't matter," you say with dwindling conviction. "It's my duty and I will fulfill it."

It's getting more difficult to speak as your throat tightens, trying to keep down all the emotions which are pressing to well up.

"That's not fair!" Crowe calls out and it shakes you to the very bone.

"So what if it isn't." You're fighting with the tears now, still struggling to seem braver than you feel. "Do you really think I could walk away? Do you really think I could live with myself if I knew that I could've done something to save this world from its doom but didn't?"

That's the only answer you have and it's the only thing that matters. You don't have the luxury of turning your back, you never had. Too heavy with guilt would your heart be if you put yourself above everyone else. It's the kind of reasoning that requires setting aside your own emotions and desires, but it's the only solution you have, so you cling to it.

"No, I just…" Crowe's voice trails off and she pushes her hand into her hair as if she was looking for something to do with it as much as she's trying to find an answer. "It's not fair."

"Of course it's hard," you tell her, doing your best to maintain your composure. "There were times I wished it wasn't me, that someone else would have to do it."

It's an admission you haven't allowed yourself to acknowledge, not even in your own mind. Releasing the words from your lips feels both like a relief and a burden. You've looked daemons in they eye and didn't falter, but confessing your own weakness like that is daunting. There's strength in denial, because it kept you from falling apart; without it you'll have to find a new clue to keep yourself together. But now that you've started to talk about these things, there's more you want to mention.

"A part of me has been meaning to give up even before I set out on this journey and I'm thankful that every day I managed to find the strength and the will to continue." You make yourself look up to meet Crowe's distraught gaze. "I have you to thank for that. I don't think I could've kept going without you."

You choke, those last words breaking through your self-restraint like someone tore down the door behind which you locked away these feelings. Tears are filling your eyes and you start sobbing as the first drops roll down your cheek. With your hands you grip both armrests of your chair as if holding on to something could save you from being overwhelmed by your sorrow and stop you from drowning in it.

Crowe kneels down before you, her hand reaching for the back of your neck as she leans her forehead against yours. "It's okay," she whispers, "it's okay to cry about it."

Her voice is soothing, the comfort you've been craving all your life. You reach out to her, placing your hand on her cheek and holding her gaze. Though you aren't sure what you're trying to accomplish with it, touching her is calming you down. Neither of you speak, your fingers trembling from the tension of the moment. It's like you're waiting to do something which you haven't made up your mind about yet. You can taste salt on your lips and you want her to kiss away your tears before they can dry on your skin.

Crowe doesn't abide your silent wish. After all she's no mind reader and though you could swear you both long for the same kind of intimacy that doesn't make it so. You're left to wonder as she places her palm on your hand as if to ensure you won't pull it away.

"I'll be with you until the end, I promise."

It's not a kiss and the opposite of what you meant to ask of her today. But for the moment the tears have washed away your resolve and it's going to take more time to muster it again. You should tell Crowe no, yet you can't get yourself to.

The waves are crashing over you, pulling you under and away from the solid concrete of Altissia. You think you heard your name in all this chaos, but you can't be sure. Your mind was occupied with finding Noctis in his dreams to say your goodbye as you were holding on to his unconscious body. He's being ripped out of your grip now and all you can do is close his fingers tightly around the ring of the Lucii which you were keeping safe for him. Then he is swept out of your reach and you offer a blessing to guide his limp body to the surface of the wild waters.

This is going to be the last thing you do, the last bit of help you can give the Chosen King. Though you could not be a friend to him the way you wished, you gave him all the guidance you were capable of like you promised so long ago. You'll have to trust in his companions to stand by his side the way Crowe stuck with you till the very end.

Crowe…

She called out to you before the sea grabbed you and you only wish you'd been able to look at her face once more.

You're not going to make it back, you don't have the strength left to swim against the tide. Your body is heavy like lead and sinking into the deep darkness of the ocean. So the covenant with the Hydraean is what ends your life after all — if only indirectly. It doesn't upset you though, you've been prepared for an outcome like this. At least you'll die knowing that you did your part. You fulfilled your duty, you offered everything you had for the sake of Eos. Soon you'll be at peace.

Air escapes from your mouth and you can't prevent the water from streaming in. You can taste the salt of the ocean, somehow different from the salt of your tears which Crowe didn't kiss away. Soon it will force its way into your lungs and choke you, but you might pass out before that. You feel so weak, like your body has given up on living the moment you saw Noctis off into the waves. Your eyelids are feeling heavy and starting to close. Your senses are getting dull.

A pull jerks your body out of its slow descent. You feel the grip on your arm and then around your lower back, but you've already gone beyond caring. Any sense of orientation left you; above might be below now or to the left or the right. You only realise you've been moving upwards once your head breaks through the waves and your face is greeted by air.

Your lungs revolt and you cough up the water which they held, involuntarily swallowing a part of it again as you're being pulled onto solid ground. The air is cold, a gust of wind stealing the remaining warmth from your body which the water hasn't taken yet. Your muscles start shivering to make up for it and your lips are trembling, but still you can only stare at the cloudy sky as you're being laid down gently onto the concrete which is almost as wet as your dress.

Crowes face appears in your vision, her dark strands dripping with water. She takes your head in her hands and her lips are moving to form words you cannot hear or understand. You think you still have water in your ears or you're about to pass out for good. Your body is at its limit and remains limp as she pulls you into her arms and presses you against her chest. Her clothes are just as drenched as yours and you're too numb to tell if being close to her like that makes any difference. But she's holding you like you haven't been held since your childhood and somehow that's the only thing that matters to you now.

You close your eyes and lean your head against Crowe's neck. The scent of the sea in your nose is persistent and the wind is trying to animate your wet hair into playing with it. You can still taste the remains of the saltwater on your tongue. But that doesn't matter to you, because you finally found a place to rest.

She's the ocean as wild and fierce as the storm which aroused it's waters. She reached out to you through the weight of the crushing waves and refuses to let you go, on her lips not a prayer but a command:

"Hang in there, Luna! You have to live!"

#lunafreya nox fleuret #crowe altius #crowna #final fantasy xv #ffxv #crowe x luna #fanfiction #writing tag #fic: salt #ffxv spoilers /

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thisdaynews · 5 years

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Guterres and Trump embody clashing visions at UN summit

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/guterres-and-trump-embody-clashing-visions-at-un-summit/

Guterres and Trump embody clashing visions at UN summit

NEW YORK — It was a war of words, and a clash of world views, in the well of the United Nations General Assembly on Tuesday.

U.N. Secretary-General António Guterres, a lifelong social democrat whose early political career was forged during his native Portugal’s democratic revolution in 1974, opened the annual leaders’ gathering with a fervent plea for greater international solidarity and cooperation — to fight climate change and economic inequality, to resist rising authoritarianism and halt rollbacks in democratic freedoms, to protect those who face discrimination and persecution, and above all to prevent war.

Guterres concluded his speech by calling for a reaffirmation of the principles of multilateralism and international cooperation upon which the U.N. was founded in 1945.

“We are here to advance the common good while upholding our shared humanity and values,” he said. “That vision united the founders of our organization. At a time of division today, we must reconnect with that spirit. Let us restore trust, rebuild hope and move ahead, together.”

In sharp contrast, U.S. President Donald Trump — a Republican by affiliation but often out of step with the party’s historic ideological pillars, whose political career began only with his campaign for president following a career in real estate and reality TV — delivered a forceful defense of nationalism and individual state sovereignty, which also served as a denunciation of globalization and a warning against pluralist compromise that included blustery boasting about U.S. military supremacy.

“The future does not belong to globalists”— Donald Trump, U.S. president

“The free world must embrace its national foundations,” Trump said. “It must not attempt to erase them or replace them. Looking around in all of this large magnificent planet, the truth is plain to see: If you want freedom, take pride in your country. If you want democracy, hold on to your sovereignty, and if you want peace, love your nation. Wise leaders always put the good of their own people and their own country first.

“The future does not belong to globalists,” Trump added, delivering perhaps the most memorable line of the day in the General Assembly, which is comprised of 193 member states. “The future belongs to patriots. The future belongs to sovereign and independent nations, who protect their citizens, respect their neighbors and honor the differences which make each country special and unique.”

Opposing views

Guterres and Trump have been circling each other, trading barbed (albeit indirect) attacks on each other’s world view for months, if not years.

While it’s not clear that the American president gives the understated Portuguese secretary-general much thought, his actions — abandoning the Paris climate accords and the Iran nuclear deal, quitting the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty and provoking a series of trade wars — have demonstrated Trump’s scorn for the type of global cooperation that Guterres considers essential to the future of humankind.

Trump, with his wife Melania, speaking to the media at the U.N. General Assembly | Spencer Platt/Getty Images

Meanwhile, it was more than obvious whom Guterres had in mind when he traveled to the summit of G7 economic powers in Biarritz, France last month and complained that the world’s wealthiest nations are not doing enough to fight climate change.

And it was more than clear whom Guterres was thinking of when he spoke on Tuesday of a dangerous new risk of great-power conflict.

“At this time of transition and dysfunction in global power relations, there is a new risk looming on the horizon that may not yet be large, but it is real,” Guterres said. “I fear the possibility of a great fracture: the world splitting in two, with the two largest economies on earth creating two separate and competing worlds, each with their own dominant currency, trade and financial rules, their own internet and artificial intelligence capacities, and their own zero sum geopolitical and military strategies.”

He continued: “We must do everything possible to avert the great fracture and maintain a universal system — a universal economy with universal respect for international law; a multipolar world with strong multilateral institutions.”

In many ways, the secretary-general’s remarks echoed comments by another American president, Harry Truman, speaking in San Francisco on the day in 1945 when global delegates completed work on the U.N. charter. In that speech, Truman made a fierce case for internationalism as the key to ending wars.

“Experience has shown how deeply the seeds of war are planted by economic rivalry and social injustice,” Truman said. “The charter recognizes this fact because it has provided for economic and social cooperation as well. It has provided for this cooperation as a part of the very heart of the entire compact. It has set up machinery of international cooperation which men and nations of goodwill can use to help correct economic and social causes for conflict.”

Like Truman, who was then weeks away from giving the order to drop atomic bombs on Japan, Trump addressed delegates of the U.N. with the possibility of a military strike very much on his mind — a potential attack on Iran that he has threatened on and off throughout his presidency. Trump opened his remarks on Tuesday with a declaration that the U.S. has never been stronger.

“The United States, after having spent over two and a half trillion dollars since my election to completely rebuild our great military, is also by far the world’s most powerful nation,” he said. “Hopefully it will never have to use this power.”

British Prime Minister Boris Johnson | Saul Loeb/AFP via Getty Images

On the one hand, the number seemed unnecessarily exaggerated. The entire U.S. annual defense budget is a bit less than $700 billion. On the other hand, his professed reluctance to using force likely came as a surprise to leaders of Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Sudan, Libya, Serbia, Panama and other nations in the General Assembly that have directly felt the impact of the U.S. military’s long reach.

“I have the immense privilege of addressing you today as the elected leader of a nation that prizes liberty, independence and self-government above all,” Trump said. “That is why the United States rigorously defends the traditions and customs that have made us who we are.”

For many leaders in the audience, however, serious doubts about the fundamental principles underpinning U.S. policy have only arisen since Trump took office. And much of their actions, especially among Washington’s traditional European allies, now often seem aimed at appeasing Trump and coaxing him back into the Western fold.

When U.K. Prime Minister Boris Johnson on Monday issued two separate statements, one reiterating Britain’s commitment to the Iran nuclear deal and another declaring the deal deeply flawed and urging that Trump help negotiate a new one, officials quickly explained the discrepancy by saying it was partly intended to bring Trump back to the negotiating table with Tehran.

When French President Emmanuel Macron decided to skip the custom of issuing leaders’ conclusions at the G7 summit in Biarritz, it was a strategy designed specifically with the combustible American president in mind.

Disrupters all around

But there was no mistaking just how disruptive and destructive Guterres believes Trump has been to the international order, delivering remarks in which actions by the U.S. president could easily be lumped together with those of authoritarian dictators. Are journalists the “enemy of the people” in Russia and China, or in America? Are environmentalists viewed as antagonists in Brasilia or Washington?

“We see wide-ranging impunity, including for violations of international humanitarian law,” Guterres said in his speech. “New forms of authoritarianism are flourishing. Civic space is narrowing. Environmental activists, human rights defenders, journalists and others are being targeted.

“At a time when record numbers of refugees and internally displaced people are on the move, solidarity is on the run,” Guterres said at another point in his address. “We see not only borders, but hearts, closing — as refugee families are torn apart and the right to seek asylum torn asunder.”

By contrast, Trump, in his own speech, denounced “open-border activists who cloak themselves in the rhetoric of social justice.”

“We are here to advance the common good while upholding our shared humanity and values”— Antonio Guterres, U.N. secretary-general

But it was not just Trump who embodied the disruption that Guterres decried in his speech. As the secretary-general fretted about new forms of authoritarianism, it was Johnson who made arrangements to leave New York early after the U.K. Supreme Court ruled that he had illegally suspended parliament.

Guterres was applauded heartily. Trump’s remarks did not draw laughter as he did last year when he asserted his presidency in two years had accomplished more than any other, nor did his speech draw much applause. Leaders were mostly silent. The U.S. commerce secretary, Wilbur Ross, appeared to fall asleep.

Even in their positivity, Guterres and Trump showed their differences.

“We are here to serve,” Guterres said. “We are here to advance the common good while upholding our shared humanity and values.”

Trump took another tack. “Love of our own nations,” he said, “makes the world better for all nations.”

#Foreign #Politics #summit #visions

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ricardosousalemos · 8 years

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Phil Ochs: I Ain't Marching Anymore

Though the cover shot of I Ain’t Marching Anymore is a graveyard of grim political rhetoric—Phil Ochs slumped against a wall of torn Barry Goldwater and Kenneth Keating posters, their slogans shredded and inscrutable—the back cover essays comprise a beatnik rhapsody for the ages. Written by Ochs and the critic Bruce Jackson, they deliver the sort of earnest, overly verbose salvo only a Greenwich Village protest-folk record could deliver: a dense scrum of cheers to the Movement, jeers at the invertebrates in Congress, and navel-gazings on the quest for truth in art, with a track listing and credits seemingly wedged in as afterthought.

Midway through all the eager pulpit-pounding, though, the 24-year-old Ochs takes a turn both petulant and self-effacing, listing the most frequent complains that have been lobbed at him in his short career:

There’s nothing as dull as yesterday’s headlines.

Don’t be so ambitious.

Sure it’s good, but who’s gonna care next year?

I bet you don’t go to church.

Don’t be so negative.

I came to be entertained, not preached to.

That’s nice but it doesn’t really go far enough.

That’s not folk music.

Why don’t you move to Russia?

Which is what you got in 1965 for leaping up onto a bench in Washington Square Park and warbling your dismay at the morning’s New York Times: you were branded an ally of the communist kleptocracy, back when that sort of charge might actually end your career. (Simpler times.) But Ochs didn’t argue these accusations; he reveled in them as proof of concept, his confirmation that he was hitting the establishment where it hurt. He labeled himself a “singing journalist,” not a folk singer like the rest of his Bleecker Street fraternity (Bob Dylan, Dave Van Ronk, Tom Paxton), and stuffed his lyrics with the up-to-the-minute topicality and op-ed lambasting of a newsman—championing a coal miners’ strike in Kentucky one verse, decrying Marines landing at Santo Domingo the next. He called the front pages like a guerrilla newsie, merging the sardonic wit of Woody Guthrie, the chatty candor of Pete Seeger, and the lone-gunslinger bravado of Hank Williams.

And in the troubled arc of Ochs’ career—in which he began as the voice of the antiwar movement and heir apparent to Dylan, then cooled into his also-ran, then sank a bitter and penniless outcast—these cries of unpatriotism were a rare constant. He died not even knowing their extent; decades after he committed suicide in 1976, at age 35, the Freedom of Information Act unearthed a FBI monitoring dossier on him, thick as a novel.

But only a true American idealist could have written I Ain’t Marching Anymore. Ochs’ second album is a work of long-steeped fury at his country’s sins, naked in its scorn for a system showing its many fissures; still, it guards a flickering, tenacious hope that the nation can reach its potential to embrace, to empathize. It is a work of nationalistic heartbreak, the deploring of a terrible fate: the requiem of a romantic with nowhere to love. It is zealously leftist, so unequivocal as to smack of propaganda over poetry, almost wholly dependent on Ochs’ inculcating wordplay: with his twangy, octave-at-best vocal range, stevedore coffee shop strumming, and modest melodies, this album grabs your throat entirely on lyrical ferocity.

But to Ochs, there was no time for subtlety. The Lyndon B. Johnson administration was escalating involvement in Vietnam, ignoring countrywide demonstrations of dissent and returning body bags by the thousands; the racial friction of the South was exploding in bombings and riots; young Americans were still rudderless from the assassination of President Kennedy, mourning that era of profound hope and their purpose within it. Ochs absorbed it all and was a true believer in tuneful social reform; as he quipped in the program notes of the 1964 Newport Folk Festival, “I wouldn’t be surprised to see an album called Elvis Presley Sings Songs of the Spanish Civil War or The Beatles with the Best of the Chinese Border Dispute Songs.” But until the day that happened, Ochs was here for us, offering 14 brisk tracks of fingerpicked guitar and unvarnished tenor, distilling the world’s chaos into a frightening thesis: An era of optimism and social promise was not only ending, but taking alarming leaps backward. But, he stressed, there was still time to reverse course.

He sets his agenda firmly in the title track—an opener that rouses and incites despite a pallor of exhaustion, regret, and fear. Over a simple acoustic strum with a subtly agitated back-trill, Ochs travels the bloody scope of American warfare, gazing wearily through the eyes of a soldier whose obedience has cost him his humanity. He begins at the War of 1812, where “the young land started growing/The young blood started flowing”; then he grips a glinting bayonet in the Civil War, pilots a plane through Japanese skies that sets off “the mighty mushroom roar.” When Ochs’ warrior reaches the “Cuban shore,” and sees the missiles looming overhead, he grinds down his heels at last. “It's always the old to lead us to the wars/Always the young to fall,” he laments. “Now look at all we've won/With a saber and a gun/Tell me is it worth it all?” In a few breaths, Ochs not only decries the cyclical carnage of war, he explores the individual in bloodshed with clear-eyed empathy and lays a wrenching argument for ethical subversion. “Call it peace, or call it treason/Call it love, or call it reason,” he quavers, “But I ain't marching anymore.” Here, his oft-nasal voice betrays a slight Scottish lilt, the result of his Queens-based family’s brief stint in Edinburgh when he was a child—a warm, global topnote to his treaty. Upon its release, “I Ain’t Marching Anymore” became a ubiquitous anthem of the antiwar movement, and Ochs’ signature tune; when he performed it outside the Democratic National Convention in 1968, hundreds of young men burned their draft cards.

Ochs may have dropped out of journalism school (at Ohio State, where his fervent political columns got him demoted from the school paper), but he retained a penchant for interviewing strangers whenever he performed, from uptown street corners to dirt roads in the deep South. Early into Side A, on “In the Heat of the Summer,” Ochs recalls scenes from the Harlem riot of 1964, his reporter’s eye for detail gleaming in the “loudspeaker drowned like a whisperin' sound” and “uniforms shoving with their sticks/Asking, ‘Are you looking for trouble?’” While touring the summer folk festival circuit, he passed through Mississippi shortly after the abductions and murders of three civil rights workers—James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner—as they registered African Americans to vote. Ochs marched up to their neighbors, pen and paper in hand; their unease and obstinance informs “Here’s to the State of Mississippi,” a scorched-earth screed that implicates rural communities for resisting social progress and denounces the lack of education and options that perpetuate the spiral of intolerance.

“Talking Birmingham Jam” is a brutal lament of the violence in Birmingham, Alabama in 1963, when black residents demonstrated in opposition of the city’s Jim Crow racial segregation laws. In response, President Kennedy sent the National Guard to enforce integration in its schools, catalyzing the Civil Rights Act—and the city’s public safety commissioner, Eugene “Bull” Connor, replied with attack dogs, high-pressure water hoses, and club-wielding cops. “Well, all the signs said ‘Welcome In’/Signed by Governor Wallace and Rin Tin Tin/They said come along and watch the fights/While we feed our dogs on civil rights,” Ochs seethes in a conversational sing-song lifted from Guthrie, excoriating Connor and George Wallace. “You see Alabama is a sovereign state/With sovereign dogs and sovereign hate.” His words echo powerful ones Martin Luther King, Jr. penned the year before, though it’s not known how deliberately. “The silent password was fear. It was a fear not only on the part of the black oppressed, but also in the hearts of the white oppressors,” Dr. King wrote of 1963 Birmingham. “There was also the dread of change, that all too prevalent fear which hounds those whose attitudes have been hardened by the long winter of reaction.”

While I Ain’t Marching Anymore arrived at a fractious moment in American history, it also landed at a strong pivot for Ochs’ beloved Greenwich Village protest-folk microcosm: it was the beginning of the end for this bohemian idyll. Ochs had moved to New York three years earlier, where the same liberal ire that made him an outcast in Ohio ingratiated him instantly with the other young troubadours at the Bitter End and the Gaslight. He played peace rallies at Carnegie Hall with Dylan and palling around with Van Ronk and Paxton afterward at dimly lit poker tables, sprawling in shoddy apartments to tease out new songs. He crashed on the couch of Jim Glover, his college roommate, with whom he’d once formed a band called the Singing Socialists; Glover was now half of the sweetheart folk duo Jim and Jean. (If they sound familiar, their name and saccharine charisma—plus Ochs’ frequent irascibility toward them—were imported wholesale into Inside Llewyn Davis.)

Dylan and Ochs were the heaviest hitters in the New York scene, and their reputations preceded them; in this time, they were described by Melody Maker in England as the “king of protest” and “the president,” respectively. They shared a mostly cordial rivalry, one with the hierarchy firmly apparent. As the Ochs biography Death of a Rebel details, Ochs revered Dylan openly, but Dylan was mercurial in return; he once raved of Ochs, “I just can't keep up with Phil. And he's getting better and better and better,” but was also quick to call him a “turncoat” and “opportunist” for wanting fame as nakedly as he did. (Once, Dylan allegedly kicked Ochs out of a limousine, hurling the “you’re just a singing journalist” epithet back in his face as the final indignity.) But for several years, both musicians coexisted in the same topical nexus. They both flourished at the landmark 1963 Newport Folk Festival; Pete Seeger, upon hearing them perform at a counterculture newspaper office, predicted vast fame for both. In one of many overlapping lyrical examples, they both bemoaned the death of civil rights activist Medgar Evers in 1964: Dylan on “Only A Pawn in Their Game” (from The Times They Are a-Changin’), Ochs on “Too Many Martyrs” (from his debut, All the News That’s Fit to Sing). And both were well-known volatiles; Dylan was the imperious prodigy simultaneously enjoying and bemoaning society’s quick deification of him. Ochs, one year older, envied his recognition openly and had a likewise-sticky reputation as a hothead alcoholic, a handsome narcissist who’d beaten girlfriends and alienated friends.

By 1965, Greenwich Village folk had begun splintering into their separate schools of folk ideology: Ochs believed folk songwriting should affect reactionary change in politics via blunt broadcasting of information and resistance, while Dylan teased out philosophical truths through personal ruminations, and daubing that canvas with larger social metaphor. That year, as Ochs continued to file his topical acoustic briefs sourced from Newsweek and The Village Voice, Dylan fully sniffed at it, “going electric” at the Newport Folk Festival and releasing Bringing It All Back Home and Highway 61 Revisited. (Consider the former’s oblique Side A protest, “Maggie’s Farm,” a rollicking yet not-so-dissimilar bray of sedition as “I Ain’t Marching Anymore”—though, in this case, Dylan was protesting against protest folk.) Commercial favor tipped to Dylan’s rock rancor; it would not bend back toward Ochs’ bleeding headlines. As Christopher Hitchens summarized in the Ochs documentary There But for Fortune, “Phil’s very tough, grainy songs…were far more political and tough-minded than the much more generalized, accessible ‘Blowin’ in the Wind.’ There was a difference between people who liked Bob Dylan—anyone could like Bob Dylan, everybody did—and those who even knew about Phil Ochs.”

But serious-minded as Ochs was, he was not without his gallows humor—the secret weapon of I Ain’t Marching Anymore. “Draft Dodger Rag” is a droll riff on shirking the call to Vietnam, spry with the impishness of a boy claiming fang marks on his homework. Ochs spits out any and every excuse that will get him discharged from duty: “I've got a dislocated disc and a wracked-up back/I'm allergic to flowers and bugs,” he wheedles. “And when the bombshell hits, I get epileptic fits/And I'm addicted to a thousand drugs.” Not all his cop-outs have aged well, exactly, by progressive standards (“I always carry a purse” sets off a modern air-raid siren), but it’s an endearing novelty. And as with all Ochs’ songs, there is a galvanizing point staked into the sand: the draft fell disproportionately to the poor, the uneducated, and minorities. Another lighter offering, comparatively, is “That’s What I Want to Hear,” a call to arms for the exploited and whiny (inert liberals being a favored punching bag of Ochs’). “You tell me that your last good dollar is gone/And you say that your pockets are bare,” he sings at a sharp but not-unkind clip. Soon enough, “Now don't tell me your troubles/No, I don't have the time to spare/But if you want to get together and fight/Good buddy, that's what I want to hear.” It is a call to action but, notably, not to knee-jerk jingoism; mobilization is easy in the first flush of fear but resistance, if taken to conclusion, will always be a pyrrhic victory. Here, Ochs tapers one of his core, conclusively patriotic theses: that he, and his listeners, should be willing to lose some comforts to keep the world turning.

The most affecting moment of the album is “That Was the President,” Ochs’ eulogy to President Kennedy that speaks to the shattered disillusionment of his generation. It’s sung as softly as an echo across wooden pews. “Here’s a memory to share, here's a memory to save/Of the sudden early ending of command,” he sighs. “Yet a part of you and a part of me is buried in his grave/That was the President and that was the man.” It aches with lack of resolution; it’s a memorial to the idealism the president fostered, whose administration itself shuttered in unfulfilled promise of its progressive agenda. (There is more than a wisp of the paternal here; Ochs’ father also died in 1963.)

Ochs’ music after I Ain’t Marching Anymore would be pocked by outside influences; he jealously watched less overtly political colleagues like Dylan and Peter, Paul and Mary reach national fame, and struggled to reconcile his ardency for social reform with his craving to be a star. He watched artists advance on his back; Joan Baez’s cover of his compassionate tune “There But for Fortune” charted in the Top 50 in both America and the UK, higher than he’d ever managed. Frustrated, he retreated from earnest topicality; his next full studio album, Pleasures of the Harbor, folded in lush, Sinatra-strings and ragtime piano, adding a poppier bend to his dour character studies of empty socialites and downtrodden flower vendors. He became disillusioned with demonstrating; he and his Yippie party cohorts staged a protest at 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago, during which they nominated an actual pig for president (name: Pigasus), but the mirth ended in a massive, era-defining riot between protesters and police. He retreated from New York, his wife, and his daughter, drinking heavily, heaped his flagging idealism on the communist uprisings of Fidel Castro and the Marxist Chilean revolutionary Salvador Allende. His erratic creative path onward included self-funded, unsuccessful tours through South America and Africa (where he was arrested for performing at a political rally in Uruguay, robbed and strangled in Tanzania), and attempting to replicate Elvis Presley’s 1969 comeback show in Las Vegas with his own mystifying performance in gold lamé at Carnegie Hall. He dabbled more in symphonic pop and recruited Van Dyke Parks for a country-western turn (sarcastically called Phil Ochs’ Greatest Hits), all of which fell flat commercially.

Abetted by his rampant alcoholism and persistent writer’s block, Ochs slid into a bipolar breakdown; not even the end of the Vietnam War, and its ensuing celebratory concerts, could rouse him from his nosedive. He adopted an alternate identity called “John Train” and went on paranoid rants onstage, insisting he had murdered Phil Ochs and the CIA was after him. (The miserable irony of the FBI’s monitoring.) He slept on the streets, got arrested, attacked friends. On April 9, 1976, amid the gaudy patriotism of the Bicentennial Celebration, he hanged himself at his sister’s home in Queens.

But for a moment, Phil Ochs existed in pure conviction. I Ain’t Marching Anymore reminds us to resist the dangers of acquiescence, to take to the streets to demand the country that still persists in our hearts, even if it’s not before to our eyes anymore. It would be easy to stop marching in apathy or in defeat, but Ochs pushed for something greater: a righteous, excruciating, beautiful reclamation. Small wonder his powerful polemics have been covered and updated by the Clash, Neil Young, Jello Biafra: His fight was never just his, never just of his time. And in the right hands, it will never die.

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