#and how the institute created a monster to try and heal one of their own

[purrfectlycontent]

something something this scene from the trailer being a parallel to mary-ann and seymour (fated to end up alone in their despair and having to “act” a part)

add this to the fact that mary-ann’s last name was guillotin and furina gets, well…

[yaboialbarg]

Heyo, here are my take on Batman and his Rougue's gallery that i'll be using on my anlog horror web series "Arkham Archives"

What is Arkham Archives?

Arkham Archives is planned to be an analogue horror series inspired by the Batman Mythos, more specifically Arkham asylum 

The series will take place in between the 1950s and 1970s and the main idea is to get the characters and settings from the Batman comics, and give it a horror twist

And although the series WILL take elements and ideas from the comics, there will be NO NEED to read any pre existing comics to get into the series, i'll try my best to be faithful to the comics but i'll also make this it's own thing 

Now Without revealing to much, here's the Description of some of the characters and settings:

Settings

Gotham

The shadowy City of madness, always surrounded by an dense fog 

Founded in 1783 and located on the Atlantic ocean by the coast of the U.S.

the stories of how the City came to be varies, but the one majority believes the most is that gotham was formed by ex prisoners of prison hulk boats, and maybe even from slave ships and boats from other countrys, send to the ocean because of their mental state. Which would explain the places cultural diversity

The most important figures of Gotham were the three main families:

The Cobblepots, a family specialized in economics and politics

The Waynes, a family specialized in industry and military force

And the Arkhams, a family specialized in medicine and science

The City was very similar to New York, Although smaller, a lot more industrial and it was a lot more dangerous, with high levels of crime and murders 

But even with a bad reputation of being a "cursed city", Gotham still managed to enter on the U.S. map, and it had a somewhat stable economy 

That is…. Until the great depression happened

The crisis affected the city's economy drastically, companies going bankrupt, corruption and crime rising through the roof, no one was trustworthy in the City, it was a disaster

Thus, in 1923, the U.S. government declared Gotham as a Failed State, and Abandoned the city by destroying the bridge that connected it to the country 

Now a days, most people believe gotham to be nothing but a myth… a sinister tale spreaded by conspiracy theorists

Arkham Asylum 

Founded in 1893 by the Arkhams, is a extremely protected prison, located on a distant island on the coast of gotham that has a extremely strong security system

Arkham is the home of the mentaly ill and a place of healing…. At least…it is now….

In reality…Arkham was never meant to be an asylum, it wasn't even a hospital in the first place.

No…the place was known as The Arkham Research Facility, it was utilized to realize and fund human experimentation, including physical, mental and emotional testing on subjects, in order to create weapons and super soldiers

In 1907, the place was called out for its inhumane actions, misuse of scientific equipment and ilegal medical methods

The place was reformed by Amadeus Arkham, and reopened in august 13th 1913 as Arkham Asylum, promising to be a healthcare institution that would take care of the mentaly ill 

Like a family

Characters:

Batman | The Judge

The masked, cruel vigilante of Gotham goes by many names:

The dark knight

The caped cruzader

The horned beast of gotham's night sky

The horseman of judgment

But most of Gotham mostly know it as "The Judge"

The closest thing the city has for a protector, but even though the monster protects them, the citizens of the City are still terrified by it

Mostly because of how ruthless and unmerciful it acts toward criminals, marking them as a warning with a heated branding iron, and chasing them with its modified vehicle that roars like a predator 

Despise it's actions, people fear the Judge

Wayne Manor

Once the lair of the waynes, now resides only the memories of the actions of the family

An young adult Bruce Wayne, ever since a tragic incident, closed and locked the Doors of the Manor

And ever since, Bruce was never seen again, some say that after the tragedy, he took his own life, and now haunts the withered and broken place.

Others say that his butler, Alfred, killed him to take the families riches, since he's the only one that ever leaves the manor

Other even say that Bruce is still alive, but that he had become a monster like all the other freaks in Arkham

Despise all this theories, no one really has a solid explanation of what truly happened to the Last Wayne

But even without his presence, somehow, his industry still works at full force.

GCPD

The Police force of the city and the closest thing that Gotham has for a stable government force

And although it is supposed to be the main source of law enforcement, most of the system is rotten to the core

So much so that Police officers were reported being attacked by The Judge, officers that later confessed to be involved in corruption

There are two that separate themselves from the system, in different ways:

Officer Jason Todd: raised by a mercenary, Jason is violent and straight to the point, and is not scared to kill or straight up mentaly and physicaly torture criminals. Despite this, he hates being compared to the Judge, because it "gives scumbags too many chances"

Commissioner Jim Gordon: the one who truly desires to protect the city, always paranoid about the safety of the citizens after the supossed suicide of his wife and dissapearece of his two oldest Kids, having his daughter Barbara the only family he has left

Mr. J | the smiling man

An unknown figure, haunts television screens and radios in specific time periods, but most believe to be an urban legend.

Although many haven't been able to describe it, individuals that had supposed encounters with it recall it having a large terrifying smile, and that it spoke like a show host.

Figure has connection to multiple disappearances, with most including young Man and woman and children

Harley Quinn | The Harlequin 

A tall slender figurine, one that resembles a clown or a type of jester

She usually hides inside of circus tents or even abandoned theaters, with many reports describing it acting like a child

Although she acts childish, she's sinisterly intelligent, and can cause existential dread by playfully tearing the victims insecurities apart

Reports also comments how she supposedly "play" with her victims, by making them play life treathining Carnival games or participating in a theater play that ends in a "Shakespearian tragedy"

Poison ivy | The Gotham Wood's witch

Hiding within the depths of the city's forest, the Gotham Wood's witch is a living corpse kept alive by undiscovered plant life

Creature has been reported attacking campers, while she killed all male victims, she only harmed the female ones, reasons for this are unknown

She can attract individuals by releasing pheromones to attract potential victims to somewhere hidden, where she proceeds to devour them alive 

Reports also mention her abilities to control plants, transform the dead into plant based creatures and the fact that it's impossible to kill with it's regenerative ability

Bane | El Diablo

A man with inhuman strength, thanks to a strange venom type liquid running through his veins, and a brutal desire for anarchy and destruction

Not many know who he used to be before becoming a powerful monstrosity, but some believe he has connection to a ex-wrestler who participated in the army that disappeared years ago

But aside from that, not much is know

What is know, is that El Diablo is an extremely dangerous individual, not only because of his incredible strength, but also because of his huge intellect and military mindset

Mr. Freeze | The Frosted Butcher

A walking diver suit, filled with nitrogen, that wanders near lakes and distant valleys, was also spotted wandering on the city's mountain

This mysterious monster has been reported attacking smaller distant towns, most of them ending up completely frozen

It has been reported to freeze its victims to death, then break their corpses apart, taking away their organs.

Reasons for this behavior are still unknown 

The Penguin

Hiding in the city's dark alleys, no one knows if the penguin is an deformed man or a actual penguin like monster

A serial killer, that has a prefered taste for "Higher class culture", as most of their attacks involve art and upper class traditions

Most reports seem to indicate that The penguin dresses as a classic Victorian upper class man. With many believing and calling this individual the "modern Jack the ripper"

Individual seems to also have connections to the Cannibal black market, since reports say that they saw a similar figure roaming trough the alley that the market supposedly is.

Catwoman | The Cat Burglar

Reports talk about a mysterious critter, that some believe to be either a human with mechanical limbs, or an actual Feline like monster.

Some witnesses say that the creature is attracted to shiny materials, and tends to invade residences to steal food, but also to steal any shiny material that it can see

It's said to have 5 eyes, but some believe it to be night vision goggles. And that the creature uses its tail as a whip

The Riddler

A infamous serial killer, one that uses twisted puzzles and mind games to kill their victims, was never once caught by the authorities 

No one knows who the Riddler is, so much so that even when people thought that they found them, it was another one of their victims

They even disappeared for a while, a letter taunting and expressing their disappointment with the GCPD was the Last the people heard from the Riddler….

But one Day…the killings started again…because the Riddler found their proper adverserie…the Judge

Harvey Dent | Two Faced shooter

Once one of the most honest members of the GCPD, after a freak accident, Harvey Dent became too unstable because of his disorder.

Suffering from Multiple Personality disorder, Harvey always had his weird behaviors (such as using a coin for every decision), but nothing that could potentially cause any harm…

But it was after his accident that he started to decay into madness

With a single flip of a coin…40 lives were taken on the Gotham National Bank shooting of 63, caused by Harvey himself…

The Scarecrow 

Crick crack

Better watch your back

Crick crack

As you go down the track

Crick crack 

Because courage you lack

Crick crack

It is too late to runback 

Crick crack

You are now off track

Crick crack

It's about to attack

Crick crack

With its head in a sack

Crick crack 

As you hear it's body clack 

Crick crack

The Scarecrow your mind will wrack

Killer Croc

A crocodilian-like creature.

Rumors say that it wanders through the city sewers, looking for something… or someone to eat

Man-Bat

The creature first appeared near the Arkham towers, but later on, there was reports of the creature flying above Gotham

Stories say that the creature is a vampire, feasting from the blood of its victims

Other says that it's more like a werewolf, but instead of a wolf, the man would become a bloodthirsty bat-like creature

Arkham seems to deny allegations and says that the creature is a myth

Clay Face | C14y F4C3 ADC-401940 | The Multifaceted Killer

A recent event has been creating mass hysteria as of late, and authorities seems to be just as paranoid

A massive kill streak have been reported through the city, with many identifying the culprits….. but when investigated, most of if not, ALL of the suspects, either were people that were already dead years ago, or literally don't exist

With little to no evidence, lack of accurate suspects and killing methods varying drastically, the case of the Multifaceted killer case goes unsolved

The Mad Hatter

Individual has been known for kidnaping children, by using some sort of hypnotic ability

He resembles the character of the Mad Hatter from Alice in wonderland, thus the people started to call him as such

Some say that he takes children away to a broken rotting windmill, where he puts the children in a trance like state by putting them in mechanical chairs 

There was a time when 6 children went missing, and when authorities found them, they were strapped in chairs unharmed… but when they woke the children up, they started to panic, scream, saying they wanted to come back to their "Wonderland"

2 days after the event, the same children disappeared again, but this time, the parents were found dead in their beds

The children killed their own parents, and ran back to the clutches of the Hatter

The location of these children are still unsolved to this day

Solomon Grundy

Solomon Grundy,

Born on a Monday,

Christened on Tuesday,

Married on Wednesday,

Took ill on Thursday,

Grew worse on Friday,

Died on Saturday,

Buried on Sunday,

That was the end of Solomon Grundy…

Solomon Grundy,

Unburied on a Monday,

Taken away by Tuesday,

Stitched together on Wednesday,

Stuffed with ennards on Thursday,

Grew bigger by Friday

Revived on Saturday,

Locked away on Sunday,

That was the rebirth of Solomon Grundy…

Hugo Strange | Dr.731

Appearing out of nowhere by the coast of Arkham, the strange japanese doctor made his way into Arkham, and established himself as one of the doctors

Hugo has a literal Red skin, a sinister smug smile, and a creepy mentality of what counts as science

Many Wonder why Arkham took in the mysterious doctor, and what he even does inside that building

Jeremiah Arkham

The current owner of Arkham

After the death of his Father, Jeremiah took the role of both Asylum seeker as well as THE Head doctor

Following on his father's footsteps, Jeremiah promised to make sure Arkham Asylum would become the best Psychiatric Unit of the city and keep the city healed…

His favorite animals are owls……

Arkham rejects

I released the teaser for it here before.

If you haven't seen it, you can watch it here:

If you're intrested on this idea and/or want to help out with something on the project, i'd more than happy to get some help with this passion project

https://youtu.be/SspnpGNM-QE

That's all for now

See ya

[knightfeared]

➤ BALLISTER HEADCANONS [ ; ] AMBROSIUS + THOUGHTS ON LOSING *VERSE [ ; ] NORMAL HIS ARM + TRUST.

Quick thought / potential mess of headcanons I am logging here before I forget, but, basically a couple unhinged rambles on Ballister & his feelings towards Ambrosius during & post movie, along with a bit of an attempted study on why he wasn’t as upset about Ambrosius cutting his arm over him not believing he was innocent, with some last minute rambles done on his arm & the literal healing process.

As far as his arm goes, he feels does occasionally feel deep shooting pain, burning or even itching in his missing limb, along with a tender sensitivity around the scars that does limit the time he can wear his prosthetic comfortably. Since he made his mechanical one, he stubbornly kept it on a lot more then he really should have, because it offered him a sense of comfort & safety in a time where he was hunted like vermin & treated like a monster. I will also point out how upset he got when they confiscated his arm at the beginning before throwing him in the Institute’s jails.

But point being, he will be notably more distant, at least initially, as he is trying to come down from the movies events afterwards. Getting over the living in constant fight or flight mode he was used to before, unlearning old bad habits & trying to learn better new ones while fully having time to process EVERYTHING — it will be a lot. He will be distant, very broody, but he will never be unkind or rude since Ballister’s never been that kind of man, especially towards Ambrosius. I’ll dig in another time about the effects of being on the run & stuck in hiding has had on his mental / physical health & what habits he has developed another day.

A thing I noticed my Ballister muse doing in a few post movie threads, is he will ignore his own needs & fears to focus on Ambrosius’, which seems like it could create a conflict if he relies too much on that to avoid working through & properly processing what he also went through. But it could also help him come to terms with his own thoughts on everything by association as he helps Ambrosius, but it really does depend on the portrayal I’m interacting with because sometimes he will launch right into care mode & others he buries himself into work or changes the topic to avoid having to confront things

A thing I really would like to dig into here though, is the reminder that Ballister didn’t have access to any good medical items when he needed to patch himself up at the start . While he was dealing with a large myriad of other complicated emotions at the time, he was able to push a lot of that trauma to the back of his mind to focus on just surviving, but he did cling very hard to cold but grounding rationalization that Ambrosius was disarming a weapon — doing what he needed & was trained to do. It was better than sinking into overwhelming feelings of grief & anger at the unfairness of his situation. It’s a little dark, but he is thankful Ambrosius made it such a clean cut so it was at least easier to patch up on his own with less risk.

I also hc my Ballister was someone who took every skill taught by the Institute & made it his mission to master all of them to the best of his ability, so while he might not have had the experience in first aid care to efficiently patch himself up, he at least had some clear idea of what to do to ensure he didn’t die. He ultimately made do with what he found lying around to properly staunch the bleeding before doing his best to keep from getting infected with aftercare. I am digging far too deep into this, but I will log it here regardless.

But all in all to summarize all of this unorganized mess of rambles, the pain & what he’d gone through was bearable in his eyes. He’s resilient, determined, & beyond adaptable, but he’s always had Ambrosius in his corner to help ground him. He’s been his constant anchor for the longest time, which is ironically why even when he was the one to cut his arm off, to cause a lot of that trauma following Valerin’s assassination, Ballister didn’t, & still doesn’t blame him for doing what he did. He could never hate Ambrosius for doing what he’d been trained to, knowing full well it was an instinctual reaction to a very real threat at the time.

What again really hurt him & broke that trust though was realizing he didn’t trust him right back, proved through his actions during the movies events that Ambrosius didn’t know him well enough or “at all” to know he would never do something like murder the very woman that gave him this chance at his dream.

[twisted-wonderland-shenanigans]

NRC’s Bestiary Survival Guide--Heartslabyul Version

It would have barely been a month into the school year before it became clear that Yuu didn’t know a single thing about the type of monsters they were dealing with amongst their fellow students. So what better way to ensure their survival than through creating their own bestiary? With some help from Ace, Deuce, and Grim, this guidebook will serve as a record and journal for each new discovery!

Or perhaps it’ll wind up a creative jumbled mess of notes and scribbled sketches. In a school full of chaotic students, chaos and mischief are to be expected! Let’s see how Yuu’s bestiary turns out, shall we~?

A/N: This is just a general guideline explaining the characters and their species in a fun way, sorta like those omnibus guidebooks where characters make random commentary on someone’s journal entry when they’re trying to be serious and explain things. Hope you guys enjoy! 😂

-----------------

Hello. I don’t know if there are any other humans out there or if any others might appear, but to whoever reads this I hope it will help you as much as it helped me…or at least, I hope it helps me. Professor Trein gave me this book and suggested I keep a record of everything—something about dual research or something since those institutions are studying me too? Anyway, I am writing this journal in an attempt to keep track of the different species I’ve seen so far at this school, as well as certain “weak points”. Ace and Deuce have volunteered to help with gathering notes, though I don’t quite trust them to not make notes or comments without me knowing.

You forgot to hide the pens from us, Prefect~!

Don’t worry, my minion! The Great Grim will add his knowledge to this little book of yours!

I’m sorry, I tried to stop them…also, what do you mean by “weak points”?

[There are multiple scribbles scrawled across the wrinkled and tattered page, as though it had gone through a tug-of-war and the words were scratched out. It isn’t hard to imagine what happened as evidenced by the burnt corners before turning to the next page.]

To start things off, we’ll go with each dorm in this order: Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde, and Diasomnia. First is Heartslabyul:

 Heartslabyul is a chaotic and confusing dorm to be in, with rules that don’t make sense and hallways that may lead to topsy-turvy rooms halfway across the dorm. Much like the dorm itself, the dorm members can be a mix of different monsters, including hybrid species who don’t necessarily fit into one species or another. The members so far are—

Riddle Rosehearts: Faun species. Very strict and stern, though he’s improved from when the school year first started. Fauns are monsters of nature with a human torso and the legs of a goat or a deer, known as benevolent nature spirits and cousins to the satyr monster species (which apparently is comparable to dogs and wolves, though I hadn’t figured out how aside from a size difference). As such, Riddle is very skilled with plant magic and healing magic. If he allows you to get close enough to touch, it turns out he likes the base of his horns scratched and massaged and the back of his ears are a particularly good spot to scratch…though he might bleat in protest if anyone else is around.

Bwahahah!!! He bleats like a goat?! Oh I have got to try this, even if I get collared!

Trey Clover: Satyr/Naga hybrid species. Calm and big brother vibes, Trey seems to always know what to say and do to calm down everyone—including Riddle. Unsure if it’s part of the satyr aspect of his species or part of the naga species, but he’s still cunning and told a joke about using oyster sauce for baking. He looks similar to Riddle in terms of the goat legs, though his horns are much bigger and his tail…well, that was a surprise to see it turn from a small goat’s tail to a long snake tail—an even bigger surprise was to see the snake fangs! I thought he was gonna eat us!! Apparently, he doesn’t like having it show all the time, though he’s not hiding it as often as he used to. If you can reach them, the base of his horns are a good spot to scratch, though by far compared to other monsters he’s the more docile of the school.

Cater Diamond: Hippogriff species. Energetic and quick as lightning, Cater’s wings can carry him through the air faster than any broom. With powerful horse legs and eagle-like claw hands, it’s easy to imagine him being dangerous and deadly—but in truth he’s quite affectionate and curious and more likely to try and get a selfie with you. Hippogriffs are considered a loyal species and will defend their nests and family to the death. The feathery ears and the top of his head are the best places to scritch on a hippogriff, though wings are off limits unless given express permission to touch—such as scratching an itch he can’t reach.

Wait, is this what you meant by “weak points”?...oh god, what are you going to write about me?!

Ace Trappola: Skvader species. A winged rabbit, you would think he’d be able to fly like Cater, but his wings are only big enough to glide or hover—though he says his wings are still growing. With long ears and long (dangerous) looking rabbit legs, Ace’s speed is faster than any human or dog for short distances and he can jump great heights…especially when scared by the Roomba vacuum someone snuck into Ramshackle. Ace: You swore you’d never talk about that!! Rubbing his cheeks and long ears are safe bets to make him melt like putty, and he does like chin scratches—though he may bite if you do it for too long. Nose boops will cause him to freeze for a moment so might be a good reaction or a weird reaction. Need to study this more…

Gah! Blab it to the whole school why don’t you?!

Well you did prank Yuu with that air horn/glitter explosion last week…

Nyahaha! Serves you right for messing with my minion!

Deuce Spade: Centaur species. Half man, half horse with long ears, Deuce could run circles around anyone at the school—and in the track and field club, he likely already has! Much like a horse, it is possible to ride on his back, though be warned that riding on a centaur’s back is considered rude if you’re not friends with one or not given permission, so you might find yourself in an impromptu rodeo if one decides you’re not welcome or that you’ve overstayed your welcome. Much like normal horses, Deuce (and apparently other centaurs at the school) seem to like when you pet their shoulders on their lower half and enjoy a good scritch on the back, though Deuce seems to not mind having his head and ears rubbed. Caution is advised to not stand behind one if they happen to get spooked and kick.

I’m so sorry about that day! Let me make it up to you-!

What were you saying about my prank being bad?

[The rest of the page—though filled with mentions of other monsters in the dorm like wolpertingers and other mix-matched creatures—is a battlefield of multi-colored ink lines and splatters, including one that suspiciously looks like a pawprint. It would seem that—as monsters—the students have a tendency to be more physically aggressive and likely to get into scuffles even against more dangerous species than themselves. Though their bones and skin heal fast, it’s a grim reminder that humans in this world are far more fragile and need to take care not to aggravate any of the more “temperamental” of the students.

It is safe to say that this journal’s documentation shall continue at a later time…and when the pens are better hidden.]

[janekfan]

hmm prompt time... jon angst about his humanity or lacktherof? worrying about him not being good enough for+worthy of+safe for martin/general guilt/self hatred? before or after apocolypse idk maybe safe house maybe post change? maybe season 4 after coma? could end up being jmart h/c or just be jon sad time whatever works

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27232381

For everyone else it had already been six long months.

And for Jon.

Well. For Jon, it was just yesterday.

Sasha.

Gone.

Tim.

Gone.

Martin.

Gone.

Himself?

And wasn’t that the question of the day Jon thought as he dragged himself up the steps of the Magnus Institute. He didn’t have anything with him. He didn’t have anything left that he knew of. Just the Oyster card and set of clothes the hospital had been kind enough to give him as his own were thoroughly shredded in the explosion. Everything else was gone.

He should be gone.

He’s the only one who should be gone.

But he’s still here.

And they’re just.

Was he even allowed to grieve?

“Jon” Melanie’s sharp, irritated voice raked over his ill-fitting skin like claws and he lifted sore eyes in acknowledgment.

“Hm, y’yes?”

“Been calling your name. You up to your spooky monster shit already?” He winced, wishing the scratchy two-sizes too big tee shirt would swallow him the rest of the way. “Barely through the door and you can’t resist.”

“N’no. Was. Was thinking, s’all.” Rubbing his arm, trying desperately to feel something, Jon didn’t know if he was allowed to leave or not. If he moved would she be upset? If he stayed?

“Least keep to your office. Don’t want you...watchin’ me.” She shoved past him, knocking him against the wall, still unsteady on his feet, the effects from the statement earlier were wearing off, or whatever the supernatural equivalent was and he slipped like a shadow through the halls to his door to hide himself behind it.

Things did not improve. He was always in the wrong, always a menace and he’d caught a glimpse of himself in the restroom mirrors a couple times, surprised at how thin and pathetic he looked. But they were afraid of him. He Knew it. Because the Eye gravitated to these heavenly tastes of fear like a starving man did to food.

So he kept to himself.

I’m sorry.

As days crept in and out, Jon tried to keep stock of what was different and the only thing he could conclude after his careful analysis and study was that he. Jonathan Sims. Was now something less than human.

Less than.

That made sense. That was okay. He’d always been better off alone because when he was alone he couldn’t hurt people and all he seemed to do was hurt people.

Wasn’t that true?

Georgie Sasha Tim Martin Daisy Georgie Sasha Tim Martin DaisyGeorgieSashaTimMartinDaisy

What was the point of learning that hard-won lesson if he had no one left?

I’m sorry.

And there was no way to go back. He’d caused it. Been causing it since he was a child, alienating, precocious, and so unlikable.

And there was no way for him to fix it. Not when he was in so deep. Not when he was addicted to these, these tales of dread and panic and horror and pain and death and terror and loss. Not when he had taken from those that he haunted and hunted through nightmare and dream. Took what they had and made it his, feeding, feeding, feeding like some animal.

But animals didn’t have a choice did they?

I’m sorry.

He’d already been judged and found wanting. Georgie was right. He should have died, or stayed in the coma, or anything other than turning into whatever he was now. Something inhuman, un-human.

Un-made.

Twisted.

I’m sorry.

Pity there was no one left who would accept his worthless apologies. Not from whatever he was now.

Jon was barely in control, not in control. Not really. Exhausted and hungry and lonely, lonely, lonely. He decided to take control back, just a little, whatever he could because to be human was to stay in control.

And he takes it.

In the only way he can think how.

Blood wells up from scratches Jon gouges into his arms, from beneath the blades of dull knives and keen razors, deep and dark and dangerous if he were human. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t harm himself enough physically, healing too fast to really feel it like he wanted to feel it and the marks never stayed long enough. Didn’t, didn’t bleed long enough, fast enough, never enough.

There’s no one left to notice the rust and ruby lining the bin so Jon doesn’t bother putting effort into cleaning up evidence. It’s around him in the florid streaks crossing the blotter, the cardinal fingerprints on old envelopes, the scarlet trails of irregular constellations mapped beneath his chair.

The answer to his problem became clear soon after. The statements. Addicted to them, it wasn’t until Basira pointed out that he should stop that he realized the easiest way to hurt was to deny himself. And they wanted him to stop. They want him to hurt and he should hurt. It’s fine, it’s okay, it’s what he’s been looking for.

Maybe when they thought he’d hurt enough, they would forgive him.

The pain was good. Every time he denied the Eye was good. Better than, it was intoxicating. The smallest act of rebellion and he revelled in it. Knowing he was weak, that he couldn’t be used for whatever purpose he’d been created for while he was like this, filled him with a perverse hope.

Restless, Jon retraced his steps through the Archives, trying to avoid Basira and Melanie where he could though they didn’t do anything more than ignore him unless he had a purpose or interrogate him about leaving, finding a victim. Compelling them against their will.

“You look shite, Jon.” He avoided their eyes, stared at their feet and watched them fade in and out, as he swayed back and forth, and he knew they were sneering because he could hear it in their voice. “Proof enough, I suppose.” Melanie lifted his face with a gentle finger placed under his chin. “Haven’t been galavanting in people’s dreams?” Back bowing under the weight of her scrutinizing stare, Jon did his best to stand straight. Removing the influence of the Slaughter didn’t make her undivided attention any easier to stomach and he put effort into quelling the ever present shiver thrumming through his bones, playing his sinews like strings.

“Uh, n’no. I don’t leave much. Or at all.”

“Mm.”

“Melanie?” Narrowed eyes stared through him, followed the quick rush through the highways of his veins. She knew where to strike to do the most damage.

Jon Knew it wouldn’t stick if she tried.

He was sure he’d seen him come this way. Martin. Whom he missed more than he ever thought one could miss someone. And, really, what did he know of Martin? Other than how best to ridicule him? He’d done this, or at the very least pushed him toward it. A victim for the Lonely. For Peter Lukas to control and manipulate and Martin assured him he was fine. He was fine and Jon shouldn’t look for him anymore because it was making it harder, it was making it worse. And Jon could do that. Could do one thing to make it easier for Martin?

But when he saw him, pale and small and Martin should never seem so small, Jon abandoned all his promises. He’d never been good at keeping them anyway. Why start now? Dizzier than he thought, the first step almost sent him sprawling and he just managed to catch himself on the wall, resting against it long enough to lose him. He pushed off, caught himself again as the hall twisted around him, spiraling like Helen’s eyes when they burrowed into his own and he followed, stumbling, a body ricocheting from surface to surface; floor, window, door, battered and bruised where no one could see. Not like the scars and the timeline they’d scripted silver and hoary on translucent brown vellum.

Martin is not there.

Jon has arrived too late.

He was good at that.

The first sob cleaved him in two, the second carved his chest clean out. Empty. Painfully empty and worse than anything he’d done to himself thus far. There wasn’t room to breathe between, there wasn’t time or space and rather than cower in the open doorway Jon threw himself into the office, crashing to his knees and pressing his face into the wood of his neatly organized desk before he gathered the wherewithal to pull himself into the chair, nicking the jumper folded over the back of it before crumpling again. Soft against his cheek, the well worn wool comforted him enough that he gained tentative control over himself again. He spent the time there dazed between bouts of crying, gradually tugged into the deep and the dark, exhausted and guilty.

He’s visited by dreams instead of nightmares. A cool palm gently coaxing the blazing, feverish heat from his skin. Stroking back tangled curls from his damp face and murmuring gentle things, lovely things, that he had no right to take comfort from. Jon dreamt of being hushed, of tears swept away by mindful fingertips, of clinging to Martin’s cardigan so tightly his hands ached. There was warmth here. Softness here. That he didn’t deserve and stole anyway, greedy and covetous because that’s what monsters did. And he took it, held it close, let it soothe the aches and the agony he carried so deep in him it hurt to let free.

Sasha.

Tim.

Martin.

Jon woke to the smell of sea air and surf.

To the last of a thick fog clinging around his ankles.

To a mug of tea, still hot.

And a statement.

[iceeckos12]

a study of hands

thinking about jon’s burned hand. warning for graphic discussion of burn/burn scars.

edit: had to remake this post since i accidentally deleted the read more when i was editing it a;slkdfal;skdjf

Georgie isn’t there when Jon gets home.

Small mercies, he thinks hysterically, distantly, squeezing his wrist. His right hand doesn’t feel like a hand, doesn’t feel like skin layered on sinew and meat and muscle layered on bone. It feels like someone stuck a ball of agony, a ball of pain so incandescent that it transcends his comprehension, on the end of his arm. He doesn’t dare look at it. Just the smell is enough to make him feel sick.

He staggers into the bathroom and fumbles with the tap, turning the water on as cold as it will go. He doesn’t have the strength to get ice cubes from the freezer, even though he knows that it will help. (He’s not sure how he knows that it will help, but some part of his brain is screaming don’t cover it, that will trap the heat in, put it in ice water and keep it there, but it won’t do much for a third degree burn, you need a skin graft, you—)

He stares at the bottom of the tub for a moment, wondering why it isn’t filling up the way it should. Then he remembers that he needs to plug the drain, because otherwise the water is going to keep swirling away, away, down the plumbing and deep into the earth, like—like—

He twitches his hand. He doesn’t mean to, or maybe he does, he’s not sure, and the pain is so intense that he immediately vomits into the water.

The drain wasn’t plugged, he thinks hysterically. Small mercies.

-

He doesn’t go looking for Mike Crew the next day.

He can’t. Georgie had poked her head in when he woke up, and he’d rasped, “I’m going to have a bit of a lie-in.” And he’d said, “I’m fine, just not feeling well.” And he’d whispered, “Don’t worry about me, just...just—don’t worry about me.”

His whole body feels like it’s been lit aflame, like he’s on the shore of a burning sea that keeps lapping in and out, in and out. The waves keep crashing in and out, in and out, breathtaking and exhausting.

The burn, when he can finally bring himself to look at it, is ugly, even worse than the worm scars. Blackened and charred around the edges, red and mottled in the deepest parts. An actual, literal brand in the form of a handshake. He wonders if, whenever he shakes someone’s hand, their fingers will slot neatly into the confines of the scar.

Come on. It won’t hurt.

He chokes on a sob and rides the agony into oblivion.

-

Jon used to have pretty handwriting.

He knows that’s a weird thing for a boy to have. It was just another thing that they used to make fun of him for in school, but he used to be defiantly proud of it. It was something that he worked for. He used to open calligraphy books and copy each painstaking letter onto the paper, his tongue poking out from between his teeth, until they looked just right, every time.

He’s not sure why he cherished it so much. Possibly because he had so little to be proud of when he was young. He was stubborn and a know-it-all and difficult, but at the very least he had gorgeous handwriting. His classmates used to pay him to write love letters.

It’s not something that he thinks about until he gets back from that whole debacle with Mike Crew and Daisy and Elias—and reaches for a pen. His right hand throbs in agony, and his fingers don’t bend quite right, and the pen skitters to the ground and across the floor.

He stares at it numbly for a moment, frozen in place, lips parted. Then his hand throbs, and he sinks into his chair, breathing through the pain, as he’s become used to doing.

He hadn’t thought about—about his fingers not quite bending all the way anymore, about his grip not having the same strength that it used to—

Even after the agony subsides into a low, manageable simmer, he keeps breathing, counting the beats, head bowed over his curled and mangled hand.

-

He uses Institute funds to buy a machine that makes labels for him. In the meantime, he practices with his left hand when he thinks no one else is looking, putting each painstaking letter to paper.

-

He’s been wearing button-ups since his first day at the Magnus Institute.

He remembers wearing a rented suit to his job interview, nervous and fresh-faced and eager to please. Elias had taken one look at him, smiled, and told him to relax, that they were a little more casual around here, that it was fine.

Jon had insisted on the button-ups. He’d turned their care into a bit of a ritual, making sure that each one was starched and ironed, lines crisp and precise. That was how he wanted to be seen: crisp and precise. Qualified.

The execution of that intent had been flawed, though. He had sabotaged himself by shutting his eyes to the truth of the supernatural, and it had eventually turned against him.

He looks at his many shirts now, and all he can feel is dread. Each button is shaped like misery, the starched fabric sandpaper. He knows without trying that he will be on the floor, breathing through the pain, if he tries to put one of those shirts on.

-

He tries anyway.

-

He wears things to work that he never would have in the past. An open jacket layered over a t-shirt, tucked into the hem of black jeans. A chunky cardigan made of smooth, comfortable fabric over a long, serious skirt. Enormous sweaters that he can bury himself in. Things that are easy to put on, easy to wear.

His skin itches when the others look at him.

-

He thinks that he understands what Elias means about choices now. Regardless of whether or not he wanted to become a monster, the choices he made lead to him becoming one. Regardless of whether or not he wants to be vulnerable, he chooses to do so. 

(The other choice is struggling over the buttons of one of his formal shirts, his hand going more and more clawlike with effort. It doesn’t feel much like a choice at all.)

-

Jon picks up the mug, and Martin lets out a shout of horror and scoops it from his grip.

“Jon, that’s really hot, be careful!” he admonishes. He’d seized the tea roughly, but his grip goes gentle as he carefully lifts Jon’s scarred palm, fingers fluttering over the warped scars. “This is your bad hand, too—does it hurt?”

Jon stares at his hand too, at the still healing skin, at the way the reds bleed into pinks bleed into more red. The scars create deep rents in his skin, almost to the bone in some places. He thinks about monsters and pain and emotions and apathy, and the indistinct lines they create.

“No,” he says honestly. There had been nothing to feel.

-

”You used to plait your hair,” Daisy says.

It’s been quiet for several hours now. Jon thinks that’s the thing he likes best about Daisy: her presence is undemanding now. Not calm, perhaps, but not frenetic or wild, either. Focused. Unconcerned until you give her a reason to be otherwise.

She gets concerned about a lot more than Jon thought she would. Her patient, searching gaze seeks out the exhaustion in his bones, the hungry way his body curls in on itself, increment by increment. She is in stark opposition to the cold and uncaring Eye, who would let Jon cannibalize himself just for a little entertainment.

(She is in stark opposition to herself less than a year ago. A blunted knife, a dulled edge.)

“I did,” Jon concedes.

Daisy waits, because he usually elaborates. It’s about choices, though. Choices are something that he’s thought about a lot in the past few months, especially after his coma, especially after the Buried. He wants to tell Daisy, but he doesn’t want to feel as though he was guided into it.

It’s ridiculous. It’s—he knows that it’s silly. Nonverbal cues are a language that he had to learn, so he should respond. But—he wants to be asked.

After a beat, she asks, “Why don’t you anymore?”

Jon lets out a gusty sigh and raises his right hand so she can see the twisting, ropey mess. He concentrates hard, pressing his lips together as he closes it as far as he can, shaking the whole time.

Daisy sighs, a sound sympathetic to his own.

Jon lowers his right hand again, letting it rest on its side, half curled.

“I could do it for you,” she says.

Jon hesitates for a second—

(Georgie was the person who taught him how to plait his hair. His gran had always cut it short herself, insisting that this was easiest and it saved money anyway, even though Jon had always wanted to grow it out. By the time he met Georgie, his hair was loose around his ears, and he had no idea how to take care of it.

A year after they met, Georgie drunkenly tripped over the couch and told him that she was going to plait his hair. She’d tried to do something difficult, too difficult for her inebriated state, before dragging Jon into a clumsy, playful kiss. He’d responded enthusiastically, but in the back of his mind, he remembered the tug, the sensation of twisting strands, and it had felt good.

She’d done it for him for almost two years. She’d force him to sit on the floor while she sat on the couch, and then she’d bodily drag him as close as possible before turning his ever-growing hair into something beautiful and complicated. Just like you, she’d told him, half-serious.

One day, she’d laid her hands over his and said, “Let me show you how, for when I’m not here.”)

—before nodding, and forces himself to remain very still as Daisy gets to her feet and approaches him from behind.

In the Buried, Daisy’s hand had been small and tight. He hadn’t been able to feel the warmth of it, or the minute scars pricking her skin. He’d gripped back as tightly as his burned hand could, which he’s sure wasn’t very tight at all. There’s a lesson in that, too, but it’s more specific. Intent and execution.

Daisy’s thumb had carefully rubbed the edges of the scars, touching patterns in the divots in his hand. Her hand had fit kindly.

Jon shivers at the first gentle touch in his long tresses. He thinks about the duality of knives and let’s go through the voicebox, and about gentle understanding in the crushing sensation of the Buried. Execution, with nebulous, incomprehensible intent.

-

Martin holds Jon’s hands in his and looks at them like they’re beautiful.

Jon’s still getting used to that. The soft, fond way Martin’s eyes alight on him when he’s barefoot in the kitchen. The teasing grin when Jon glares mockingly across the space between them. The exasperation whenever Jon skips a meal or stays up until the darkest hours of the night.

He wants to be with Martin and he chooses to be with Martin. His intent is synonymous with its execution.

He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. He takes long walks in the burgeoning light of dawn, the hem of his skirt getting soaked in the morning dew. He retreats into himself when his leg and his hand and his everything are all screaming at him in tandem, a symphony of past and current aches.

Martin always welcomes him home. Martin’s gaze is that of the dawning sun, soft and radiant. He tucks Jon’s fingers over his and sweetly kisses each scarred knuckle, reverent, like he’s holding something precious.

Jon learns by example. When Martin wakes in the middle of the night, his eyes distant and hazy, Jon clumsily turns up Martin’s hand and presses his lips against the warm, smooth palm. When the fog rolls in around them, Jon carefully holds Martin’s face between his hands (one half-curled, the other firm and steadying) and leans their foreheads together.

[misstrashchan]

Since @im-the-king-of-the-ocean did a post about what TMA fear entities the RWBY characters are aligned/avatars of, I’ve been itching to do one myself because as a result of overlapping hyper fixations I think about this A LOT

The basic concept is that avatars in TMA become what they fear most or embrace a fear they have developed the most complex relationship with that plays into their motivations and drive as a character. What negative impulses they have to constantly fight themselves on, the shape of the monster that lives in their heart.

To quote the RWBY song Fear, “But our greatest fear will be realised, if we fall and lose ourselves to fear, we’ll become what we’ve feared all our lives” yeah that’s a very loose definition of what becoming an avatar is.

Since MAG s5 has proven that you can be an avatar of more than one fear, (Like Martin serving both the Eye and the Lonely) some of the RWBY characters might have more than one, but I’ll try to limit it to two to avoid getting complicated, but at the end of the day it’s all fear soup, we might categorise them according to Robert Smirke’s 14, but they all bleed into one another, like Gerard’s colour analogy in 111:

GERARD

I always think it helps to imagine them like colours. The edges bleed together, and you can talk about little differences: “oh, that’s indigo, that’s more lilac”, but they’re both purple. I mean, I guess there are technically infinite colours, but you group them together into a few big ones. A lot of it’s kind of arbitrary. I mean, why are navy blue and sky blue both called blue, when pink’s an entirely different colour from red? Y’know? I don’t know, that’s just how it works.

And like colours, some of these powers, they feed into or balance each other. Some really clash, and you just can’t put them together. I mean, you could see them all as just one thing, I guess, but it would be pretty much meaningless, y’know, like… like trying to describe a… shirt by talking about the concept of colour.

O-Of course, with these things it’s not a simple spectrum, y’know, it’s more like –

ARCHIVIST

An infinite amorphous blob of terror bleeding out in every direction at once.

GERARD

Now you’re getting it.

ARCHIVIST

Like colours, but if colours hated me. Got it. 

Ruby Rose: The End. The fear of death itself, uncaring and unstoppable. Man this was hard to think about but I have a lot of Big Feelings about this one. Initially I really, really wanted to give Ruby the Eye simply because “can laser beam monsters with their eyeballs once they become powerful enough” and there is a fascinating overlap in how the Beholding powers and Silver Eyes function in the same way, (especially in how Cinder being exposed to the Silver Eyes fills her with an overpowering fear and reopens old wounds from trauma that have never properly healed; which is VERY similar in the psychological affect Jon’s has on his victims when he Beholds them) they’re both direct enemies/opposites to the Dark that expose their enemies/victims true nature and destroying them in the process at times. Only one feeds on fear and the trauma of others while the other feeds off of hope and love (Gerard says there’s no such thing as an avatar of hope and love, clearly he’s never heard of Ruby). 

But nope! The fear and nature of the Beholding just doesn’t really match with Ruby at all. She isn’t driven by a need of knowledge, nor does she fear being watched, followed or having her secrets exposed. The End though? Death itself? Ruby outright states that’s her biggest fear in volume 5 to Oscar “It doesn’t matter if you’re standing in Salem’s way or not. She’ll kill anyone. And that, scares me most of all” to me Ruby’s fear of death itself is projected onto Salem here, I think. It’s uncaring, unstoppable, it doesn’t discriminate, and it could come for the people she cares about at any time. What matters though is the context she says this is in explaining her motives to Oscar. Her whole life has been shaped by her inability to process death, her relationship with grief, all starting with the tragic and abrupt death of her mother Summer as a child. She’s also surrounded by a lot of death motif too, the hooded cape, mostly wearing black, the giant grim reaper scythe. She’s the End. 

Of course, her being an Avatar of the End means having to imagine the worst version of Ruby, one that is fully consumed by that fear. Avatars of the End are not malicious or destructive in nature but instead are… very apathetic. They don’t need to seek out victims to feed off of, nor do they have a ritual, because the End comes for all. And that fits with what Ruby would be like if that fear fully consumed her. It’s more or less established in vol6 during the apathy arc when she tries so hard to fight against their influence and how horrified she is when everyone around her falls prey to it. Giving up, not caring, accepting the inevitable demise of everyone and yourself? Ruby was terrified of that. And when looking at the vol8 opening where we see Ruby being dragged down by what looks like the arms of the apathy? She fights the hardest against it because it’s what she’s most afraid of, but because of her inability to process her grief properly is ultimately what will make her the most vulnerable to it when she’s pushed to her limit. All Salem needs to do to break Ruby is to remind her of Summer’s death. Not even what actually happened to her or how she died, just the death itself. Hell, the first time we see Ruby in the Red trailer, she’s at her mother’s grave, the first verse in Red like Roses that’s about Ruby “Red like Roses fills my dreams and brings me to the place you rest” in which we come to understand that the “Red like roses” lyrics in both part one and two of the song is referring to Summer’s abrupt death which Ruby apparently dreams about, which brings to mind Oliver Banks, our most prominent Avatar of the End, whose first statement to The Magnus Institute in 011 (underneath the fake alias of “Antonio Blake”) is concerning how he started dreaming about the deaths of others, which he didn’t begin to take seriously- until it was his father that he saw in his dream. Upon which Oliver realised how terrifying death really was and that fear began to consume him. 

Okay I’ve probably gone off long enough about this but yeah. Ruby is the End. I mean, she also just got a song in the v7 soundtrack called Until the End 

Weiss Schnee: The Lonely. The fear of isolation, of being completely cut off and alone or disconnected from the rest of society. I don’t really have to go too deeply into this one. It’s pretty cut and dry. “The loneliest of all”? And the Schnees basically are the Lukas family. Actually thinking about it the Lukas’ are actually somewhat better? They were the only ones in the whole of TMA that understood to raise a child to be an heir/avatar of their fear they needed room to reject it or actively choose it, even if that had an 80% success rate. Both are still awful though. (Damn, I can’t believe Jaques is an actively worse parent than an eldritch fear avatar)

When Weiss comes back to Atlas in v4 she’s more aware of her loneliness than ever, feels more aware of how she and atlas high society as a whole is disconnected from the rest of the world and its struggles. Whitley commenting on her being in her room for months implies she’s purposefully been isolating herself during this time as well, in order to avoid her family members “A pleasure to see you out of your room for a change” (sidenote; the fact that whenever Whitley shows up it always catches Weiss off guard, like she didn’t even notice his presence until he wanted her too. That’s. That’s a BIG Lonely thing. Given Peter’s siblings eventually ran away and he was the only heir I can imagine Peter being what Whitley would end up like if no one intervenes)

I’d say they might also be an possibility of the Stranger due to her struggling to find her own identity and inability to recognise oneself, but that can be an aspect of the Lonely too, as we see when Martin is in a house that is a domain of the Lonely in s5, and is unable to recognise himself in the mirror or recall who he is.

What I do have to say about this is it’s pretty interesting considering at this point in the show Weiss’ relationship with loneliness is actually somewhat healthy and something she can use to relate to and help others. She understands other people’s loneliness, that Blake in v5 needed space and in time she’d come back, and Weiss would be ready to be there for her when she did. And she also understands Yang’s loneliness in the same volume and that she needed someone there to support her.

“But you’re right. I don’t know loneliness like you do. I have my own version. And I bet  Blake has her own version too.” 

Speaking of Blake…

 Blake Belladonna: The Stranger, I Do Not Know You. The fear that you cannot trust the perception of yourself or of others. The creeping sense that something isn’t right. I considered the Spiral, but the Stranger and the Spiral overlap more than any other two entities so I’m just gonna go with the Stranger. Especially with her semblance being a metaphor for disassociation, a coping mechanism for the abuse and gaslighting from her relationship with Adam being kind of the biggest thing here, since the Stranger and Spiral deal with that a lot. She literally creates false copies of herself, shadow clones which she uses to feint, distract and evade. As well as statues/mannequins when dust is involved, which the Stranger is known for manifesting. Her fighting style centres around misdirection, stealth and fooling people’s senses. She also used to be part of the White Fang, known within Sienna and Adam’s faction to wear the masks of monsters, appearing anonymous. And she literally disguises her identity as a Faunus in order to escape the White Fang and enroll at Beacon. Blake at first was hesitant to trust and rely on the others in the earlier volumes, to let her guard down, and when she finally did, the worst happened and her fears were proven right. In s2 Jonathan becomes more paranoid due to being marked and in close daily proximity to the Stranger (as Not-Sasha), much like how Blake in v2 becomes far more paranoid and less trusting of her team. She also does seek knowledge or answers even at the cost of her wellbeing, which is an Eye thing, but Blake’s desire for knowledge and answers isn’t really consistent or important enough with her character and motives beyond vol2 for me personally to consider her an Avatar of it, but I do think she is Eye aligned. 

Yang Xiao Long- The Eye. The Ceaseless Watcher, It Knows You, as well as The Hunt. For the Eye, the first time we see Yang is her trying to find information on her mother, and we see Raven in bird form at the beginning too, as she has followed Yang her whole life, never actually interacting or doing anything for her, just… watching her. We learn in vol2 that her search for answers surrounding her mother has been a part of her entire life, almost overwhelmingly so to the point where in her childhood she and Ruby nearly lost their lives to the Grimm when she decided to journey to a shack in the woods she thought would lead to clues in finding her mother. She is adamant because of that experience to never let her need for the truth and answers control her, but it is a need that is always there. When she finally meets Raven, she’s encouraged to “start questioning everything she knows” which, she does. Questioning and knowledge is a big part of Yang’s character, even now. She’s the one who questions Ozpin the most, as well as Raven herself, and in the recent volumes is the one who challenges and questions Ruby’s leadership the most. There’s also a moment in vol7 of her drawing parallels between herself and Robyn and relating to her when she says “I won’t stop until I find out the truth” Her being the one to take the relic of knowledge is hugely significant in this too, especially given the context that she acquires it right after confronting her mother, getting the answers she’s searched for her whole life, holding an artefact possessing infinite knowledge, and she sinks to her knees and cries because there is no sense of closure, that anything is better because of her knowing who and what her mother is, and that her choosing this path might have cost her ever having a relationship with Raven (which is more Raven’s fault of course, and Yang knows that, but that’s not how she’s feeling at that exact moment). 

For the Hunt, this one’s a bit simpler. The thrill seeker aspect to Yang’s character and motives in becoming a huntress and enjoying the chase and fighting in of itself. There’s another element in that as most Avatars of the Hunt start out as monster hunters who then develop the need to hunt and kill monsters, and gradually what qualifies as “monster” starts to blur more and more as they become consumed by the need and thrill of the chase and hunt itself. I bring this up because in vol3 Blake draws parallels between Yang and Adam after she is disqualified for attacking and injuring Mercury, worries with how familiar this all feels and that Yang might turn out the same as him (and just for the record Adam is a full blown Avatar of the Hunt, and the Slaughter too most like) 

 “I had someone very dear to me change. It wasn’t in an instant, it was gradual. Little choices that began to pile up. He told me not to worry. At first they were accidents, then it was self-defence. Before long, even I began to think he was right. This is all just… very familiar.” What Blake describes is… kind of similar to Basira’s relationship with Daisy with how Daisy, an Avatar of the Hunt, would justify to Basira and explain away how the violence and murders she committed as being for the greater good. 

Also just one more, because I have to

 Pyrrha Nikos: WebwebWEBWEB. Hoo boi Pyrrha is the Webbiest of Web Avatars as they come. Her whole character’s themes surrounding destiny, control and agency, feeling like her whole life had been decided for her, the fact she’d been blessed with incredible talents and opportunities meant she was supposed to be a huntress, the fact her talent as a world champion meant she was placed on a pedestal without her realising, becoming separate from the people who placed her there in the first place, that Ozpin and his inner circle tell her she has been chosen as the next Fall Maiden, but the method in which she must become so might result in the loss of her identity, that though they ultimately leave the choice to her do pressure and manipulate her into it. The idea of destiny being a predetermined fate you can’t escape is Pyrrha’s greatest fear, and rejects that idea in that she will not let her life be manipulated but will be the one to take control it instead, which is manifested in her having a semblance that she uses to subtly control and manipulate her surroundings. As Cinder puts it, “People assume she’s fated for victory when really she’s really taken fate into her own hands”.  

[cucumberkale]

Us Against the World

"And that bleeding wound where Danny had been ripped from Tim’s chest had begun to heal."

Tim had come to The Magnus Institute with one goal in mind: finding out information about the thing that had destroyed his family. What he hadn't planned for was finding a new family in Jonathan Sims and Sasha James. But after their little family is relocated to The Archives, it all seems to start to fall apart.

And Tim isn't willing to let what he's found go without a fight.

Written for @do-not-feed-the-archivist as part of the @tma-valentines-exchange

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438268 

Out of everyone working in the Archives, Tim had known Jon the longest. When Tim had first joined The Magnus Institute as a new researcher, with his heart still bleeding from Danny’s death, he hadn’t planned on making friends. His only goal had been to find answers and to get revenge for his brother’s death. But on his first day, Tim had seen Jonathan Sims slip into the breakroom, his eyes down and head held low, as he tried to avoid attention. Tim had heard the whispers and gossip from the other employees. He knew what they said about Jonathan Sims. He knew what they thought about Jonathan Sims. Jon was The Institute’s biggest skeptic and Tim had come looking for answers to the supernatural that Jon didn’t even believe in.

But Tim couldn’t help but want to be friends.

He soon found himself working hard to get in Jon’s good graces. Hard work and dedication seemed to be Jon’s love language and, after five years in a publishing house, Tim was used to hard work and long hours. He stayed late and came in early, when he could, to help with the graduate students’ papers and researchers’ pet projects. He lent a helping hand whenever he could. He stood up for Jon in the breakroom to the other employees when Jon wasn’t there to defend himself.

The progress was slow and almost unnoticeable. Tim thought it was like trying to lure a stray cat into a house. Every time Tim thought he had a breakthrough, Jon put up more walls and pulled away. He seemed just as determined as Tim had been originally to not make friends.

Eventually, though, the stray cat that was Jonathan Sims came inside. Tim had earned a genuine compliment from Jon on one of his reports. After that, it was easier between the two. Jon had laughed at all of Tim’s poor “Dad Jokes.” Jon had agreed to eat lunch with him. Tim had earned Jon’s hard-won trust, and Jon’s hard exterior had broken down.

Then Tim met Sasha James.

The two hit it off together instantly. Sasha loved to joke and laugh, and Tim loved the feeling of making others smile. And Sasha was just as dedicated to her work as Jon was to his. It didn’t take long after meeting her for Tim to realize that Jon and Sasha would get along well. It took even less time for Jon to grow fond of Sasha.

After that, it was the three of them spending early Monday mornings at work and late nights at the pub on Friday night and lazy Sunday afternoons at Tim’s flat together.

And that bleeding wound where Danny had been ripped from Tim’s chest had begun to heal.

Jon was quick-tempered and sharp with his tongue but cared deeply for his friends. Sasha was knowledgeable and curious but loved to pull practical jokes. And Tim had his own little family again.

All of that changed when Jon had been offered the promotion to the Head Archivist position. Jon had given them the news over pints at the pub that Friday night, asking Tim and Sasha to join him as his assistants. Sasha had smiled and congratulated Jon on the offer. Tim had bought the next round and made a toast to Jon’s new job. But in private, Sasha had complained and ranted and yelled to Tim how it hadn’t been fair, how could Jonathan Sims have been given the position when Sasha had worked at The Institute longer. “He doesn’t even believe in this shit!” Sasha had yelled.

Their little family had changed: Jon wasn’t an equal anymore, he was their boss. Everything in Tim’s life had changed again.

And without telling any of them, Elias had given Martin Blackwood the third assistant position. Martin had been thrown into the mix and, after “The Dog Incident,” Jon made his displeasure for this stranger known.

It had been only a month and things between the four of them seemed to only be getting worse. The statements, the Real Statements, left them all feeling drained and anxious. Even though they had evidence, Jon still refused to accept that any of the encounters in the statements could be real. He went as far as to create ridiculous scenarios to try to explain them away.

And Jon had been getting worse.

Tim had seen Jon at his lowest. More than once, Tim had to calm Jon after waking up in the middle of the night, screaming from a nightmare and disoriented from waking up in Tim’s flat. Back in Research, Tim had seen his own dark, tired eyes reflected at him from Jon. But it had gotten worse. Jon had started working long hours, even longer hours than his time in Research. The dark circles under his eyes had only grown larger and dark. He had started to lose weight, his cheeks growing gaunt and his eyes sunken. And when alone, Jon held himself smaller, hunching his shoulders in as if trying to shield himself. It seemed like Jon was at the beginning of a spiral that Tim had already been down, and he didn’t know how to help.

Now, Jonathan Sims was running late.

And Jonathan Sims never ran late.

Tim had been blankly staring at the same page of the statement he had been working on all morning, unable to understand what he had just read. Instead, he found himself anxiously glancing at his phone screen every few minutes to check the time. As the morning dragged on, and Jon still hadn’t arrived to work, Tim found it harder and harder to focus on anything else. He was trying to be discrete about it. Tim had caught a concerned glance from Sasha more than once that morning. Every time, Tim had flashed her a reflexive grin before trying to look occupied with his work.

There wasn’t anything to worry about.

Jon was fine.

In all the time that Tim had known Jon, Jon had not been late for work without giving an advance notice. Jon had a daily routine that he liked to follow. He arrived early to gather the assistants’ assignments for the day and to deliver them to their desks. On most days, by the time Tim arrived at a punctual nine o’clock, Jon was already in the middle of a project of his own.

Tim knew he shouldn’t worry. He tried to remind himself that Jon was a grown, competent, adult man.

But Jon had broken his daily routine of the past month.

And Jon had been slipping lately.

It was now half-past eleven and Jon still hadn’t arrived to work.

Martin walked back into the assistants’ bullpen, balancing three cups of tea. Sasha took hers, giving Martin a quick “thank you” and a small smile as she turned back to her own work. Martin handed Tim his cup slowly, a look of concern spreading across his face as he looked to the old clock hanging on the wall.

“Is Jon in yet? I haven’t seen him all morning,” Martin asked.

“Not yet,” Tim said, taking a sip of tea. “I guess that means you haven’t heard from him yet either, then?”

Martin shook his head. “I doubt he would call me first, anyway,” he said, rubbing his thumb in circles around the cup. Martin glanced over to Sasha, “Have you heard from him? Did he say anything to you?”

Sasha sighed, looking up from her work. “Nope. I’d have let you both know, anyway, Martin.”

“I know you would, but…” Martin paused for a minute, looking between the two of them. “This is weird, right? Jon not being in. I thought he had a reputation about not missing work. Did Rosie leave a message that he called off?”

Tim shook his head. “I ran up to ask her earlier on my break and she said she hadn’t heard from him. Elias hadn’t said anything either. It’s nothing to worry about, he probably got caught on the Underground or something and doesn’t have any service.”

Sasha let out a quiet laugh. “Honestly, if something bad had happened, letting Elias know would probably be the first thing Jon did. At the very least, just so we’d all know he wouldn’t be at work.”

Martin didn’t look convinced though. He frowned, his round face pulled into worried lines, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck nervously. “I…I guess I’m just on edge. Those statements, the ones that don’t record properly, they make my skin crawl. I had to start doing research for the Vittery case this morning and, ya know,” Martin made a face, like he had just tasted something sour.

Sasha glanced at Tim, meeting his eyes for only a moment before she turned back to Martin. “Yeah, we know,” she said. “But Jon hasn’t gotten himself into anything spooky, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, trying to make his voice light. “He’d probably give a lecture to any monsters about how they don’t exist. He’d logic his way out of any trouble.”

“Do you think we shou-” Martin started to ask, when the heavy oak door of the Archives slammed into the wall, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing around the quiet Archives. A few moments later, Jon had rounded the corner, looking haggard and worn. He was wet, scowling as he peeled off his sodden jacket and hung it up to dry on the coat rack near the entrance to the Archives. Strands of dark, wet hair, usually neatly combed, were plastered to the sides of his face, with a few curly wisps sticking up at odd angles. His glasses were smudged with raindrops and his cheeks flushed. He was breathing heavily from running.

“Jon!” Martin said, his voice high and tight. Jon shot him a glare, opening his mouth for a retort.

Before he could say anything, Tim cut in. “We’ve been worried. You alright, Boss?”

“Martin’s just made tea,” Sasha added, holding up her cup to demonstrate. “It’s really good today, you look like you could use a cup.” Sasha gave Martin a pointed look. He jumped up nodding, slipping past Jon to the breakroom.

Jon let out a huff of air at watching Martin go and started for his office. Before he could get there, Tim stretched out an arm to stop him. Not touching him, Tim never touched him; Jon did not like to be touched. “Seriously, Jon. Take a seat and have a cup of tea. You look like you need it, it seems like you’ve had a morning.”

Jon glared at Tim, his whole body tensing as Jon’s chest puffed up. Shit, wrong words, Stoker. Before Tim could try to put the fire out, Jon sighed, pulling his glasses off and running a hand down his face. “Yes, alright,” he said, sounding tired. “That sounds nice.”

Tim smiled, grabbing a chair from the empty desk, and pushing it over to Jon. Jon had begun to run his fingers through his hair, trying to bring it back to some semblance of tidiness and professionalism. “Lay your earthly woes upon us, Boss.”

Martin came back, handing Jon a steaming cup of tea. Jon took a small sip and let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry about being late this morning. I…I was in Bournemouth this weekend. I had planned to be back in London last night, but there was a delay with my train, and it was delayed until this morning. Th-there weren’t any buses leaving last night, either so I had to take a train this morning, and with morning commuters, it had taken longer than I had planned. I was taking the Underground back from the station, and of course, you know how that can be, and I didn’t have any service.” Jon took a quick breath before taking a long drink from his cup, his glasses fogging from the heat of the tea. “I hope I didn’t cause any delays in your schedules.”

Sasha shook her head, “We all were just working on the projects you gave us on Friday. But what were you doing in Bournemouth this weekend? It’s a little too early in the season to be going to the beach.”

“Oh,” Jon said, adjusting his glasses. “I…I was raised in Bournemouth.”

“Have a fun family weekend, then?” Tim asked, elbowing Jon’s side.

“Uh, act-actually,” Jon stammered, his face flushing ever darker than before, “I was in Bournemouth for a church service.” He swallowed, looking down at his shoes. “It…the anniversary of my parents’ passing was this weekend. My grandmother always liked to attend their memorial mass. And, well, now that she’s gone too, it didn’t feel right to…to not go.”

The Archives fell silent. “Oh,” Tim said flatly. “Oh, Jon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Jon shook his head, taking another sip of his tea. “It’s alright. I don’t really tell anyone. I don’t really tell anyone because I know how they all act. I was too young when they died to really remember either of them. How can you miss something you don’t remember, right? But I know it always meant a lot to my grandmother, so I still try to make it to their service every year. And hers as well, of course. I’m the only one left, so someone has to do it.”

“You,” Sasha started, looking at Jon with an unreadable expression on her face, “You don’t have any other family?”

Jon looked over at her, his shoulders stiffening. “No, it’s just me now.” Martin made a choked noise, reaching a hand up to cover his mouth as he turned away. “It’s fine,” Jon said, his voice growing harder as he looked to Martin, sitting up straighter, his shoulders curving in slightly. “I’ve been on my own for a while now. And I’m certainly not looking to be pitied.”

“I wasn’t-” Martin began, but Jon cut him off as he got to his feet.

“That’s enough. I have work to finish, as do the rest of you. Martin, I want the research for case #0150409 on my desk by the end of the day. Sasha, I want you to try and get into contact with Mrs. Rosswood from case #0110711. And Tim, I want you to keep working on the statement I gave you last week.” Before any of them could stop him, Jon had placed his half-drank cup of tea on Tim’s desk and had hurried into his office, the door slamming shut behind him.

After their conversation that morning, Jon hadn’t come out of his office for the rest of the day. Tim had offered to stay late, to make sure that Jon went home. When seven o’clock had come and gone, and Jon was still in his office, Tim gently knocked on the door. “Jon,” he called, hoping for an answer. The office was quiet; Jon wasn’t recording a statement. “Hey, it’s getting late. You want to walk out together?”

There was a moment of silence before Tim heard the scrape of Jon’s chair against the stone floor. In a moment, the door to the office pulled open, Jon peeking his head around the corner. Tim didn’t know what he expected Jon to look like after an entire day in his office, but Jon looked fine. Normal. Like nothing had happened at all that day. “I’m sorry, Tim,” Jon said. “I need to finish looking over these reports for Elias before I go home. You should get going.”

“Are you sure?” Tim asked, keeping his voice quiet. It was just the two of them in The Archives. Tim could hear the clock in the assistants’ bullpen ticking loudly. “I don’t mind waiting, or if you need any help, I could lend a hand?”

Jon shook his head, talking a half-step backward as he began to push the door close. “No, it’s alright Tim. There’s nothing about it that you can help me with. I just need some time to finish it. I had planned to finish them this morning, but well, you see how that went. Good night, Tim.” Jon closed the door.

“Night, Jon,” Tim said. He got ready to leave slowly in case Jon had changed his mind. Tim dragged his feet as much as he could but, eventually, he had to give in that Jon wasn’t going to be leaving anytime soon. “Night!” Tim called loudly, with his foot on the first step out of The Archives. He hoped Jon would shout back for Tim to wait, that he was coming, and the two could walk to the Underground together, like they had done back in research. But the office was quiet. Tim let out a sigh, turning and walking up the stairs alone, his footsteps echoing in the quiet. Life in The Institute wasn’t as simple as it used to be.

Tim arrived at The Archives early the next morning, cursing under his breath as he pushed open the heavy, wooden door to the basement. He was balancing a carrier tray full of Styrofoam cups of tea and a brown paper bag filled with muffins and bagels from the cafe on the corner that Sasha enjoys, and praying that he wouldn’t spill anything.

Tim headed straight for the breakroom, gently placing the carrier tray on the sticky plastic table. Tim debated for a moment before grabbing a muffin from the bag and heading back to the bullpen. He hadn’t planned on arriving so early, but he thought he would have to wait in line at the cafe for breakfast and planned to leave his flat early.

He wanted to talk to Jon about yesterday. Tim wanted to talk to Jon to make sure he was alright, that he wasn’t slipping, and that he knew that he had friends. That even if Sasha was upset that she hadn’t been given the Head Archivist position that she still liked Jon. That Tim was there to support him. And even Martin wanted to help.

Jon had been pulling away more and more and Tim was afraid that soon it’d be too late to get him back. Had they been back in Research, if Jon had told either him or Sasha about his parents and grandmother, Jon would have been invited back to Tim’s to spend the night, just so he didn’t have to sit with his thoughts alone. Tim knew what that was like, to grieve alone. And Jon was grieving; he had snapped back at all of them so quickly, Tim knew him well enough to know he was deflecting. And Tim decided that having a treat for breakfast when everyone arrived to work might help to soften Jon up.

Tim sat at the breakroom table, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone as he waited for the others to arrive. Martin came first, looking surprised at Tim’s earlier arrival, and then Sasha. Tim asked each of them to stay in the breakroom with him instead of sitting at their desks and explained his plan. They were going to show Jon just how much they cared. Tim wanted this conversation sooner rather than later.

As nine o’clock approached, and Jon still hadn’t arrived, Tim started to get nervous. He was thinking about trying to call Jon, when Jon walked into the breakroom, two files in his hands. He looked surprised, his dark eyes growing large at seeing the three assistants in the breakroom and not at their desks. Tim hadn’t seen Jon arrive and hadn’t heard him all morning. Tim didn’t think Jon was stealthy enough to make it past all three of them without being noticed, but then Tim realized that Jon was still wearing the same outfit from the day before. “Jon,” Tim said, seriously. “Did you sleep here last night?”

Jon fidgeted for a moment before leveling his glare at Tim. “Good morning to you as well, Tim. Yes, I did. There is a cot in document storage that I used. It was too late last night after finishing my work for me to justify going home, so I simply stayed. Now, if you’re all finished with your breakfast-”

“We’re not,” Tim said, firmly. “And this breakfast is yours too. Take a seat, let’s chat.”

“Tim,” Jon said, his voice flat. A warning. Jon expected a fight.

“We’re friends, Jon,” Tim pleaded. He wanted Jon to remember the late nights they had spent together in research and the too-early mornings with a hangover after a late night at the bar. Tim’s little family had been falling apart at the seams and he needed Jon to remember what they had been. “You can talk to us.”

Jon shook his head. “Tim, there really isn’t anything to talk about. I don’t understand why you’re so insistent about this?”

“Because obviously you’re hurting,” Martin said softly. “Even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself. Especially about your parents and grandmother. You hid in your office all day yesterday. That means something is wrong.” Jon bristled, pulling himself up to bite back, but Martin continued. “It isn’t healthy to just keep feelings bottled up. And you don’t have to talk to me, or well any of us, but if you want to, all of us are here to listen.” Sasha nodded, giving Jon a smile.

Jon looked between the three of them. Tim had made sure that their little intervention was in the breakroom so that Jon didn’t feel cornered. It was even ground and Jon could run if he wanted. But Jon didn’t run. He shifted his weight back and forth, looking uncomfortable. “This,” he started, raising his head to look between the three assistants, “this isn’t a big deal. There are plenty of individuals who have lost their parents or don’t have family left. There are plenty who have it worse than me.”

Sasha nodded, “That might be true. But that doesn’t lessen your pain; that doesn’t stop you from being upset. And you deserve to feel happy, just like they do.”

Jon didn’t take his eyes off Sasha, but he wrapped his arms around his stomach, curling his shoulders in slightly. He looked so small, Tim thought. His glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose, a few wispy strands of gray hair hung loose by his ears. The four stood in silence for a few moments before Jon started to speak again. “I…I was a deeply annoying child.” Martin made a noise of protest, but Jon raised a hand to stop him from talking. “I was, I know I was a…handful, especially for my grandmother. She was my father’s mother and she raised me after my own mother passed. I was so young; I really can’t remember my own parents very well. Just from photos my grandmother showed me and some memories that I genuinely can’t tell whether they were just dreams.

“I missed them, of course. And as long as I can remember, once a year, my grandmother would take me to a church service that was celebrated in their memory and then to visit their graves. It, when I was younger, it all upset me so much. I…I cried through almost every service. And there were other people from town who came to the services. But, well, my memories of my parents started fading and I grew up.

“When we went to the church service, I didn’t cry. I was there more for my grandmother’s sake than anything for myself. And there weren’t as many of our neighbors from town, anymore. It was just me and my grandmother and a few people who attended regularly, they didn’t know my family. It wasn’t even a proper mass, just a small service.

“I…I think I’m…I’m an awful person for feeling like this, but the service never really meant as much to me as it did my grandmother. I’m not very religious; praying never helped me, it never made me feel anything other than foolish. But my grandmother found peace with it. After I moved away, I tried to make it back for the service, but if it didn’t work, I didn’t feel badly about it. But then, my grandmother died and it…it didn’t feel right to not. Like, I was letting all those years of care my grandmother put in go to waste and,” Jon paused, taking in a shaky breath. He had wrapped his arms around his middle and had curled into himself. “It hurts,” Jon said, his voice high-pitched, “that she would put so much care into remembering my parents and not as much into caring about me.” His breath hitched, and Jon doubled over, trying to keep himself from crying. Tim didn’t move. Martin reached out a hand to try and comfort Jon, but Tim brushed him away. Jon didn’t like to be touched, not without his consent.

“And I still went to the service, even though it doesn’t mean anything to me, not like it did for her. And what did I get for it? A writeup from Elias for being late and now the three of you…the three of you, standing here, and…and watching me…”

“The three of us standing here and caring,” Sasha said. “Jon, you aren’t alone. You’ve got the three of us. You’re going to keep having the three of us.”

“Yeah, Boss” Tim said, trying to keep his voice light. “You’re stuck with us. ‘Till death do us part.”

Jon glanced up to Tim, then to Sasha, and finally to Martin. Martin smiled, looking away from Jon’s gaze. “My mum, well, she isn’t always the most…caring person either. I think I know how you feel. But you’re still doing it, I’m sure your grandmother would be proud.”

“And you’re no less of a person for having your own desires from your grandmother,” Sasha said. “You’re okay.”

Jon sniffled, though he still didn’t look convinced. Tim took a hesitant step forward, “Do you want a hug?”

Jon didn’t hesitate before nodding. Tim moved forward, wrapping Jon in his arms, and pulling him against his chest and laying his chin on top of Jon’s head. “More?”

Jon nodded again, pushing himself closer into Tim. Tim laughed, reaching out an arm to invite Sasha and Martin. Sasha swooped in, wrapping herself around Jon’s right side. Martin hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether he was invited or not. Jon shifted against Tim, turning his head to look at Martin. Martin took that as his invitation and moved forward, surrounding Jon on his other side. Martin was large, taller than the other three, and his hug enveloped all of them. Jon’s whole body shuddered, and he began to cry. Tim could feel his shoulders shaking as he let go.

“You’re not alone in this,” Tim said, shifting to rub between Jon’s shoulder blades. “Not in The Archives, not outside of The Archives. You’ve got us. Nothing you do is going to chase us away.”

“Our little family of four,” Sasha joked. “Us against the world.”

“Us against the world,” Martin repeated.

The four of them stood there for a while, holding each other, and being held. There were still problems they had to solve, and Tim knew there were still monsters outside, but for a few minutes everything was alright.

[tinyshe]

still worth reading ... more now than ever:

The Kraken Unleashed: Are We Ready to Fight the Beast?

Father Richard Heilman  January 14, 2015

“And I saw a beast rising out of the sea, having ten horns and seven heads; and on its horns were ten diadems, and on its heads were blasphemous names.  And the beast that I saw was like a leopard, its feet were like a bear’s, and its mouth was like a lion’s mouth. And the dragon gave it his power and his throne and great authority.  One of its heads seemed to have received a death-blow, but its mortal wound had been healed. In amazement the whole earth followed the beast. They worshiped the dragon, for he had given his authority to the beast, and they worshiped the beast, saying, “Who is like the beast, and who can fight against it? – Revelation 13:1-10

“In the 2010 film, Clash of the Titans, there is a scene in which Zeus, angry with the humans, is persuaded by Hades to visit vengeance upon the mortals in the form of the Kraken, a giant monster from the depths of the sea. The visual of this great evil being unleashed is something to behold:

“If this scene is evocative, perhaps it is because it’s familiar. Like a Kraken released, we have a colossal problem in our world today. There are few who are not stunned by the growing specter of evil; a darkness more profound and spreading more quickly across the globe than any civilized human being could have ever imagined. Many of those I speak with have admitted that they now abstain completely from watching the news: “It’s just too much,” they say. “It’s just so horrifying!”

“For the past two years I have been confiding to close friends my own growing sense that something is happening, that something unholy is stirring. I have spoken with others who have admitted the same suspicion. The way I have tried to describe it in the past is like the rumblings felt just before a volcano explodes.

“Now, I find myself wondering if the eruption is upon us.

“Who could ever conceive of atrocities like those we are seeing executed in the name of religion? Where once we might see coverage of a tragic conflict far away, we now face an evil that is not confined to some distant corner of the planet. With the always-on, near-instant spread of information in our digital age, your next door neighbor can be radicalized from the comfort of their living room.

“What we are facing is, first and foremost, a form of spiritual warfare. In a time where violence is rampant and the innocent are threatened, it is true that we must be ready to physically engage the malefactors. But if we deny the spiritual nature of this surge of evil we are facing, we will have no hope of victory.

“When confronted with atrocity, the immediate reaction of most people is, “What can we do to stop it?” Yes! That is the exact question we need to be asking. Summoning us to courage, St. Augustine challenges us to do battle: “Hope has two beautiful daughters: their names are anger and courage. Anger that things are the way they are. Courage to make them the way they ought to be.”

“But to begin to answer the question of what we can do, we must first properly assess where we are. What are our capabilities? How is our strength? What is the state of our conditioning? Without this kind of brutal honesty, we are likely to flounder rather than fight.

“Jesus warned, “Beware that your hearts do not become drowsy from carousing and drunkenness and the anxieties of daily life, and that day catch you by surprise like a trap. For that day will assault everyone who lives on the face of the earth” (Luke 21:34-35).

“And yet isn’t that exactly what has become of us? Consider this sobering analysis of our present condition from columnist Jeffrey Kuhner at the Washington Times:

“For the past 50 years, every major institution has been captured by the radical secular left. The media, Hollywood, TV, universities, public schools, theater, the arts, literature — they relentlessly promote the false gods of sexual hedonism and radical individualism. Conservatives have ceded the culture to the enemy. Tens of millions of unborn babies have been slaughtered; illegitimacy rates have soared; divorce has skyrocketed; pornography is rampant; drug use has exploded; sexually transmitted diseases such as AIDS have killed millions; birth control is a way of life; sex outside of wedlock has become the norm; countless children have been permanently damaged — their innocence lost forever — because of the proliferation of broken homes; and sodomy and homosexuality are celebrated openly. America has become the new Babylon.

“This cultural assessment is bleak. And I believe that underlying it all is a deeper evil, a more ancient and intractable error which gives rise to all the rest. Many have pointed to “Modernism” as the heresy of our times. Modernism, while it takes many forms, is basically a break or rejection of our past in favor of all things new. And, while it seems evident that our Church is fully infected with the heresy of Modernism, I believe that it, too, is a symptom of this more fundamental threat.

“What am I referring to? Something that impacts the very nature of human existence and the opportunity for our salvation. Lacking an official name, I call this monster, “Stealth Arianism.” Students of history know that the Arian heresy – the worst crisis in the Church before our present age – was rooted in the belief that Jesus Christ was merely a created being, not equal to God the Father.  Stealth Arianism follows the same fatal error, but with a twist: while the Arians of the fourth century openly denied Christ’s divinity, today‘s Arians will profess Jesus as God, and yet through their actions deny it. In other words, they don’t even know they are heretics. Many even believe that they are doing God’s work in their attempts to elevate Christ’s humanity at the cost of His divinity.

“You see, once we diminish the identity of Christ as the Son of God, we are left to view Him as simply a historical figure that was a nice guy, a respectable teacher and a good example for how we are to live. Religion is then reduced to a nice organization that does nice things for people as we seek a kind of psychotherapy for self-actualization. And this is not only not what He came to give us, but it’s something He made sure to leave no room for.

In his Christological examination, [easyazon_link asin=”0060652926″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”onep073-20″]Mere Christianity[/easyazon_link], C.S. Lewis makes the case plain:

“I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: “I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept His claim to be God.” That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.

“Over the past 50 years, the Stealth Arians have done everything within their power to remove from our lived experience of Catholicism anything that would point to the divinity of Christ, and the supernatural quality of our faith. Everything has been stripped from our churches – sacred art, sacred architecture, sacred music, and the sacred elements of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass – and we are left in the barren desert of the banal. It is no wonder many Catholics think nothing of approaching the Most Holy Eucharist dressed in a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, and grabbing the host like they’re reaching into a bag of chips. As Flannery O’Connor said, “If it’s a symbol, to hell with it.” It’s more surprising that these individuals even bother to attend Mass at all.

“Moreover, the Stealth Arians have deliberately chosen to keep their teachings muddled, ambiguous and elusive in an effort to increase “pastoral sensitivity” as the highest of all values, which keeps people feeling good about themselves just the way they are – though never challenged to strive for sainthood! Of course, when people like the way their church makes them feel about themselves, that keeps the money flowing into the collection basket. But whether confused and uncertain, or simply spiritually blind for lack of true pastoral care, the faithful who have been abandoned by their spiritual leaders are prone to be conformed to the world and its prince, a murderer and liar from the beginning.

“St. John Chrysostom exhorts, “Let us be filled with confidence, and let us discard everything so as to be able to meet this onslaught. Christ has equipped us with weapons more splendid than gold, more resistant than steel, weapons more fiery than any flame and lighter than the slightest breeze … These are weapons of a totally new kind, for they have been forged for a previously unheard-of type of combat. I, who am a mere man, find myself called upon to deal blows to demons; I, who am clothed in flesh, find myself at war with incorporeal powers.”

“That sounds noble for St. John, but about for us? Are we really prepared to such a fight? Just when we need mighty spiritual warriors for these dangerous times, Satan has spent the past 50 years diminishing the Church’s legions to little more than a bunch of Girl Scouts. Now that we are left in our weakened state, Satan seems to be calling out to deal the last blow, “Release the Kraken!”

“Indeed, what can we do?

“St. Paul gives us the answer in his epistle to the Ephesians (6:10-18):

“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power. Put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on that evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm. Stand therefore, and fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness.  As shoes for your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace. With all of these, take the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.

“Pray in the Spirit at all times in every prayer and supplication. To that end keep alert and always persevere in supplication for all the saints.

Originally published on September 18, 2014.

Father Richard Heilman

Fr. Richard M. Heilman is a priest of the Diocese of Madison, Wisconsin, and the Wisconsin State Chaplain for the Knights of Columbus. He is a regular guest host on Relevant Radio’s The Inner Life, and is the founder of the Knights of Divine Mercy, which is an apostolate for Catholic men’s faith formation..

He is also he founder of the Ladies of Divine Mercy, which is an apostolate for Catholic women’s faith formation. He is the author of the Church Militant Field Manual and the Roman Catholic Man website, which are both dedicated to helping Catholics understand and train for their role in the mission of combating evil and rescuing the souls of our loved ones who have lost the precious gift of faith.

[onigirisuna]

i’ll be your shelter

a contribution to @zutaramonth​, quarantine edition, day 18: comfort (with a hint of day 2: family). view my other work for zutara month (quarantine edition) here. 

this is a gentle reminder to hold your loved ones a little closer today.

cw: character death. au. long fic ahead; barely-there zutara + fire nation family. cues inspired by rent.

Katara found herself smiling at the sight of Zuko, Azula, and Kiyi enjoying their dinner with Ikem and Ursa. 

Eight years ago, their family was in shambles. When Zuko was crowned as Fire Lord, he only had Iroh by his side – the only family he had for many years. She remembers the pride that swelled in her heart when Zuko stood from the Fire Sages, presenting himself as the leader of the new generation of peace; but she also remembers the sadness that came crashing in right after, when Zuko had a distant, lonely look in his eye.

He has the whole world, Hakoda told her. Yet he is so alone.

I’m here, Katara told him, shifting her eyes away from the platform. He has me. He has Iroh, too; he has all of us.

Hakoda smiled. He does, he said in agreement. But his sister’s in an institution, his father’s locked up, and his mother is gone with the wind.

He doesn’t just carry our world, Katara. He carries theirs, too.

Katara shakes the memory as she picks up another rice ball and hands it to Kiyi. “Here you go,” she says, pretending to hide the sneaky rice ball from Ursa. Kiyi giggles at the motion, then taps Azula’s hand. “Lala,” the girl says. “May you pass me the fire flakes?”

Azula stiffens for a moment, not used to the little girl nor having someone tell her what to do. Through her discomfort, she forces a smile as she pushes her free hand to deposit the bottle of fire flakes onto the little fingers that are waiting for her.

Katara’s heart aches for her. She took it the worst, she thinks.

Seeing a little girl around her mother’s arms, a girl who seemed far more like Zuko than she ever will be, shattered Azula; she felt replaced, unloved, and more like a monster than she had ever felt her whole life. If Katara and Zuko hadn’t caught up to her before she reached Forgetful Valley, she would’ve been gone forever.

Azula! she remembers Zuko yelling. Father lied to us!

No! responded the broken girl. He didn’t lie, he just lost the war. He– he promised me– it’s your fault he lost, this is– this is all y-your fault– Father loved me–

He never promised anything, Azula, Zuko said. And he never loved anyone but himself.

Katara’s knuckles whiten for a moment as she tries to shove the memory down the depths of her mind. She forces herself back to the present, where she sits with her new family, and pushes herself to enjoy her meal; after all, it is rare for them to dine in complete attendance. Zuko was far too busy to eat, especially with Unity Campaign slowly coming into fruition; he often skipped meals and endured late nights, trying his best to keep the world together.

She looks around the table, taking in the sight of her husband smiling at her mother-in-law’s new anecdote about the latest play she saw on Ember Island. “This play was more of a tragedy, really,” Ursa said in between pieces of spiced prawns. “But it was so strange, because the songs sounded so happy. You wouldn’t be able to tell how tragic the story was until you read the program.”

“What’s it called?” Zuko asks from across the table just as he takes a bite off a spicy rice cake.

“Seasons of Love,” Ursa responds. Zuko makes a noise and a face at the title, saying, “The title sounds as corny as Love Amongst the Dragons.”

Azula nods in agreement. “I have to agree with Zuko on this one, mother. You have quite the penchant for sticky sweet titles.”

Ursa laughs. “If you’d watched the play with me, you would be surprised at how fantastically heartbreaking it is.” Ursa let out a rough cough as she finished speaking.

Zuko shoots her a worried look.

–

with a thousand sweet kisses

–

Ursa’s cough progressed into bouts of wheezing and gasping. Four months later, she became bedridden as she began to cough out blood and the disease began to take over her lungs. It’s called pneumonia, my lord, the family physician told Zuko. It’s a new disease that we have yet to find a cure for. We only know that the kind that Her Highness has is non-communicable.

Will she survive it? Zuko asked tentatively, even though he already knew the answer. All he needed to see was the grim look on the physician’s face.

Since then, Zuko resolved to keep his family as close as to their mother as he could. 

He would bring Kiyi to their mother every day, sharing as many stories as they could. He and Ikem would take turns watching over Ursa, with Ikem attending to her during the day and Zuko keeping her company at night; the little sleep that he had left before his mother’s disease was gone as he spent the rest of his nights tending to her.

Azula would visit her mother sporadically; when Zuko broke the news to her, Azula ran off and burned the chest that contained all of Ursa’s unsent letters. You’re leaving me again, like you did all those years ago. 

Despite Azula’s outbursts, Zuko still continued to gather all his strength to convince her to visit their mother. On the best of days, all three of them would spend time with her together; Kiyi would create flower crowns that she would place atop Azula’s and Ursa’s heads, while the two older women would have their nails painted. Zuko would discuss the latest theatrical productions with all three girls, gathering as much intel as he could from the the Ember Island Players. 

Every time her children would visit, Ursa made sure to leave a kiss on each of their foreheads before they left the room.

This routine continued over the course of eight months, until Ursa was too weak to lift her head off the pillow or raise her hand to have it painted. All of Ursa’s energy was reserved for the kisses she would leave on her children’s heads, making sure to kiss them with all of the force that she could to let them know that she was still alive; despite her failing health, she would repeat the same words to her children everyday – 

Know that Mother loves you so.

–

(i’ll cover you)

–

One night, Katara found Zuko crying in their bedroom; without saying a word, she sidled next to him and slowly brought his head to her shoulder as she let her own tears fall.

Between the Southern Restoration Movement and her duties as Fire Lady, Katara also spent her share of time with Ursa; she came in with a basin of water every day, attempting to expel the wretched virus that has taken over Ursa’s lungs. She also closely coordinated with the physician, desperately looking for a cure.

Katara, Ursa told her earlier that day. You are a kind and smart girl; I believe you would know it to be wise to stop healing.

But they don’t have a cure, yet, Ursa, Katara said desperately. This is our best shot.

Ursa smiled and held Katara’s trembling hand and said, I know.

It was Katara’s turn to hold Zuko’s hand as he trembled beside her; without looking at her, he gripped her hand tightly in return. Despite her own shaking and crying, she reached around Zuko and gathered him into a hug, letting him pour his grief into the folds of her robes. She tried to stroke his hair and rub circles on his back to calm him down, but with her own ceaseless crying, her motions comforted him to no avail.

–

five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes

–

Ursa’s lungs failed a few days later, one year after her coughing began.

The week that follows is a blur; their friends begin to trickle in, one by one, expressing their condolences and comforting the grief-stricken Zuko, Kiyi, and Ikem. Everyone is too afraid to see Azula, so Katara takes it upon herself to check on the heartbroken girl; she finds Azula asleep in the midst of glass shards and broken mirrors, dried tears stained on her face. Katara leaves a towel and fresh fruit by her bedside table, then cleans the surrounding shards.

Katara leads the funeral preparations, letting Ikem and the three siblings process Ursa’s passing; her own heart, however, continues to break as she falls deeper into her coordination with the Fire Sages and the palace attendants – so on days when she can’t bring herself out of her bed, she lets Iroh take over the preparations.

Amidst the grief that has flooded the palace, Zuko finds himself sitting by the garden; as the attendants fly by him and guests continue to offer their condolences, Zuko blankly stares at the pond ahead. Their words and the flurry that fills the palace are nothing but white noise to him.

He stays in this trance for a couple of days until it is broken by Kiyi, who finds him in the garden and pulls him up to his feet. Taking her big brother by the hand, Kiyi brings him to a flowerbed at the back of the garden. “Mother always made sure to water these flowers, Zuzu,” the little girl said sadly. “I promised to water them for her when she got sick.”

Zuko feels Kiyi’s hands start to tremble, so he kneels to face her. Kiyi’s tears start flowing, her face contorted in grief; she shakes as Zuko pulls her into a hug. “I don’t know if I can water these flowers forever, Zuzu,” she says, her voice shaking. “I miss her. I want her to come back.”

Zuko starts to cry as he holds his sister tightly. “I miss her too, Kiyi. I miss her more than anything.”

At the other side of the garden wall, Azula quietly cries on a bed of wilted fire lilies. Mother’s favorite. 

–

five hundred twenty five thousand seasons of love

–

They couldn’t bear to watch their mother go up in flames.

When the Fire Sages conclude the burial rites and begin to light the pyre that carried Ursa’s body, Azula bolts out of the plaza.

Zuko immediately gets up to follow his sister and, before Ikem could stop her, Kiyi runs after her two older siblings. “Lala! Zuzu!” she yells through her tears. “Come back!”

Katara immediately runs after the little girl, telling Ikem to stay in case Azula bursts into flames. I've seen Azula break before, she tells him. I can handle her; I’ll keep Kiyi safe.

Katara catches up to the little girl just as she’s about to step into the garden; Katara stops her before she could get within the range of Azula’s impending fire. “Kiyi,” she says softly. “Let Zuzu talk to Lala first.”

“What about me, Katara?” she says, her breath shaking from the running and the emotional outburst between her and her siblings. Katara holds the girl and runs her fingers through her hair. “In a bit, little one,” she says. “Give them a little bit.”

–

“Azula,” Zuko says, taking a tentative step towards his sister. His body is tense, ready to move into a defensive stance. “Azula, look at me–”

“No!” Azula yells as she shoots a stream of blue fire towards him. Zuko expertly deflects it; when he hears Kiyi scream, he bends the remaining flames towards the sky. “Don’t touch me!” Azula cries.

“Lala!” he hears Kiyi cry from a distance. Azula covers her ears as she hears the younger girl.

“Mother always thought I was a monster,” Azula says through strained tears. “She never loved me the way she loved you and that little brat.”

“Azula, please–” Zuko starts, but Azula whirls around and grabs him by his shirt.

“Please what, Zuzu?!” she yells at her brother’s face. “What do you want from me? I’m a monster, remember?! A monster!”

A part of Zuko agrees; his father created a monster of his sister, drilling a sense of greed and evil into her as soon as she could talk. In the years since the war ended, however, he realized that all his sister longed for was love and acceptance from her family; it was a feeling Zuko knew all too well.

Her father manipulated her, and her only recollection of her mother was her departure; her only brother made it clear that he didn’t like her from the beginning, and when her mother resurfaced, she was replaced by a child that seemed to be far better than she ever could be. 

Azula was alone – and that was a feeling Zuko knew better than anything.

When she stares up into her brother’s matching golden irises, face contorted in agony and grief, Zuko gently wraps his sister in a hug. “You aren’t a monster, Azula,” he says softly. “Mother knew that; I know it, too.”

The sudden show of affection throws Azula off guard and makes her crumble against her big brother’s embrace; as her brother holds her, she lets out a torrent of tears.

Kiyi wiggles herself out of Katara’s grasp and runs to her siblings. The little girl’s tears haven’t stopped, and she’s shaking uncontrollably as Zuko opens his arm and welcomes her into his embrace. 

Zuko’s own tears begin to form, his cries mingling with those of his heartbroken sisters’; despite himself, he holds them tightly and presses their heads on the crooks of his neck. I’ll cover you.

[jonarchivistcansing]

So I have a magnus archives playlist

I’ve been making a long chronological Magnus Archives playlist for my own amusement (So This Is Basically The Magnus Archives) , but since season 5 is close and my college kicked everyone out i decided to Do Something Unnecessary. 

I have taken painstaking effort to not only properly organize this stupid thing with specific tma episodes, but also have documented the episodes as well as why I included the songs (under the cut). This is my Magnum Opus. I have officially pulled an all nighter to work on this. AND i’m making another playlist with songs that I wanted to keep tabs on in case I end up needing to use them as s5 comes out (here) Spoiler warning obviously

Please send me some songs if you follow the playlist and think they should be on there! 

TLDR - Grace for sale = season 1 finale; Bad Bad Things = season 2 finale; Greatest Show Unearthed = season 3 finale; Just Did a Bad Thing = Season 4 finale.

I bold the songs I added most recently. Honestly I recommend listening to the playlist first because its way fun and like referencing this if you really care about it. Please give me song suggestions or alterations! 

Song Name - MAG00 - PoV/Sung at/etc; Event. NA = Not Applicable

The Office Theme - NA

memes

Turn The Lights Off - MAG 01

The whole “Dont go in there” theme is applicable to the danger of the Angler fish, which also parallels that first statement acting as a lure for Jon

Don’t Worry We’ll Be Watching You - NA

I didn’t want to comb through to find an episode where Jon says hes being watched. I might move this somewhere else because it’s really slow for the begining of the playlist. Maybe  where he went to America

Somebody’s Watching Me - NA

Same as above + memes

Bloody Nose - MAG 17 - PoV Jared Hopworth

the boneturner’s tale statement

Grace For Sale - MAG 39 - PoV Jane Prentiss; S1 Finale

I didn’t know this was part of a whole carnival themed album when I added it, but I felt that the themes of shedding your skin and worms were relevant enough. Still looking for a good song for the s1 finale tho :/

I Don’t Trust You Anymore - MAG 40/41 - PoV Jon

Immediately after the Worm Attack, Jon realizes he can’t trust anyone in the archives.

Losing My Mind - NA - PoV Jon

Jon makes a lot of mentions of his paranoia thruout this season and I feel it just fits best here

Little Pistols - NA - PoV Jon

Same as above, but its like Really Sad because this one paints the paranoia as much more self-destructive. 

Afraid - MAG 77 - Multi PoV/Sasha

Jon just realized the NotSasha replaced Sashsa. Could be from Sasha or NotSasha or even Jon realizing the implications a shapeshifting creature, just fkcn love the chorus for the whole NotSasha fiasco

Mr Capgras - MAG 78/79 - Sung by the NotThem

Jon’s a huge idiot and the NotThem is Out For Blood 

Bad Bad Things - MAG 80 - PoV Elias; S2 Finale

Bitch boy Murkd Leitner and Gertrude and he’s an asshole for it

Its not overly literal but i think some characters in the song could be interpreted as Leitner and Gertrude, with the POV Elias speaking to Jon. 

I’m Not Ok - MAG 81 - PoV Jon

Georgie pls....help this nasty man

The Cult of Dionysus - NA

Honestly this isn’t very specific at all there’s just a lot more cult activity in this season and this song lines up well with the next few

Rejoice - MAG 89 - PoV Jude Perry/Lightless Flame

this ep is jude’s statement and this is a Good cult song

Bust Your Kneecaps - MAG 67 - PoV Agnes Montague

Keeps with the theme better here than in order with s2. Statement of cafe boy who tried to romance Agnes that one time

Are Things Still Burning - MAG 67/89 - PoV Agnes Montague

You’ll get it.

I’m Gonna Win - MAG 101 - PoV Gertrude or Michael

Really connect this song with gertrude’s Bad Bitch energy and MAG 101 is the episode where we really get a scope of how morally gray she is

But the overall cocky tone of the song is real good for Michael

The Distortionist - MAG 101 - PoV Michael

this ep is Michael’s statement. 

Its kind of hard to tell because of the vocaloid, but the song's character seems to have been pushed and  manipulated into something like Michael. I can see the song shifting from Michael singing about how Gertrude created him into accepting it and them singing at Jon

Has wayyyyy too much Spiral imagery to not include

Seven Devils - MAG111 - PoV Gerard Kaey

this is the ep where Gerard properly explains the fears to Jon

Dirty Night Clowns - MAG 104 - PoV Tim Stoker?

sort of Tim about his brother

Blood End Credits - no MAG/MAG 119 - PoV Tim Stoker

god i miss tim. I don’t think it translates exactly to 119, but it’s more of the climax of his character arch. He’s literally given everything to the Institute and to Elias and now he has to fucking die? FUck.  

Greatest Show Unearthed - MAG 139 - PoV Nikola/The Circus

This one is literal lol. u can figure it out

My Time - MAG 120/121 - Sung about Jon

*Mable pines picture* “He’s resting”

Who Are You, Really? - MAG 121 - Sung at/for Jon

Jon has to decide whether to let himself die human or risk becoming a monster to protect the people he loves*

*Martin

Cold Cold Man - MAG 124 - PoV Jon

This is the first time Jon and Martin have seen each other since he woke, and I think really the first time Jon has sought out Martin because he just...wanted to see him

Ruler of Everything - MAG 124 - PoV Martin

This is Martin’s side of the exchange he and Jon had. This is where he started pushing Jon away (Shot as wily one/only friend), and Peter is making him into the “ruler of everything” aka running the Institute, and just doing his best to go one day at a time until whatever Peter has planned gets done

Catabolic Seed - MAG 125 - PoV Melanie

Honestly, I just really wanted this song for melanie. The Magnus Institute is taking too much out of her, making her into a hollow, and she’s just trying to keep herself together with emotional duct tape

Body - MAG 131 Build Up - PoV Jon

I see this as the culmination of Jon’s survival guilt and desperation to make himself worthy of humanity again. Since he has a healing factor now, he has no sense of self-preservation and is willing to sacrifice his entire body to make himself worthy of humaity.

Skeleton Appreciation Day - MAG 131 - PoV Jared Hopworth

THE MEATBONE MANNNN

What Am I Becoming? - MAG 146/147 - PoV Jon

It hurts

in 146 Jon admited to Basira, Daisy, and Melanie confronted him about his live feedings. 147 Jon realises that he doesn’t want to stop feeding

Human - Mag 147/152 - For Jon

Couldn’t decide where this goes chronologically, but these in these two eps jon is seriously debating his humanity and disturbed that he even needs to do that 

Isle Unto Thyself - NA 

 this fits....somewhere in this season. I believe i see this as Jon singing about Martin’s isolation, but really its just applicable to their whole situation

Train Remastered - MAG 154 - PoV Jon

a fukn EASY one FINALLY. 

THis bitch is Jon asking Martin to blind himself with Jon so they can run away together. Their romantic arcs got me feeling all sorts of ways

No Eyed Girl - MAG 157

this is so literal lmao its just Melanie and Georgie

Not Human - MAG 158 - About Daisy

She’s spent so long serving the Hunt and trying to undo its power over her, and she really just Did That(tm) for her friends. We stan a werewolf queen

Monster - Many MAGs

honestly can fit Martin, Jon, Melanie and Daisy at different points, but i think its a good end to Daisy’s character arc currently

Ship In A Bottle - MAG 159 - About Martin and Peter

I like to see this as the climax of Martin’s Loneliness and his relationship with Peter as well as like the culmination of Peter’s deal with Elias and Martin’s Deal with Peter

It’s Alright - MAG 159 - To Jon and Martin

Jon Rescued Martin from the Lonely and is finally able to have a purpose and they are allowed to Be Okay

Honeybee - MAG 160 - PoV Jon

WE STAN TRUE LOVE AND SATISFYING ROMANCE IN THIS HOUSEEEEEEE

Great Vacation - Thematic transition

If Honeybee was the first 2 minutes of 160, then we know what’s coming next. The Scottish Cottage isn’t a vacation

Just Did A Bad Thing - MAG 160

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Its the end of the world as we know it - Season 5 trailer

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

[evilelitest2]

Warhammer Paper

I wrote this for a history class on Warhammer Fantasy, some people have asked me for it so here you go 

Neither Holy nor Roman nor an Empire: Warhammer Fantasy’s Imagination of the Empire

A note on terminology.  Warhammer is the larger brand that all of the following games fall under, with a specific aesthetic, culture, and identity in the larger fantasy space.  The property is divided into two types of games, and two “settings”.  Warhammer Battle, a wargame, which players take armies of miniatures. Warhammer Roleplay, is a table-top roleplaying game ala Dungeons and Dragons set in the Warhammer world.  These games are split between two settings, an imagined world where the action of the games are supposed to take place, so the battles between the Ogre and Daemon armies are given a context within the world of the fantasy.  The settings include the original Warhammer Fantasy, and it's far more popular science fiction equivalent Warhammer 40000 (usually known as 40k).  This work will look primarily at Warhammer Fantasy and not 40K,  specifically its depiction of the Holy ROman Empire in its fantastical equivalent, the Empire of Man.  Warhammer Fantasy draws heavily upon early modern history for inspiration, down to its own world map.  

The world of Warhammer Fantasy, in contrast to works like as Lord of the Rings, draws primarily upon historical influences to populate its world.  The Kingdom of Bretonnia is obviously inspired by France, the Empire of Cathay and Nippon aren’t even hiding that they are based on China and Japan.  And the core part of  the setting where most of the action is set, is the Empire of Man, inspired by the Holy Roman Empire, with its Emperor elected by a series of Elector-Counts ruling over a deepy decentralized state.  While Warhammer Fantasy is a somewhat comedic game, it is worth studying how it depicts the Holy Roman Empire, because that is how much of its Anglophile audience is going to first learn about its real life equivalent. 

The subject of this paper is Warhammer Fantasy (WF), the series that started the Warhammer franchise.  This setting encompasses both the games of Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay (WFR) and Warhammer Fantasy Battle (WFB), and I will be using the books from those games interchangeably because, while they are different games, the setting and the lore is the same,.   Warhammer Fantasy is set in “The Old World”, a fantasy world under constant threat by supernatural forces.  While the world is populated by a variety of fantasy creatures like Ogres, Dwarves and Elves under threats of “Daemons”, the main focus of the world are the human kingdoms, roughly modelled after real life historical societies.  While the entire world is loosely sketched out, most of the action of the game is set in “The Empire of Man”, located in the middle of a fantastic version of early modern Europe.

The franchise of Warhammer is wargaming, where player enact battles with an army of miniatures on a board.  These miniatures must be purchased from Games Workshop and prices can run as high as over $100 dollars for a monster miniature, meaning the game is limited to an affluent fanbase.   Players don’t simply buy the minaturse, they also paint them, the miniatures when purchased as black and white pewter figurines which the player paints with brushes and paints also provided by Games Workshop.  The games website has recommended colors for each type of figure but players may customize their mainatures as they choose, giving players a personal connection to their own collection.  While players may purchase as many miniature as they wish, officially each set of minaturse is organized into different “armies”.  Each army has a theme and unique design, and units from a particular army is only supposed to work within its own army.  So for example, the High Elf Army are the only units who employ High Elf Mages.  The Knights of Bretonnia cannot be used in the armies of the Empire.  These armies each have a unique play style and most players can only afford to play with a few armies, generally leading to players committing to a single army they identify with.  In addition to buying miniatures and paints, players must also buy the rules for play. In addition to the general rule book must be bought by all the players, each specific army also has a special rule book known as a codex.  The codex does not only contain the specific rules for each army but also the story line, character descriptions and society of each faction.  For example the empire codex contains not only the specific rules for each unit but also the personalities of the individual important figures, the history and culture of the empire and the character of the empire as as a whole, complete with pictures.  

In game design terminology, the is the divide between what is called mechanics and story (or fluff).  Mechanics covers the actual game play such as how much damage each each unit deals and what special attacks they have, while the story covers the specific character of each unit.  Warhammer Fantasy was started in 1983 and has gone through 8 editions until the game eventually ended in 2010.  The first two editions were actually nothing but armies with no story with them at all beyond a few sentence, it wasn’t until third edition came about in 1987 that the actual setting was created and the Empire of Man existed as anything more than “The human faction”.   And from every edition since third, new codex have come with update the story, introduce new factions, or change the state of the world.  

The variant game Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay ues entirely different mechanics but the same story.   The experience of a tabletop game, modelled off Dungeons and Dragons, a form of interactive storytelling, consisting of several players sitting around a table.  One player is called the Game Master (GM) who creates the story and maintains the rules.  Each of the other players creates a single character who they control.  Each character has a set of powers and the characters can take actions which are determined by dice rolls.  So if one players wants theri character to attack a goblin, they roll dice to see if he is successful.   The characters work together to try to overcome the challenges the GM throws at them.  Rather than vast battles, the mechanics of roleplay tends to have a greater emphasis on character interaction, the day to day living of the characters, and small scale combat.  So mechanics exist not only for combat but also for socializing, stealth, and crafting objects, and these rules are laid out in large hard copies called Gamebooks.  For the game to be played one person in the groups must have the Core Rulebook, but supplementary rulebooks exist covering other aspects of the world and the game.  Each rule book contains both mechanics and story, however the story in these games is far more in depth and detailed than the Wargaming counterpart.  For example, the primary source for this paper is Heirs of Sigmar, a supplement book designed to flesh out the culture and history of Empire.  It contains some specific rules, but the vast majority of the book is simply story, which does not contradict the story of the Wargame.  Thus both games share the same story even as their mechanics are entirely different.   The fact that two games with entirely different mechanics can have the same story shows that the mechanics don’t contribute to the story, which is known in ludology as “Ludonarrative dissonance”.   

  Ludonarrative means ‘play narrative’ and refers to when a game’s narrative is expressed via its play.  To use an example from video games, in acclaimed horror game Silent Hill 2, the ending of the game changes depending on how the player acts in game.  Should the player use reckless tactics, rarely heal, and avoid stealth options, then the protagonist, James Sunderland, will commit suicide at the end of the game.  If the player is cautions and explores the area, they will leave the town to make a new life.  Ludonarrative dissonance is when the narrative of the play is in direct contrast to the narrative of the story itself.  In both games, the mechanics of Warhammer fantasy are largely disconnected from its themes and story.  All this to say, this essay will not be looking at the actual gameplay or mechanics, which have very little to do with its understanding of the empire.  The focus of this essay will be solely on the story content provided in the game books, thus little engagement will be made with ludology of the game, which could be the subject for a future paper.  As this franchise has been around since 1987, I will be drawing primarily upon the WFR book Heirs of Sigmar a guide to the Empire, and the 6th, 7th, and 8th Empire codexes, which go into the most detail about story rather than rules.    

The Empire is 2532 years old when the book is set, and its history is told through a series of epochs.  Humanity lives as primitive tribesmen until they discover the gift of iron, which leads to a time of barbarism and war. This ends only when a great warrior, Sigmar, unifies them though faith in his wolf god,and force of arms.  Sigmar ruled wisely and justly, setting up most of the institutions of the later empire, and upon his retirement, the 12 great Counts instituted the Elector system.  For a thousand years the empire goes through a prosperous golden age, expanding across the continent and becoming the greatest military force in human history, referred too as “The Birth of Nations”.  This time of wonder ends with the age of decadence, as the upper classes gave up their concerns for the state to enjoy affairs, fine foods, and frivolous spending (much of it on art and fashion).   Emperor Ludgiw II Honenbach “The Fat” makes his halfling cook an Elector, and the cult of Sigmar into the official state religion of the empire before “died in bad a short while later-smothered to death by his own neck fat”.  This period of luxury eventually ends with a great plague, and civil war, Boris Hohenbach “the Incompetent”, is so corrupt he effectively cedes all control to the feudal lords rather than the Empire.  It is the decentralization of the empire that marks its decline, known as the “Time of Judgement”.  It wasn’t until  the election of the martial Emperor Mandred I, whose reign brought stability if not prosperity to the realm, and his even more marshal successor Magnus who unified the Empire through “sheer force of will and belief” that this time of instability came to an end..  

The games presentation of history is standard for the fantasy genre, and is both simplistic and rather conservative.   Every event in the Empire’s history has a single cause, whole centuries can be summed up with rough generalization, and history is moved by individual men.  And it is always men, during the first 1750 years of history only 3 women are mentioned, a nameless priestess to the goddess of diplomacy, a frivolous vain noblewoman, and a failed usurper, each with half a sentence of description.    The lack of female representation is a consistent pattern across the Warhammer franchise.  The good rulers are universally military commanders whose reigns last decades, as prosperous as they are vague.  The Empire has an astronomical time frame but largely does not change except in the way of technology, it is always Germanic, decentralized, highly militant, and worshiping the same gods.  The Empire is largely timeless, only changing when an in-game event requires it.  

The effect is a state that is largely timeless, an eternal stereotype that simply exists with only slight variations, a deterministic view of society that fits many fantasy settings.  Fantasy tends to imagine the past as one of stasis, the states that exist have done so for a long time and will continue to do so unless something truly cataclysmic occurs.  Within that existence, they will stay largely the same across there history, if changes occur it will be due to a specific ruler or a major event.  Fantasy imagines time as a stalled machine, awaiting a radical push to make it move slightly ahead before stalling out.  If fantasy serves as one introduction to historical societies, it can give the impression that the Empire was a static entity, existing for centuries largely unchanged.  This can very easily move into essentialism, one can simply dismiss the empire as a thousand years of stagnation and its people effectively the same.  We see this essentialist approach later when the book describes the specific provinces, all of which have been largely the same for 2500 years, as having a specific character that defines them, even at some point implying it is due to bloodline.  

At their worst, Nordlanders are churlish, uncouth, and thoughtless speakers. Even the merchants of Nordland have this blunt approach, though they seem to be fine with double dealing. Indeed, they have found that shouting the final price of something loudly and repeatedly has a profound effect upon merchants used to the subtleties of barter and negotiation. Many provinces point out that this is because of their mongrel Was Jutone, Teutogen, and Norscan bloodlines. This mixed heritage has been a source of Nordlander shame. Modern Imperials look on Norscans with a mixture of admiration and fear, seeing them both as powerful warriors and wild, uncivilised barbarians, not to be trusted around one’s daughters or sheep. A popular Imperial saying runs “Character is in the blood,” meaning that ancestry determines character. Thus Nordlanders, though of the Empire, are often regarded as “not quite one of us,” rougher and more uncouth even than the wild and hairy Middenlanders.

It effectively buys into primordialist narratives of human society, that when human beings first emerged they have characteristics that stay with them across all of time, like French Nationalist narratives claiming the Gauls and modern French share similar values and disposition.  This is a common trope in fantasy, but by tying it to a real life historical entity, it gives the impression that this has some relation to German history.  

As to what the Empire’s essential qualities are, Warhammer seems to been written with Voltaire’s misunderstood condemnation in mind.  The Empire is deeply incompetent, disorganized, corrupt, and maddingly complicated. As Warhammer Fantasy was originally a comedy game, the section on the political structure of the empire was originally presented as a joke at the expense of the Empire.  

But while the rhetoric around the empire is mocking contempt for its decentralization and overlapping spheres of influence, the Empire of Man in fact is not that complicated.  While it is a decentralized feudal state with an elected monarch, and overlapping legal systems, it is actually less complicated than the real Holy Roman Empire.  The Vatican is located within the Empire, the royal family has no international element to it, there is no equivalent to the Spanish Habsburgs or the American Colonies, no crownlands or Greater Hungary, and of course the empire has one language.  In fact, the Holy Empire seems far more like a unified Nation-State than its real life counterpart..  One of the most notable changes made is that it doesn’t have an equivalent to the Hapsburgs, the Emperor is simply elected from among the Electors rather than from an Imperial family, and so one of the greatest elements of internationality has been removed. The fact that the empire is so much more cohesive and yet is mocked by its creators for its instability indicates just how much the ide of the nation-state has become normalized that a state not being utterly centralized is seen as strange.

Where this simplification and disinterest in the empire gets interesting is its approach to nationality or rather lack of one, as the Holy Empire is entirely German.  The word German never appears in the books of course (though the term Teutonic certainly does) but the culture of the Empire is clearly German, the Emperor is named Karl Franz, its greatest warrior is named Lugwig Schwarzhelm, and the Reiksmarshal is named Kurt Helborg.  The capital city is Altdorf (Vienna), and one of its famed military units are known as the Landsknecht.  However the empire has no stand in for Hungary, Bohemia, Slovenian, Slovakia, or Poland, the culture is almost entirely German.  The only exception is the semi-independent province of Sylvania, which is loosely based on Romania, though its depiction owes more to Bram Stoker than historical reality, ruled as it is by the vampire counts, and clearly based on Transylvania but with a Romanian cultural influence.  

This Germanization shouldn’t be surprising considering that Games Workshop is a British company whose audience is overwhelmingly American and Canadian.  None of the major designers are historians or have any expertise in the region nor do any of them mention any central European heritage.  The Anglo-American world and the fantasy genre is not particularly well informed about Eastern/Central Europe, to the point that The Witcher, a Polish inspired fantasy game was released, it was praised for bringing attention to an unappreciated region.  Germany is far more familiar, as is Romania thanks to Dracula, but as there are no major fantasy works featuring any of the other components of the Holy Roman Empire. Thus the Empire becomes a Germanic one, simply decentralized, with no Slavic, Magyar or Ottoman cultural influences to be found within its defined borders.  This general ignorance of the region also explains the rather reductive embrace of Western dismissals of the Holy Roman Empire.  In fact compared to most fantasy narratives, Warhammer is almost orientalist in its approach to German culture, the book presents German culture as exotic and strange, an the art work empathises the Gothic architecture and black armor much like similar fantasy exoticizes fantastical depictions of Japan.  

Ironically, this ignorance of the region means that the Empire avoids many of most common troubled narratives of the empire, by reimagining the Empire as fully German, it reject a Nationalist critique of the Empire.  For all its faults, the Empire isn’t oppressing ethnic groups yearning to be free, nor do any of its weaknesses come from diversity or lack of linguistic unity.  Though the Empire slogan is “Let Us Take Strength From our Diversity”  In a similar vein, Warhammer also unintentionally rejects the Clash of Civilization narrative, by the lack of an Ottoman presence.  While there is a fantasy Islamic empire (The Araby Caliphate) it is both Arabic and largely irrelevant to the events of the main story.  While the Empire does claim legitimacy by being the protectors of the true faith and the defenders of civilization, it’s rival are inhuman Daemons rather an exoticized oriental potentate. In fact while the empire considers itself the supreme cultural power, they do not seem particularly hostile towards any of their humans neighbours, nor do they have an enmity towards the Islamic inspired nations.

In fact the Empire’s relationship to religion is complicated.  Like most fantasy works, the state religion has the aesthetic, organization, and place in society as the Catholic Church, with grand cathedrals and hierarchy of priests, complete with its own Pope, the Grand Theogonist.  However the actual faith is polytheistic, with a pantheon of deities each of whom governs an aspect of reality. Its chief god used to be the wolf god Ulric, whose chosen Sigmar founded the empire, but  the Cult of Sigmar has since become the state sect of the Empire.  These gods exist in opposition to the Chaos Gods, whose Daemonic armies serve as the primary antagonists of the setting.   Each god has its own organized church, but all of them are ultimately lead by the Cult of Sigmar, whose main job seems to be the maintenance of the inquisition.  In Warhammer, the Inquisition, employs Witch Hunters and Templars in order to hunt down renegade spell casters and worshipers of Chaos, who purged via fire.  In the world of Warhammer, the world is under attack by the forces of Chaos, divine cosmic forces of destruction and corruption.  While they openly invade the empire from the north with their great Daemon armies, within the empire the lords of Chaos attempt to spread their influence through Chaos Cults.  Individuals join for magical power and pledge their souls to Daemon overlords, eventually twisting their minds and body into combinations, and are instructed to try to overthrow the empire.  The main obstacle to these cults are the inquisition, who can hunt down these secretive groups and destroy them through fire.   The game evokes the imagery of the inquisition and witch hunts, but in this fantastical setting, the actions of the church are largely justified as chaos cults are legitimately threaten the world.  In the universe of Warhammer, torture, mass execution and the constant repression of the citizenry is shown to be a justified necessary evil to prevent the empire from falling to chaos.  Since Chaos often spreads through the reading of forbidden tombs and hedonistic ‘pleasure cults”, sexual puritanism and limiting freedom of information are shown to be entirely justified.   Effectively Warhammer has created a world where the Inquisition isn’t not just necessarily but just in its actions, while doing most of the same activities as its real life counterpart.  

This approach towards religion is common in fantasy, likely do to wanting to mix the excitement of Greek mythology with the familiar structures of Catholicism, or simply because the norms of Christianity are so normal to the writers that they struggle to imagine religion differently.  For example, in Dungeons and Dragons, the pantheon of gods who exist within the world are clearly polytheistic in nature, however each god has a very Catholic inspired temple with an organized church hierarchy, using the imagery of christianity in a non Christian context.  With the Inquisition hunting down and destroying hidden heretics within the empire, the game’s trappings are mimicking that of the Protestant reformation, but the role of Protestants is being played by Chaos Cultists, and the Inquisition is actually hunting witches.  This means that the Empire losses much of its ideological nuances, one is left with the impression that faith in the empire is mostly a practical tool to battle Chaos, and the church is universally made up of corrupt hypocrites or zealous fanatics. 

The game makes a point of mocking the Holy Roman Empire for its needless complexity, but the society is reduced on every level, which makes it easier to simply dismiss.  This approach extends to almost all other aspects of the Empire, almost everything within it is defined in extremely broad strokes without much attention to detail.  The Empire has a strict class system, with an aristocracy characterized as decadent, selfish, and vain ruling over a mass of peasants who are shown as ignorant, superstitious and xenophobic.  The history is vast but sparse on details, and tends to fall into patterns, as periods of decline are ended when a warrior emperor drives back an external invader. This approach to world building is rather typical of most fantasy, as it generally hopes to work within broad archetypes rather than specific narratives.  

All this is only worth considering because the larger Warhammer franchise has come under much discussion regarding nationalist themes in its work, though mostly focusing on its far more popular 40k franchise.  The series enduring popularity with White Natioanlist and Trump supporters has been well documented, Trump’s official reddit page /thedonald regularly refers to “God Emperor Trump” a reference to 40k universe.   The 40k universe has been accused its embrace of militarism, authoritarianism and xenophobic narratives, expressed through its protagonists being the dictatorial human supremacist “Imperium of Man”.  Very little has been written about the original Warhammer Fantasy due to its relatively unpopularity compared to its spinoff, but it is worth considering from a nationalist narrative.  The Empire of Man’s embrace of German culture and folklore is telling, in particular a blond warrior unifying the forest tribes to create an Empire via war.  All of the good emperors are marshall, and the bad are defined as decedent and corrupt, with women confined to marginal roles.  The Inquisition is shown as a necessary evil and the empire has a primordialism attitude towards the tribes that make up its ranks.  A nationalist reading isn’t necessarily intentional, but it is possible, though not the traditional narratives associated with Central Europe.  Rather it is more likely some of the long standing conservative sentiments that have long been associated with the fantasy genre.  

First released in 1983, Warhammer is among the oldest and most popular fantasy properties in the gaming space, and it is one of the few fantasy franchises which plays a major part in changing the pop mersculture landscape rather than being fully insulated within the fantasy sub-culture.  Warhammer 40K is the most popular wargame in history and the label has more than 50 video game spinoffs, Warcraft famously was originally planned to be Warhammer game before they lost the license and made their own universe.  In fact most fantasy wargames owe their legacy in some way to Warhammer, which can be found in hobby shops across Europe and North America, though Games Workshop does not own the shops directly.   It is almost impossible to be within fantasy gamer culture without at least passible familiarity with the Warhammer franchise, and so to many people, Warhammer Fantasy is their first real introduction to the Holy Roman Empire, albeit in a bastardized fantasy form.  

In his influential 1936 essay, Beowulf: The Monsters and and the Critics, J.R.R. Tolkien lays out his understanding of the fantasy genre.  At the time, Beowulf was valued primarily as a historical work and not a literary, a trend Tolkien argued against, making the argument that fantasy should be appreciated as stories within their own context rather than simply reflections of our reality.  This approach is empathised in  Lord of the Rings, where the emotional stakes within the confines of the fantasy universe.  The reader hopes Frodo will succeed not because he represents something external to the story, but because we value the character and want what is best for him.   Tolkien, in his prelude to Fellowship of the Ring, famously said he despised allegory and didn’t wish his work to be read with real life parallels.  Most fantasy follows in Tolkien’s footsteps, Fantasy has long expected stories to be understood within their own context but that standard becomes confusing when real life elements are consciousnessly moved into the fantastical space.  So when Warhammer Fantasy features a society obviously inspired by the Holy Roman Empire, the audience is expected to engage with the empire within the framework of its world, our investment in its success depending on our investment with its characters and setting.  However we can’t ignore the fact that it is obviously inspired by a real life society, and that the game is unintentionally setting the groundwork for its players engagement with the historiography surrounding the empire.  And so, while it is clear that the designers didn’t have any intention to make a statement about the historiography, instead using the Empire to give their game a unique aesthetic and stand apart from other fantasy properties, Warhammer does unintentionally make a statement about history.  The stereotypes of the empire as incompetent and needlessly complicated, the view of history as largely static, that history is to be understood as mostly driven by great men, and that the decline of empires is inexorably tied to its embrace of luxury.  The game enforces the notion of the Nation-State as normal and the Empire as abnormal for departing from said model.  The game presents many institutions of the empire without contextualizing them, and doesn’t acknowledge the actual complexities of the real empire.  Ultimately while this is the only prominent fantasy work which asks the players to imagine things from the Empire’s perspective, it very much enforces many of the same stereotypes that Habsburg historians have been trying to escape from, while also endorsing many false views of history itself.  The games understanding of history is just close enough to reality that the uninformed player might take it as fact, without realizing just how essentialist Warhammer fantasy actually is.  Much more attention needs to be paid to how history is understood via fantasy, because many people get their knowledge and interest in history from fantasy, and many concepts long since debunked in history, continue to live on in fantasy uninterrupted.  

Sources 

Ragan, Anthony, Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, Heirs of Sigmar: A Guide to the Empire, Fantasy Flight Games, Green Ronin Publishing, 2005

Pramas, Chris, Warhammer Fantasy Core Rulebook, A Grim World of Perilous Adventure, Fantasy Flight Games, Green Ronin Publishing, 2005

Schwalb, Robert J, Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, Tome of Salvation: Priests of the Old World, Fantasy Flight Gaming, Green Ronin Publishing, 2007

Straufer, Marijan von, Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, Realms of Sorcery, black Industries, Fantasy Flight Games, Black Industries Publishing, 2005

Schwalb, Robert J, Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, Tome of Corruption: Secrets from the Realm of Chaos, Fantasy Flight Games, Black Industries Publishing 2006

Chart, David, Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, Knights of the Grail: A guide to Bretonnia, Fantasy Flight Games, Black Industries, Green Ronin Publishing, 2006

Cruddace, Robin, Warhammer Armies: The Empire (8th Edition), Games Workshop Publishing, 2010

McNeill, Graham, Warhammer Armies: The Empire (7th Edition), Games Workshop Publishing, 2007

Cavatore, Alessio, Warhammer Armies: The Empire (6th Edition), Games worship Publishing, 2000

Tolkien, J.R.R, Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics, London: George Allen and Unwin, 1936

Tolkien, J.R.R., Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Del Rey, Reissue edition, 1986

[solsticejcink]

preview - species part two.

the sister cities of ostara and litha are home to a host of species, each with their own unique set of abilities. below, you can read more about each species. a species’ rarity will be noted by their name through stars. 0 stars would mean extinct, while 6 stars would mean they make up a significant portion of the population.

UNICORNS ✮

ethereal and delicate, unicorns were historically the most hunted species still holding ranks in the city, making crossing paths with one few and far between. in the days of old, unicorns would only appear before virgin maidens that were pure of heart - nowadays, they are still skittish of who they reveal themselves to, but the requirements are decidedly more lax. over time, their horns have evolved down to a single, opaque gemstone on their foreheads - the likes of which are rumored to be the key to discovering the secrets to immortality, making them incredibly valuable to both monsters and humans alike.

unicorns have a mortal form, only identifiable by the opaque gemstone that marks their forehead. unicorns can live for multiple centuries, with the oldest being recorded at 500 years. unicorns aging slows once they reach adolescence. if a unicorn’s gemstone is shattered or otherwise disturbed, they lose all their powers.

+ healing kiss the ability to heal the wounds of others with a kiss.

+ emphatic healing the ability to heal others’ emotional wounds.

+ curse removal the power to permanently remove curses from those pure of heart.

+ fertility inducement the ability to cause growth and reproduction, mostly in relation to restoring or bringing about new aspects of nature.

ARCH ANGELS ✮

angels operate as the sister cities guardians and harbingers of justice. together, angels watch over the cities, guiding and helping its citizens and punishing those who dare disturb its peace - karma might not exist in the realm of magic, but the angels sure do. they are methodical creatures who follow a strict moral code - but despite their tendency to reap sharp punishments, there is a softness to angels and an intense willingness to nurture and care for others. while their code of ethics doesn’t always agree happily with the rest of the city, their powers are incredibly useful to those who hold positions of power, and most of the angel population work as advisors to government officials, strategists for the arcane guard, or faculty for other important institutions.

angels can maintain a mortal form, but can live up to a thousand years. they generally stop aging physically once they hit their early 40s.

+ light manipulation the ability to emit and create constructs out of light.

+ illusion awareness  the ability to detect illusory magic.

+ lie detection the ability to identify a lie.

+ elemental wing manifestation the ability to create wings out the elements, such as water, air, fire, etc.

+ energy manipulation the ability to create constructs out of energy

POPPETS ✮✮

crafted and carefully brought to life, poppets are doll-like creatures who are either products of arrogant alchemists showing their talent or misshapen magic. they are made by combining dolls (anywhere from scarecrows to those of precious porcelain) with human DNA. most poppets can be made with just a single tuft of hair, and it’s not unheard of for someone to find a poppet meandering about town bearing strikingly similar features to their own. with no real purpose within the sister cities, poppets are perhaps the most easily mistreated species - with many of them ending up on the streets, struggling to comprehend the world they were brought into.

poppets are not inherently human, and often show physical signs of their true nature, such as seams in their skin. the amount of these imperfections, and how noticeable they are, will depend on the skill of the alchemist that created them. because they are not inherently human, they don’t have a ‘life span’ to speak of, but can be dismantled and effectively killed.

+ anatomical liberation the ability to remove limbs from one’s body without pain or harm.

+ soul link the power to share or connect one’s soul with someone else’s.

+ petrifactive hibernation the ability to go dormant and heal oneself in a statue form.

KITSUNE ✮✮✮

part legendary fox, part man - kitsunes are sly creatures who are masters of illusions. they are the glinting eyes that watch you at night, the stranger at the end of the bar that lures you in - their allure is never knowing the truth about them, and they certainly like to play up the mystery. they have one glaring weakness, however, and that’s their tether - every kitsune’s power is stored in a single object, typically a family heirloom of some kind, and anyone in possession of said object can control and manipulate a kitsune to their will.

kitsune’s in their human form will always have the shadow of a fox. kitsunes can live up to 200 years old, and their aging slows down once they reach adolescence.

+ kitsune form the ability to transform into a kitsune.

+ shapeshifting the power to alter one’s appearance in human form.

+ illusion manipulation the ability to create and shape illusions.

+ dream walking the power to enter another person’s dreams.

FAIRIES ✮✮✮✮✮✮

fairies are generally depicted as free-spirited, joyous creatures who overrun the city with their constant chattering. able to shrink down to just a few inches tall, many fairies prefer homes that fit this true size, and it’s easy to spot small doors around town that lead to equally small alcoves for them to live in. their cute demeanor and oftentimes flirty disposition is dangerous for the rest of the city, however, as fairies are generally self-serving and jump at the chance to trick others. even those of the sharpest wit that come to them with favors or demands will be left tongue tied and somehow indebted to the fairy instead.

fairies can live up to 200 years. while they can attain a regular-sized, mortal form, they often have an unnatural aura about them. most fairies are born with pointed ears.

+ size manipulation the power to shrink in size as well as return to one’s normal size.

+ oath bestowal the ability to create oaths and promises that others must follow through on.

+ wing manifestation the ability to grow or manifest fairy wings.

+ conjuration the ability to cast spells that summon creatures, items, etc.

+ plant manipulation the power to control and shape plantlife.

GOBLINS ✮✮✮✮

the black sheep of the sister cities, goblins are chaotic, mischievous beings who were once thought to be created to punish the fae for their well documented indecency when it came to human lovers and stealing human children. much to the world’s chagrin, however, the rest of the fae adored their cousins from the very beginning. considered a pest by anyone outside of the fae family, goblins tend to accept their reputation gleefully. their unique powers require an incredible amount of energy to keep up with, however, and thus require a special diet - for goblins have the ability to devour the souls of both humans and monsters alike. not eating will turn them into horrific monsters over time - graying their skin, elongating the tips of their ears, and turning their eyes completely red.

goblins, like fairies,  have a mortal form but often have pointed ears or an unnatural aura about them. starved goblins may have a gray hue to their skin, or red eyes. goblins can live up to 100 years.

+ bad luck inducement the ability to make bad fortune more likely.

+ enhanced dexterity the power to control one’s muscles, limbs, and overall body above normal capability.

+ invisibility the ability to make oneself unseen.

+ magical immunity the power to be unaffected by magic.

+ supernatural speed the ability to move at a highly enhanced speed.

MERMAIDS ✮✮✮✮✮

a famously beautiful species, mermaids are the epitome of what it means for looks to deceive. they are a surprisingly brutal people, lingering near shores to try and lure innocent humans into the waters and to their deaths at the claws of hungry ocean-dwellers. human flesh is the staple of a mermaid’s diet, and allows them to access the full strength of their abilities. peaceful mermaids who subsist on regular food, however, are not unheard of - just less powerful, and more likely to have their human form be slightly unstable.

mermaids can will themselves into a human form by staying on dry land, but can get sick and even die if left ‘out of water’ for too long. mermaids have a mortal lifespan.

+ mermaid form a mermaid’s primary state. the ability to turn into a half-human, half-fish.

+ siren call the power to sing or otherwise produce a sound that lures in anyone nearby.

+ water manipulation the ability to create and control water.

+ enhanced camouflage the heightened ability to blend in with one’s surroundings.

+ regenerative healing the ability to rapidly heal from non-mortal wounds, as well as regenerate body matter.

BERSERKERS ✮✮✮

one of the oldest species that call the sister cities home, berserkers are descended from giants of the old world. largely considered friendly and gentle, berserkers once used their immense strength to help terraform the land that formed the two cities. unlike other ancient species, berserkers do not hold themselves to a high regard, and try to live humble lives among the rest of the population.

berserkes have a ‘human’ form, but are typically larger than many others in the city. berserkers can live up to 200 years.

+ super strength physical strength is intensely amplified.

+ natural disaster creation the ability to create and manipulate all types of natural disasters.

+ enhanced durability the power to withstand many attacks and stress on the body without injury.

+ chaos inducement the power to create and cause disorder, confusion, or other types of chaos.

+ earth manipulation the ability to manipulate earth. 

GODS ✮

crafted of ichor and gold, gods are the last remnants of a dying breed. although they aren’t the original founders of the sister cities, their ancestry and reputation has them both revered and feared by the population. while the old gods are gone, dead and dormant long ago, these minor gods still cling to life through shrines and small followings within ostara and litha’s reach. each god has power over one specific domain, and many people will leave offerings in hopes they will lend their powers to them. as time has passed, more and more minor gods have resurfaced - both new and ones that had thought to have been forgotten long ago, mostly thanks to litha’s open borders attracting new followers.

gods can alter their appearance at will. lesser known gods will appear very human, while gods with larger followings may have an unnatural presence to them.  in addition to the abilities listed below, gods can have an assortment of powers relevant to their domain. gods do not die, but without any followers, maybe fall into a dormant state. 

+ telekinesis to manipulate and move objects with one’s mind

+ illusion manipulation the power to create illusions.

+ reality warping the ability to alter and change reality.

+ magic resistance the ability to be resistant to other types of magic.

+ psychometry the ability to know information about an object or person simply by touching them.

+ sensory scrying the ability to see things through other’s senses.

HELLHOUNDS ✮✮

once rabid, foaming beasts, hellhounds were imprisoned in the confines of the underbelly long ago. freedom at their grasp for the past century, hellhounds are still regarded as dangerous and unhinged. unlike the other psychopomps, they cannot transport souls from one side to another, but rather assist in the tracking of particularly troubling phantoms or predict death before it happens and nudge the process along. while they can be bred, anybody can become a hellhound by offering to take the place of someone who was supposed to die.

hellhounds were once regarded as rabid, dangerous beasts, descendants of the fenrir that would mark the end of the world - years ago, they were banned from ostara, but have been allowed within the city limits within the past 20 years. hellhounds have a keen ability to track and follow death, and seeing a hellhound in their mongrel form is considered a bad omen. while hellhounds can conceive other hellhounds, humans and creatures alike can become hellhounds by offering to take the place of someone who was meant to die. 

hellhounds can turn between a hound and mortal form, and can live up to 100 years. their powers are emotionally taxing, and they run the risk of running into a ‘rage’ where they are unaware of their actions. hellhounds that turned to protect another will automatically enter this raged state if they are around the person they saved.

+ hellhound form the ability to transform into a hellhound - a large, menacing black beast.

+ death song the power to cause or call attention to death through howling.

+ vice inducement the power to compel people to give into their vices.

+ psychic navigation the ability to track people mentally.

+ death sense the ability to know when and where someone will die.

+ fire breath the ability to expel bursts of fire from their mouth.

REAPERS ✮✮✮

reapers is the general term for any and all psychopomps left - those of this species may find themselves more aligned with traditional grim reapers, swatched in black and wielding scythes. others feels more inclined towards norse valkyrie, inciting violence and basking in the aftermath. either way, reapers fill two specific duties in the sister cities: cutting the cord that keeps everyone tethered to life, and pushing their spirits to the afterlife. in the past, crossing paths with a reaper was a bad omen, one that could be fatal. protective charms and incantations were passed around to keep your home safe from a wandering grim reaper. in modern times, however, many reapers have repurposed their powers, electing to work in the medical field or seeking to protect the various graveyards and holy sites among the cities. 

reapers appear mortal, but can live up to 200 years. reapers often gain some form of empowerment from participating in their death-based powers, and choosing to not ‘cut the string’ of someone fated to die may cause butterfly effects elsewhere in the city that are anywhere from subtle to severe. 

+ mediumship the power to communicate with spirits in the afterlife.

+ weapon manifestation the ability to conjure and call a weapon out of thin air.

+ necromancy the power to raise and re-animate the bodies of the dead.

+ shadow manipulation the ability to manipulate and call forth shadows.

+ after-life transport the ability to send souls to the afterlife.

+ life-force absorption the power to steal life-force from those they reap and gain strength from it.

[dru-and-ash]

We Are Made of Love 1/30

This is the first chapter of my fanfic of The Wicked Powers.

It’s my first time writing anything except school stuff so don’t be surprise to see grammatical and other sorts of mistakes.

Also english is not my native :) :)

I’d like to hear what you think about it good or bad all opinions matter to me and I will try to improve myself through your criticism. 

Feel free to message me all you think!

Word count: 2464

Chapter 1: A Troop Of Echoes

 Ash woke up in the middle of the night again breathless trying to forget about the nightmare he just saw the nightmare he saw every single night for months now.

He was killing him all over again and again and again every single night as if killing him once wasn't enough to really kill him like it didn't hurt him enough. He reached for the water glass on his bedside still shaking just as his brothers blond head entered to the room slowly his handsome face worried;

"Are you all right, brother?"

"I will get better" Ash said half believing his own words.

This brother entered to the room and closed the door behind him silently as Ash moved to his wardrobe to find a clean shirt he needed a lot of those lately. As if effects of his past actions are going to effect future instead staying behind and starting to be forgotten. It's what happens when you kill someone you had to kill to protect your family. It hurts to kill someone hearing their last words knowing yours will be the last face they would see, watching the light of life leave their eyes, knowing this terrible action is your own doing.

Remembering that night still hurt the same. There were many other bodies on the field they were all dead some allies some foes but then they were all at the same side after death happens. None of the other bodies effected Ash like the one that fell to the ground in his arms his last words got lost in the whirlpool of the war around them. It took a few seconds to everyone to realize what happened between their leaders. Other side was too stunned to say anything to even move actually. He remembered the first man walked towards him afterwards a tall young man in his mid-twenties when he spoke his voice was kind and strong the way Emma Carstairs's was several weeks ago when he'd met her while she was talking about Clary with care and proud at the same time.

"You have stopped something none of thought could have been stooped without many wars and many more lives lost Ash. It may seem like an evil thing you did here but takes more courage to one stop a friend a family member than to stop an enemy. You have saved all those people today just like you did at The Battle of the Silent City when you have chosen to help my Emma instead of fighting her."

This broke Ash's trance from the moment of loss, no one in this world was supposed to know about what happened in Thule except for Emma and Julian Blackthorn. This man was certainly not one of them.

"Who are you? How do you know my name and what happened in another world?"Ash questioned.

Other man didn't flinched by the sharpness of his tone he seemed too much in peace for someone who was battling faeries two minutes ago. The faerie knights Ash himself brought to this realm and to this city he had seen for the first time in his life he thought this is what my father's world looks like without him in it. Ash didn't saw many things here but he had seen enough to be glad that his father never lived to rule over this beautiful place.

"I am James Carstairs, I am Emma's uncle and I know your story because of her just like a few other people here. We know who you are and we know that you don't belong to the place you came from Ash Morgenstern, you belong to this world with people who would never ask you to start wars or lead armies into slaughter. There is no bravery, no justice or poetic beauty in the idea of battle or death you know that now. You don't have to return to that place where they will only see the weapon in you and forget about the person behind all these powers."

He seemed to know things about his power Ash could help but wonder how could an ordinary shadowhunter make such lucky guesses or did he truly knew what he implies to know? Ash asked himself.

Ash was stunned by the bluntness of this man's words and the truthfulness of all he said. If he were a Carstairs he could have known about Thule. He didn't know much about Emma except she is amazing with a sword but also capable of outsmarting her opponent regardless of their size. Now Ash was thinking where he belonged to, still clinched to his dead body, as if he could guide him. Another man approached them -a really tall, raven-black haired man- his bright blue eyes full with curiosity and concern as they gazed at Ash.

This must be Alec Lightwood, Ash thought. His uncle Jace told Ash many stories about his parabathai once he was free of Sebastian's control. According to his mother’s sources Alec Lightwood was the leader of all shadowhunters in mortal world. Then several of those shadowhunters shouted behind him;

‘’Consul, do not get closer. We don't know where his loyalty belongs.’’ They wouldn’t trust Sebastian Morgenstern’s son anyway. He already expected this much.

Alec didn't even bother to answer all the middle aged shadowhunters' worried words. Some seeming old enough to be his parents but they were somehow below him. Alec's eyes were locked on Ash.

Shadowhunters may not have royalty but Alec Lightwood moved with proud like a faerie prince would. Not because he looked anything alike though, he was everything but faerie. The confidence and power emanating from him was the same. He could be really intimidating if he wanted to.

A young short girl Ash suspected to be a vampire snapped at the shadowhunter who shouted after Alec;

‘’I think he knows exactly what he is doing.’’ with a low unbothered voice which seemed to reach everyone around the battlefield. People were gathering around to see what stopped all the fight. Shadowhunters stopped shouting to their Consul.

None of the vampires or werewolves he fought beside did not try to stop Alec. Ash realized maybe it was true, what they whispered in Seelie Court. Maybe vampires, warlocks and werewolves of the mortal world did wanted peace with Seelie. Same as they achieved with Unseelie after King Kieran’s raise to the throne.

Alec Lightwood was next to him now.

He didn't give a speech like James Carstairs did, he truly was a straight-forward man as people say in Seelie. His face twitched with a shadow of pain only when he looked at the body in Ash's arms.

"I am Alec Lightwood-Bane and this is not the world you were told to be afraid of. Here everyone is treated by their actions and nothing else matters. You may not know this but here amongst us you are considered Clary's family ever since we heard about you, that makes you my family. Clary cried while Emma told her about you. Ash you belong here if you chose to stay. After what you did here tonight, I would pull every shred of power I, as the leader of the clave, have to protect you from anyone or anything who would try to harm you."

Ash thought what these words meant. They were good, better than he would ever imagine to hear from The Leader of The Clave as he called himself. But he didn't want to think about Clary, his aunt, who considers him as her family, not now maybe not ever. He was touched by Clary’s reaction, yet he tried hard to not to look behind Alec. Ash knew she would be looking at him but he just couldn’t look at her without thinking about his uncle.

His mind moved to other matters like this world's Alec being married to his warlock lover and called himself by his name proudly. This was unexpected as much as the undead girl who clearly had spoken in consuls name and shadowhunters instantly fell silent.

Maybe in this world shadowhunters were not the monsters who condemn unborn children to death sentence for the sins of their fathers. But this wasn't a time to think such things. He needed to gather his people and go talk with his mother and somehow learn her true intentions without showing his own.

‘’I will consider your offer Alec Lightwood-Bane but now is time to heal and rest. I need more evidence to condemn the last piece of family I have left.’’

"Seelie Queen is not the last of your family.’’ Alec pointed out mildly ‘’We have been trying to reach her about a truce, ever since we dissolved The Cold Peace but we received no response until this attack, Ash. Are you sure you will be safe in Seelie Court considering what happened tonight?"

"I have no reason to fear from my mother nor you have any to worry about me." Ash said as he got up carrying his uncles lifeless body then he called:

-Seelie knights, It's time to return home for us, as he reached to thin air to create a portal.

He had enough practice trying to open portals in Thule. After Thule, this world was easy to create magic so he instantly had portal lights before him. He didn't turn around to check if his orders are being followed because even if there are warriors who didn't like this retreat, they could not stay to fight with no leader or purpose. That was not what a faerie would do so he gave way to the knights, closest to his portal, as he returned to talk to James Carstairs:

-I'd be glad if you tell Julian I don't hold any bad blood towards him for killing Annabel, she always knew her death would be from Julian Blackthorn's hands. She just didn't care living enough to save herself.

"Your words will be received by him, yet this reminds me another thing. Julian's offer didn't have any expiry date and you don't have to stay in New York if you don't want to, even if you choose to leave Seelie. Los Angeles Institute would like to take you in as well. You are not an unfamiliar face to Blackthorns, as well as you are not to me and my family. If you choose to live in this world but not to be a shadowhunter, then go to London shadow market and ask for Brother Zachariah to faerie at the seventh booth in left. I can arrange a normal living for you. A peaceful place to stay. You can live far away from the clave like I do, I may be a shadowhunter by birth but I have chosen not to serve as one."

"But how do you live then?" asked Ash, trying to sound curious. In reality he was trying to avoid thinking about Blackthorns.

"I am living very happily at the country side with my warlock wife, baby girl and our adopted son."

This was interesting. So many Shadowhunters married with warlocks and also having adoptive children... Maybe they were changing in a way his mother couldn’t foresee.

"As I told the consul I will consider your offer too, James Carstairs."

Then Jace Herondale closed a few feet of distance he was keeping for minutes to give Ash the space he needed. Since he witnessed his mirror's death in Ash’s arms, he spoke in a slow calming voice. Even with his lighter and careful tone, it was his uncles voice and it hurt Ash to hear it. After all, this Jace was the only person in this battlefield who knew what really happened. He knew Ash’s weakness but he was trying to help in his own way.

"He was a Jace Herondale and he suffered so much not to deserve a proper shadowhunter funeral. He can be sent to his eternal rest if you leave him here."

Ash could see the reasoning even if he wanted to have a grave, on the hillside they used to meet in wilderness of Seelie, for his uncle. He knew it would complicate things in Seelie Court where everyone already question his every action to see if he really is The Prince they lost only a few years ago to The Unseelie King or was he a shadowhunter now. Ash never questioned where he belongs before seeing Thule and now this world. Maybe he was not just Seelie Prince or Sebastian’s son maybe he himself should question this too.

He looked at his uncles body and started thinking practical like a faerie does.

"I trust your word enough to know he will receive the funeral he deserves, in Faerieland we are not afraid to let the past go."

With his words Alec Lightwood-Bane made a small head gesture resulted with four bone-colered robed figures -Ash suspected to be men with deep scars carved to their skin- to come and take his uncle's body. He didn’t look at the way they carried him. Ash was going to move forward after clearing a few problems he had with his mother.

There was no point in being sorry or feeling remorse about what can not be changed. He vowed to himself to never make the same mistake. Ash turned around to look at the consul and James Carstairs standing next to one another and said;

"I believe this will not be the only time we see each other, I will remember your kind offers and I see you have changed some of what makes The Clave untrustworthy for someone like me."

This was the last thing Ash said to anybody at that night before he entered the portal he created only a few minutes ago.

The memory was only from eight months ago. Still it felt like a lifetime to Ash. His brother was staring at him in that worried way he always does when he knows anything he’d say wouldn’t be heard by him.

"Ash, are you sure it’s getting better? We can ask Tessa for a sleeping potion."

"Kit, I don’t need some magic to find sleep at night. It will pass eventually, maybe I need more productive hobbies than playing play-station and watch horrible movies with you." Ash said playfully shaking old memories to make room for the new.

"Hahahaha, you would have fooled me if I didn’t knew how much you liked The Shining." he said punching his arm the way a brother does.

Ash would never thought he would find a home like this in this middle of nowhere surrounded by shadowhunters who were not strictly shadowhunter at all.

He certainly did not imagine to have a Herondale for a brother at any point of his complicated life.

[espejonight28738]

Disgusting Feelings

You can also read it in A03

At night is when, in Izaya's opinion, the most interesting people are active. That's why he rarely slept at night, and usually he just started his day with a few hours of sleep in the morning. His beloved humans –and his job, for the matter– were far more important than his sleeping schedule.

But there were particular nights like that one, when nothing happened, the forums were dead silence, and therefore he was stuck in his apartment with the only company of his secretary, Namie. He hated these days, because the lack matters to put his attention into made too easy to succumb to merciless and vicious thoughts he didn't want. But it was almost the middle of the night, and he knew of two persons who were having a date in Ikebukuro, and that brought questions that remained unanswered in his head.

And he knew because even if he weren't the best informant of Shinjuku and Ikebukuro, only one event could make Namie as furious as she was. Her dear brother had a date with Harima Mika.

“Tell me, Namie, why do you endure it? You don't have to, but you still do anyway.”

She turned form her desk to look at her boss, but he wasn't looking at him. His eyes were on the enormous window that covered an entire wall, looking at, in her experience, nothing in particular. Just enjoying the hustle of Shinjuku.

She kept quiet, waiting for him to elaborate in his question. That was something he did, throw some important-sounding words and go back to silence for brief time. It was a functioning technique for when he wanted to get information out of someone: you make them nervous, make them think you know more than what you actually do.

Namie knew better than to fall for his tricks.

“I mean your brother. Or to be more precise, the girl he's dating. She's always all over him, and that enrages you, but you don't do anything to stop it. You could get rid of her. You have the contacts, the information, the lack of moral and, with how much I pay you, I'm certain you have the money to do it.” Another pause, probably with the same finality than the first one.” Nothing stops you from getting her out of your way, and no one would ever know, except for probably me.  Seiji would be all yours again. So, what's holding you back?”

And that's how, even when he is the one asking for information, he makes you feel like he saw the bigger picture, like he had the upper hand. So prepotent, she understood why that Masaomi kid always had face of wanting to punch Izaya. If she had to ask help of someone so nefarious, she would also have that attitude.

But an amusing thing, at least in Namie's opinion, was that Izaya would have been capable of deducing the reason, was she anyone else. The problem with Izaya's “brilliant” method of reading people depending of him being an observant, not to be personally involved with the subject of study. That meant that, when he became closer to someone, he lost all perspective.  And even if him and Namie weren't on the best terms, working only the two of them in the same apartment every day for multiple hours would create a closer relationship between most people.

And, normally, the sole mention of her brother would be enough for her to ignore completely what was he saying, in a clear attempt not to get exasperated. But this was different, because this kind of questions were the ones he did in an attempt to understand something that escaped his grasp and, apart from her, there were only other two persons Izaya didn't understood.

Himself.

And Heiwajima Shizuo.

This promised to be interesting.

“Because even if she dies, Seiji would still only love me as a sister, that much wouldn't change. And even if I hate that girl with each fiber of my body, she makes Seiji happy. So, if he can't love me like I love him, then at least I can do what's in my hands to make him happier.” Izaya had yet to turn back to see her, and that's why she left until the end her first move. “My love for him may be a taboo in this society, but at least it isn't poisonous to the recipient”

That cough his attention. Even if just for a second his shoulders stiffened the way they did when he was taken by surprise.

“What are you implying? You know as well as I do that my love for humans have done them no wrong. I just provide the information they ask for and answer the questions they haven't thought of yet. But their actions and the consequences, those are in their entirety their fault. I've never once obligated someone to make a decision.”

It was true, she knew that. And she was another of the hundreds that ended in a less than idoneal situation. Some chose to blame all on Izaya, maybe to feel a little more at ease with themselves, but she knew better than to make someone other than herself responsible for her actions and mistakes.

“I know that. Even if you appear in control, the truth is that you are not. You sell information, maybe plant ideas in someone's head, but they are the ultimate writers of their future. When they think you're the author of all their misfortune, they're wrong. They are idiots. But you are not, and so you know that's not what I'm talking about.”

That, he does was waiting, but still he deigned to turn to see her. That cruel smile and unnerving look, eyes full of the darkest emotions. If Namie believed in demons, she was certain they'd look like that.

“Then enlighten me, Namie, what are you talking about?”

“Heiwajima Shizuo.”

His daunting laughter was all she needed to know she had hit the nail. She decided to ignore the chills that laughter produced her.

“Have you ever tried to be friends with Karisawa Erika? You already have a great conversation starter, your delusions about me and that monster you both seem to believe in.  I'll admit I had you for a more reasonable woman. Who would have guessed I was so wrong about it?”

“I take back what I said, you do are an idiot if you though even for a fraction of second that you could trick me with such a pathetic technique of evasion.”

His smile didn't waver one bit. He knew not to let his expression betray him. This was his game, and no one won him on his game, unless they pressed the right buttons.

She knew which those buttons were.

“But I guess I can understand why you would try to evade the topic. Not even you would take delight in having such a devastating presence that you can't even care for someone without damaging them. Not even you sisters, whom you just took care of because your parents worked all day, saved themselves from your toxicity. Those girls are crazier that most people in a mental institution.”

“That's not true, I've told you I'm as much to blame for how they turned out as I'm to blame about any other thing.” He didn't hesitate, his voice didn't tremble.

“But it is true. You cared for them, and that was more than enough. They looked up on you an ended up like... that. And they will never heal, not even if they like you so little, they would trade you for a photo of Yuuhei Hanejima without giving it a second though.”

She was looking at Izaya's eyes, and even if the rest of his face remained impassible, a clear annoyance begun to fill his eyes.

“Maybe,” she continued, “that's something all the Orihara siblings have in common. An obsession with the Heiwajima's...”

And finally, Izaya started to take seriously the game.

“I have no obsession with Shizu-chan. I don't follow him around, I don't know what's he doing every minute of the day, and I definitely wouldn't try to cover a murder for him. Those conducts are obsessive, and I'd like to point out that is very precise description of your relationship with Seiji.”

He played with turn. He knew what to say, trying to enrage her and make her loose her objective. Smarte, and very effective, but this time it would be pointless.

“No, you don't do those things, because you're worse. You make him follow you around, you have a big archive of his information and refuse to sell even the littlest detail when someone ask, even when you wouldn't hesitate to sell your own parents if that brought you a benefit.” She started to almost spit the words but reminded herself she needed to maintain her composure.

Check.

“I'm doing humanity a favor, that monster must be killed. But you know what? I don't let that ruin my life. I don't do things crazy enough for me to end up a secretary of someone I despise. That would be really pathetic, don't you agree?”

That was low, even for him. Namie made a monumental effort not to hit him right there, but she had gone too far to give up now.

“You're right.” She started. “But you do would end up with a life you hate, fighting with someone you love on a daily basis at first, and then every time you go to Ikebukuro. Does it hurt? Hearing him say you would be better off dead, that you are just a piece of shit?”

Namie kept quiet for a moment, this time to let Izaya knew she was winning.

“How does it feel that the person you love would be happier if you died?”

Checkmate.

That threatening smile finally left his face, and now another one just as cruel was on hers.

“Those are some strong accusations based on... what? That I don't sell information of him? That's as good as nothing. You can't just make up things and hope people fall for it: That's why you are the secretary and I am the informant.”

“Maybe for your business you need more than that, but I don't. I know I'm right, and so do you, so why keep on lying? You started the conversation, so now stick to it. What were you thinking?” She didn't even try to hide the pride on her voice. Even if it wasn't the first time, winning these arguments was rare, and usually it wasn't even worth it to try.

He turned around to look at the window once more, not emitting a word, but at least that meant he had stopped denying it.

And Namie thought of how depressing, sickening and loathsome was the fact that this man in front of her was the closest thing to a friend she had ever had. That definitely make her want to reconsider her life choices.

“Were you asking why Seiji being happy is enough for me, but Heiwajima's happiness isn't enough for you?”

“No, you don't understand, you can't understand.” He started rambling, more desperate that Namie had ever heard him. “It's not that it isn't enough, it's that the mere idea repels me. I need him to be miserable, just when I know I've ruined some aspect of his life can I breathe easily once again.”

It would be a lie if Namie said she was surprised, because she wasn't. She knew all of that, having deduced it long ago. But still, hearing someone say that the actually want the person they love to feel that miserable... In her life, she had seen a lot of twisted feelings, be it in herself or in other, but this was by far the worst she had ever encounter. And that was because she knew that, even if most people would disagree, it does was love.

Because she understood that love didn't have to be selfless, nor did it had to make you happy. It just had to made you passionate –and in most cases obsessive– about it. And, with that in mind, she was surprised no one else had realized Izaya's feelings. Maybe most people just didn't think of him like someone who could feel love, or even emotions in general.

For a moment, she asked herself what expression would be now on his face, and then discarded the question. She didn't want to know, it was probably something too close to human for her like. Even if scientifically terms she knew Izaya was just as human as everyone else, the knowledge that he could be so... fragile to feelings made her uncomfortable. And, exactly for that same reason, the next words that left her mouth were a big mistake.

“What's wrong with you?” Her tone wasn't even bitter, just curious. Because for someone to have those kind of emotions...

This time his laughter was almost in complete silence, and with something close to pain in it.

“My mother asked herself that for decades. In fact, I'm sure she still does. Taking me to psychologist after psychiatrist, she was begging each and every god to give her an answer. It didn't have to be one she liked, she just wanted a reason. Psychopathy, sociopathy, borderline personality disorder, even schizophrenia.”

Even if his voice didn't have a particular emotion, Namie was speechless. He never talked about his personal life.

“She's a good woman, and I guess a good mother too. She would have accepted if someone had told her everything was her fault, that she neglected me too much during my early childhood or that it was all an attempt to catch the attention she only paid to her work. She would have accepted any answer, and she would have done anything in her power to make it better and to assure me she would love me no matter what.” Another moment of silence, but this time, Namie thought, was for a completely different reason that before. It was because he didn't know how to tell that story. “The only thing she wasn't ready to hear was the answer every person she took me to give her.”

And she didn't have to think too hard to conclude what that answer was.

“That there was nothing wrong with you.” It wasn't a question, but still she waited for reassurance.

A sight left his lips, and she briefly wondered if everyone would fear him as much if they knew how close he was to his limit.

“Exactly. The night she gave up she cried herself to sleep, not even my father could calm her down. Because they told her nothing was wrong with her son, but she knew something was. Maybe she was right, maybe not. She never took the twins to see someone, she was too afraid of having the same answer and, truth to be told, she knew on some level it was my fault. Anyway, the moment I turned eighteen I left my home, sick of seeing her suffering every time I opened my mouth. She tried to stop me, but my father convinced her that it was for the best, that she wasn't doing me any good by being so depressed all the time.”

And that was the moment Namie realized her mistake, because she didn't want to know any of this. Because it was so... tragic, even she was sympathizing with him, and that wasn't good. Izaya was as bad as it could get, he didn't disserve anyone's sympathy. And still, she didn't have the heart to stop him when he started talking again.

“I still see her once a year. She comes to Shinjuku to hang out with my sisters and me. If I had a choice in the matter, I would have stopped all communication with her, but Mairu and Kururi love her, and they know it would break her heart if she didn't see me. So, they would come and scare off every client that came, and that would be terrible for the business, so I agree to their little pretend game for a day. The twins and I pretend to get on well, because it calms our mother to think that I look after them now that they live alone. Kururi talks a little more, Mairu leaves at home those stupid glasses she doesn't need, and I pretend I'm some kind of private detective or something. She bothers me with how I'm too thin, or why do I have so many scars, but in the end, she pretends to believe everything's okay, because she knows that if she pressures for more, I'm out, and she prefers to at least have her son back with her once a year. Maybe a little selfish, but I'm no one to judge.”

Namie didn't know what to do. She wanted to punch him still, or maybe tell him he's just an asshole, maybe even to leave without saying a word.

But none of that sounded like good options in her head.

Izaya turned again, leaning on the glass, and she expected any expression except from the one of absolute apathy he had. It was as if the story he just told wasn't his at all, and Namie had the horrific realization that he actually didn't care about any of that. At all.

Maybe she was the one wrong, and he really wasn't able to feel emotions or something.

“I can't read your mind, Namie, but if you're thinking I don't have emotions, then I'm afraid you're wrong. I just don't care because none of them are important to me. Yes, I love them, but just as I love every human. I can't love someone more than the others, remember? My family is no exception.”

“I'm thinking all the story is bullshit.” It was a lie, but it was better than not answering at all. If only her voice didn't sound so weak...

“No, you're not. It's just easier for you to think I spawned as some kind of heartless demon, with the only purpose of ruining lives. Giving a story makes me more human in your eyes, it makes you want to understand why I am like this. If I'm not a demon, if I'm not ill, and if it wasn't my parents, why? Well, if you come to a conclusion, feel free to tell my mother.” And with that he left to the kitchen, and Namie heard the coffee machine as she tried to process the surreal scene that just happened in front of her.

She had caught glimpse of Izaya's life, she had heard him talk about the twins (and complaining about Mairu's fake glasses), but nothing like this. She even wondered if he wasn't planning on killing her for knowing too much. It didn't made sense any other way that he allowed her to know so much about him.

He came back with two cups of coffee and gave her one. Maybe, in his particular way, he also considered her a friend.

“Don't you think, Namie, that life would be far better if we didn't have to carry the burden of feelings?” He sat at his desk and pretended to look at the papers on it.

She took a sip of the coffee, and it was horrible. It was ridiculous he couldn't even make coffee right. How had he survived so many years living on his own before her?

“Your feelings are only a burden if you don't know how to deal with them.” She kept drinking the coffee. “At least for you. I'd say your feelings are the biggest burden in Heiwajima's life. He's an idiot, but I don't think he has ever done anything so wrong as to deserve the catastrophic destiny of having to deal with the poison you call love.”

This time there was no laughter at all. And she didn't know why, but she almost preferred when there was. The overwhelming desire of punching him was better than... whatever she was feeling right now.

“No, he hasn't. But I can't let him go, it would be as giving up breathing. You asked how it feels, and it is atrocious. Being stabbed hurt less. I honestly think than being burned alive would be a relief in comparison. But some days the only thing that keeps me going is that pain, the knowledge that that agony means he' still in my life, even if against his will.”

She was starting to feel sick. She started to appreciate the fact that Izaya was liar, that he never let anyone to know what he felt or what was he really thinking.

That was the real favor he was doing to humanity.

Just hearing him was enough for her to feel the need of a bath of hours. She had just heard a tiny fragment of what was going on his brain, and it was enough for her no never want to hear anything else ever again. How could he keep on living being so wrong in the head? She didn't know, but honestly, she didn't care anymore.

She just took her purse, ready to go back home and forget this entire day ever happened. It was the best for her mental health.

“Are you afraid of a little of honesty, Namie? I thought you were the one that was trying to pry into my head in the first place. Did I not meet your expectations?”

She didn't answer, and she didn't look back on her way to the door. He could be left alone with his thoughts, but she wasn't paid enough to deal with them.

And if she heard the beginning of a cry before closing the door, she forgot it with the rest of the conversation that had place that day.

[feargender]

read on ao3 here

Magnus holds the door to the loft open for Alec, who has one hand in a sling and the other rubbing gently at the wound in his chest. He smiles at Magnus, who twitches his mouth in return, too tired for much else. Alec had spent two days healing in the Institute infirmary, but Magnus has spent two days drowning in his own personal sea of loathing. He closes and locks the door, which feels unfamiliar, but he can no longer tell if his wards are active. He can’t feel his own magic which permeates this place, in between every stitch of clothing and grain of wood. His magic is what made the loft feel like home. It was his sanctum sanctorum, but now he feels like a stranger within its walls.

He sets the Chinese takeout bag on the table, brushing the ingredient sheet he was working on aside with a pang in his chest.

They eat in relative silence, Magnus chuckling quietly as Alec tries to navigate chopsticks with his non-dominant hand, spilling fried rice onto the table before finally getting up for a fork. Magnus is filled with white hot anger at himself for a moment, grinding his teeth. It’s ridiculous, but all he can think about is how one of them is going to have to wipe up that rice later, how he can no longer wave away messes. Like spilled food or his love bleeding out on the floor or a bowman’s broken wrist.

Alec casts him a glance, as if his anger is tangible across the space between them, but says nothing. Not until he’s finished eating and Magnus has gazed into his noodles for over ten minutes, chopsticks still in their paper wrapper next to his hand. Magnus watches with raised eyebrows as Alec gets out of his seat and comes around the table, pushing Magnus’ chair until he’s turned and Alec can kneel before him, good hand on Magnus’ knee.

Magnus looks down at Alec confusedly, but Alec just says, “How are you?”

Worried about you, Magnus thinks. Angry at myself. Cursed.

“Seeing my father again, after all this time,” Magnus says, “Was a unique kind of torture.” After Alec’s understanding nod, he continues. “Giving him my magic felt like I became his again. The first step in going back to a time where everything I was belonged to him.” Magnus releases a shaky breath, blinking back the sudden urge to cry. Cry because all of the hatred and sadness and fear pressing against the inside of his ribs has nowhere else to go. The magic he would have once used to expel it is gone. Vanished out of him. All that he feels left is a phantom ache all over.

Alec rises, holding out his good hand to Magnus. Magnus takes it and stands, ignoring the food left out on the table for now. He pulls Magnus to the living room and they sit on the couch together, staring ahead into the dim room, untouched for several days now.

“My magic was the most integral part of me. My entire life, my identity, had magic in the center of it. Centuries of learning and growing. It’s gone now. I don’t know who I am without my magic,” Magnus confesses. “He took everything from me in one fell swoop, and he knows it. I can feel him laughing at me.”

“We’ll get it back,” Alec says, “We’ll get your magic back, Magnus, I promise. You saved part of me, now I’m gonna save part of you.”

Magnus shakes his head. “It’s not that easy, Alexander. A deal with a Greater Demon is binding, there’s no breaking it unless both parties are in agreement or another deal is struck.”

Alec turns to look at Magnus. “We will get it back. Asmodeus will give you back your magic and your immortality. I swear.” Magnus’ heart stutters at that, the expression on Alec’s face. Alec promises like his word could move mountains. His word may be the only thing stronger than a demon deal.

“And until then,” Alec adds, “we’ll figure it out together. One day at a time. I know… I know that everything you value about yourself has been taken. And it might not mean much in the face of all that, but I know who you are. You’re Magnus Bane. Magic or not, you are a strong, intelligent, caring man. No one can take that away.”

Magnus reaches over and takes Alec’s good hand out of his lap, linking their fingers and leaning his head on Alec’s shoulder. “When Asmodeus found me, I was none of those things. He took a scared child and made a monster. A ruthless, careless man that was happy to watch people suffer. I’m afraid that he might be trying again. Create such fear and hopelessness in me that I go back to him, become that monster again.” A tear leaks out the corner of one eye, sliding to soak into Alec’s shirt.

“That’s what I dread most. The loss of my magic taking the rest of the good things inside of me with it,” his voice has to squeeze past a lump in his throat, tasting like salt and pennies and fear.

Alec is silent for a long time, so long that Magnus looks up at him. “You’re not alone this time, Magnus. You have people here to help you. It won’t be like when you were a child. Me and Catarina and Dot and everyone else who cares for you won’t let it.”

“Alexander,” Magnus says, and Alec turns his face so that they’re almost nose to nose. He kisses the corner of Alec’s mouth, feeling it tilt into a small smile. He shifts them both around bodily until he’s on his side, wedged between the couch cushions and Alec laying on his back, head on Alec’s chest next to the bandages over his healing wound.

Magnus can feel Alec’s heart thudding dully, a steady rhythm between them. “I’m glad that I fell in love with you,” he whispers.

“Me too. Or else I would’ve looked like a real ass, kissing the wrong guy at my wedding when he didn’t even like me,” Alec replies. Magnus looks up at him sharply and sees the wide smile on his face, which wilts under Magnus’ glare.

“I’m trying to have a moment and you make jokes?” Magnus says, playing at an affronted tone, but Alec only laughs, straining his neck awkwardly in his quest for a kiss.

Magnus obliges, but says against Alec’s lips, “You’re lucky you were mortally wounded two days ago.”

“Thank you for saving me, Magnus,” Alec laughs, pulling away.

“Don’t make me rethink my decision,” Magnus replies.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”