#and raises the question of how being nice falls within that dichotomy

[idgaficanymore]

I think I've found my favourite line about Snape in a fanfic ever:

For once, Snape was just…a person. Well. An intelligent, awkward, antisocial, sarcastic, and guarded person. With anger management issues. Alright, so he wasn’t an altogether admirable person.

[queencamden]

Do you think that the SIX fandom has become very toxic ????

That’s rather complicated. I’m not totally well-versed in fandom drama, as the major fandoms I’ve been in previously (School for Good and Evil, Six of Crows and Three Dark Crowns) are all fairly chill. However, I have noticed that it has gotten a lot less unified as time went on. I first joined around July (before I got my account, just looking at posts) and it seemed much more supportive then.

I think the fandom has just become very DIVIDED. I, like several others, have become more in the Tudorblr community than the Six fandom at this point, and because of this I’ve noticed a big divide in terms of views of historical accuracy. (That’s the lens I will be focusing on, as I don’t care much about other discourse)

The divide between history fans and Six fans (and the toxicity within fandom this leads to) can be summarized in three main points.

1. History blogs and history-loving fans don’t understand/ are weirded out by fandomey fans.

2. Fandomey fans do not bother to consider the history.

3. Both sides are very aggressive on what they think is right.

Let’s start with the history blogs

They don’t understand the fandom

I hate to say it, but we’ve become the next Hamilton fandom: most Six fans get their info only from the show, and from this have developed their own, fandomey versions of the characters. The Anne Boleyn that the Six fandom loves is not the real Anne Boleyn. The Katherine Howard the Six fandom loves is not the real Katheryn Howard. However, (I saw a post about this once) the fandom is quite good at separating the characters from the actual people. (Most of) us know that the Angry Bible Aunt, Chaotic Heely Gremlin, The Mom Friend, The Dog-Loving Badass, The Babey-Brat, and The Sleep-Deprived Academic are NOT the Six Wives of Henry VIII. Because that is how fandom works. You take the most exaggerated versions of the characters in question and work off of them. ESPECIALLY in theatre fandoms, where most fans can’t even see the whole show. I think that’s why Theatre fandoms have a reputation for being cringy. The exaggerated, fandom versions of the characters are all they know.

I think a lot of the time, more history-focused blogs don’t get that aspect of fandom. Yes, Tudorblr has its own memey versions of these people (Anne Boleyn being extra, Henry being Garfield) but the content that they make are not solely these characters- because in the end the meme versions are characters. It’s hard for history blogs to understand that the fandom versions of the characters, are NOT what the fans actually think these people were like. This can lead to mocking, and attacking Six fans for being “dumb” or “cringy”. Certain blogs that are within the fandom that like the historical figures hate on fan blogs and that is NOT OKAY. For example, I saw a post where someone was making fun of Six the Kids, because they “would never be friends in the modern day”. Yeah..... neither would the Queens. And this is explicitly set in the universe of Six. History blogs should stop being high and mighty over fandoms having fun. HOWEVER.....

Fans don’t understand the history.

This show IS about real people. Who actually existed. In real life. And Six fans who ONLY reduce them to these characters can be very frustrating for people who are interested in the real people. Because Six is so popular the ONLY versions of these people you can often find on Tumblr are the Six versions. And I get it. Really I do. I used to be one of those Six fans who called KH “Kitty” (only for clarification purposes between the Katherines but still) and made memes about Anne being a chaotic gremlin. And then I looked up the actual history and I STOPPED. Not everyone has to go that deep, of course, or stop making these memes (most of them are very funny) but it would be good to respect the historical figures. I understand that it’s hard to do that in an incorrect quote, but maybe do what @sabrianna said in an earlier post and tag the characters as, say Katharine of Aragon- Six, so as not to clog the tags of people searching for the actual historical figure.

Like I said, the problem is not with making exaggerated versions of the queens. That is part of BEING a fandom. It’s not even a problem of using the characterizations from the show (such as chaotic Boleyn) What is the problem, is that many fans DON’T care about the history, or think they know everything about it. They make roleplays, ship the queens, e.t.c. but it’s all very out of character to the real women. I said earlier that most people can differentiate between the fandom queens and the real queens and that’s true. But some fans don’t. Some fans only know the queens from the fanon and the musical and because of that we get stuff like UwU Babey Katheryn Howard or people shipping Boleyn and Aragon, which is actually kind of disrespectful to the historical figures. At best, this leads to ire and harassment from Tudorblr, at worst to actual misinformation about the queens being spread by the fandom.

Both are overly aggressive in what they think is right

This is the big one and the major component of the “toxicity” of the fandom. Six is a musical about raising your voice, so it makes sense that it’s fans would be very outspoken. But it falls into a problem when they refuse to see the queens any other way. When it gets to people harassing others for stating differing opinions just to defend YOUR interpretation of a real person who actually lived, that is wrong. Because often your interpretation is NOT right, or at least limited. For example people who view Elizabeth and Mary as a black-and-white ‘good sister, evil sister’ dichotomy, when in reality they were both just as grey and complex as anyone else. But people will straight-up harass and argue with others who are just trying to explain that Mary’s background caused a great deal of her problems, and that Elizabeth did bad things too.

There’s just a lack of LISTENING which is a problem for a fandom based on history. (I know Six isn’t historically accurate, but a lot of fans are interested in the real queens). History is subjective. In my time researching historical!Katheryn Howard my opinion on her has changed around three to four times and that’s good. You are allowed to have multiple views on a thing, and when someone is trying to explain something to you, you don’t have to dismiss it. This goes for the history fans to. When Six fans make a factually incorrect statement, many history fans tend to condescend or belittle them which, as a Six fan, does NOT make us want to learn more. Simply telling us the true, often much more interesting, situation, DOES. Also, friendly reminder, most of the Six fandom are teenagers, and from what I’ve seen of Tudorblr it’s more of a mix of teens and adults. IF YOU ARE AN ADULT, DO NOT BELITTLE TEENAGERS FOR BEING WRONG. WE ARE ALREADY INSECURE ENOUGH.

Tldr; History fans, treat Six fans with respect, and acknowledge that their fandomey queens are not the queens you know and love. Six fans, respect the queens (and the history fans), do some research, and put *Queen’s Name*- Six in the tags, so that history blogs don’t ALWAYS have to see Six content. Both groups, respect others opinions. Stop constantly trying to prove you’re right. In the case of Six fans, you’re probably not (sorry) and in the case of history fans, most of the Six fandom are new to this and still learning.

Sorry for the long post @thedeadqueensclub I meant to have this finished a while ago. I don’t really know of any other fandom drama aside from the Tudorblr Vs. Six thing, so this is all I got for fandom toxicity (though there is definitely a lot more I haven’t covered)

I really enjoyed answering this, and would love if I got more asks (though it might take some time to answer them) It’s really nice to talk to all of you!

[codyfernaesthetic]

Dichotomy

Part 8

Author’s note: The chapter in which Michael and Mallory are having none of each other’s shit. Also, buckle up, the slow burns about to become a wildfire.

Warnings: Language

Mallory became more comfortable with leaving her apartment as time went on, though she didn’t interact with anyone besides Rhoda. Not for lack of trying. She’d see other people, either at the various entertainment facilities they’d built or just in passing. At best, she was treated like a plague; avoided and snubbed, which she didn’t mind at all, she was used to it. Coco’s various functions and friendships had made her build up a callous to elitist bullshit. 

The one difference between then and now was Rhoda. She couldn’t remember having any friends when she’d moved to L.A., let alone a best friend; but Rhoda quickly earned the title, perhaps out of necessity, but not begrudgingly. Once they’d gotten over the hurdle of master/servant, they found they had a lot in common; a grounded sense of self, a natural helpfulness, and now even a deep love and respect for Princess Leia. Mallory couldn’t help but wish that they’d known each other under much different circumstances. Ones where there was no apocalypse or Antichrist, and she wasn’t a designer human grown in a lab, and they could have normal lives; where she’d have Rhoda to hang out with on her birthday, and not feel completely alone every waking second of the day like she’d been since moving...though she forgot why she moved.

But the nicest times with Rhoda, or at any point, were at the Sanctuary’s library. It was a less populated area, and so peacefully quiet; even in the apocalypse people obeyed library rules. 

It was a grandiose as the rest of the complex; floor to ceiling rows of books spanned rich mahogany shelves underneath a glass roof trimmed in gold, the floor the same reflective black marble. They’d get lost just searching for books, any kind; Rhoda was most fascinated by history, inundating Mallory with questions about what used to be America or other countries. To which she would shrug most of the time, she’d never been an A student in history. Oddly enough, Mallory found herself drawn to collections of fairytales or myths; enthralled by tales of witches and fairies, gods and monsters. She’d never considered herself a fanciful person, but felt an irresistible pull to the mystical.

Their peace, however, was interrupted one day when a servant entered the library and made a beeline for the two of them with an envelope in his hand. He stopped, gave a quick bow and held out the envelope.

“An invitation from Lord Langdon.”

They looked at each other, confused and scared. Mallory took the envelope carefully. It was blood red, a golden seal with the indent of a goat enclosing its contents. She popped it open, unfurling a short letter in a thick, cursive hand.

Mallory, may I have the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight? I await your answer with bated breath.-Michael Langdon

She gave the messenger a deadpan stare, “You can’t be serious.”

“He needs an answer,” they responded just as blankly.

She furrowed her brows, then nodded gravely, “Yes.”

They bowed and left in a hurried pace. Leaving the two women frozen in place.

“God, that man is pretentious,” Mallory muttered, rolling her eyes.

“He wants to appear calm and in charge,” Rhoda replied, more so to herself.

Mallory turned to her, “How’d he know where I’d be?”

She lifted up her arm with the black band, “Our wristbands are tracked.”

“Comforting.”

* * *

Lydia had become another fixture of Mallory’s new life, a slightly more annoying one, but still welcome. And of course, she just had to make Mallory a dress for the evening, even though she insisted she could wear any number of the others; but she was determined. Lydia was practically buzzing with chaotic energy as she designed, made the pattern, and started sowing this new dress in a single hour. 

“Is that satanic influence or pure talent?” Mallory joked.

“Both,” she replied, not looking at her.

The final product, finished just in time, left Mallory speechless. It was a soft, flowing white dress. The bodice was encrusted with gold trim and adornment, leading down to a skirt with feathery fringe; the sleeves open and sheer, draped and falling off the shoulders. Rhoda helped place the finishing accessory of a golden crown of flowers.

“What do you think?” Lydia asked, glowing with pride.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said turning to her, “It’s very angelic.”

She chuckled with a wink, “I thought it’d be a nice little contrast.”

Mallory smiled and looked in the mirror again.

Words were scratched on the mirror; slowly each letter appeared, line by line. Time seemed to stall. Her gaze was set; unmoving, as the impossible happened right before her eyes once again. Eventually, the message was complete, and it was incomprehensible to her.

Spiritu duce, in me est. Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremum, ut salutaret inferi. Descensum!

“Mallory?”

Rhoda placed her hand on her shoulder, “Are you ok?”

She gave no reaction, not wanting to alert Lydia. 

“I’m fine.”

The same messenger from before arrived at her apartment with the same breakneck speed she’d delivered the invitation. The moment Rhoda opened the door, the escort looked at Mallory and informed her, “Lord Langdon requests Miss Mallory come alone.”

Mallory could see Rhoda’s grip tightened on the doorknob and the sudden fear in her eyes.

“It’s fine, Rhoda,” she assured, “I’ll be fine.”

As she left, Lydia called out after her, “Good luck, dear!”

She felt like a teenager going on her first date, her doting parents watching out for her. The entire situation both filled her with dread and a weird humor; of all things she never expected to happen, the first was a nuclear apocalypse, and the second was dinner with the Antichrist. She wondered if her reckoning had finally come for the Temple incident; she had flashes of blood and gore pass through her imagination, all the different ways Langdon could kill her.

At least she knew she had a defense mechanism; she had no idea how to use it, but it was something. She’d tried to manifest it on her own free will, but no matter how hard she focused, she would hit a brick wall. Maybe, she thought, it was only an emotional response. Maybe the threat of dying will be all it takes for me to go off. That is if I get the-

Her thought stopped as they exited the main complex, a motorized cart waiting outside. It wasn’t anything fancy or futuristic like she’d come to expect, just a simple gray cart.

“What, does he live in an entirely different building?”

They got into the cart without a word. She took that as a yes. She slipped into the cart and they began to drive. The artificial lights had been dimmed to a more evening-time atmosphere, the outside of the glass looking as green and dark as before. They came upon a house 20 miles eastward of the complex, as gothic as Mallory expected. It was Victorian architecture, the wood painted a deep red with accents of black. A black iron staircase led up to stain glass doors under a spherical archway, which to her looked like a mouth, the black crown molding its ready teeth. The escort parked and led her up the stone pathway, the familiar darkness creeping up around her. 

The escort rang the doorbell, receiving an immediate answer. 

Michael opened the door, fully clad in gothic regalia; though not as extravagant as expected. The escort bowed deeply without a word, immediately leaving at the wave of Michael’s hand. Within a blink, the two were left alone, Mallory still standing on the stairs.

“Oh, Mallory,” he mused, looking her over, “you didn’t have to dress up for me.”

She restrained herself from rolling her eyes, didn’t want to get killed too early.

He raised an eyebrow with a smug grin, “Still so shy?”

“What would you like me to say?” She crossed her arms, “Thanks for inviting me to dinner? Nice place you got here?”

“Gratitude is always a good way to start.”

She stared at him blankly.

“Or not.”

He stepped back, extending his arm to invite her inside. She cautiously slipped passed him, feeling her skin tingle from his gaze never leaving her. She looked around, the inside not as loft and flamboyant as the exterior. It was stately, like a house that came from old money. 

“I wanted a house similar to my childhood home...” he told her, “one of them, anyway.” 

He turned to the left and started walking, she followed silently. They entered a dining room, not dissimilar to...

She couldn’t finish the thought, like the memory was hiding from her.

Food was already laid out on the table, nothing fancy at all; steak, potatoes, a few vegetables on two plates at each end, wine glasses beside them; a simple candelabra in the center. 

“Ms. Mead has opted not to join us this evening,” he said in passing as he pulled out her chair.

She obliged and sat down, the strangeness of the whole situation growing in the pit of her stomach; she thought of the Twilight Zone, or like being in a simulation where the ones controlling it only barely know how everyday life operates. 

“Why am I here?”

He had already begun to eat, “I feel as if we got off on the wrong foot.”

She didn’t move, “That’s a weird way to say you poisoned me.”

“I told you, it was a test,” he lifted the glass to his lips, “And you seem to me to be alive and well.”

“And are you trying to fix that?”

He set down the glass, looking at her with a mixture of offense and concern, “Mallory, I’m a man of my word. You passed the test, you made it to the Sanctuary, why would I take that away from you?”

She shrugged, “Seems like something you’d do.”

“Perhaps you don’t know me as well you assume, then.” 

Something in his tone, or in his eyes, was off; not as confident, not as clear. 

“Just as I don’t know you,” he continued, “I haven’t forgotten your coyness at your first interview,” he smiled, “I was hoping this would establish a new sense of trust. Perhaps we can be friends.”

She huffed, “You have an odd way of making friends.”

“Must explain my lack of them.” 

There was the shift again. A twinge of...sadness? A wavering.

He leaned closer, curling his fingers under his chin, “There are so few interesting people in the world. People you can’t figure out within the first five minutes of meeting them. I like getting to know these people. See what makes them tick.”

She nodded, finding herself slipping into peculiar comfort, “I’m an experiment.”

“You’re fascinating,” he mumbled to himself, “Tell me about Coco.”

Words spilled from her, like an overflowing glass, “She was a Capricorn, hated hazelnut, the color orange, and Lana Del Ray. She wanted an iced mocha with exactly 10 large ice cubes every morning at 8:30 on the dot. One time she asked me how to spell the word “insatiable” for a tweet,” she chuckled, “I still have no idea what that tweet was. She once threw my phone into my drink because I wasn’t paying attention to her while she was talking. I was texting my mom,” her voice became sad, but her mind somewhat struggled to pull the memory from the depths, “She’d just had a mastectomy and I hadn’t seen her face to face in three years.”

“And yet you mourn her,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on her like a trance.

After a pause, she looked down in thought, “She was no stranger to being a bitch but she was still a person. I never thought she deserved to die. She needed me to take care of her to watch her and make sure she was ok. For all her bravado she was like a baby bird that really didn’t know how to flap its wings. And it was my job to help her,” a tear slipped down her cheek onto the plate, “And the one time I don’t...” 

He stood from the table, slowly walking towards her. She was weeping now, not of her own free will.

“I should’ve seen that something was wrong, I should’ve known. I could’ve done something. I failed her. And then I got to come back, I got to keep living. And I can’t help but keep thinking that I don’t deserve to when she didn’t.”  

He crouched down next to her, using his thumb to brush away a tear, “Why did she matter so much to you?”

She shook her head, I have no idea. I just felt so protective of her. She was such a short part of my life, yet I felt this connection to her, more than anyone” she blinked confusedly, “...that I can remember at least.”

He touched her hand, entwining it in a comforting grip, “When you lose someone you love, you very quickly seek for an outlet to express your rage,” his eyes were wet, “sometimes even after your scapegoat has been sacrificed on the altar of your vengeance, there’s still some residue of anger left over for yourself.”

They stared at each other, something passing between them; a spirit of humanity, a shared grief. For a moment, she forgot who...what he was. His words sunk into her heart and made grooves for empathy to flow through like a river through tunnels. Her hand reached over and rubbed his shoulder, she didn’t know what he’d been through, but she knew she desired to relieve the pain. 

Something changed when she touched him, his eyes were filled with a new emotion, determination, “Would it relieve some of your grief if Brock was killed?”

She was taken aback by the question. She didn’t answer at first, her mouth having to catch up with her mind. 

“No,” she replied sadly, “No more death.”

He shoved away from her, and stood, an obvious aura of anger boiling over the surface, quickly dissolving the tenderness of the moment, “How selfless,” he growled, “and utterly apathetic of you.”

Her defenses shot up, “What?”

He looked ready to rip her apart, “You say you cared about Coco and yet you feel absolutely no desire to do anything about the one who took her life.”

Energy began to stir in her fingertips, “Not wanting revenge isn’t the same as indifference.”

He slammed his fist on the table, making her jump, “You didn’t give a fuck about Coco,” he leaned in, snarling, “She was your project, your tool to find your own self-satisfaction in helping such a stupid, vapid little heiress keep her life together.”

The fire began to coil in her chest and surge through her veins. She balled her hands into fists, “That’s not true.”

He laughed viciously, “You’re glad the bitch is dead, you only wish you had a replacement to keep up your illusion that you’re in control of your own life,” his eyes were wild with rage, “Is that your dark place, Mallory? Making the weak rely on you so you can feel better about yourself? You didn’t give a damn about her!”

She pushed away form the table, standing to face him, closing in on him, her voice as enraged, “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

”I know too well,” he met her confrontational stance.

Thick tension swirled around them. Sparks of power flaring between them, a sign of deeper energy, begging to explode.

He grimaced, “Do you know why I haven’t killed you yet, Mallory?”

“Because you’re afraid I’ll come back again,” she spat.

She was against the wall in a second, Michael’s fingers crushing her throat, his other hand tightening around her wrists above her head, his legs pinning her firmly. His hot breath ghosting over her face and neck with each word of venom, “Because you’d take it like a martyr,” he spoke dangerously low, she could barely struggle underneath his grip, her body going cold, “you’d grit your teeth and watch as I gutted you like a goddamn animal.” His eyes traced over her lips, she felt his breathing quicken, his heartbeat race, “You’d stare at me with those big brown eyes and whisper forgiveness from your pretty little mouth. You’d take every single blow with saintly silence. And I personally don’t like getting that angry,” he squeezed her neck, strangling a terrified gasp from her mouth, “Congratulations, you’re too infuriating to kill.”

She pushed him back with inhuman strength. He flew to the other wall, his head slamming with such force that for a moment she worried it had cracked. Panicking, she ran out of the room, nearly falling out the front door.

Ms. Mead came running in, seeing Michael on the ground, disoriented, “ What the hell happened?!”

* * *

She didn’t look back or think. She just ran. All she knew was the moving ground beneath her feet. She just had to-

She was in her room. Like a blip. Her body appeared in her room. Rhoda screamed, scared at first, before realizing it was her. 

“Mallory!” 

The world was shaking. Mallory’s eyes widened, seeing blurs of color and light. She collapsed to the floor.

“Mallory!” Rhoda shook her, crying.

Words came from her, spewing out with perfect clarity.

“Spiritu duce, in me est. Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremum, ut salutaret inferi. Descensum!”

Her vision began to fade, the world around her getting smaller and smaller like she was descending into a tunnel. Pressure bared down on her body, and she sank lower and lower. Darkness covered her, a dull ring pierced through her ears, her skin feeling numb...

Blinding white light exploded all around her, then left as quickly as it came; replaced by gentle blue. The ground was solid beneath her; she wiggled her fingers, soft grass poking against her skin. She touched her face, feeling a temperate warmth on her cheek. It took her a moment before she realized...

Oh, it’s the sun...

The thought was so strange, the sensation even stranger. She sat up, using her arm to shield her eyes as her other hand swept over the grass. Looking around, she saw miles of open field stretch on into eternity, splashes of color dotting everywhere from the myriads of flowers. She stood, examining more of her surroundings, not seeing-

“Mallory!” 

She whirled around, seeing a large glass building, similar in shape to a gazebo. The beams of sunlight bounced off its roof, casting a heavenly glow around it. She saw a figure standing in front of it, whom she assumed had called her. She couldn’t make out any features, or details, but recognized the voice as feminine...

And familiar

“Come inside!” she heard the figure say again, “We have a lot to talk about!”

A burst of energy surged through her veins, and Mallory found herself running; but without exerting any effort, as if she were a breeze nearly passing through with ease. She stopped at the front of the building, even bigger up close, and looked inside. It was a greenhouse, sections of different flora organized neatly throughout. A woman, honey-toned hair cascading down her back, stood watering a hanging plant.

“Hello?” Mallory called out carefully.

The woman turned. It had been months since she’d seen this face, but the memory appeared like a solid figure out of a pillar of smoke; along with a faint whisper, a ghost of remembrance.

Cordelia

“Mallory,” she smiled, placing the watering can down and walking up to the young woman, brushing a tuft of hair behind her ear with all the nurture of a mother.

“I’m so happy to see you.” 

[ecotone99]

[SP] Slaves

As sun broke over the gently sloping hills at the edge of the kingdom, Penelope awoke to its rays gently pushing her eyelids open. Often she was reluctant to rise with the sun, but today was no ordinary day – today marked, to the day, the thirteenth year since her birth. Such an occasion would hold significance to anyone, but as the princess of Gregaria, her foray into adulthood would be met with a celebration unlike any other. For, once a member of the royal family had reached their teenaged years, they were then expected to begin taking on royal duties. The occasion was marked with a formal coronation ceremony, where all the nobles gathered to behold the mantle of monarchy placed figuratively and literally on her shoulders.

And the day had finally come for Penelope. She sat upright in her bed almost as soon as she had fully awoken. She had much preparation to complete before the evening’s festivities – her servants would need quick and steady hands to ensure that she would be in peak presentability. For many of them, she had only a precarious faith in their ability to diligently perform their duties – she often mused that she could instead place her care in nobler hands and minds, but then, the work of servants was unbecoming and unsuited to the nature of the higher class. The servants, on the other hand, as they were not always perfectly cognizant of the best and most efficient way to perform their menial labours, could certainly not be trusted with anything requiring less supervision and instruction, for they were simply by nature unable to comprehend the higher rationalities necessary to govern others or themselves. It was something of a paradox, but it couldn’t be helped. Such was the natural order of things in the world – there were sovereign, and there were slaves.

Though even within these distinct groups, not all were created equally. Penelope had, without question, been met both with royals who were benevolent, and royals who were malicious; royals who governed peacefully, and those who enforced order with an iron fist. Conversely, she had dealt with servants belonging to a varied spectrum: those who were quite proficient at preparing her meals, for example, and those who were little more use than as a body to keep her seat warm.

She would need no seat-warming today. She would need the aid of her most trusted servant.

With the ring of a small bell which rested at her bedside, a stout woman of about forty years emerged from an adjacent chamber. “Morning, young mistress,” she said in a Germanic accent. She came to the side of the princess’s bed, placing a pair of silk slippers on the floor for her to step into. On her arm she carried a thin robe, which she also offered. “And what a morning it is! I’ve been ‘eating up your bath, I imagine it’d be nice and warm for ye now.”

Penelope smiled, taking the robe and stepping into the slippers. “Thank you, Miss,” came her response, in an accent coloured by her years studying Latin. The woman smiled back. Most royals would never even consider to thank a lowly servant simply for fulfilling the role expected of them. But Penelope was not like most royals, and this servant was particularly special to her. For as long as she could remember, and probably before even that, Penelope had been in the care of this woman. She was the one who helped Penelope learn to walk and talk (though the accent had to be unlearned), who saw that she was fed and clothed, and for all intents and purposes was her primary caregiver. Of course, the kingdom’s scholars and philosophers saw to her formal education, but in matters of a more personal nature her parents were obviously too busy ruling the kingdom to spend time raising her. And so, she was left in the hands of a woman whose name she did not know – if she had a name at all.

Many of the servants didn’t have names; after all, what was the point? Their masters had no reason to refer to any of them specifically unless more than one of them was in the room, and then a distinction could be made by pointing a finger. The servants were never called upon for conversation, for what could they possibly have to say that would stimulate the mind of the one with whom they spoke? They were not afforded the same conversational niceties as the upper class, for they were unworthy of consideration in such matters (who cries for the hurt feelings of a slave?). In all manner of daily business, most saw no more reason to bestow a name upon their servant than they saw to bestow a name on the blades of grass in the palace garden, or the bricks and mortar which built the castle’s walls.

But the relationship between the princess and her would-be au pair, while far from putting them on equal footing, was more than that between most masters and servants. So Penelope had taken to calling her “Miss”. Though even such an affectation toward a servant would be seen as unbecoming of a royal such as herself – as such, she did her best only to use it in private.

Privacy was afforded to her now, as she made her way to the adjoining room. Toward one corner there was a large wooden basin filled with gently steaming water, its underside protected by a metal plate to ensure that the small fire crackling underneath would only warm the water, and not incinerate the tub itself. She removed the robe, slippers, and finally her pajamas before descending into the water, allowing its warmth to envelope her. It did little to ease the multitude of thoughts spinning round her mind, but nevertheless it was quite physically relaxing.

Once she was submerged in the tub so as to allow as much modesty as possible, Miss joined her in the room and set to work washing the princess’s hair. She had done it many times before, and if one looked at her arms they would notice that they were markedly cleaner up to the point where the princess’s bathwater met her elbow than they were elsewhere. Penelope tried to relax, but there was so much on her mind. She must have shown it on her face, because Miss could tell she was troubled.

“Ye must be nervous fer the big day, are ye, Princess?” she spoke softly as she lathered.

Penelope smiled weakly, for she was accustomed to Miss being able to tell exactly how she felt with merely a look. “I suppose I am,” she admitted. “My entire life has been leading to this day. But there are so many things that could go wrong – I must be sure that I don’t make a mistake! What if I should misconjugate a verb and inadvertently say something rude? What if I should trip and fall as I make my way across the stage? What if my knees were to buckle under the weight of the royal garb?” She lowered herself in the water, so that her mouth and most of her nose were submerged.

Miss smiled knowingly. “Yer right, princess – there’s lots what could go wrong today. And y’know, maybe I ‘aven’t ‘ad to be in yer position, but it seems to me that there’s two ways to look at it. It all comes down to just one thing: can ye do somethin’ about it, or can’t ye? ‘Cos if ye can, then ye got nothin’ to fear, ‘cos then you can just go an’ do it. And if ye can’t, then ye still got nothin’ to fear, ‘cos all the fear in the world won’t change it, so ye might as well just let it ‘appen. Now, ye said it yerself, ye’ve been preparin’ yer whole life fer today, so I’d say ye’ve done just about all that can be done. So, best stop lettin’ it bother ye and just let it ‘appen. I’m sure ye’ve got nothin’ to worry about.”

This made Penelope feel marginally better. She still felt nervous, but the moths in her belly had turned to butterflies. Miss always had a way of calming her, even when she was younger and much more difficult to tame. Back then, she had relied on her trusted servant for so much more – but over the years, imparting wisdoms such as she had just done, she had moulded Penelope into the young woman that she was today. Of course, without her academic teachings, she would undoubtedly be ill-prepared for her destiny as a ruler. But there was something to be said for the things she had learned outside the walls of the library. No scroll could soothe the cries of a child with a scraped knee, and teach her that every hardship breeds greater strength within. No logic would suffice to talk her down in times of anger, and teach her that rash decisions made with a clouded mind will all but inevitably become regretful. And no mathematics equation could predict that she would be forced to face the death of her most favored pony, and teach her that an end must come to every beginning.

All this, and so much more, Miss had done for her through the years. There were moments when Penelope forgot that she was even a servant, so blurred was the line that separated them at times. No royal had ever bestowed such wisdom on her. Whether they didn’t think to share with her, or simply were not themselves as enlightened as she now was, she did not know. But in either case, she couldn’t help but wonder – could it be that the lower class did, in fact, have something more to offer than mere servitude? If given the opportunity, could they flourish into thinkers in their own right, offering new and unique perspectives on any number of considerations?

She found it difficult to believe that the current social order would have ever fallen into place had it not been for some concrete dichotomy between the classes. Nevertheless, there were undoubtedly diamonds in the rough of peasantry, and there were just as undoubtedly flies in the ointment of sovereignty. She was grateful to have come to know such an exceptional (for a servant) woman, a privilege which must only come to a royal on rare occasion. She would have never grown to become so wise, confident, and driven in a lifetime of self-guided exploration, as she had in thirteen years under the wing of Miss. She hardly knew what to do without her.

As the morning continued to draw forward, Penelope continued the preparations necessary for the coming ceremony. It would take the better part of the day – once her bath had finished, she was treated to a large breakfast of eggs, fruit, toasted bread and seasoned meats, for she would not have much opportunity for sustenance once she began to dress for the evening. (Miss, for her part, made do with a bowl of cold, plain porridge.) After breakfast, she spent some time in front of the mirror for what must have been the hundredth time, practicing the proper rituals and utterances that she would be required to perform that night. Once her food had had time to digest, Miss set about helping her secure her corset, drawing the strings so tightly that neither woman was sure whether it would be the thread or Penelope’s own ribs which would snap first under the pressure. She detested having to wear the thing, which constricted her breathing to little more than a shallow wisp. But it was expected of a lady, particularly of a princess, and so she could bear it if she must.

After the corset came the stockings, the tunic, and finally the outer dress, which was so voluminous and extravagant that Penelope wondered how she could be expected to traverse the various archways between her room and the castle’s keep in order to make it to the ceremony. It was adorned at seemingly every possible surface with gemstones and with threads imbued with gold and silver, such that any which way the light struck it, there was a dazzling gleam to behold. This also had the unfortunate effect of doubling or tripling the weight of the already hefty fabric – luckily for Penelope her birthday fell in the autumn months, for if she had been born in the heat of summer she would surely have fainted under the many layers she wore today.

But still, there was more to come! For once she had been properly dressed, her hair could be styled and cosmetics could be applied to her face. Miss set about braiding and pinning Penelope’s hair to a shape intricate, yet not so grandiose as to obstruct her tiara, or to become a nuisance once the ceremony was under way. Finally, she applied a whitish paste to the princess’s face so as to even out her complexion slightly, before layering a touch of rouge onto her cheeks and lips to bring life back to her expression.

Finally, the preparations were complete. Penelope returned to the mirror, taking in her lavish appearance in full for the first time. She could hardly recognize herself under the many layers of decoration which now covered every inch of her – if she had seen a portrait of the reflection looking back at her, and not known it was her own image, she would never have guessed. Miss sidled up behind her, looking over her shoulder into the mirror’s frame. “Quite a transformation, eh, Princess?” She beamed with pride from ear to ear. “Ye look positively beautiful, my dear. It might take a bit o’ gettin’ used to, but this is yer life now. Startin’ tomorrow, ye’ll be a full-fledged ruler o’ this kingdom. Lots’ll change. But if ye can do just one thing for an ol’ woman, let it be this – don’t ye ever forget who ye are underneath all that dollin’ up.”

She placed a hand lovingly on Penelope’s shoulder. The princess smiled, fighting back a tear in her eye (lest she ruin her makeup), and placed her own hand on top of Miss’s. “If I should ever begin to falter, I know just who to turn to,” she promised.

For an instant, she thought she saw the smile on Miss’s face break – but so quickly the moment passed, she wasn’t sure if she had truly seen anything or if she had simply imagined it. Nevertheless, there was no time to dwell on such things – the hour of the ceremony was upon them.

Penelope made her way to the castle’s keep, leaving Miss to tidy the room. A member of the palace guard met her just outside her bedroom door to serve as an escort. They walked down the spire and through the halls of the castle, the chatter of the various noblemen and noblewomen growing louder and more chaotic as they drew nearer to their destination. Finally, they came to the end of a hallway, and met with a curtain that separated them from the bustling crowd who awaited her. Here they stood in wait – she would present herself once summoned, and not before. But from where she stood, though she was not visible to the congregation within, she could see most of the room and what was happening in it clearly. It wasn’t long before the notes of a bugle horn sounded over the voices of the crowd, followed by another horn and another joining in succession.

A hush fell over the crowd, as they turned their attention to the source of the sound. Near the front of the room stood the three buglers, who now separated to allow the town crier to step forward and begin the proceedings:

“Presenting: His Royal Highness, King Emrys the Merciful, and Her Majesty, Queen Lydia the Benevolent!”

Opposite to Penelope, her father and mother entered the room, to the renewed trumpeting of the bugle horns and the applause of the audience. They took their seats in the thrones which sat at the very front of the room, elevated slightly above the level of the already elevated floor in that section. Once they were seated, her father raised a hand to silence the crowd, and he need hardly to lift a finger before they knew to quiet themselves. The king then nodded to the crier to continue. So he did:

“And for the first time, on this, the day of her thirteenth year, her highness, the princess Penelope!”

It was all over with surprisingly quickly. Once she had heard her name, she entered the room as her parents had, and greeted the crowd with a bow before taking her place adjacent to her father. She had focused so deeply on the procedural process of it all that she completely forgot to be nervous. A series of key phrases back and forth between her father and herself, a cup of wine to toast, and a signature to keep official document of the exchange, and she found herself kneeling before the king, with a great purple cape trimmed with exotic furs being placed upon her shoulders. She stood, turned to the crowd, and watched as they bowed before her for the first time as subjects.

Now that the event was finally over, all the anxiety she had been feeling for the days and weeks leading up to today had melted away, leaving only a bubbling stream of excitement in its place. She struggled to maintain her composure as she was escorted back to her room – it was all she could do not to skip along the corridors. But most of all, she simply could not wait to talk to Miss, and tell her all about the ceremony. Of course, her excitement made the walk back to the spire seem even longer than usual. Her many layers of clothing, now topped with the ceremonial cape, weighed down on her as they drudged along. She supposed that the cape wouldn’t be such a burden if not for the overly extravagant dress she was still wearing; she was eager to remove it in favor of her usual attire.

After what seemed like an age, she was finally back to her bedroom. Immediately she made for the bell at her bedside table and gave it a ring. From the adjacent room, an unfamiliar servant came – Miss was nowhere to be seen. For a moment, Penelope was disappointed, but considering the late hour, she surmised that Miss had already retired for the evening. She decided that the sooner she could drift off to sleep herself, the sooner the morning would come, and she could tell Miss everything. With this new servant’s help, she shed the many layers of formal wear, wiped away the cosmetics applied to her skin, and nestled herself away under the layers of quilted blankets on her bed. Despite the anticipatory ideas racing through her mind, she eventually found sleep.

The next morning, the sun rose over the hills, pushing her eyelids open once more. She awoke even more rapidly than she had the previous day, and quickly clasped the bell. But again, she would be disappointed. This time, from the adjoining room, came a group of servants, five in all. Accompanying them was a squire, not much older than herself.

Penelope furrowed her brow. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “Where is Mi—” She stopped herself. “Where is my usual servant?”

The squire bowed deeply. “Apologies, your highness,” he spoke without rising. “I have orders from your father.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow. She motioned for him to stand. The squire then detached a scroll from his belt, unrolled it and read:

“To my Daughter Penelope: you have no doubt become accustomed to relying heavily on the servitude of the woman who cared for you since your childhood. But as of now, you are no longer a child, and you no longer have any use for a caretaker. As such, I have sent her to work in the fields – I trust that she still has the vigor to provide a few years’ labor before her flesh betrays her. In her stead, I have gathered the most trusted servants, not just in this castle, but in all of Gregaria, for you to choose from. I trust that they will serve you well.”

The squire rolled up the parchment, tying it back to his belt. Penelope sat in shock. So casually came her father’s words – words he did not even care to relay by his own mouth. For a moment she remained still, stunned by what she had heard. Eventually she came back into focus, realizing the squire was still waiting expectantly. She raised a finger and pointed to the nearest servant to her.

“You.” The squire bowed again, and the other four servants followed him out of sight. All Penelope wanted to do was to bury her head in her hands and sob. But she was not afforded that luxury. She was a full-fledged royal now. She had an appearance to maintain.

She rose from her bed and began her morning routine with this new servant, these unfamiliar hands washing her hair and tying her clothing. Finally came the cape she had earned on the previous night. The cape that marked the end of her old life, and the beginning of her life anew. She had hoped it would be less of a burden without the extra weight she had carried last night dragging her down.

She was wrong.

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[sjohnson24]

The First Rain

Other than a downpour during the night a couple weeks ago, it was the first rain of the year. Living in a land where it doesn’t rain for four or five months during the summer, the first rain, coming when most of the leaves are still on the trees, released intense fragrances and feelings.

To the west, the sky was still dark, almost black; to the east, the sun shone brightly in a blue sky. In between clouds of fantastic shapes and color filled the sky.

Intending to take the car to the park for a meditation, I jumped on the bike for a quick ridearound to see the clouds. People were out, quietly celebrating, as the earth seemed to be celebrating after the drenching.

At the park, a man and his daughter on bikes were just leaving the picnic site about a half a mile from the footbridge. He was nice enough, in the superficial way most Americans are, but the girl, who was 11 or 12, was completely enclosed, lost in herself and her own thoughts as she gathered her things.

Sitting looking downstream facing out from the table, the light changed every minute, making the familiar spot completely new. One minute the sun was on the stream, flowing with nearly twice the volume of two days ago. The next minute the light was in the upper branches of the oaks and sycamores, golden as alpenglow.

The smell of foliage and earth was very pleasant, not pungent, almost sweet. Since most of the leaves are still on the trees and bushes (oranges, reds and browns mixed with remaining greens) you felt protected, enwrapped and enrapt.

An hour passed as if were a minute. Then it began to rain again, a gentle downpour. I walked back to the footbridge, and by the time I reached it, the rain had stopped. The parkland was empty and overflowing with the beauty earth. Why has man so little beauty when the earth is overwhelmingly beautiful?

Meditation is really nothing more than watching and listening without goal and effort, judgment and interference, to every movement within and without until attention gathers and there is no dichotomy between the movement within and without.

In right observation, there is no point in the field of thought and emotion from which one observes others points in the field. Passive watchfulness grows into a blazing fire of attention, incinerating every thought and emotion as they arise.

Photo Martin Lefevre

Watching and listening in this way, attention gathers, unseen and undirected, quieting the mind and emptying the heart of the detritus of experience.

The field of thought/emotion falls away, and there is nothing but the beauty of the earth and the strangeness of being alive. Being nothing–no thing–is everything, since only then is there complete being.

Brilliant light from the sun sitting on the horizon illuminated the earth and man-made world alike as I drove back. In a state of timelessness and ecstasy, with one’s senses, brain and body overwhelmed by beauty of earth, I found it difficult to drive the few miles back to the house.

Back at the house, the encounter with the father and his conditioned, already adult 12-year-old girl came to mind, and with it a tremendous talk I had at the end of the week with a leading scholar on moral development in children.

We touched on many things, and came away with this question: How are parents and teachers to nurture the moral development of children in a dead culture?

The problem of course is that the majority of parents and teachers have adapted to this dead culture by becoming dead themselves.

And if parents and teachers are, in the euphemistic vernacular, “numb,” how can the children they raise and educate not also become inwardly dead?

I just turned on the tube and learned of another mass slaughter in the United States, this time in a church in Texas.

Martin LeFevre

[ecotone99]

[SF] Matilda and Pandora's Box

[ XVI ]

It would seem that Matilda had forgotten where her duties lay when it came to boundaries, as she was often forgot to take off her lab coat when she was at home and it was due to this habit that she found herself alone after 30 years. Lifetimes ago she were nothing more than a feral child, left exiled from society for the protection of the public. Now Matilda was amused as the occasions arose to bask in her success as a public servant. From criminal to scientist. Matilda liked the ring it held, and knew her ancestors couldn’t argue that she wasn’t trying to make the most of the Genocide at least. Matilda avoided reporting to anybody and everybody: she had given up on trying to live in two-worlds when neither environments had accepted her in the first place. Matilda knew she were a recluse, and it were a topic of public discussion: her bachelorette status, and the judgements were cast by elder Indigenous Warriors who craved grandchildren. It was difficult to express how daunting and unsexy one feels when they have elders bragging around you aboot hypothetical pairings as though Matilda were a wild animal being breed intentionally, but considering her genome was categorized and archived as Federal US Property #562-6146: her “half-blood” status well known within the community. Being a Indigenous Warrior Princess means her ovaries were expected to barter for extra dowery (cattle, hides, labour) when and if that particular bridge were to be crossed. These types of Traditional concepts were outdated and Matilda hated them, but the reality was she had to consider all these aspects anyways because her race was near extinction according to the public records. It was all due to these vast cultural extremities and pressures that Matilda stood as a statue still single: left in limbo, and too bored to object.

When it came to general public knowledge of cultural practices Matilda knew that the dead-eyed savages were often too ignorant and or lazy as to try and even learn their own culture, and she fell wiser than to ever expect anything from them after a short time. Matilda had once attempted to explain her sadness to her procreational duties as a an Indigenous Warrior Princess to the Viking. After observation(s) of his lack of empathy she knew they could never be together: not only was he dead-eyed, grey-haired savage, but his heart seemed to make Matilda fall ill with grief and homesickness somehow. She told him of her experiences as a youth and her best friend growing up. His name was Buckles and he was the sole reason Matilda still managed to smile everyday. He died shortly after reaching adulthood, as he was eventually murdered in his sleep, stabbed to death on the Reservation. Matilda told the Viking how Buckles had been on his last home visit before being he was to be deployed to the battlefront on the oiled desert across the sea. It was this devastating loss that held Matilda hostage as she continued to fight the darkness that had followed her from Hades. It was this loss that would derail a student athlete to a path filled with more violence and self-destruction for a duration that what would seem like forever. It was this sadness that lead to the random day she found herself standing in the middle of basketball gym single, and finally worried she had wasted her life away playing a game when everyone around her seemed to be busy building lives and being happy. Matilda lived in a situation where science and basketball were often two separate entities of her life, and they held such a different dichotomy of personalities: holding up either masks became exhausting for Matilda. It would appear this was a grave she had managed to dig herself with her choice in profession and sport, so that fact left her with little room to object.

A pretense: growing up Matilda and Buckles were a mere pair to a trio: as the third of the squad was a soft-spoken fellow Indigenous Warrior known simply as: AJ. He was gentle and kind, as he was notorious for his comfortable sincerity and surrounding himself with female friends as companions: his sexuality was without title, and assumedly more female. In the Indigenous Warrior culture Matilda had been raised to understand that there is a difference between the genetic build-up of male/female structure and the emotional/psychological aspects. The latter is called Two-Spirited: which just means the person has an invisible personality trying to express dominance, expressed through hyper-masculinity or hyper-flamboyant demeanors every second of every day. It were as though it could be seen as a cup, which is overflowing with energy until the two-spirited person to decides themselves which person they feel most comfortable presenting that day. It was often questioned to AJ and if he were a Two-Spirited individual, but he was so nice that it never seemed to matter. As a late teen Matilda had found that AJ had been murdered at drunken house event on the Reservation and the culprits were none other than the dead-eyed savages that had visited the sovereign lands for the night. This knowledge destroyed Buckles and he began to spiral as he drank his sorrow away with the aid of the poison(s) of Hera, and Matilda lost control of any sort understanding of how to help. Nothing could have prepared either of them for what they were left to learn next. Following the funeral, services and criminal investigation: it was discovered that AJ had been sexually assaulted on the night of his murder, and that the assault had occurred to his body after he had died and his body left on the floor. That image and those actions were all that Matilda knew of the dead-eyed savages, as they proudly roamed her land aimlessly. To this knowledge Matilda knew she could never trust an American and as she often stood frozen in horror as to her disgust in the local invaders on the daily. It would be years of drinking the anger away for both Matilda and Buckles before they both landed back on their feet together: she a scientist and he a soldier. It wouldn’t long after that: the two had weakened their own capabilities with their grief, and both agreed they were ready to let go of the destructive contention held for the dead-eyed savages who remained unwelcome on their land. It was this story that held both Matilda and Buckles hostage for far too long, as they knew justice for AJ would never be served. It was this great loss to the community that would further devastate an entire Nation, when Buckles was murdered less than half a decade later. Matilda was now left alone, as the Indigenous Warriors left their posts without Buckles to lead them: she was unprotected once more with no one who cared enough to remind her that she and her smile were more than just an object.

With what little knowledge Matilda had procured on the dead-eyed savages first hand: it wasn’t really a surprise that she were an agoraphobic. It would take traveling overseas before Matilda manifested the understanding that it was not people she crippled her with fear: it was only the dead-eyed savages that had conquered her land that she feared. She felt rage shaking her body as with the many stories of horror that she were often gifted to her by her fellow Indigenous Warriors. It would seem the dead-eyed savages often made/make sport of raping women and children on sovereign lands and return to the their protected land ruled by the perverted Boar to avoid criminal charges. The sovereign laws didn’t pertain to these dead-eyed savages, as they didn’t have prisoner of war numbers like Matilda and her Indigenous Warriors, and they often used that advantage to defile anything, and everything as they pleased. It was their lack of social or empathy skills that made Matilda annoyed by her emotional commitment to the Viking that she dearly missed. It was this pairing that also brought her name up for public ridicule with her Indigenous Warriors, as she was still a crowned Princess and her genome one of the rarest in the world. The idea of dictation of procreation wasn’t glamorous in the slightest, and was the equivalent of having a partner sign a contract of potential binding in the far future. Matilda often worried that the seemingly fake rules that only applied to the Indigenous Warriors is what was making them so sick. The obsession with blood-quantum ruled their lives for generations, and the end result seemed to be annihilation no matter what way the numbers were crunched. Scientifically speaking the Indigenous Warriors couldn’t continue up the bloodlines for another three generations without potentially embedding inbreeding into their genome. Matilda was not aboot that (unlike the Questionable Queen across the sea), but talking of such taboo topics of understanding with Indigenous Warrior elders often lead to an infinity of arguments and Matilda being belittled for being “childish”. It wouldn’t be until after Matilda met the Viking that these elders would finally begin allowing her to speak on the matter, as they saw that Matilda understood it was only an honorary task to preserve the genome of Indigenous Warriors, feeling threatened that they may no longer have a say on her actions.

Matilda had never had such conversations with the Viking, and their relationship was only expressed through platonic friendship and the acknowledgement that their cultures were too different. Matilda had a culture, and the Viking had none as a dead-eyed savage….meaning the two could never be together. It took two years of Matilda following the Viking and projecting the largest presence of burden unto him until she finally left his side to continue her task of cultural preservation. It took two years before Matilda saw that he held potential to ruin her emotionally beyond repair with his ignorance. It took two years for her to wise up to his games and leave with the realization that he had become a burden to her ability to succeed. She left him sitting in a gymnasium brewing in his anger towards himself, and she was left with only the memories of unending infatuation and pride that he exited in the world and that she had finally found him. The Viking would be the one Matilda would call her husband for the next half-decade without hesitation, but in a sense that she felt annoyed and responsible that he was lost somewhere most likely saying weird shit in public (which I guess is just called marriage to other married people). They were an old wedded pair that bickered and constantly picked at the other...seeing who would start raising their voice first, and without one another each of them could be seen as a handful to the world. She often thought about him whenever romantic music hit her ear, and giggled to herself at her memories of the Vikings socially awkward attempts to initiate flirting. She admired his ability to say what was on his mind or instruct others with his booming voice, and often caught herself looking for his grey hair and blue eyes amongst the other dead-eyed savages. Matilda missed him every second of the day for no reason, and without him by her side she often felt incomplete or insincere, as though the world was watching them and knew they were apart for the moment. It would seem that just meeting him had given her guilt to her past, and she often worried he saw her not as a person, but only as a character created only to exist for his amusement. It had gotten so bad that Matilda was forced to move away as she ran away if only to remind herself that she were a real person once more. With no claim to her heart and no culture to call his own: the Viking was finally left with her absence and no room to object.

Matilda was given nothing more than the understanding that her elders were weakened by sickness and conquered once and for all by the dead-eyed savages that now held them captive. Matilda would digress her anger but forced to act as though she was held responsible for their actions in the past at all times. They spoke of her obligation to preserve their race, as though it were a last beacon of hope and they stood confused by history, forced to witness the finalization of the Indigenous Warrior Genocide. Matilda wasn’t egotistical in terms of needing to fulfill her royal duties firsthand and had even tried to donate her eggs at some point. She felt awful being stingy when there were legitimate couples straight and two-spirited alike who longed for their own children, but were unable to conceive. Now that science had caught up to Matilda she knew how to make her contributions in more way than one as a Princess. Even if she decided to continue on her life as a single Indigenous Warrior Princess: she knew that is was not up to these elders to dictate her on her choices...even if she had signed a binary paper contract as a naive young girl. These elders were yet somehow the same ones that had opened Pandora's Box when they assimilated their children instead of running for their lives in the first place or asking for help from the world. Matilda knew that it would never happen again, as she now told the white-men to their faces that she were tired of being fetishized and her trauma as a surviving raped infant being the one thing that Americans avoided, since it was a dead-eyed savage who had once penetrated her as a unarmed one and half year old. It felt as though she had been brought to this world and raped within her first two years, being told it was her own fault and curse for her fathers absence at her arrival at birth. Her bastard status often mocked by the Indigenous American Warriors who knew her second father(grand-uncle) that was now dead, having had his own body self-destruct from leukemia during her childhood. This passing lead Indigenous Warriors to make her the butt of every joke, as they told anyone who would listen how she was possibly the worst Princess out of all the Indigenous Warriors. Matilda missed her second father in a fashion that's makes her appear rebellious at all times, and it would seem that it showed that she had once been loved unconditionally, as her joy still managed to give others hope. She would spend her life crediting the decorated veteran and his expectations of her during times of her success, and avoided her Redwood forest without him. He was the only Indigenous Warrior who had ever went out of his way to endlessly defend her from the masses who questioned her aloof smile. He had given her permission to travel to the stars as a kid after she had quipped that she believed that she could do it, after she had been fixated having watched a skyboat explode. He hadn’t mentioned the difficulty of the rigorous process, or how few women of colour were allowed to leave for the stars: the two responses she’d get endlessly after his passing. It was her bond to this old Indigenous Warrior that kept breath in her lungs, and tears in her eyes. Without her second father she had become weary from the doubt cast upon her from the dead-eyed savages and even from her fellow Indigenous Warriors. She had no way to tell the world how she endlessly hurt, or what it meant to be an Indigenous Warrior Princess that was seen as a joke. She lived off of memories of the days where her papa had walked by her without speaking and raised her chin whenever she held bad posture, or the small single roses he left on her bedside table on occasion. He commanded her to understand her importance as he spent her childhood fighting her battles simply so she could smile in peace. He corrected strangers who attempted to parent her, and warded them off as he informed them “she’s fine...let her read” whenever they noticed she avoided human contact at all costs by reading any book she could find. He had watched her dance in front of the masses wearing her Traditional Princess attire and never mentioned that the dead-eyed savages had once kidnapped him and forced him to assimilate under their legally enforced dogma. Instead he quietly stood by her side and showed Matilda the places of their ancestors in the Redwood trees, and gave her the best years of Christmas a kid could ever ask for. He taught her the importance of accountability and honesty and would argue with her when she questioned what was to be considered just. He let her wear her boys clothing and encouraged her competitive behavior: no matter how extreme or comedic her behaviors were. It bothered Matilda when people called her by her Yurok name, as they still managed to make fun of her for being named Sir. It was only her papa who could get others to say her name right with a tone meant for a Princess, or throw back witty commentary about how Matilda could beat their sons, as she were mighty in spirit and dressed to the occasion. To these memories Matilda knew that these dead-eyed savages were weak whenever they doubted her, and often took advantage of how little they thought of her simply by ignoring them and by succeeding. Her papa had said to mind her own business whenever she invested in others who had no actual say in her life, and he would say so few words that Matilda had been forced to listen intently at the time. Matilda couldn’t have ever understood as a child that the link between them was the generations that the US and dead-eyed savages had actively worked to try and keep them from existing, and yet they both had managed to be born and protect their Redwood forest. Matilda now lived in her papas shadow and worked towards her goals to operate the false star that orbited the Earth, as if only to prove to her papa that she loved him for believing in her when nobody had ever asked him to. She lived if only to tell the world what had happened soon after her elders had learned English and began praising the false God, and to give warnings of the dead-eyed savages to her fellow Indigenous Warriors. Their Genocide had been implemented because of a God that not even the dead-eyed savages worshipped anymore and cultures they worked endlessly to forget. Matilda ran every day or occasionally in her dreams: running in spite of them all. She sat single and focused on her career but distracted by the false hope that there could be a day in the potential future: when she might tell the Viking of the entirety of her complex culture. Matilda wasn't sure how to explain how empty she felt in her heart without him, but still felt obligated to the idea that she were in danger and that she wasn’t supposed to stop running. The only way to fight off her heartbreak was to remain in motion, and left crying endless tears in the quiet evenings when she was left alone with her own thought. To this new challenge of healing: Matilda felt her weakening heart beat slowly as it struggled to remain active.

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