#and the other one’s just a Good Farm Boy who’s the heart and moral compass of the throuple

[swordmunch]

You know what can just be so satisfying?

Giving Jason two boyfriends who egg him on and help him kill the Joker

[phoenixrisesoncemore]

But Whose Deontology?

The Untamed: three-fifths mark

OK, @thearrogantemu​ I finally had a chance to look at a non-work screen for long enough to watch some more Untamed; through episode 30 now! Oh boy. Spoilers for anyone who isn’t this far yet below the cut:

I feel like this show didn’t exactly *hide* that it was interested in poking holes in everyone’s moral system, but it did spend a lot of time... not distracting us, really, but using the other assorted comical, tender, and otherwise emotional aspects of the show to deepen our investment in these characters’ lives and choices before it started really making its moves. I suspect it wouldn’t have had the same effect otherwise.

The long run up is a pacing I’m quite the fan of from almost three decades of JRPGs that start out as light-hearted adventures about teenage angst only to turn into philosophical ruminations on God and the nature of the universe (see my favorite example: Xenogears). Even The Lord of the Rings does something... similar, albeit not intentionally on the part of the author. It’s actually one of my favorite “tropes” in storytelling: the tone shift—the moment the light-hearted and comfortingly simple reveals itself to be something much wider and deeper and which will leave you unsettled in its wake.(1)

I’m really quite impressed with Xiao Zhan and Wang Yibo. Xiao Zhan manages to believably play the process of aging from arrogant and ornery but innocent and lovable “student” in Cloud Recesses, to the (still arrogant and ornery but lovable) rebellious “hero” during the Wen indoctrination, to the (still arrogant but lovable) young man forced to grow up too fast when his adoptive parents are killed, to the Master of Demonic Cultivation and head of The World’s Most Wholesome Farming Co-op (why cultivate only demons when you can cultivate turnips, too!?).(2) And he manages to play it all as believably the same character, always deeply expressive but also somehow... authentic... even when he is putting on a show: his play-acted irresponsible argumentativeness with Wen Qing; his self-infantilization whenever he wants Yanli to mother him. The latter would be laughable if we were to take it as entirely straight-faced—he knows he is playing childish, and he knows that she knows, even if he does legitimately want to be mothered. Jiang Cheng on the other hand seems to never handle the reality of Wei Wuxian as well as Wei Wuxian handles the reality of Jiang Cheng...

I understand there was some criticism of Yibo’s perceived lack of expressiveness when the show first came out, but I think he’s doing a fantastic job portraying a deeply stoic character whose emotional turmoil is buried under mountains of learned and self-enforced composure. It’s not like he’s missing beats; he’s responding, it’s just subtle. He’s responsible for two of my favorite moments so far: when he first smiles ever so slightly when he sees the lantern Wuxian has made him with the rabbit drawing(3) and the scene of him kneeling in the snow as punishment. I don’t know if it’s the lighting or the fact that it’s one of the few times he’s not carrying tension in his eyebrows, but he looks SO YOUNG in that shot. Honestly, he looks more AT PEACE in that shot than I think he does at almost any other time in the show so far. It feels to me like, in that moment, he has no regrets either about what he did nor about the fact that he should have to atone for it. Like he has internalized some sense that both things are right and can exist in tension. The weird effect of this growth next to Wei Wuxian’s feels like watching one of the two grow older (Wuxian) while the other grows younger (Wangji).

Now, I’m a sucker for every last story where two highly disparate-seeming people move from from some variation of dislike (either on the part of one or both) to friendship to, sometimes, something more (no, no BL here, none at all *looks the other way*). Certainly Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji have very different personalities. Wei Wuxian has little regard for rules, authority, tradition, taboos, or social etiquette: he uses Lan Wangji’s ming(4) almost as soon as he meets him! The way he interacts with objects and spaces (and personal space!) shows his lack of reverence/respect for the people and things others expect him to have reverence for. He has no problem questioning what everyone else seems to see as obvious up to the point of outright suggesting the use of dark magic. Because...well, why not?? Because “they said so?”

It’s not that he doesn’t KNOW the rules. Another of my absolute favorite moments is during the Wen indoctrination when Wei Wuxian starts reciting not the Wen clan principles, but the Lan clan principles! Sure, he lacks the expected respect for sources of authority be they personal or ideological, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t KNOW them. He’s obviously naturally talented, gifted, a fast learner, curious, but also—and crucially—he has a very strong moral compass! He does not tolerate bullies, especially when they turn their attention to the vulnerable, like Wen Chao.(5) Yanli notes that their father always favors those with moral integrity and who does he favor? Wei Wuxian.

And this is where he and Lan Wangji are more alike than Wangji initially thinks, and why I love that moment, just after they release the lanterns, when you see, just for a second, the surprise on his face at the content of Wei Wuxian’s prayer: that he always be able to “stand with justice and live with no regrets.” It is, I imagine, the moment when it really hits Wangji that this rebel he finds himself irrationally attracted to truly is *good* despite the fact that he shows no outward signs of respecting the same sources of moral authority Wangji does.

So what is the main difference? Where the rules come from. Who makes the rules? Both of them are pretty sure they know.

Lan Wangji gets his moment to present his source just after their rooftop duel when he catches Wei Wuxian drinking: the Lan Clan principles chiseled right into stone. All 3000 of them. Interestingly, even though Wei Wuxian can and does memorize the code and seems perfectly happy with the notion of moral principles in general, I’ll wager a guess that he is confused by the very idea that a moral code would be so strict and unchanging and inflexible that it could be chiseled into stone *in the first place* or that it would *need to be memorized*. Surely you’d just...”know?” Besides, morality is too contextual to treat this way surely?

As a CLH (Confirmed Lifelong Heretic) my sympathies admittedly lie more with Wei Wuxian than Lan Wangji. It’s not that traditional codes of ethics and conduct are bad things. These are the things that provide stability across entire cultures and peoples. If they’re written in stone, at least that means they’re something everyone has a greater chance of pointing to and agreeing on.(7) And just as Lan Wangji has to learn that there are moral codes that aren’t written in stone and that individual minds can have very clear senses of right and wrong outside of group structures, Wei Wuxian has to learn to temper his arrogance—that his actions, for however right he *thinks* they are, can and do have consequences he would not intend for those he loves, as when he stops himself from calling to Wangji during the hunt. I have a feeling he’s going to be learning more...

Then there’s that whole conversation from ep. 29 as Lan Wangji prepares to leave the burial mounds which is just full of whammies (set, naturally, against the exceedingly domestic reality of the community as a whole and their exceedingly sweet interactions with a-Yuan). Wei Wuxian says: “But let yourself be the judge of what is right and what is wrong, leave others’ comments aside, and care little about gain and loss. What I should do. I know it very well. I believe that I’ll be able to control it well.” And then there’s that moment where you can actually feel Lan Wangji’s heart drop into the pit of his stomach as he presses his eyes closed.

This is the reverse of the moment when Wangji directed Wuxian’s attention to the list of Lan clan principles, so solid they are written in stone.(8)

Then there is that wonderful bit about their respective paths—Lan Wangji’s path vs. Wei Wuxian’s path: the wide avenue vs the one-log bridge. I assume this is a literal translation of the Mandarin. Is it an idiom? If so, I may mangle its meaning terribly and for that I am sorry. But it seems to me that a wide avenue is safe, easy, populated; a single-log bridge is comparatively dangerous and only one person can walk it. Which seems a pretty good metaphor for the differences in whose rule-book each of the leads chooses. Not to mention, with my Western ears, it sounds a WHOLE lot like a “straight and narrow path.” Interesting then, that it is The Master of Demonic Cultivation who is choosing it, while Lan Wangji—with his brightness and discipline and clarity—is following the “easy” way.

So, there it is: whose deontology is the right one? How do you choose?

It’s the epistemological aspect of the question of ethics that Newbigin gets right in that quote I posted the other day. Honestly, I disagree with a great deal (like, a lot) of what Newbigin says in that book, and I think he spends far too much time running himself in ever tighter Calvinist circles, (not to mention I have little interest in missiology and am highly skeptical of evangelism). But! I appreciate that he does, at least, recognize the danger of believing we have insulated ourselves completely from uncertainty or of expecting that certainty is even a thing possible to achieve.

But where do we choose to anchor our axioms? And why? Whose deontology is the right deontology? The rules written on parchment and stone? Or the rules written on our souls? Remembering, of course, that both are fallible. 16 years in the future, will the two leads have changed their minds at all?

And now with any luck, I’ll have a free weekend in which to watch the last 20 episodes, assuming no one wants me to do adult things like house cleaning or completing design projects people are paying me for.(10)

Like how Tolkien switches register from the low and comedic to the high and romantic but you’re fully aware it’s all really part of the same story and suddenly, bam!, you recognize that those aspects of life are somehow not able to be disentangled.

OMG is this an intentional play on “cultivation”? Sometimes I can’t tell what might be getting lost in translation, and I’m certainly too ignorant of Chinese culture, mythology, and folklore to really appreciate everything happening in this show, not least of which due to the language barrier.

He is, interestingly, far more moved by it than the drawing Wuxian does of *him* two episodes beforehand—is this merely the result of the progression of their relationship? This is post-cold springs after all.

That took some research to understand!

The main “vulnerable” character that he never seems to swoop in to save is Meng Yao and I wonder if it’s because he can sense something “off” about him. I felt bad for Meng Yao at first but he always put me on edge. Honestly, is there anyone who trusts Meng Yao as far as they can throw him? *looks at Elrond* OK, anyone except Elrond?(6)

Honestly, before I started watching this I saw that one of the characters was being referred to as Elrond and I wondered, going into it, if I’d know which character it was, and then Lan Xichen walked in and I was like “oh, yeah, obviously!” Seriously, what is it about him? Is it his physical appearance? The way he holds himself? His outfit? His pattern of speaking? How is this person so obviously coded “Elrond?”

Except they don’t really. That’s never how it works.

And interestingly, when looking at his name: “Wei Ying,  Ying is his 名, meaning, baby; Wuxian is his 字, it comes from an ancient prose “喜乐无羡赏,忿怒无羡刑”, which means when you’re delighted don’t reward without restraint,  when you’re angry don’t punish without restraint. Wuxian here means exercise your power reasonably.”(9)

The richness of the world in this show really appeals to me as does the carefully choreographed costume design, productions design, and cinematography (seriously, everyone needs to dress like this all the time; end of story; I have spoken). There have been some amazing shots that I can only assume are drone footage that have been ADRed?

20 years in and adulthood still sucks. 0 of 5 stars. Would not recommend.

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, ALLI! You’ve been accepted for the role of SEVEN OF SWORDS with the faceclaim of CILLIAN MURPHY. Canis is certainly a fucking concept, whom I adore to no end. He’s got a tenacious and willful sort of attitude about him, the kind of incredulous charm and wit that lends itself to an air of villainy and danger, and I think that he fits into the Seven of Swords like one fits into a well-made boot or glove. In spite of remaining leashed like a dog, he’s got no small amount of fire in him, and I’m eager to see what (or who!) he sinks his teeth into during gameplay. You’ve brought me a real gift, dropped it on my doorstep, and I am grateful.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

— APPLICATION

OOC

NAME:    alli PRONOUNS:    she / her AGE:    twenty - one TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL:    cst /  i  am  currently  on  summer  break  and  have  the  ability  to  be  really  active ,  but  sometimes  things  do  come  up !  i  definitely  have  plenty  of  time  to  be  on  the  dash  with  several  posts  within  activity  limit  and  when  my  muse  is  high  ( i’ll  be  honest  i’m  a  hoe  for  high  fantasy )  my  activity  is  also  super  up ! ANYTHING ELSE?:    what’s the mead sis…….. the wenches are squabbling …….

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON:    seven  of  swords NAME:   efferus  aubenet   /   “canis”  &  “the  dog”   efferus  -  of  latin  meaning ,  “wild ,  savage ,  cruel ,  barbarous” .  a  name  canis  has  long  since  abandoned ,  preferring  even  the  subtle  jab  of  “the  dog”  given  to  him  by  opponents  of  his  crew  and  the  highborn  that  look  down  on  him .  he  finds  it  just  about  as  cutting  as  a  bread knife .  no  one  except  those  closest  to  him  ( ie .  the  pack )  even  know  this  name  exists . canis  -  latin  for  “ dog ” ,  though also  the  scientific  genus  for  all  canines ,  including  wolves  and  coyotes .  meant  to  symbolize  canis  as   the  leader  of  his  pack  of  wild  dogs ,  and  a  sign  of  respect ,  a  nickname  earned  on  the  streets  and  not  given  to  him  in  tyrholm . the  dog  -  a  nickname  received  while  working  under  king  septimus ,  by  those  that  see  the  second  fangs  as  dirty ,  unruly ,  savages .  also  by  revolters  who  see canis  as  a  dog  blindly  following  the  orders  of  a  tyrannical  king.  in  any  case ,  he  still  prefers  this  to  efferus .  sometimes  he  even  barks  in  response . FACECLAIM:    cillian  murphy ,  michiel  huisman   ( he / him  pronouns ,  cis  male ) AGE:    thirty - nine  ,  born  on  the  twenty - seventh  day  of  the  twelfth  month

DETAILS:   i  always  find  myself  drawn  to  underdog  characters ,  muses  that  have  overcome  more  than  most  others  could  even  imagine  to  find  themselves  in  their  present  position .  i  believe  there  is  so  much  depth  to  backgrounds  like  canis’s .  no family  so  he  created  his  own ,  nothing  to  his  name  so  he  created  his  own  legacy .  a  moral  compass that  tries  it’s  best  to  always  point  north .  that  fails ,  because  the  muse  is  so  painfully  human .  the  irony  of  a  sellsword  who  wants  more  for  himself ?  incredible .  when  i  was  skimming  the  skeletons ,  it  was  his  that  startled  practically  writing  itself ,  this  street  urchin  turned  warrior  figure ,  so  i  spent  a  lot  of  time  picking  apart  the  biography  until  i  was  left  with  canis . i  did  a  bit  of  research  on  the  seventh  of  swords  tarot  card ,  but  let  me  tell  you  ..  i  was  so  pleasantly  surprised  and  intrigued  when  i  did .  on  one  hand ,  when  upright ,  seven  of  swords  means  scheming ,  resourcefulness ,  cunning ,  and  lies ,  all  traits  that  have  gotten  canis  to  where  he  is  today ,  however  negative ,  the  legacy  he’s  forged  for  himself  and  all  deeply  tied  to  his  work .  however ,  when  reversed ,  the  seven  of  swords  can  mean  confession ,  conscience ,  regret ,  and  maliciousness ,  which  i  think  lend  beautifully  to  this  character’s  private  struggles .  there  is  a  very  heavy  mix  of  negative  and  positive  attributes  leant  towards  seven  of  sword’s  core  character ,  someone  who  wants  to  do  right  by  themselves  at  great  cost .  when  interpreting  the  tarot  as  canis ,  i  was  drawn  to  the  maliciousness  and  the  regret  ( in  sometimes  equal  measure )  of  the  reversed  card .  i  believe  there  is  so  much  more  to  this  character  than  just  his  web  of  scheming  and  lies ,  that  canis’s  true  self  comes  from  somewhere  within ,  and  i’m  really  excited  to  explore  his  inner  conflicts.  this  man  has  so  many  issues  that  he’s  buried  and  i  think  the  possibility  of  him  becoming  a  part  of  the  revolution?  impeccable.  my  muse  for  this  skeleton ?  through  the  roof .

BACKGROUND  

I .  O’ ROMULUS  AND  REMUS ,  CASTOR  AND  POLLUX ,  WHAT  IS  ONE  WITHOUT  THE  OTHER ?   a  twin ,  you  were  told ,  though  it  feels  like  something  you  should  never  be  permitted  to  forget.  you’ve  never  felt  him there ,  not  like  a  phantom  limb  or  a  guiding  whisper.  just  a  story ,  when  you’re  feeling  ungrateful  for  your  lot  in  this  realm ,  that  there  is  only  one  where  there  once  was  two.  born  in  the  dead  of  winter  --  the  one  that  bit  at  the  napes  of  even  the  most  fur  cloaked  nobility  of  markholm ,  that  anyone  unlucky  enough  to  live  through  it  can  still  recall  as  “ceaseless”   --   and  childbirth  takes  your  mother  as  it  goes.  two  children ,  born  sickly ,  cold.  so  you  are  dubbed  efferus ,  a  savage  beast  who  can  claw  his  way  into  life ,  barely  holding  onto  breath ,  already  having  taken  a  life.   it  takes  a  village  to  raise  motherless  boys.  sometimes  it  takes  more  than  that.  your  brother  doesn’t  make  it  past  the  winter ,  but  you  keep  growing ,  getting  stronger  by  the  day ,  and  finally  spring  flowers  bloom  forth  from  hard  soil.  the  goat  farmer  next  door  tells  your  father  you  are  a  resilient  one ,  that  the  undying  smiled  upon  him.  another  miracle ,  that  your  life  could  be  a  blessing  and  not  a  curse.   as  long  as  you  knew  him ,  your  father  kept  steadfast  in  deep  religion ,  devout ,  praying  over  the  crops.  the  cattle.  the  harvest.  even  your  birth ,  a  story  he  recants  so  mystically  it’s  hard  to  imagine  you  were  there.  “we  all  bled  fer  you ,”  he  always  starts ,  like  it’s  your  fault ,  “my  son ,  my  son.  let  all  else  be  damned  fer  ‘im.”  two  lives  for  the  price  of  one ,  he  reminds  you ,  and  you’re  just  a  boy ,  but  you  still  find  it  all  absurd.  there’s  never  been a rhyme  or  reason  to  suffering.  “you  make  a  deal  with  the  undying  and  you  get  what  you  paid  fer.”  sometimes  it  seems  a  compliment.  others ..  you  aren’t  so  sure.   your  father  hath  no  mercy  for  the  weak  or  spineless ,  though  he  wasn’t  an  inherently  evil  man  either ,  at  least  not  in  the  figments  you  can  conjure  of  him.  you  plow  the  fields ,  with  hands  so  rough  with  calluses  you  can’t  feel  the  hilt  of  the  axe  you  use  to  cut  the  firewood.  you  milk  the  cows ,  so  gentle  with  great  beasts  you  start  to  forget  your  name.  you’re  skin  and  bone  and  beating  heart  ,  not  much  to  look  at ,  but  just  the  blessing  your  father  asked  for  all  the  same.  a  good  boy ,  in  that  you  were  capable  and  healthy  and  strong.  a  bad  seed ,  in  that  you  cared  for  little  and  didn’t  always  do  as  you  were  told.   it’s  your  tenth  winter  when  frostbitten  tendrils  take  first  your  farm ,  and  then  your  father.  you  make  a  deal  with  the  undying  and  you  get  what  you  paid  for ,  you  remember ,  and  it  almost  makes  you  laugh.  perhaps  it’s  not  so  funny  that  you  mourn  very  little  the  life  you  lost.  perhaps  still  it  is  a  testament  to  your  strength ,  a  boy  of  only  ten  who  shoulders  already  a  lifetime  of  death  and  decay.  who  makes  it  look  a  load  easy  to  bear.  who  are  you ,  efferus  aubenet?  and  who  will  you  become?

II .  A  MIRRORED  MIDAS  ,  IF  EVERYTHING  HE  HAD  TOUCHED  TURNED  TO  DEATH  AND  ROT .   a  street  urchin  with  no  farm ,  no  family ,  and  most  prominently  no  coin.  winters  slip  away  like  sand  through  an  hourglass ,  and  it’s  all  you  can  do  to  keep  track  of  the  time  that  folds  beneath  you.  one  year ,  and  you’re  frail  and  quiet  and  know  only  to  keep  to  yourself.  three  years  and  you’ve  developed  a  taste  for  fighting ,  scrappy  as  you  are.  it’s  just  a  game ,  in  the  beginning ,  one  the  other  coinless  children  keep  telling  you  you’re  too  good  at ,  “it’s  no  fun  fighting  a  hungry  dog.”  five  years  and  you’re  taller ,  more  meat  to  your  bones.  you’re  better  at  sneaking  things  out  of   the  market ,  extra  to  feed  your  friends.  you  learned  the  hard  way  what  happens  if  you  don’t  bring  back  enough ,  if  you  turn  a  blind  eye  to  people  who  call  out  your  name.  you  hear  it  when  you  dream ,  half  awake  in  chilled  darkness.   “i’m  so  hungry,  efferus.  i’m  so  hungry.”   you  start  going  by  canis.  it  makes  it  easier  to  sleep.   six ,  seven  years  and  you’re  so  good  at  fighting  that  your  pockets  start  to  feel  heavy.  cobbled  streets  whisper  canis  when  you  cross.  bruised  fists  and  a  bloody  conscience ,  not  all soldiers  make  it  out  of  battle  alive.  it  dawns  on  you ,  slowly  but  with  all  the  force  of  a  crack  of  lightning ,  why  the  others  like  to  call  you  dog.  maybe  it’s  because  you  were  born  from  death ,  or  because  you  know  loss  so  well  it  colors  your  eyelids  when  you  blink ,  but  it  seems  all  you’re  good  for.  you  discover  a  rage  within  you ,  one  which  you’re  sure  ( you  hope ,  foolish  as  it  is )  any  man  is  capable  of ,  if  pushed  too  far.  but  it’s  directionless ,  vile  in  the  way  it  sits  inside  your  chambered  heart.  there  is  nothing  more  universal  than  pain.  nothing  more  isolating  than  anger.  a  boy  with  a  taste  for  blood.  so  blind  to  the  way  you  snap ,  like  branch  under  boot ,  when  you  push  too  hard.  what  place  is  there  for  you  in  an  unforgiving  world ,  wracked  with  hardship?  at  whose  table  do  you  dine?   you  knew  love  once ,  it  felt  like  sharing  bread  and  blankets  and  tales  of  woe.  like  years  on  the  streets  relying  only  on  wit  and  steadfast  determination  to  survive.  like  knowing  a  person  fully ,  inside  and  out ,  as  you’d  always  known  yourself.  that  too  would  be  taken  from  you ,  like  everything  else.  for  the  price  of  just  a  single  coin ,  you  watched  your  love  take  their  last  breath ,  watched  the  thief  make  off  with  their  blood  money ,  felt  truly  and  terribly  powerless.  worse  than  losing  your  father  to  deep  winter  chill  you  lost  your  first  love  to  a  blade.  and  in  the  end ,  it  meant  nothing.     the  sons  of  argos  could  not  undo  what  you’d  done ,  what  had  been  done  to  you ,  but  maybe  you  could  give  back  tenfold.  it  starts  small ,  at  a  table  in  your  favorite  tavern ,  as  all  great  plots  tended  to  do.  an  invitation  to  join  a  company  you’d  heard  about  only  in  whispers.  you  saw  espace ,  penance  where  others  saw  a  home ,  but  that  would  always  be  enough  for  you.  it  was  intended  to  be  permanent ,  a  family  you  couldn’t  lose ,  under  a  friend  who  would  lay  down  their  life  for  the  men ,  women ,  and  children  under  their  protection.  a  life  of  adventure  to  call  your  own  and  you  didn’t  need  to  suffer  anymore.  you  had  but  one  skill ,  it  seemed ,  beyond  tending  to  the  herd  and  trimming  too  tall  crops ,  and  your  father  once  taught  you  that  skill  fed  fortune  ( though  the  money ,  you’d  find ,  would  come  later ) .  you  don’t  think  the  sons  is  quite  what  your  dearly  departed  had  in  mind ,  and  this  makes  your  smile  widen.  you’ve  always  found  humor  in  odd  places.     what  follows  is  a  career  far  short  of  extravagant ,  fighting  crime  like  a  bunch  of  vigilanties ,  tied  to  a  city  state  that  knows  little  of  its  own  streets.  you  hunger  for  travel ,  to  sink  your  teeth  into  shores  unseen ,  land  untended.  to  make  a  real  name  for  yourself  and  anyone  who  followed  suit.  “mind  your  place ,  mutt,”  you  hear  more  than  once ,  and  you  want  to  swat  the  others  away  like  flies  buzzing  in  swelling  ears.  but  there’s  something  sharp ,  too ,  like  a  cut  that  just  won’t  heal.  your  voice  is  too  loud  amongst  the  rest ,  your  name  --  the  name  you  paid  for  in  blood  --  nothing  next  to  strength’s.  the  captain  you  were  meant  to  worship  turned  to  dust  in  your  heavy  fist ,  the  family  you  forged  alongside  them  never  yours  to  call  your  own.  you  tell  yourself  they  betrayed  you ,  like  everything  else  in  this  life  they  gave  you  nothing  to  hold  onto  save  for  the  back  of  their  coattails ,  but  in  truth  you  were  never  meant  to  stay.  minding  your  place  felt  a  lot  like  digging  six  feet  down  to  lay  rest.   it’s  like  waking  from  a  dream ,  one  you  push  down  when  it  returns  to  you  in  the  night ,  leaving  the  sons  for  good.  four  winters  you  slept  under  their  tents ,  ate  at  their  table ,  and  still  you  feel  nothing  when  you  pack  what’s  yours  ( and  maybe  some  of  what  isn’t ,  but  who  would  dare  come  looking  for  it? )  and  go.  no  one  follows ,  no  one  even  pleads  your  case ,  and  when  you  see  them  playing  knights  on  the  docks  the  fire  in  you  swells.  it’s  all  rot  now.

III .  WHERE  WOULD  ICARUS  BE  NOW ,  IF  SOMEONE  WISE  HAD  CLIPPED  CURSED  WINGS?      iriebury  is  the  stank  of  unwashed  flesh ,  the  heat  of  southern  sun ,  something  to  conquer.  the  citizens  are  mean  and  the  crime  meaner.  it  makes  tyrholm  look  a  lot  like  playing  pretend ,  the  sons  seem  like  a  group  of  toy  soldiers.  to  survive  in  iriebury  you  need  your  bark ,  you  need  your  bite.  naturally , you  thrive.   it  takes  just  one  winter ,  one  warm  southern  winter ,  before  you  have  something  to  call  a  crew  of  your  very  own.  the  second  fangs ,  a  handful  of  beaten  down ,  nearly  finished  off  mutts  that  think  you  look  like  a  future.  you’ll  find  one  day ,  when  you’ve  turned  to  face  the  wrong  end  of  a  sword ,  these  dogs’  loyalty  knows  no  bounds.  and  maybe  you  do  have  a  family  after  all.  they  don’t  look  like  warriors  born  for  battle ,  but  they’re  sharp  on  every  edge  and  speak  of  you  like  you  hung  the  moon.  like  a  prophecy  spun  from  the  undying  herself.  the  queen  of  iriebury’s  no  different ,  when  you  flash  her  a  smile  and  run  a  sword  through  her  guard.  this  is  your  destiny.   with  work  and  full  bellies ,  the  second  fangs  grow ,  picking  up  more  men  and  women  the  rest  of  markholm  cast  aside ,  giving  them  all  purpose.  leadership  becomes  you ,  you’re  kind  in  places  other  captains  breathe  fire.  your  men  adore  you ,  and  maybe  this  is  why  it’s  easy  to  lose  yourself  a  bit.  you’ve  always  been  looking  for  him ,  that  voice  inside  of  you  that  has  guided  every  confident  step ,  and  you  really  start  to  believe  you’ve  found  him  at  the  end  of  a blade.     what  you  do  isn’t  pretty like  life  in  a  castle ,  it  isn’t  gentle  like  the  farm  or  humble  like  a  temple ,  but  it  suits  you.  you  find  company  at  the  bottom  of  a  bottle ,  family  inside  the  taverns  and  brothels ,  atop  dirty  cobblestone.  it  all  feels  a  lot  like  honor ,  like  duty.  you’re  known  for  your  loyalty  and  cunning  among  burdened  skill.  work  lends  to  virtue  or  some  mirrored  image  of  the  sort.  the  second  fangs  take  the  jobs  you  approve ,  not  the  ones  the  queen  hands  you ,  nails  stained  with  blood ,  and   who  knew  a  mercenary  crew  with  such  an  eye  for  morality?  bastards  that  comb  the  streets  but  speak  with  love  fresh  on  their  lips.  you’re  a  heathen  with  heart ,  of  that  not  even  the  fiercest  opponents  can  dispute.  maybe  there  is  a  place  in  this  world  for  nameless ,  coinless  men  with  a  hunger  for  something  more.  you  give  back  to  your  beloved  pack  what  they  give  to  you ;  everything ,  everything  and  then  some.  a  life  that  means  more  than  scraping  the  bottom  of  the  barrel.   you  can’t  carry  on  like  this  forever  and  survive ,  and  it’s  only  a  matter  of  time  before  real  gold  starts  knocking.  a  steady  job ,  you’re  promised.  a  lifetime  of  stability ,  peace.  you  know  more  of  the  king  of  tyrholm than  you  let  on ,  and  maybe  you  are  naive  to  trust  the  word  of  a  woman  who  did  not  raise  herself ,  but  when  you  look  at  your  company’s  worn  faces  and  tired  smiles ,  weathered  from  southern  strife ,  it’s  never  been   easier  to  bend  a  knee.     some  odd  winters ,  some  odd  springs ,  lived  with  modest  lavesty.  septimus  is  an  arse  of  a  man  that  whispers  corroded  bidding  into  your  graceless  ear.  no  one  but  the  second  fangs  knows  how  much  you  shake ,  when  the  job  is  done  and  you’re  safe  at  home.  how  much  weight  you  shoulder ,  for  yourself ,  for  your  men ,  for  the  lives  you’ve  taken.  the  lives  you  will  take.  your  crew  was  never  meant  to  become  a  rebellion.  the  glory  feels  lost ,  you’re  a  knight  without  chivalry ,  a  wolf  without  teeth.  you  hear  dog  more  than  your  own  name  and  you  bite  back  bile  when  you  look  in  a  mirror ,  but  still ,  you  think ,  you  would  do  it  all  over  again.     the  second  fangs  are  a  happy  crew ,  well  fed  and  housed  and  nothing  like  the  orphans  you  sheltered  so  many  moons  ago.  when  it  starts  to  feel  like  you  have  your  own  sons  of  argos  you  shelf  the  thought.  your  pack  looks  at  you ,  strong  and  fit  and  still  just  a  bit  withered ,  and  laugh  and  cheer.  “yer  getting  old,  canis,”  they  jest ,  when  you  stumble  into  bed.  “hunch - backed  from  all  that  gold  in  yer  pockets.”  you’ve  always  been  wiser  than  most  of  them ,  something  raw  in  your  heart  that  keeps  it  beating  steadfast.  better  you  than  them ,  you  know.  most  men  would  crack  at  what  you’d  seen.  what  you  know.     there’s  good  to  be  found ,  once  you  learn  how  to  look ,  like  the  devotion  of  judgement  ,  a  beauty  in  worship  that  reminds  you  of  all  your  father’s  useless  praying.  peaceful  in  all  it’s  absurdity.  there’s  friendship  in  odd  places ,  with  the  empress  you  serve.  you  find  it  hard  to  trust  in  tyrholm ,  unaccustomed  to  the  politics  of  a  ruling  class ,  the  society  that  never  once  smiled  down  on  a  farm  boy  and  his  widowed  father.  you  want  to  be  wise  and  cunning ,  still  sometimes  you  feel  inadequate  next  to  those  raised  in  education ,  but  the  queen  saw  your  potential  before  anyone  else  in  the  whole  retched  kingdom ,  and  that  has  to  mean  something.  there’s  the  fool ,  a  real  dog  you  sometimes  think ,  who  mirrors  your  old  captain  so  much  it  makes  your  skin  crawl.  they  aren’t  so  bad ,  but  it’s  hard  for  you  to  look  up  at  someone  who  serves  at  the  hand  of  the  king.  you  wonder  if  others  think  the  same  of  you.  fools ,  the  whole  lot  of  them.   you  know  what  the  queen  expects  of  you ,  your  word  is  your  livelihood ,  but  these  things  take  time.  for  now ,  you’re  comfortable ;  your  cup  is  full.  there’s  always  been  something  about  wars  to  come  that  feels  like  home ,  ragged  and  battle  scarred  thing  that  you  are.  and  besides ,  it’s  easier  to  put  out  a  fire  that  burns  inside  your  ribs  than  one  that  swallows  an  entire  kingdom ,  of  this  you  are  certain.

PLOT IDEAS

STRENGTH:   oh  boy  oh  man.  canis  can’t  hold  his  tongue  with  distaste  even  if  he  tried ,  and  he  definitely  doesn’t  try  with  them.  his  anger  often  gets  the  better  of  him  and  i  believe  he  would  try  to  confront  strength  every  chance  he  gets.  he  sees  this  skeleton  as  nothing  more  than  the  king’s  right  hand  ( literally  so  exciting  to  me  that  strength  is  also  a  revolter  and  i’m  sure  neither  of  them  know  they’re  destined  to  work  on  the  same  side  again?? )   and  i  think  he  reflects  a  lot  of  his  own  inadequacies  onto  this  skeleton ,  a  lot  of  his  failure.  with  such  a  tension  relationship  i’d  like  to  see  fights  break  out ..  maybe  even  between  their  own  respective  men  that  they’d  have  to  quell.  far  down  the  line  even  settling  their  differences  and  working  together  as  the  military  leaders  of  a  revolution  because  who  is  better  suited  for  the  job  than  them?  but  it  would  take  a  big  blow  to  canis’s  pride  to  share  such  a  job ,  to  ever  work  alongside  this  skeleton  instead  of  against  them  like  he  always  has.  so  all  around?  here  for  it  all. NINE OF WANDS:   canis  looks  at  them  and  sees  passion  he  once  was  sure  he  felt ,  the  sharp  thing  in  his  gut  that  once  spurred  him  to  forge  his  own  path  in  a  world  that  never  once  showed  him  kindness.  his  scars  are  internal ,  but  they  wear  their  scar  like  a  badge  of  honor ,  at  least  that’s  how  canis  sees  it.  he’d  love  to  not  have  to  kill  the  king  himself ,  even  if  he  would  never  admit  it.  it  means  a  safer  life  for  his  men ,  it  means  being  done  with  tyrholm  and  a  life  of  ease  and  travel ,  everything  he’s  always  wanted  and  never  seemed  to  be  able  to  grasp.  i  wonder  if  them  growing  closer  through  sparring  and  their  ability  to  provide  him  the  best  weapons  he’s  ever  seen  could  change  his  opinion  on  wanting  them  to  kill  the  king  in  a  fit  of  rage??  i  could  see  canis  wanted  to  strategize  with  them ,  in  the  end ,  once  he’s  done  poking  the  bear.  love  this  gift  of  a  connection  a  lot !!!! THE EMPRESS:   definite  ass  kissing  going  on  here.  canis  is  more  than  grateful  he  was  hired  by  her  and  not  the  king ,  though  i  do  think  he  might  resent  them  a  little  for  the  work  the  king  makes  his  company  do.  he  prefers  to  take  jobs  from  them ,  when  ordered ,  though  i  feel  their  relationship  at  this  point  goes  beyond  just  work  like  it  does  with  septimus.  he  trusts  them  and  it  does  help  him  to  sleep  at  night  thinking  he  could  be  serving  their  hand  and  not  septimus’s.  also  entirely  possibly  they  call  him  the  dog  but  with  them  it  doesn’t  feel  like  malice.  he  would  never  dare  disrespect  the  queen ,  especially  one  he  sees  goodness in ,  sees  his  entire  future  in.  would  be  really  interesting  if  canis  even  is  a  little  too  friendly  with  them ,  giving  them  a  hard  time  where  maybe  no  one  else  would  dare  to  do ,  an  annoying  prick  in  her  side  that  she  NEEDS  to  get  what  she  wants. THE HERMIT:   i  think  he  has  a  lot  of  respect  for  the  hermit.  in  ways  that  his  pride  keeps  him  from  seeing  his  similarities  with  strength ,  he  sees  so  much  of  who  he  once  was  in  them.  young ,  making  their  own  way ,  maybe  even  some  of  the  same  rage ,  though  canis  has  no  place  to  put  his  own.  i  feel  like  if  the  respect  was  mutual  they  could  have  a  friendly  relationship ,  canis  even  pushing  advice  onto  them  they  might  not  want  or  need.  if  a  revolution  came  he  would  back  them.  somewhere ,  he  probably  even  sees  them  as  something  of  a  good  king.  canis  doesn’t  trust  them  fully ,  but  he  could  drink  with  them ,  knows  the  second  fangs  would  treat  them  kindly  as  well. THE HIGH PRIESTESS:   canis  is  scared  of  little ,  but  he’s  scared  shitless  of  them.  he  avoids  them  at  all  costs ,  looks  the  other  way  when  they’re  brought  to  the  same  space.  he  doesn’t  talk  kindly  of  necromancers ,  though  maybe  there  is  some  envy  there  he  needs  to  address.  he’s  sure  this  doesn’t  go  unnoticed ,  not  with  all  their  years  of  wisdom.  i  think  it  could  be  really  interesting  though  if  one  of  his  closest  friends  is  killed  on  a  job  and  they  bring  them  back  as  he  watches ,  sees  this  power  first  hand ,  feels  even  a  debt  is  owed  though  none  of  the  fear  is  gone.  a  lot  of  possibilities ,  i  could  see  the  second  fangs  might  be  dying  a  lot  more  often  pretty  soon ... JUSTICE:   the  world  calls  canis  the  dog  because  they  see  him  as  filth ,  as  something  mangey  that  feeds  from  table  scraps  of  the  king ,  but  canis  sees  that  justice  is  the  real  dog.  and  he  pities  him  for  it.  there’s  little  glory  in  the  work  of  a  bodyguard ,  and  maybe  canis  wonders  how  justice  would  fair  in  his  own  company.  never  the  less ,  i  think  they  could  butt  heads  just  as  easily  as  they  could  share  a  pint.  maybe  they’ve  even  fought  in  some  of  the  same  battles ,  know  each  other  from  war  torn  lives  and  have  a  bond  because  of  this.  lots  of  potential  for  both  malice  and  comradery ,  no  matter  what  line  of  the  revolution  they  tread. THE LOVERS:   canis  sees  himself  and  more  in  them.  he  doesn’t  pity  easily ,  has  an  ability  to  find  the  strength  in  even  the  smallest  mouse ,  but  he  pities  the  lovers.  in  some  ways ,  i  think  he  wants  what  they  have ,  longs  for  something  as  fulfilling  as  love ,  and  doesn’t  want  to  see  this  squashed.  every  day  he  gets  closer  to  telling  them  of  the  war  to  come.  i  really  wonder  how  long  he  can  go  without  letting  anything  slip ,  especially  if  they  look  at  him  with  gentleness  or  show  him  great  kindness.  he  feels  they  need  to  prepare ,  like  he  is ,  for  a  future  of  destruction.   THE MOON:   okay okay ..  i  have  two  different  paths  that  i  think  might  be  interesting  with  this  skeleton  depending  on  what  gets  plotted  out.  BUT ..  i could imagine  canis  stumbles  into  their  office  after  being  badly  injured  on  the  job ,  probably  requesting  some  random  herb  because  it  HURTS  and  he’s  WEAK  and  he  needs  it  to  be  DONE  WITH.  one  path  would  lead  to  the  moon  healing  canis ,  and  once  he  discovers  this  ability  he  probably  begs  and  bribes  ( heavily.  the  man  is  too  wealthy  for  his  own  good  now ,  and  what  else  is  he  going  to  buy?  new  boots?  his  work  just  fine. )  them  to  start  visiting  the  second  fangs  around  the  city  to  heal  them  in  secret.  he’ll  do  anything  for  their  ensured  safety.  the  other  path  works  quite  the  same ,  only  with  no  healing ,  just  plants ,  and  he’d  be  very  dependent  on  this  muse  either  way  because  of  the  miracles  they’re  able  to  work  with  his  men.  really  really excited  for  the  possibilities  of  plots  with  this  skeleton. THE TOWER:   a  backstory  plot  for  these  muses  is  calling  my  name??  like  maybe  the  tower  and  canis  had  a  deal  where  the  second  fangs  would  assist  them  and  their  men  on  voyages  and  pillages  for  a  cut  of  the  treasure  when  all  was  said  and  done ,  back  when  the  second  fangs  were  fresher  and  poorer  and  in  desperate  need  of  work.  and  maybe  one  of  the  two  betrayed  the  other  on  one  of  these  trips ,  with  greed  for  treasure  or  something of the like?  things  could  be  tense  between  them  now ,  at  each  other’s  throats.  OR  there  could  have  never  been  a  betrayal  and  they’re  actually  quite  good  friends  who  know  a  little  too  much  about  each  other’s  pasts ,  and  canis  offers  the  tower  company  amongst  the  pack  knowing  he’s  lived  through  canis’s  own  worst  nightmare.  the  terrifying  ordeal  of  being  known.  canis  could  definitely  trust  them  more  than  he  should.  this  one  has  me  really  excited  i  won’t  lie.

CHARACTER DEATH:    canis  would  quite  literally  volunteer  for  this  so  that’s  a  big  yes  from me.

WRITING SAMPLE

THE SELF PARA:  the tent is warm and the burn of the lamplight casts shadows across familiar faces. the second fangs. his pack, he always calls them, like they’re puppies and not vicious mercenaries. canis is most comfortable here, at ease, his usually pin straight posture relaxed despite the job he knows lays ahead of them. it’s not one he’s entirely comfortable with, an uprising in a poor village. always messy, always felt a bit like putting down a weakened calf at the farm. so they drink, to forget the day that lies ahead, the uncountable days behind. the faces. faces. faces, that echo like screams.   he can’t recall who speaks first, but it was likely canis himself, always a little too bold when his body buzzed with liquid courage. “that’s not what i’m asking,” one of his men corrects with a nudge of canis’s shoulder, always aggressive with each other, a pack of wolves nipping at each other’s heels. “the death’s on your hands. but it’s meant to be a good one. worth while.” and the captain’s own eyes twinkle uncharacteristically, perhaps because his inner conscious knows what his mouth does not. that the answer lies waiting at the tip of his tongue, a snarling beast of a target.     “and how much coin are we gonna get fer it?” ajax jests, but canis can see the gold flashing in front of his face, even from across the table. canis barks out a laugh, and they all bang their goblets on the table.   “aye,” in unison. they know each other inside and out, they speak a language strange and foreign. a family with many moons in their pockets. how many knights can say that?   “no coin,” canis finally adds. “no glory. no private dance at the brothel,” eying ren, and there’s another chorus of easy laughter, more aye’s.   “one of the nobles,” lawren grunts, and at first there’s just ringing silence. a paranoia that winds it’s way through the small group. they trust each other with their lives but this .. it’s like blasphemy. it’s revolution uncurling within them, more than just a job, it’s a force awakening. lawren speaks again, gentler, louder. “undying knows they’re all pricks.” and it’s easy again, more aye’s, cups overflowing with wine and ale.   but in between the laughter, he feels the wrench in his gut, the rage that threatens to flare. an allegiance of blood and blind faith  --  it reminds him so much of religion that he squirms. maybe his answer lies in a job, with wicked tendrils wrapped around his neck like a leash. the dog. how wrong would it be to bite the hand that feeds you? “i’d cut off my ring fingers and swear to celibacy to be rid of the fuck all king already,” canis growls, his knuckles white where he grips tight on his cup. and it’s quiet again. when he speaks they listen, they all listen, even the highborn in the castle, like he’s a wave crashing on shore. commanding attention. demanding it.   “you’re spending too much time with the clerics,” ren groans, with a face like a fox, her hair hanging limply in her face. he can’t tell if she’s smiling or frowning, but they’re nodding in agreement. all of them.    “what good’s that sack of shit king, anyway?” lawren chimes in, and then it’s deafening chatter. all canis can do is listen, absorb the pain of his men, the frustration, see himself reflected in their woes. say what any outsider will about his crew, maybe they are all mutts. one mind, one body, one restless spirit. tired of being used, of being chained to a cause that tries to fill deep chasms in bleeding hearts with gold. what is the price of true freedom?   “maybe the end is closer than you think, canis,” a small voice that rises above the others. a girl, mary, raised in the pack, only nearing her seventeenth summer. and she’s a legacy of everything canis has created, the family he wove with bruised and boney fingers. “we haven’t lost a battle, yet.” and she’s right, of course she’s right, whip smart and flea bitten. if there is to be a revolution, aid of the pack would be an immense advantage. it isn’t arrogance with which his men speak. it’s truth.   he has to chew on the suggestion, sharp glass in his mouth with every bite, impossible to digest, but maybe with the backing of his crew .. canis has trouble seeing the future beyond a sack of coins and a full bottle of ale. he knows little of politics, even after all his withered years serving as something of a king himself. it’s overwhelming, and he thinks his whole arm shakes when he raises his goblet. “nasty fuckers,” but his teeth shine in the lamplight, like fangs. like canines. “trying to get your own captain killed.” but when they clink glasses, it feels like a deal has been made, like he owes this death to more than just the queen, like the undying herself is watching.

EXTRAS

VOICE :   canis  has  an  eclectic  sort  of  accent ,  a  combination  of  all  of  the  people  he  met  while  living  on  the  street ,  his  father ,  the  lands  he’s  traveled  and  settled  into  with  his  companies .  he  constantly  sticks  out  as  an  outsider ,  no  matter  where  he  is .  he  doesn’t  mind  this  sense  of  otherness  because  whenever  canis  goes ,  his  family  is  never  far . canis’s  mockblog  can  be  found  HERE his  pinterest  can  be  found  HERE   ( blood  tw )

[storiesofwildfire]

Fandral the Dashing

LEGAL NAME: Fandral Bjarteson

ALIASES: Fandral the Dashing and Robin Hood are definitely the most infamous. From time to time, especially when accepting an assignment from Sigurd, Fandral will adopt various aliases. They also just make traveling to other realms a bit easier for the natives of those realms, so it’s common practice for him.

AGE: Fandral sits close to 1,200 Asgardian years old, though he would be much older in Earth years. Fandral is also slightly older than both of Asgard’s princes.

OCCUPATION/TITLE: Warrior, swordsman, adventurer, part-time operative

GENDER & PRONOUNS: Male, he/him

FACECLAIM: Zachery Levi

APPEARANCE: Standing nearly six and a half feet tall with striking blue eyes, blonde hair, and an athletic build, Fandral is easily one of the most beautiful men to grace Asgard. Oddly enough, he is also one of the few grown men that can actually get away with short hair. He has an incredible fashion sense that also makes him stand out, and he’s definitely not the type to shy away from the attention.

SEXUAL/ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Pansexual and panromantic

PARENTS: Bjarte (father) ;; Gyda (mother)

SIBLINGS: None

CHILDREN: None

RELATIONSHIP TO LOKI: Fandral is a friend and secret crush of Loki’s. After convincing Fandral to travel to Asgard, the pair grew close, even if a lot of their relationship remained out of sight. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind, though, that Fandral has a huge soft spot for the younger prince of Asgard.

Most knew him as Fandral the Dashing, companion and loyal friend of the princes of Asgard and faithful member of the Warriors Three. Many people would point him out for his fine skills with a sword, his prowess in battle, his dedication to his friends, and his undeniable charisma. Fandral charmed his way around beautiful women and men alike. He gained quite the reputation of wiggling his way into the hearts of everyone he met and the beds of quite a large portion of those numbers, and yet, most knew nothing more about him.

Fandral always appeared to be an open book to anyone who wished to take a look. His welcoming smiling, hearty laugh, and natural beauty drew in just about everyone, and he willingly engaged with them. There weren’t many who disliked him unless, of course, they were jealous of him or jealous of the lovers he took up with because his eyes weren’t on them. Even those who found envy when they looked upon the swordsman, though, had a hard time truly hating him.

He was just too kind, too genuinely good-hearted, and too fun to be around for many to loathe.

Throughout Gladsheim, Asgard’s capital, home to the royal palace and many of the nobles who kept the realm running and overseeing Yggdrasil’s protection, most of the citizens knew of Fandral, of his passion, and his adventures. Those who spoke with him personally would claim they knew him rather well. Being such a well-liked individual with open arms tended to make the people around him believe they were well within their rights to say that they knew him rather well.

And, in truth, Fandral would be inclined to agree with any of them. No one noticed how Fandral always remembered their names, even when he likely shouldn’t have due to only meeting an individual once or twice under the influence of a lot of Asgardian mead. No one noticed how, despite laughing off most serious conversation, he was one of the first to speak up with intellectual insight on important matters such as battle strategy, Asgardian security, or even more personal understandings of people, like his commentary on Loki’s mischievous tendencies but overall good nature when the rest of his friends insisted on blaming the sorcerer for Thor’s banishment.

Always quick to be written off as a flamboyant warrior with fancy footwork and swordplay, quicker to take up a goblet of wine and the company of a pretty lady than to engage in more serious matters, most overlooked how bright the young swordsman actually was. Often assumed to be of average intelligence and easily distracted, no one truly knew how severely they had misjudged Fandral and, as a penalty, never took notice to how much of his life they imagined on their own.

Most people believed Fandral to be from some sort of nobility. He certainly dressed, fought, and carried himself as if he belonged amongst royalty, but the truth was, he came from a much more modest background. He didn’t even try to purposefully deceive the people around him, they just came to their own conclusions and the longer he dwelled in Gladsheim, the more he realized that status was everything. Perhaps he hadn’t intended on lying to anyone of where he came from, but he grew more and more inclined to keep certain details to himself unless directly expected to answer personal questions about his childhood.

Most people never asked.

In actuality, Fandral grew up in a small town on the outskirts of the realm. Idavoll, commonly known to Midgardians as the expansive field where all of the houses of the Aesir Gods stood, was actually just a small farming community where Asgard exported many crops from. Perhaps Midgardians were not as clueless as they seemed, as they did get the ‘fields’ part of their description right.  

Born to a farmer by the name of Bjarte and his wife, Gyda, Fandral lived by modest means as a child. He often found himself roped into helping his father in the fields or helping his mother prepare, package, and deliver their goods to the rest of the town.

While Fandral did help Bjarte and the other workers in the fields, more of his time went to traveling with his mother to sell and deliver. Most of the people they interacted with were common folk as well, merchants, blacksmiths, and teachers were among the most common, but they did interact with nobility. Their tiny town had a few small, noble families who seemed to favor harvesting their goods from locals rather than reaching out to other towns and cities across Asgard. Fandral’s family grew to be a favorite local source.

Word of their little farm spread to a few nearby towns and by the time Fandral reached adolescence, he found himself traveling outside of his home to visit with people and nobles from their neighboring settlements.

The excitement and adrenalin that came with traveling, even for such a short distance, woke up a desire for adventure deep within Fandral’s bones. He couldn’t say that he came from nothing. His family was successful and loving and did the best that they could for their son, but there was nothing exciting about the life of a farmer or a merchant. They made an honest living for their modest life, but Fandral found himself wondering... was this really all that life had to offer him? Would he grow up to be the spitting image of his father? A man with so much to give and so much potential to fulfill, tilling the soil and living off the land?

Until that very first trip outside of Idavoll, Fandral hadn’t considered that, perhaps, he could be destined for so much more? He was born into a life he had no control over, but that did not mean that it needed to be his existence for thousands of years, right?

It sounded like a childish dream, a fairytale that parents told their children they could believe in, but Fandral couldn’t help but think why not? What was stopping him from achieving something greater? Of becoming something more? Sure, his background probably didn’t do him any favors. He had no real advantages in the world despite being a rather attractive boy (yes, even at such a young age, people knew Fandral would be nothing short of a heartthrob) who had a strong work ethic and a surprisingly strong moral compass. Even from a young age, Fandral seemed to be a stickler for what was noble and honorable.

But how? That was the real question, wasn’t it? How did he break off from the course his life was on and make a change for a better future?

No... for bettering himself?

Trusting his mother to understand his desires, he spoke with her on the return trip of their first outing. He did not expect Gyda to be cruel or discouraging, but the genuine delight and even the slight bit of amusement that filled his mother’s beautiful features truly took him by surprise.

“You can do whatever you set your mind to, Fandral,” she whispered, wrapping her arm around her son’s shoulder so she could pull him close. “You can be whatever you want to be. Life may not make things easy for you, but if you want something badly enough, and you are determined to let yourself have it, you can take the world by storm and the world would happily hand itself over to you.”

She had no idea just how correct she was in that assessment.

“You truly believe that?” Fandral asked, blue eyes wide with wonder at how quick his mother had been to agree to such a thing.

“Of course,” she replied. “And I want the best for my boy, so what is it that you want to do? If not follow in your father’s footsteps?”

“I—” Fandral sounded excited, but it quickly died out when he realized he hadn’t put much thought into what he actually wanted. “—don’t know? Adventure, I think? The freedom to roam and explore and do great things.”

Gyda chuckled and squeezed her son’s shoulder. “That sounds like a great place to start, but I think you’ll need to put a bit more thought into it. I’ll do what I can to help you, darling.”

And she did. From that point on Gyda did everything she could get gather resources for her son, to get him texts he could study, resources that interested him, and even tutors that would be beneficial for him. Of course, they lived modestly, but she splurged as much as she could into her son’s future, and if she could not afford to pay, well, she had plenty of good favors to cash in on around Idavoll.

For several years, she assisted her boy in every way that she could, exposing him to as much as she could during their travels, but there was one thing Fandral didn’t have much access to and something that he, honestly, didn’t feel a whole lot of desire to pursue. Combat training.

It wasn’t until a last-minute trip to a neighboring town cropped up that such a need truly arose. Fandral helped his mother prepare their horses and pack their wagon for the journey late one afternoon.

Halfway to the next town, however, a small band of thieves approached them from the East. The horses couldn’t hope to pull the loaded wagon quickly enough to outrun the men and women on horseback, so Gyda stopped the wagon and pulled Fandral from his place beside her. He wanted to question, wanted to insist that they needed to keep going, but his mother lifted a single finger to her lips, indicating that he ought to remain silent. Ushering him into the woods that ran alongside the path, she draped a thick cloak over his shoulders and covered his blonde head with it.

“Mum,” he whispered, but she shook her head.

“You need to stay here, hidden, until those people are gone. Understand?” Fandral nodded. “Promise me you’ll stay here until I come to fetch you?” The boy nodded again, and his mother quickly returned to the side of the cart, busying herself with checking the reigns on one of the horses.

The bandits approached her, an argument broke out, and one of the larger men backhanded the woman across the face, sending her to the ground. Fandral, watching from the forest line, shot up, prepared to rush to and defend his mother, but he locked eyes with her and she vigorously shook her head while the group of strangers rummaged through the wagon, picking it apart.

In the end, they’d taken everything, even their horses, and one man, out of rage or hatred, Fandral couldn’t tell, beat his mother bloody for no good reason other than he could. She did not attempt to stop them, did not fight the robbery, knew better than most that if she did, they could very easily kill her.

Fandral could not take his eyes off of the man who caused his mother so much pain, his face forever engrained in the boy’s mind as anger boiled through his blood. He wanted to run to her, protect her, but what would she say? He promised to stay put, but if he did nothing, her assailant could murder her.

A blow, followed by another, and another, and before Fandral knew what he was doing, his feet were carrying him as quickly as possible to the bloodied woman on the ground beside their wagon. He threw his entire weight into the man, shoving him away from his mother and purposefully positioned himself between the two. Hysterical, Gyda demanded that Fandral run and hide, but the blond refused to move, instead choosing to stare down the man that dare lay a hand on his mother as if there was something he could actually do about it.

The furious brute lifted a hand to him, but a woman’s voice rang out from the side of the wagon. She stepped around from the back, hands on her hips, glaring at the man almost as intently as Fandral was. “We got what we wanted. It’s time to go.”

“This little brat—” the man protested, but the woman just scowled at him.

“Is a child trying to defend his mother, you big, ugly bastard. Let’s. Go.”

The raiders left with all of their goods, leaving them no way to get home short of walking. Fandral half-carried Gyda home. Thankfully, she did make a full recovery, but the event left a lasting impression on the son of a farmer. There were plenty of evil people in this world, or people desperate enough to hurt innocent people, and people like him were destined to stand by and watch it happen, unable to do anything about it. His mother could have been killed, and for what? For goods that she hadn’t fought over in the first place.

That sense of honor that Fandral developed at such a young age seemed to kick into overdrive from that moment forward. He even went as far as to acquire his first sword from a local blacksmith after trading him a handsome amount of leather. It became clear rather quickly that Fandral had some natural born talent with a sword in hand, though he spent most of his earliest time practicing alone. Self-taught meant that, despite having a raw knack for it, he was rather sloppy.

Word of his growing talent made its way through the small town, which wasn’t nearly as difficult as it sounded due to how close-knit the community truly was. Needless to say, Fandral piqued the interest of many, even a few stray warriors here and there who were passing through town on business or had retired for a calmer, peaceful life after their years of service.

One particularly gifted swordswoman by the name of Brenna (whose name ironically did mean ‘sword’), took a real interest in Fandral and after speaking to the charming lad, she agreed to properly train him. The talent was there already, a solid structure to build upon, but Brenna helped Fandral hone his craft with precision and technique that he would never accomplish on his own.

It became clear rather quickly that Fandral’s skills reached far beyond that of a boy from a small town, that he did not belong in Idavoll, but Fandral’s intent behind learning to fight had never been to grow into a warrior. He only wished to protect the people closest to him, to protect himself in extreme cases, so what happened to his mother would never happen again under his watch. It never occurred to him that what he wanted out of learning to handle a sword actually did line up with what it meant to be a warrior, just on a much broader scale.

Many people that he’d known for most of his life—his parents included—suggested he travel to Gladsheim, that he demonstrate what he could do to the influencers of their realm, but Fandral was of a very different mindset. Yes, he was good with a sword, intelligent, and possessed a quick wit, but why would anyone from the capitol care about a farmer’s boy who happened to get ahold of a blade? If he went, he would be nothing short of a laughing stock, surely. Charming and captivating the citizens of the small town he’d been raised in were one thing, but doing it before a royal court? Asgard’s army? People with real power?

That seemed almost laughable.

At least, until Fandral met a young woman in the woods on one of his trips.

He’d grown old enough that he could travel to neighboring cities without his mother or another guardian and he’d grown deadly enough with his prowess for battle that no one feared he wouldn’t return. Unfortunately, as he grew older and older, he found himself more likely to goof off or find distraction in engaging company and he would return home to lectures about being punctual and putting work ahead of play and pleasure. Fandral understood, of course, but what was life if he made no room for the enjoyment of it?

The beautiful, young woman with rich ebony hair that reached her backside certainly qualified as the perfect distraction. Taller than most women, she must have only been a hand shorter than Fandral himself, and she was dressed in a form-fitted body-suit that seemed ideal for both travel and battle. The material of her cloak spoke of wealth, and the intricate jewelry laced in her braids only added to the assumption, but it wasn’t her beauty, nor her wealth that pulled the warrior-to-be to a halt.

No, instead, it was the man who had all but knocked the woman off of her horse. A man that Fandral recognized very well. He could never forget the face of the raider who nearly killed his mother.

He didn’t think twice, didn’t stop to notice the green aura that radiated from the woman’s hands, and engaged the thief immediately. After spending years honing his skills, he backed the man into such a tight corner, there was nowhere to go, and for a split moment, he debated on killing him. Part of him wanted to, truly. First his mother, and now this young woman? How many people had this creature preyed on? Harmed? Killed?

“I think you got him,” the woman spoke from somewhere behind him. “Might I suggest these?” She conjured a pair of shackles, and Fandral spun around just quickly enough to catch sight of the magic. Captivated, he couldn’t help but stare. “I appreciate the help, swordsman, but I could have handled him on my own. Do you make a habit of saving damsels in distress?”

She stepped around Fandral and restrained the man with her cuffs, though he seemed to have lost consciousness for the time being. Fandral found himself staring at her, though, caught somewhere between adoring her and embarrassment for rushing in so brashly to save her.

“No, of course not, I just—” Fandral offered her a charming smile, one that fit so easily onto his face, it seemed like a natural state of being. “Forgive me. I did not mean to step on your toes, my lady, but this man has terrorized others in this area before. He attacked my mother when I was nothing but a boy. When I saw him harassing you, I feared the worst. I did not possess the skill to protect my mother then, but I had the ability to stop him now.”

“Skilled you are,” she chuckled, amusement clear in her jewel-toned eyes. They were like perfect emeralds... “I haven’t seen someone dance around with a sword like that in quite some time. Are you from around here?”

The woman introduced herself as Lagertha and she expressed to Fandral that, perhaps, he ought to consider moving somewhere where his skills could be valued. She even went as far as to abandon the reason she’s come all that way in the first place and rode with Fandral to his delivery, getting to know him as they went.

The young sorceress coveted her true identity in the face of the Aesir, as Lagertha had become a front she put on when she needed to escape the palace, but the longer she spent with Fandral, the easier it became to stick around, to be honest with him, to open herself up to him. She realized quickly that Fandral was more than what he appeared. While skilled with a sword, he was not some cocky warrior who felt entitled to everything. Instead, he was a self-taught, self-made, and honest worker who believed wholeheartedly in doing what he believed was right. She saw an intelligent and charming young man who seemed so intent on learning and bettering himself and she could not argue...

Fandral was destined for better things.

She convinced Fandral to spend a few days with her and Fandral, captivated by her intellect, her beauty, and her magic, happily agreed. Yes, his father would be furious, but he would deal with the consequences later on. Something kept him rooted to Lagertha and he couldn’t bring himself to turn her away.

After several days together, Lagertha slowly building up the idea that Fandral ought to come with her to Gladsheim, she opened up further.

“What if I told you that I wasn’t who you think I am?” she asked.

“You’ve kept details of yourself rather vague,” Fandral admitted. “And you’ve kept our conversations mostly focused on me during your conquest to bait me into this adventure of yours. I suppose it wouldn’t surprise me much to learn you aren’t who you say you are.” The shock on Lagertha’s features had him smirking with satisfaction. He liked producing that reaction, especially from someone as witty as the woman at his side. “If you aren’t Lagertha, then who are you?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was the Prince of Asgard?”

Fandral laughed because surely, she must be joking. She only watched him with that cool, calm demeanor of hers, waiting for him to calm himself of his joyous giggles. “You can’t be serious?”

“I can show you if you’d like.”

And she did. One of the only people to ever see Loki shape-shift from Lagertha to the form most of Asgard knew him by and one of the few who actually knew the secret alias of the prince, Fandral realized quickly how much Loki must have come to trust him in such a short time. Pulling away from her—him?—once the truth was revealed seemed like a valid option, but one that Fandral didn’t take. His heart thrummed in his chest as the call to adventure all but screamed in his face.

He’d impressed a prince. That prince wanted to bring him to Gladsheim, to take him on that journey that he’d so desperately craved for years. Perhaps a bit too quick to agree without thinking things over, Fandral threw caution to the wind and accepted Loki’s offer, requesting only a week to prepare for his departure.

Gladsheim, as it turned out, was the perfect place for someone like Fandral, but it was shell-shocking to the system at first. Going from such a small, quiet place where everyone knew everyone to a place as massive, grand, and glittering as the home of the royal family took some getting used to. For the first time in his life, Fandral felt overwhelmed and almost timid, but he never allowed anyone to see it. At least, most people were not observant enough to pinpoint it.

Because Fandral hit it off so well with not only Thor but several of Thor’s friends many people assumed that the warrior actually had strong ties to Thor and likely came from some sort of nobility. No one really knew that it was, in fact, Loki who convinced the swordsman to make the journey to Gladsheim, but Fandral was never shy about his soft spot for Loki.

He went on to earn himself a title of being one of the best swordsmen the realm had to offer and often accompanied Thor and Loki on their adventures off-realm, even earning himself a stint on Midgard where locals modeled the tale of Robin Hood after him. His true talents, however, were often kept from view and while most pegged Fandral for being a flirtatious socialite, his quest for bettering himself and studying just about anything he could get his hands on remained at the forefront of his passions. It was his tendency of tucking himself away with a good book or questioning a professional on their practice that so often brought the younger prince back into Fandral’s company, and the two grew rather close.

Loki even decided that Fandral was so skilled in working his way up through the ranks undetected, that he introduced him to Sigurd, Odin’s most trusted advisor and the head of an intricate spy organization that spanned throughout and beyond Yggdrasil. Sigurd even liked the warrior enough to use him from time to time, when Fandral had the time, of course.

Author’s Note: I do wanna take a moment to give a quick shoutout to @fandralxthexstabulous because she writes such a brilliant Fandral and, honestly, has been a huge inspiration to me for a really long time both for Fandral and just playing off of her writing in general. While my take on Fandral is my own and I got way too wordy with all of the info you see above, there are a few elements that were inspired by @fandralxthexstabulous and her lovely Fandral. Mostly, the idea that Fandral does any sort of spywork. She offered to let me use her backstory ages ago and while I couldn’t bring myself to simply take it, I did keep a few shoutouts to her incredible Fandral.

Fandral is someone I’ve wanted to write for a very, very long time. I have loved him for a long time, but I definitely wanted to give credit where credit is due because @fandralxthexstabulous is incredible and honestly one of my favorite interpretations ever. High quality, highly fun, and forever my Loki’s Fandral of choice <3

I love her a lot, okay, and she deserves recognition for the amazing work she’d done with her Fandral because I routinely forget that he’s not canon.

[eddiemomson]

Favorite Characters

Rules: List my Top 10 favorite characters from different fandoms, then tag ten people.

*cue Shania Twain* Let’s Go Girls. BA DU DA DUM DA DUM BUMP

10. Mary Yellan-Jamaica Inn. I mean honestly? Everyone from Jamaica Inn. Except you albino man.  Never you. But I just love Mary. In a world where she doesn’t have a lot of say in her own future, she says nah screw that I do what I want. She had beliefs and she stuck with them and when the time came and her beliefs were challenged and pushed, she grew and adapted and changed. Love Mary Yellan.

09. Meggie Folchart-Inkheart. Lets be real here. I wanted to be Meggie when I was a kid. I STILL want to be Meggie. She was such a cool character, and I could gush about Inkheart forever. Read it. Learn it. Become it. Thank me later. 

08. Richard Rahl-Sword of Truth. My mans faced some tough shit. Son of an evil man? Check. Part of a prophecy he wanted nothing to do with? Check. Cant be with the woman he loves 99% of the series? Check. And all he wants is to pursue truth, justice, and the non-American way. Let him LIVE for crying out loud!

07. Peeta Mellark-The Hunger Games. THIS BOY JUST WANTS TO LOVE KATNISS AND BE LOVED AND BAKE AND BE HAPPY AND WHAT DOES HE GET INSTEAD? TORTURE. CONDITIONING. UNCONTROLLABLE ANGER. BLACKOUTS. NOT KNOWING WHATS REAL OR NOT REAL. I mean, okay sure, he EVENTUALLY gets a TROUBLED happiness with Katniss. but the poor boy just wants to LOVE.

06. Ian Malcolm-Jurassic Park. THIS MAN. JUST WANTED. TO NOT DIE. and yes, he does not die. BUT HE CAME REAL CLOSE. HE WAS SMARTER THAN JOHN HAMMOND THATS FOR FREAKING SURE. MY HUSBAND THROUGH THICK AND THIN. LIFE FINDS A WAY BABY.

05. Sorsha-Willow. THIS BINCH WAS SO MEAN AND THEN SHE MET MADMARTIGAN WHO SHE FELL IN LOVE WITH AND THEN SHE WAS LIKE BYE MOM u suck im joining the rebels and tbh same? I’d abandon everything for Madmartigan too.

04. Scarlet Benoit-The Lunar Chronicles. Scarlet is a judgmental and salty bitch most of Scarlet and I was like ooo girl me too. She’s my bae because she’s me. 

03. Donna Sheridan-Mamma Mia. SHE HAD A DREAM. A SONG TO SING. TO HELP HER COPE. WITH ANYTHING. Mamma Mia 2 changed me and I love her and I want to be her. I want to run away to Greece and have three men fawn over me. I’m not asking for much. Just an abandoned farm house and specifically young Bill. I’ll take my love affair, thanks.

02. Clark Kent and Lois Lane.-Superman. They count as one because they are inseparable and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is wrong and breaking the law so they should be in jail when you think about it. I love them and want them to be happy always because their moral compass is better than all of ours and the love they have for each other is unconditional and pure. Fight me.

01. TIED FOR FIRST PLACE BECAUSE I CHEAT EVERYWHERE I CAN

Padme Amidala-Star Wars. PADME. NABERRIE. AMIDALA. CHILD QUEEN TURNED SENATOR. FOUGHT FOR GALACTIC FREEDOM. NEGOTIATED PEACE WITH THE GUNGANS WHERE NO MAN BEFORE HER COULD. STOOD UP TO THE JEDI. THE FREAKIN JEDI. LOOKED DEATH IN THE EYE AND SAID NOT TODAY FAM. SO THIS IS HOW LIBERTY DIES. WITH THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE. THE SINGLE GREATEST LINE IN CINEMATIC HISTORY. PADME AMIDALA. CARES ABOUT THE WORLD MORE THAN ANYONE. DIED TRYING TO SAVE THE GOOD IN HER HUSBAND THAT SHE KNEW. SHE JUST FREAKING KNEW. WAS THERE. AND YOU WILL NEVER EVER EVER EVER IN A MILLION YEARS BE ABLE TO CONVINCE ME THAT PADME DIED FROM A “broken heart” OR “gave up living” NO WAY MAN. EMPEROR KILLED HER. NO FREAKING WAY. SHE WAS TOUGHER THAN ANYONE. TOUGHER THAN YOU. TOUGHER THAN ME. TOUGHER THAN DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON. SHE WAS THE MOTHER OF THE REBELLION, BOTH LITERALLY AND FIGURATIVELY. THERE WOULD BE NO STAR WARS WITHOUT PADME AMIDALA AND YOU CAN PUT THAT ON MY GRAVE. DONT @ ME. PADME IS BETTER THAN ALL OF US.

Anne Shirley-Anne of Green Gables. Anne is my kindred spirit. Or rather, Anne is me. When I first read Anne of Green Gables when I was 7 years old, it was a profound experience because there in the pages of a book was a character who I related to in so many ways. Anne loves with her whole heart. Every fiber of her is in love with someone or something at all times. Anne has an imagination that carries her through heartbreak and sorrow, but she can still find a smile in a daydream. Anne writes passionately, and shes stubborn to a fault. She’s loud, she’s out there, and good god Anne is me. As a child I was THRILLED to find Anne because everything I thought was weird about me was what made Anne beautiful. I was able to find my own confidence because of Anne and that’s the greatest gift any ‘character’ could give. 

Thank you @sassybooks for technically tagging me. So I’m taking advantage of being mentioned, sue me!

What about you: @thetwerkingwalrus @zoraneale @fredsythe @nightshine629 @saviorswanjones @foodandbooksandthings and thats all I’m tagging because I have no friends :D

[knittastically]

A Lioness Amongst the Wolves  Part 3

Part 1  Part 2

Thanks for reading, I hope the TAG list works. All comments appreciated and would love it if you would re blog

By the  time Raymond makes his way into the sweltering kitchen where his men are enjoying their ale and kicking their heels waiting for him, his mind is whirling, he cannot fathom Isabé. She is even more feisty and waspish than he’d been led to believe by her cousin Guillaume, on the other hand she is quick, clever and he has to admit, she is brave. Isabé Pelletier may be wary of him but she is most certainly not afraid.

He strides out of the Manor, swings up into the saddle and begins to ride away before his men are even mounted. He can’t recall ever having met a woman like her. Oh certainly there have been those who have tried to stand up to him, change him, fetter him but none have ever succeeded. The Ladies and Noblewomen who offer themselves to him do not last long, More often than not they are grasping, mean-spirited and have worse morals and manners than the whores he’s bedded. Either that or they are romantic dreamers, compliant and even a little pathetic. But they all in their own way try to mould him into the man they wish him to be. 

But Isabé. He shakes his head quickly as if to rid his mind of her, Isabé is a different prospect, though loathe to admit it there is something about her he can’t help but admire. Raymond has the uncomfortable feeling that if he should allow it, she will become an itch he cannot scratch. Therefore he will not allow it. In spite of himself he rides around to the front of the Manor and looks up, she is there gazing out of the window and she catches sight of him. For a few seconds they hold each other’s look, then Raymond gives a curt nod turns, and rides away with his men now gathered behind him.

The rain is hammering down now. I should be preparing for my departure tomorrow, but I have no heart for it so I idle my time away and lean out of the window breathing in the scent of damp earth. The wind has freshened and blows drops of water in through the window and the land on my face cooling my skin. I close my eyes and when I open them again, Raymond is there looking up at me. I cannot pull my gaze away from him and for a moment or two we simply stare at each other, then with a nod he reins his horse around and rides away. Suddenly I remember how it felt to have him stand close to me, to have his lips on mine, the ghost of his breath on my skin and I shiver. 

No, I reprimanded myself No he feels nothing for you, just remember that. “Isabé stop daydreaming there is much to be done.” I spin around as the door opens and Aunt Blanche sails into the room clapping her hands at me. “Aunt I have little to pack  and I have resigned myself to being the most unfashionably dressed women ever to grace the Chateau, though I doubt Sieur Raymond will notice, much less care.”

“Oh he will notice, Isabé make no mistake and you will not pass through that door dressed like some farm girl in hand me downs, you will be wearing a gown finer than anything the other ladies may possess. I hear huffing, several loud thumps, a few sharp words and an occasional oath from outside the room then Jehanne enters. “Everything is here Madame.” And she stands aside allowing Julot and Géraud to haul not one but four very large chests into the room, they pause to take breath then leave still mumbling dissent.

“For you Isabé. Our clever Jehanne has been working hard with Mathilde and some of the needlewomen from the Chateau, these are your gowns my dear.  Raymond gave precise instructions that you were to have only the best and that no expense should be spared they are part of your wedding gift” I am speechless as I open the chests one by one. The first contains nothing but shoes, boots and belts, the second shifts, hose, head coverings and garters. In the last two, the largest of the four are the gowns and mantles, I have never seen anything so splendid. I have always tried to dress well as far as it goes, but these gowns are so fine, so beautiful they would surely be fit for a queen. “Close your mouth dear” Aunt Blanche laughs at me. “You must choose one to wear tomorrow it would please Raymond and he would know you appreciate his gift. 

I pull Jehanne into a hug, “Thank you, my dear wonderful friend, thank you” “How could I not Isabé, when Sieur Raymond approached me of course I said yes and have been happy to do it, think of it as my wedding gift to you, thank goodness I don’t have to keep the secret any longer for I should burst” But my at the back of my mind is the feeling that Raymond de Merville has bought me for the cost of a few yards of expensive cloth.

“Can this wedding not be stopped?”

“Don’t be a fool girl it cannot, you can see by his gift that this has been in his mind for months and now he has decided that you will make him a good wife.” I snort a laugh, “Then he must lacking in wits if he thinks that”

“Isabé, there are things you should know about the Bouvier’s and the de Mervilles” Aunt Blanche takes my hand and we sit on the edge of the bed. Blanche flicks a quick glance at Jehanne, who catches the meaning and immediately slips quietly from the room.

Raymond and your Uncle Henri are better friends than you imagine, they have known each other since childhood. Under the old King the boys spent time in England with the Baron, then for almost three years they fought together against Saladin at Acre and Jaffa even Jerusalem. They were young men, great friends, your Uncle was as handsome and strong as ever Raymond was but more than that, Raymond owes his life to him.”

“To Uncle Henri?”

“Oh yes, had it not been for Henri, Raymond de Merville would not be walking this earth”

“Better for some of us if he did not” I spat out 

The force of her slap makes my ears ring and sends me sprawling backwards on to the bed. My poor face may not survive the day if I do not keep my tongue in check.

“Grow up Isabé, a Holy war such as they fought, changes men in ways you could never understand, it breaks them, crushes them and remakes them into creatures we hardly recognise.”

Her lips tremble but she continues. “It broke your Uncle and Raymond knew it, he knew that Henri would never fight again, that he woke screaming in the night and sometimes spent his days locked away and weeping for the horror of it all. In gratitude for his life, Raymond petitioned his father to let Henri retire and also to gift him this Manor and its estate. The Baron for once showed some compassion and was happy to do so, because but for Henri, Raymond would have been left to die and rot on the battlefield of some heathen land. That was almost eighteen years ago and thanks to Raymond we want for nothing, your Uncle has regained some of his self-respect and Raymond neither spares nor begrudges anything for his friend, and the Manor will pass to Guillaume when he is of age.”

That made me smile, I thought it unlikely that Guillaume would ever return here and certainly not with a wife.

This was a side to Raymond I had never thought could exist and yet it was not hard to imagine that his loyalty to his friends could run so deep and strong. 

“And how did the horrors of war remake Raymond Aunt?”

Aunt Blanche twists her fingers together and she looks as if she is about to cry, certainly there is a catch in her voice when she speaks. “Isabé you must think on this, Raymond was never such a hard man as he is now.  But when his beloved mother died, it wounded him so deeply all the joy seemed to flow out of him, he grew worse when the love of his life walked away from him the Bitch” “Aunt Blanche” I am astonished for though my own language could be unladylike, I had never heard her say such thing before.

“Yes and she had the gall to marry a man he had considered a friend.  Now he was broken and wild, all the women he loved had left him, the things he saw as a soldier preyed on his mind, kindness and compassion was gone leaving a bitter and sometimes cruel man” Blanche clears her throat again, and I place my hand over both of hers to still her fingers. “In spite of how he is, you have a great regard for Raymond Aunt Blanche don’t you, you see good in him” “Because I know what he once was” “And so you think he can become that again, but he won’t” My words spit out harsher than I’d meant them to and she bristles, her voice is strident as her usually calm blue eyes flash fire at me.

“I’m not a fool Isabé, so don’t ever take me for one but I knew Raymond before he turned into the brutish man he is now. It seems he feeds off his own misery and grows strong on it. But yes I feel there still is some good in him.” I don’t answer, because I would tell her what I think and it would hurt her. I could almost feel some pity for the man, almost, but I wondered if taking me as his wife simply another act of gratitude and charity towards his old friend Henri. “So he devotes himself to war and the service of the King, does the King think highly of him?” 

“I believe so, he is often in Paris and it is rumoured that the King engages him for particular work”

“Envoy, spy, assassin, Sieur Raymond would be well suited to any or all of those” I laugh This time Aunt Blanche does not answer me, but I read the expression on her face and it says that I am right. As I begin to fold and pack the few clothes I already own, Blanche frowns at me “You will have no need of those” She pulls them out of the chest, I take them from her and place them there again. 

“Nevertheless Aunt, I shall take them.”

“As you wish”, she sighs and having long since resigned herself to what she calls my singular ways, she leaves me. I choose the gown that I will wear tomorrow, I don’t know why but it is strangely important to me that it meets with Raymond’s approval. The colour will suit my complexion and my pale hair will shine against the murrey coloured wool. The next few days will be the last when I shall be able to wear my hair loose in public.

It is unusually late when I wake, and Jehanne is already up and about, laying out my clothes and making sure the water in the tub is not too hot. “Good morning Isabé, I know you slept well you barely stirred, except for........”

“Except for what?” I hitch myself up in bed and see that Jehanne is fighting a grin.

“Tell me you miserable baggage, except for what?” 

“Calling me names won’t help Isabé and for that I shan’t tell you”

I lean out of bed, snatch up a shoe and fling it at her, though I have no intention of hitting my mark. “Tell me” I yell at her.

She rolls her eyes flutters her lashes and clasping her hands against her breast moans “Raaaaaymond aaaaaah Raaaaymond”

I feel my face flushing “I did not you liar” and I bite at my lower lip

“Oh but you did, that and more”

“Oh for God’s sake don’t tell me I don’t want to know and I still think you’re making it up” But her look told me she wasn’t.

“Come on Isabé “she tries to haul me out of my bed. “It’s time for you to bathe and get ready” 

In a few hours all that is familiar will be left behind and I can’t bear the thought of it. A wave of panic suddenly sweeps through me and I begin to shake. Jehanne sits beside me on the bed and hugs me.

“This is not like you, you are stronger than this, now into the tub and I will wash your hair for you.” “When I am done with you Sieur Raymond will be dazzled.” I manage a faint smile, my one consolation is that she will be with me at the Chateau and I am grateful for that.

My dress is truly beautiful, it fits like a glove, Jehanne has worked her magic and tells me it is the latest style. My skin is soft and has the faint scent of roses, my hair shines like silver against the rich berry coloured wooI. The shoes I am wearing are the same colour as my gown and made of the softest leather. Around my waist I have fastened a narrow leather girdle with a gold buckle and as is the fashion the over long, gold tipped strap hangs down below my knees.

“Are you packed and ready to leave Jehanne?”

“Yes everything is ready and waiting down in the hall, but I will leave you now for a little while” Bless Jehanne, she understands that I need time to say good bye to my past life. I know that Aunt Blanche wants me to be down in the hall when Raymond arrives but he can wait.  I stand by my window, the sky is a bright, rain-washed blue, it’s a beautiful fresh day after the storm and this is the last time I will look at this view and I will never again sleep in this narrow bed. The riders come into view as they turn the bend in the road, there are more than I expected. Raymond is at the head, to the right of him rides his Captain and Guillaume is to his left leading a black mare. Behind them the escort, I count 20 men all dressed in the de Merville colours with the coat of arms on their cloaks and pennants, lastly a covered cart rumbles behind them. I hardly hear the sound of knocking on my door and Jehanne pokes her head around. “Isabé, your Aunt insists that you are in the Hall to greet Sieur Raymond” “Come in Jehanne, Raymond has only just arrived, there is time.” So we stand, arms around each other’s waists and watch from the window as Raymond dismounts and strides inside. “Isabé, we must go down” “A few moments more” “No” Jehanne tugs at my arm and hauls me towards the door. A deep breath, one last look around the small whitewashed room and we make our way down the stairs. I pause at the door, take another breath, fix a little smile on my face and walk into the main hall. All the house servants are gathered there to say goodbye there are whispers and admiring glances as I walk past.

“Isabé, at last” Aunt Blanche chides me gently. Raymond breaks from his conversation with my Uncle and turns to face me, he looks as grim as ever but dear God if he smiles at me I’m sure my very bones will melt. As I draw closer I drop a small curtsey and I am taken by surprise when Raymond holds out his hand to me and draws me up towards him.

“Thank you Sieur Raymond for your most generous gift I..”

I am cut short “Is that one of the gowns? If so, then it suits you well Isabé, very well indeed” He smiles, catches my chin between his fingers and thumb and stoops to brush the softest kiss to my lips. “As my wife it is only fitting that you should have the very best” 

My body does not quite listen to my head and when I look up at him my breath hitches. His smile widens but it does not reach his eyes they remain cold and guarded.

Wine is handed around and we stand side by side the mismatched pair that we are, the members of the household drink to our health and happiness. Raymond turns to my Aunt and Uncle, “Henri, Blanche it is time to take our leave my Father is waiting to welcome Isabé so we must say our goodbyes.” Every member of the house escorts us outside and as I kiss my Aunt and Uncle Adieu, Guillaume rides forward leading the pretty black mare. She prances about, sleek, fine and on her mettle, her tack is of black leather with silver decorations on the bridle and the saddle sits on a cloth of black and silver. “For you Isabé, I think you will be well matched for she has plenty of spirit she goes by the name of Estelle for the star on her forehead ”

“Raymond, she is beautiful” I stroke my fingers along the black silk of her neck. When I turn to look at him there is a slight smile playing on his lips and a warmth in his eyes. He helps me up into the saddle and Jehanne arranges my gown. As I mouth “Thank you” to him his smile widens briefly and he lets his hand rest on my thigh, it is for no more than a moment but the feel of it lingers long after he has mounted up onto his own great Dark grey horse. 

All the chests are secured on the cart, Jehanne is hoisted up to sit behind Raymond’s Captain and I have the oddest feeling they are not strangers. The journey to the Chateau is no more than half an hour and Raymond does not say one word, though our silence is not strained and once or twice I catch him glancing at me.

@armitageadoration  @fullvoidmoon @deepestfirefun 

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[jimlingss]

Beyond Reach [4]

Chapters 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 (Finale) Words: 6.5k Genre: Angst, Grim Reaper!Au, Ghost!Au Summary: If someone could see what you could, they’d pass out. But you don't blame them. Who would ever expect for a ghost, a priestess and a grim reaper to be together - much less be rescuing others. Warnings: Death and topic of illness. 

If someone could see what you could, they’d pass out. Maybe they’d try to claw out their eyes, scream to the high heavens or simply….perhaps they’ll think they’re high on some sort of drug. That it’s all one big delusion, hallucination or a dream. You wish it were that way.

Who would ever expect for a ghost, a priestess and a grim reaper to be sitting smack dab in the center of a high school play, surrounded by young children and parents? It’s an unconventional trio, if you do say so yourself.

“What did you think?” A bumbling student comes dashing your way as the crowd filters out. His grin is bright, dazzling even and it makes him look his age. As you predicted with your intuition, Taehyung is indeed a louder boy, drawing in people naturally with his demeanor. And now that he isn’t so quiet anymore, you can truly see the extent of his radiant personality.

“It was good.” You bring up your hand, ruffling the blonde strands of his hair. You’re not used to complimenting or praising others, being affectionate but it’s not as awkward as you thought it would be. “Really good.”

Taehyung’s smile widens even more and then he leans in, “Have I melted your cold heart?”

Your hand falls from his head and you lift an eyebrow. Taehyung laughs and asks what the other two thought about it. “I thought I was going to get a heart attack!” Hoseok says dramatically and you almost begin laughing. The ghost rambles on while Namjoon shrugs.

Taehyung hasn’t fully recovered and he never will. Jimin’s death is not a wound that can heal with time or medication. The impact and mark it’s made on Taehyung has shifted his entire life but he’s slowly learning how to confront the pain by focusing on the memories. No longer fixated on ‘what could have been done’ but the things they have done together since they were mere kids who knew less than babbling.

The guilt - the self-deprecation - the resentments of being left behind - the endless questions that can never be answered - the worry that Jimin hates him, they have all but dissipated. Taehyung will never forget Jimin, his greatest friend. Now until forever. And he will never forget about what it means to live, to die.

The blue rubber bracelet around Taehyung’s wrist serves a reminder on the boy with the crescent eye smile, the bubbly giggles and the compassion of an angel who is still with him no matter where Taehyung goes in his life.

“Taehyung!” Seulgi pokes her head out from the red curtain. “Get your butt back in here! You need to help clean up!”

“Alright.” He draws out in exasperation before she disappears. The boy looks back at you with a smile, blinking twice to soak in all your features. Then, suddenly, he pulls you in for a hug. You let out an ‘oof’ from being crushed but Taehyung soothes your back, nuzzling into you.

“Thank you.”

Taehyung lets go a second later and runs off, turning his head just a bit to shoot a wink and a ‘see you later’. You wave him off and Hoseok wonders what it would be like if he, too, could embrace you. If every time he reached out, his skin didn’t pass through yours. He wonders what it would be like if he could feel again, touch, truly breathe. He pounds his head for memories on what that was like but he comes out with nothing.

“Where are you going?” You catch him straying off by himself and Hoseok softly smiles, ignoring the impulse of pulling you in his arms, an impulse that he cannot fulfill.

“I’m going to clear my mind for a bit.”

He tries to remember, he bulldozes his brain, traces back to anything...anything at all. But he can’t. Hoseok leaves the school grounds in tears, running for his life. A way to release his fear and to get away before you can see him break down. The one thing that he’s most afraid of...is being taken. From his memories. From you.

He can’t focus on anything else but trying to recall the past.

“What is the afterlife like?” You ask Namjoon whilst staring up at the sky, wondering if Jimin is watching.

He chuckles, a smirk on his lips as he matches his pace with you. The black hood has fallen to reveal his face but the ends of the cloak drape the ground as he strolls. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

“That’s a vague answer.”

“To be frank. I don’t know.” The Grim Reaper focuses ahead down the path. “Whether souls live again….if they wander aimlessly in another dimension or if it’s a second Earth. Heaven. Hell.”

Namjoon sighs, “I’m just a messenger, a deliverer. A bridge to send souls from one place to another. All I know is that people must face the choices they have made over their lifetime and the consequences of those choices.”

For the time frame that you’ve known Namjoon in, you’ve noticed. With your curse of empathy, you felt it inside your very core - absolutely nothing. You’ve felt nothing. His emotions are never strong ones. You’re not even sure if Namjoon has emotions. He’s always solemn, apathetic, neutral. Perhaps that’s what the best Reaper should feel...nothing.

Namjoon is a vessel to be used - to send the dead to the other side. Just as you’re a messenger for the dead. The two of you aren’t so different.

“Do you ever wish to be human?”

“Do you ever wish to be a bird or a rabbit?” He replies with questions of his own, his smirk glued to his lips as he contemplates aloud. “My mind wanders occasionally but in all honesty, no. I don’t wish to be something I’m not.”

You let his answer sink in, how his indifference even belongs with his philosophies. In the silence that follows, Namjoon is the one who nabs at the opportunity to ask you something he’s been mildly curious about. “Why do you keep lying to yourself?”

You don’t respond.

“You hate your ability, yet, you still help others by using it. You’re self-sacrificial but not from your own will. You’re far from being a saint but you can’t hide your sympathy underneath your cold and serious exterior. Why?”

“Why do you hate helping people so much? Is it not what a priestess like you should do?”

You shake your head, the chickadee birds chirping waking you up from your trance. “I don’t hate it. I do it because it feels like a moral obligation, a responsibility.” You meet his hardened eyes that hold no colour. “It’s exactly as you say. Because it’s what a priestess like me should do.”

Namjoon muses to himself out loud, “it sounds like a burden.”

“It is.”

Life likes to play jokes. You’ve learnt that the universe becomes bored every now and then. When that happens, the subject of its toys are humans. When you say one thing, life may give you the complete other. When you deny something, refuse it, it always comes back to slap you across the face, appearing in abundance. All for life’s own amusement.

You once knew a boy who hated to eat spinach. It was the irony of things when he ended up working at a spinach farm part time and he often brought spinach home to eat when he couldn’t afford much else. His fridge became stocked with spinach despite his hatred for it.

In the same way, by constantly reminding yourself how much you hate becoming involved, how much you despise and condemn your curse, it comes back more and more to haunt you.

“Don’t you think you could cut me some slack?” Hoseok hums out, skipping ahead before twirling around with a smile. “You don’t have to take me….right, Namjoon?”

“That’s not my choice to make. It’s the list...” Namjoon sighs out and frowns in distaste, “And since when have we become comfortable enough for you to call me by my name? Do you not know the power of a Grim Reaper’s name?”

“I’ve been spending so much time with you two…” The ghost’s eyes land on you and his smile melts into a sheepish and soft one. “Are we not family now?”

You keep your gaze pinned on Hoseok and you answer without missing a heartbeat, “we are.”

“Are you sure you want a Reaper as a family member?” Namjoon throws his head back and chuckles. He tugs his sleeves to reveal his fingers and he wiggles them, surprisingly being playful to the ghost. “That means I can take you in the middle of the night and drag you to the depths of hell, right? Because we’re family and you’ll be understanding.”

“No!” Hoseok yelps and then pouts, looking over to you for help. “Tell him not to do that, Y/N!”

You don’t reply. Your feet have stopped, eyes pinned elsewhere. The errands that your grandmother sent you on fleet away from your mind, slip from your grasps. The pair of them exchange looks before following where your irises have lead you-

A boy. Who’s walking uphill across the empty street, tugging on his bag that’s slung across his body. He keeps his eyes downcast, an emotion of utter despair takes hold of your breath. If the colour blue could be embodied into skin, that would be him. Bleak. Misery. Without hope.

The wind chimes ring.

A middle-aged woman is following behind the boy, the few wrinkles of her face showing the decades she’s held. She waddles after him, faltering but determined steps. Worry mars her face and the woman doesn’t even notice you, far too concentrated in her task.

“Y/N?” Hoseok momentarily forgets that he cannot touch you when he reaches out to catch your hand. His skin passes through yours and he gnaws on his bottom lip. “Y/N?”

You’re not sure what compels you. For the hatred of your abilities to the bitterness of implicating yourself in matters that do not affect you. Namjoon is curious - Hoseok is bewildered - you take a step forward across the road, following the woman in silence.

“Y/N? What are you doing?”

“There’s just...something about this ghost.” You whisper to him, not able to shake off the feeling that’s overwhelming you. “I can’t put my finger on what it is.”

Namjoon summons a black book into his hand, scrolling through the crisp pages while stealing glimpses of the woman. “Jeon Junghwa. Born May 18, 1969. Death by illness and disease.” He hums and the object disappears into thin air. “She’s been wandering for three weeks.”

The three of you follow the ghost who’s trailing behind the boy. Neither of them turn around, too occupied in their own thoughts. “A hospital?” Hoseok frowns and tilts his head as he watches them enter.

Namjoon smirks, “My favourite place.”

The boy twists and turns in the ivory hallways, already knowing his destination by muscle memory. He enters a vacant room where a nurse is waiting for him and he is handed a box of forgotten things. He bows his head and takes it within his thin fingers as she scurries away. A few moments later, a doctor enters and you catch the words, ‘payment’ and ‘sorry’, watching as the white coated man deeply bows his head. There’s only so much you can piece together, lingering outside without grant.

The doctor leaves the boy, letting him absorb in whatever information was given to him. And slowly, the ghost stumbles out with tears in her eyes. She doesn’t notice you or the other two, turning and walking away.

This is your chance.

The snapshot in time you’ve been waiting for. Where you, too, can walk in the other direction and pretend that this never happened. It’s an opportunity where you don’t have to involve yourself. There are no obligations, no pleas or begging, no one on their knees in front of you, desperate or angry. This isn’t your responsibility. You can finally escape.

Hoseok calls you gently to shatter your reverie, “Y/N.”

You meet his brown orbs, the ones that are full of fondness and curiosity. He doesn’t expect you to do anything and neither will he urge you to. Hoseok is too aware that it must be of your own will. He just wants to know what you’ll do, what you’ll say. If you’re truly the person he thinks you are.

The person who he cherishes with all his heart.

“Excuse me.” You pick up your pace when the woman doesn’t perceive your voice. “Excuse me-”

“Is there something wrong, dear?” She stops to look at you as if you hadn’t just spoken to her. You blink twice to make sure she’s a ghost; the transparency of her flesh, the sickly colour of her skin, the way her movements are fluid and her feet are almost hovering over the floor. It’s unmistakable.

She’s not surprised, not like every spirit entity that you’ve met thus far. “D-do you need my help?”

“Your help? I..I don’t need anything….at least not at the top of my head, dear. Thank you for asking me but- oh!” Her eyes twinkle when she smiles and her pupils flicker to the boy whom she was following earlier. “My son.”

“Your...son?”

The boy is dragging his feet. A messy mop of brown hair hidden behind the navy hood of his sweater. He has doe eyes that match his youthful face, resembling that of a rabbit with a button nose. Despite his lean figure, his hollow cheekbones and chapped lips tell you that he is left starving, that he’s forgotten to care for himself, that he’s lost.

“Jungkook.” She smiles tenderly as she calls his name, letting each syllable lay on her tongue. “He’s my son.” The woman says proudly, watching as he leaves the building. “And if you can help him - you’re helping me.”

Namjoon says nothing, letting an exaggerated sigh leave his parted lips. Hoseok gazes at you, finding it strange that you’re the one who is taking the step forward, willing to aid instead of being asked to. Every time Hoseok makes an assumption about you, can finally pinpoint the details of who you are - he’s wrong. And it makes him yearn to know more about you.

It almost hurts that time is ticking.

You knock once, Namjoon to your left and Hoseok to your right. The two figures tower you in height and if the boy could see what you could, he’d surely faint on the spot. But he doesn’t.

A few seconds, a ‘crash’ sounding from inside and a tired “coming” later, he opens the door. “Can I help you?” His voice is groggy and he speaks slowly with exhaustion.

“I’m a neighbor.” You shove yourself inside and it’s too fast for Jungkook to keep up with. “Just moved in, nice place. My name is Y/N.” Hoseok laughs at how intrusive you are and even Namjoon smiles. Jungkook’s mother comes out of a room and if you didn’t know what you did, it would look like she’s still alive, simply a mother full of concern that’s walking around her home.

When she sees you, she lights up.

“S-sorry for the mess. I’m Jungkook.” He scratches his head of hair, eyes swollen from sleep. Despite the amount of rest it seems like he’s gotten, he’s still tired. “Where exactly did you move?”

“Down the street.” You brush him off quickly, moving to pick up the clothes off the floor.

Mess is an understatement. It’s chaos and mayhem, the town dump paling in comparison. Clothes are thrown on the floor, chairs and the old couch. Dirty plates and utensils are joined with them, the trash not taken out and overflowing. The curtains are covering the windows, shades pulled down to plunge the wreckage in darkness.

“W-what are you doing?” Jungkook’s rounded eyes double as he watches you take out garbage bags from your bag, collecting trash in the middle of his shabby living room. He looks even more like a child, confused and lost as he blinks at you. “Why are you cleaning?!”

“I’m a maid.” You lie to him, “It’s bothering me too much. I hope you don’t mind.”

His hand curls around your wrist before you can pick up a paper bowl. “I-I can’t pay you.”

“You don’t need to. Just think of it as a kind gesture that I’m doing for meeting my new neighbors and for joining the neighborhood.”

He can’t protest when you begin to roll up your sleeves, pounding down to work. Namjoon sits on a stool, pointing to things for you to pick up. “Right there, Y/N. You missed a spot. You missed it again!”

Hoseok pushes him off and the intimidating Grim Reaper falls to the ground, curling his knee to his chest with a loud ‘ow’. “Don’t boss her around!”

“You stupid ghost! I’ll take you right now if I have to!”

He sticks out his tongue to mock Namjoon. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Are you okay?” Jungkook lowers himself to meet your eyes. “Why are you smiling?”

“Oh, nothing.” You brush him off, continuing to pick things up. Jungkook rushes over and helps you, taking his laundry into a basket properly and trying to do whatever he can, completely embarrassed that a stranger is cleaning his home. He’s utterly bewildered and baffled but has no strength to question you or make you leave. You seem much too determined for some strange reason.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Jungkook’s mother hurries past, instructing you in every moment. “The mop is in the closet over there. And oh! The laundry detergent is on that shelf, I’m not sure if he remembers. If you need the dustpan, dear, it’s in this bottom cabinet.”

She does everything within her power to assist you. So does Hoseok but he can’t pick anything up and it frustrates him to no end, reminding him that he’s no longer suppose to be here. He’s not suppose to be on this side of the living. “Can’t I possess objects?”

“You’re a ghost.” Namjoon hums out, “not a ghost or a spirit from some fancy movie.”

Between the banters of Hoseok and Namjoon, the worried scurrying of Jungkook’s mother, you find yourself stifling back some laughter. Jungkook becomes even more skeptical.

He wonders if his mother is watching such a bizarre event unfold.

After five hours, the house for the most part is in better shape. Right when Jungkook is anticipating your exit, you head to the kitchen to make lunch upon his mother’s request. Apparently he hasn’t been eating well and you’re adamant about making a meal despite Jungkook shrieking that you shouldn’t while you insist you should.

“How do you remember?”

Hoseok is sitting with the middle-aged woman who looks well beyond her years, the folds on her bony hands showing the struggle of her life. He’s been searching for so long, blaming himself for being incapable of withholding any memories of his life. Every spirit or ghost he’s met, the handful that he’s seen with you, have all retained some ties to their past. Why doesn’t he remember?

All Hoseok wants is to find answers. To know.

“How could I forget?” Junghwa croaks out as she observes her son with sad eyes. “When I woke up in that hospital, he was there. When I followed him, I began to remember again.” The woman turns to the other ghost, “was there anyone there when you woke up?”

He bites his lower lip, ignoring the sting of his chest and his eyes. “I was alone...I..am alone.”

She laughs, shaking her head and Hoseok follows her eyes to you and Namjoon hovering over the kitchen counters with Jungkook. “No, you aren’t.”

As you’re constructing a sandwich together haphazardly, you lift your face to meet Hoseok’s eyes. He thinks he’s caught a smile, your crinkled eyes, a slight pull on the corner of your lips. You look unrestrained, not burdened or hiding away from the dilemmas that go seeking for you. He’s caught you in a moment where the brick walls and barriers you’ve surrounded your heart with don’t exist. They’ve fallen on your own accord.

Hoseok thinks to himself that if he could still live, if he could have his life back in his hands, he would want to spend the rest of it with you.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.” You tell Jungkook at the doorway, entertained with how confused he looks. “We haven’t finished yet.”

“Tomorrow?”

You come and go as you choose, not plagued by a spirit or persuaded by one. “Tomorrow.”

Jungkook’s mother waves to you, immensely thankful for what you’ve done today. And for once as you make your path towards home, your mind doesn’t cripple the abilities you were born with.

The morning air is brisk, the coldness of the ground not yet melted away from the warmth of the sunlight that still peaks over the horizon. But Hoseok wouldn’t know what it would feel like for the sharp bite to nip at his skin, wouldn’t know the freshness of a large inhale to fill his lungs. He can only watch as you slightly shiver, tugging the sweater closer to your body, and he wishes that he could only somehow wrap his arm around you to provide some warmth.

Hoseok clenches his fist, looks the other way and blames himself for being so powerless.

“Why?” Hoseok manages a tiny smile, trying his best to paint over a calm facade. “Why are you helping her so willingly?” Namjoon listens carefully too, curious as to what you’ll answer.

“That woman.” You keep your eyes trained ahead. You’ve been asking yourself the same question and it only occurred to you when you bidded your grandmother goodbye. “She reminds me of my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“She passed away and had abilities like I did.” The curse that runs through your blood, tainting your future and your eyes. But she never saw it the way you did. She always called it a ‘gift’. Something you’ll never understand and unfortunately, never have the opportunity to ask why.

Your mother was a kind woman, so much so that it came at the cost and expense of herself; generous, charitable and selfless in the ways that you’re not. And she loved her child too much - she loved you more than you actually deserved. Your father was benevolent in the same way. But the memories you do have of the two of them are far and few between.

You wish you could remember. But at least they remember you.

“You’re here early.” Jungkook’s eyes are reddened like fire as if he didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. “C-come in.”

Namjoon enters while whistling, not bothering as he flops down on the couch. Hoseok greets Jungkook’s mother, asking if the night went well and if she needs anything at all. You take your time slipping off your shoes, lugging in your plastic bags. When Jungkook stares intently at them, you lift them for him to see. “Groceries. I’m making food.”

“Y-you are?!”

He stares at you in such wonderment that you can’t help but raise your hand and brush his messy hair. Jungkook’s eyes widen and he looks like a deer in headlights with his rounded orbs. You walk past him, right into the kitchen. And he’s left there, grounded into the floor, reminded of the way his own mother used to ruffle the strands of his brown locks.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” You hold up some leeks and the boy comes scrambling over.

“I’ll help! I’ll help.” He begins to wash down the vegetables and he grins. “So...is this our first date?”

“I don’t date young brats like you.” You tease him back as he pouts. “Only strong men who fight for their life.”

As he begins to chop the carrots, he leans over. “Should I join the army then?”

You stifle back a laugh. “You wouldn’t last a single day.”

“Hey! I’m a man, you know! I’m not a minor anymore.” The banter goes back and forth while Namjoon takes a nap that he doesn’t need, Jungkook’s mother is listening with a smile, watching as her son brightens up and Hoseok is content with you just being happy.

“What is this?” Hoseok asks as he looks at the spinach floating in the pot. “It looks disgusting.”

“Are you a child?” You scold him with a scoff. “You’re not even the one eating it. Move aside.”

He whines and you’re about to give in, scooping it out to appease him but then Jungkook returns from the pantry with a frown. “Who are you talking to?”

“No one.” You say quickly without a change in your blank expression. “Mostly to myself.”

Jungkook shoots you a strange look but doesn’t say much else. You don’t either, not when you’re listening to his mother. She hovers over your shoulder, instructing you like a nurturing teacher. Her recipes are ingrained into her mind and she tells the correct measurements of each ingredient, how long you have to cook it for, each and every detail to create the dishes she wants. You become the ghost’s hands.

It takes hours before you’re done cooking the meal. And you set it up nicely on the table, sitting across from Jungkook. “This looks...amazing.” He sniffles and swallows hard, meeting your eyes. “Thank you.”

His silver spoon dips into the familiar warm soup and he brings it to his parted lips, taking a sip.

As it registers inside his head, he drops the utensil. It ‘clacks’ against the bowl and in the stillness of the air, Jungkook bursts into tears. The droplets stream down his cheeks as he casts his face to his lap. It tastes exactly like how his mother used to make it.

“Happy birthday to you.” You begin to sing quietly. “Happy birthday to you.” The boy lifts his head up and stares at you past his water soaked eyes. “Happy birthday, dear Jungkook.” He wonders who you really are. “Happy birthday to you.”

In your eyes, the orbs that can see beyond, Hoseok is sitting next to you. Namjoon is on your other side and Jungkook’s mother is sitting beside her son, clapping her hands and grinning past her own drenched cheeks.

But in Jungkook’s eyes, in the entire home, it’s just you and him sitting around the dinner table.

[Four Months Ago]

Day in and day out, Jungkook is working.

He is tirelessly working until his hands have peeled from scrubbing mountains of dishes in the kitchen. Until his feet have bled from waiting tens of tables, all while slapping a smile on his face to appease customers. He has never been the child he should have been, accompanying his friends after school, fooling around and laughing without restraint. Jungkook has never lived the life of freedom that people his age should live.

Each hour that he wastes is money lost, sleep lost, studying that needs to be done.

“So, you can’t go tonight?” A coworker of his asks, hope diminishing as she analyzes his face.

“I’m sorry.” He turns around and masks his own disappointment, “I have a thing to go to.”

And that thing...is his mother.

His sick mother who has been this way for as long as he could remember. Hospitalized. Pale. Vomiting. Incurable. He doesn’t remember when it began like this, when he began to despise seeing his own mom. Jungkook loves her and it hurts to see this way. But he’s tired.

He’s exhausted of fighting for her at the cost of himself.

“Jungkook.” His mother softens into a smile, several tubes running in and out of her arm, one sticking into her nose. She can’t even lift herself off the bed to greet him. And she doesn’t know how the last ten hour shift has made him detest her even more.

“H-how….” The woman is out of breath. “Was...sc...hool?”

Jungkook scoffs and rolls his eyes in disbelief. She doesn’t know how he stopped going months ago. She doesn’t know anything at all. She can’t do anything on her own. His mother is useless, getting sicker and sicker...throwing up…. disgusting.

“It was fine.” He brushes her off. “How are you?”

“F...ine…” She smiles at her son and Jungkook sighs.

He finally knows the word. The word to call his mother-

Burdensome.

“You’re not my neighbor, are you?” Jungkook wipes his face, “I-I looked into it and no one has moved into this neighborhood. So...w-who are you?”

You take a large inhale, bracing yourself to reveal the truth. “I’m fulfilling your mother’s last wish.”

The boy across from you nods as he begins to cry again. He nods again and again, gnawing on his bottom lip to try to retain his emotions. “I believe you.”

Tears begin to flow and you can feel his heartache, the agony that makes his entire body shake. His mother is by his side, worried that he’ll become sick from crying. She brings her hands to wipe away his tears but upon remembering that she cannot touch him, she leans over to grab a tissue. That, too, passes through her hands and she sighs softly.

The unconditional love she shares for her son torments you and stitches you back at the same time. It makes you whole. It makes you desperate. As you watch the woman fuss to her child that cannot see her, ignoring her own sorrows and tears….You can feel it.

It’s the fuzzy blanket that is wrapped around you, shielding you but then it is ripped away. It’s the touch and kiss of an infant that coos in your arms. But as you pull the baby closer, it dissipates into thin air. You’re walking blindly in the dark, arms out in front of you, screaming into the oblivion, asking yourself when this all went wrong. You’re begging for an answer.

You know this regret.

[Three Months Ago]

“Sh-should….we celebrate….your…” His mother wheezes once but still forces her words out. “...birthday together?”

Jungkook scoffs, “Why?”

“I’m….so...rry…” Her shaking hand tugs the oxygen mask off and she smiles. “I’...m….no-..t...the mother….I’m...suppose...to...be.”

He sighs and looks away from the window, finally to his mom who’s laying in her bed. “It’s not your fault.” And it really isn’t. Jungkook knows she has no control over her sickness. If she did, she wouldn’t be in this situation and he wouldn’t either.

“For my birthday…” He hums and thinks for a while. “Let’s just have a meal together. I think that would be nice. Cake, too, maybe?”

“O...kay…” His mother nods slightly, “I promise...you.”

With doting eyes and trembling fingers, she slowly lifts her arm to brush her son’s hair. But before her fingertips can make contact with his brown strands, Jungkook slaps it away.

“Don’t do those things.” He bitterly looks elsewhere. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

She lowers her hand, smiling at him. “Okay.”

//

The doctors don’t leave her room with good news, never entering with it either. They simply look at her charts, shaking their heads and mumble under their breaths. They don’t tell her but she doesn’t need them too. Maybe it’s because she felt like she saw a black cloak appearing at the corner of her eye and the scent of disintegrating ash lingering in her nose, but she knows.

Time is running out.

“Are you sure this is alright for you, Mrs. Jeon?” The nurse asks as she places the birthday cake on the table in front of her.

“Y-yes…” She gasps out. “G-ood.”

“I think your son will really appreciate celebrating his birthday a bit in advance.” The woman in scrubs takes a glance at the clock. “He should be here soon, right? As usual?”

“Yes…”

But Jungkook doesn’t come that evening. He decides that it’s the day he’ll give in to his friend’s invitations, be a normal boy his age; eat a warm meal, wander around, sing at a karaoke bar, laugh and not be restrained by time. And Jungkook truly enjoys it. There’s nothing holding him back. Nothing that’s….burdensome.

“Are you joining us to the next place?” His coworker asks and he takes a peek at the time.

“You know….maybe next time.” Jungkook decides he’ll check in with his mother, despite already visiting her every single day. The responsibilities and obligations don’t disappear as much as he wants to ignore them. “I have somewhere to go.”

As the crowd draws away with him, he turns around and asks himself why he can’t join them...why he’s always weighed down by-

“Jung...kook…” His mother wheezes, having waited for him for hours on end. She smiles sheepishly. “You...made it…”

And before he can ask her why a cake is there, why she’s not sleeping yet and why the lights are still on - his mother slumps down and her heartbeat flatlines. She’s still smiling. “Mom?” It’s a constant beep, one that burns into his ears. Jungkook is frozen in his spot, the universe swirling around him.

He opens his mouth to say something...anything...but the doctors push past him. “Incubation!”, “Her pressure is falling!”, “Dial up to five hundred!”. In the swarm of strangers, Jungkook limps forward and crashes beside her.

“Mom. You….promise..d...me-...”

He didn’t get to become a good son. Jungkook didn’t get to apologize. He didn’t get to say his goodbyes.

“Mom!” He didn’t tell her that he loves her. “Come back!”

The food is still on the table.

Jungkook’s mother, Namjoon, Hoseok and you surround it while watching Jungkook sob out his eyes and releases the grief he’s held with a tight grip. “I didn’t...I didn’t treat her well.”

“I never got to fulfill my promise, Jungkook.” His mother shakes her head while you repeat her words slowly. “I’m sorry. No son should have to watch his own mother die like that.”

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t ever healthy. That I could never take care of you. I couldn’t even pack you lunches, pick you up from school...I couldn’t even follow through with my promise and celebrate your birthday. What kind of mother am I?”

“The best mother that I could ask for.” Jungkook weeps into his hands. “I-I miss you and I love you, mom. I’m-...sorry. I was a bad son. I was a bad son.”

“You aren’t.” She laughs and one that is full of life. “You’re my son. Which makes you the best.”

Jungkook mourns her death and you slowly go over to him, embracing his trembling frame. He grabs onto you, muffling his wails and whimpers into your clothes. His mother raises her hand to try to stroke her son’s hair, hovering over slightly. You mimic her actions, brushing your fingertips through his strands.

“I made you work hard but you can rest now, Jungkook.”

That night, Jungkook eats each and every dish on the table. He cleans it completely like he’s been starving for months, furiously as he cries every now and then. The boy savours the taste and imprints it into his mind as his mother’s last cooked meal for him. You watch him, across the table, knees gathered together.

Jungkook eats and eats until the clock strikes midnight and his birthday is over.

His mother’s last wish becomes fulfilled and she is able to leave onto the other side in peace.

Her arm is looped around Namjoon’s and she smiles joyfully. “You know the last time someone held me like this was my husband…”

The Reaper smiles, “Is that so?”

The woman turns back again, beaming at you thankfully before murmuring her last words to her son. When the white door to the other side disappears and the house is as quiet as Jungkook’s ears, you echo the soft syllables.

“Happy birthday, Jungkook.”

When people die, it’s difficult to imagine the aftermath.

Some worry that others will forget them, an empty funeral, a grave left abandoned. They try to make a lasting impact or they fret and worry. Others don’t care at all. And a few disregard the people they love and those who love them. They forget about those they’ll leave behind.

But even if the entire world does not shift over a single person’s death, the memories they leave behind with a handful, a dozen, a bunch or even one doesn’t change. It lasts.

Death is not the end. The story does not end. It continues. And the legacy isn’t forgotten.

Jungkook is kneeling at his mother’s grave, sponge in hand and water-filled bucket by his side. He uses his strength to scrub down her gravestone, cleaning every inch of it off. You’re crouched beside him, taking care of the weeds.

“Do you think she left to the other side peacefully?” He asks you as he wipes away his sweat and scrubs harder. Jungkook doesn’t care if his hands will peel or his feet will bleed. The pain is taken away by the memories he spent with her, laughing in her small room, holding her wrinkled palm, letting her fingers smooth over his hair.

He remembers the birthdays that they did spend together.

You look over to Namjoon and the Reaper nods. “Yes. She did.”

“Good.” Jungkook grins, his doe eyes no longer telling a story of being lost, wandering blindly in the dark. His eyes rather resemble his mother’s. “That’s good.”

The burial place is an endless green field, vivid and colourful for the dead. The grass grows tall and untamed in between the straight rows of tombstones but the bouquet flowers add hues other than verdant green and gray. When the trees rustle and the leaves twirl down, Hoseok pulls Namjoon away.

“Do you know?”

The Reaper cocks his eyebrow and smirks, about to ask what the ghost means but he already knows. “I have no power to restore your memories and there’s no reason for me to. It would make you and a bunch of others more reluctant to leave anyways.”

“Why don’t I remember, Namjoon?” Hoseok looks around him, ripping his head apart, wondering if one of these stones are of him. If his true body is buried six feet underneath him where he’s standing. All he wants is to know. What kind of person was he. Who it was that was important. Why he’s still here and being held back. “Why?”

You stand up, glancing around to where the both of them have disappeared off to and when you catch them a while away, you raise your arm to signal that you and Jungkook are finished. A smile takes place on your lips and Hoseok gazes at you in desperation. Why?

Why can’t he be with you?

Namjoon exhales, scanning the premise, amazed at the amount of souls he’s taken. Then he vanishes, his black cape whisking him into a shadow.

His voice is the only thing that remains. “Do you need to remember?”

[mercurygray]

Do the headcanon thing for Caleb!

Sorry this took so long! I had a vacation and a move in here somewhere and this kind of fell off my list.

Send me a character + a number and I’ll tell you my headcanons for:

Their physical weak spots : Caleb's weakness is overestimating his own strength.

Their emotional/moral weak spots: Caleb’s moral compass hasn't always been the most well-turned, but he has a huge blind spot when it comes to doing something to protect his friends. Often he’ll act before considering other options - or legality.Caleb’s biggest emotional blind spot is the people he cares about. His heart is enormous, and he’s extremely quick to jump to the aid of someone he loves - a weakness that’s very easy to exploit.

Scars or painful spots: His scars from his encounter with Simcoe aside, Caleb is a sailor; he has callused hands and feet and a number of scars from burns and cuts on his arms and legs. The story on how he got some of them changes depending on who asks him - a long rippling burn on his calf from burning whale oil was once explained to a curious child as coming from a mermaid who tried to rope him in with a jellyfish tentacle.

Best places to kiss on their body: Caleb will take kisses, anywhere and often, but there's a special, particular blush that comes up for pretty girls who just manage to get him unexpectedly on the cheek. He also gets flustered by kisses on his hands, mainly because it's usually him giving the kisses and not the other way round.

Guilty Pleasures: Caleb doesn't feel guilty about much - his pleasures are his and not to be confused with his sins. But there is a slight twinge of guilt about going back to sea time and time again when there are people who rely on him at home.

Their vices (physical or emotional) : More beer than is probably good for him. When Caleb's drunk, he’s a boisterous drunk, and he gets incredibly physical, either by getting into fights or wrestling matches - of one kind or another.

Their tickle spots: His waist. He’s incredibly ticklish just at the waistband of his breeches.

Bad memories/experiences: His first voyage in a merchant ship, he shipped with an awful first mate and an even worse captain who nearly starved the crew.

Humiliating memories: He was beaten - just once - when he was out on a whaling ship. He picked a fight he shouldn't have and ended up with two black eyes and a loose tooth that nearly came out. The humiliation wasn't that he lost, (though that's what he'll say) but that he’d been dumb enough to pick a fight when he, stone sober, knew he shouldn't have.

Fears/phobias: Dying without a cause.

Bad or petty habits: His table manners aren’t the best.

Grudges and vendettas:  All the boys who looked down on him when he was a farm boy who didn’t live in town and didn’t have ‘real’ parents.

What gets them flustered - Bureaucracy. Caleb is a man of action, and he hates waiting for someone else to tell him what they think is right or wrong.

Ingrained habits/forces of habit - He’s got a pernicious habit of hugging people as a greeting, even when social situations require a bit more formality.

What it takes to make them cry - The idea of someone else being hurt because of him, or because of something he did.

Dark secrets/’skeletons in the closet - Caleb’s an open book when it comes to past sins, of which he has many.

Regrets - Publicly and loudly, all the pretty girls he’s never kissed. Privately - that he wasn’t able to save his uncle, or tell him how much he admired him.

Things they’ll never admit - That John Graves Simcoe may have changed his ways when he went to Canada. In Caleb’s book, any good that man ever man in his life was rendered null by his deeds during the war.

People they’ve hurt or indirectly killed, and how it affected them. Caleb really took the death of his uncle to heart.

What-ifs/Alternate Timelines: after the war, Caleb sells his uncle's farm and buys a house in New Bedford, shipping as a mate a few more times before becoming the captain of a whaling ship and, eventually, an owner., and scandalized the town by coming home married to a lovely lady of Spanish extraction he met in one of the coastal ports in South America on one of his voyages.

Turning points in their life - The death of his uncle galvanized Caleb’s belief in the cause.

People who’ve influenced them greatly - Though he might not admit this aloud, Ben is a huge influence on Caleb, as a voice of moderation and restraint. Caleb looks up to his friend a great deal, and after the war settles down a great deal based on Ben’s example.

[cryptidwizard]

Frozen

@docterpoison mmmm cyd you know I'm emo about skysolo. THIS TOOK FOREVER IM SO SORRY AJSKDKDKFJFJ I HOPE YOU LIKE IT ITS KINDA A MESS IM REALLY RUSTY 

Han can’t quite pinpoint when it first started. At first, he only saw him as some kid who was in way over his head, just a farm boy who daydreamed about journeying the cosmos and leaving it all behind. Han couldn't help but notice the far off look in his eyes when he imagined it all, the way his blue gaze seemed to brighten when he thought of leaving the cluster of sand and dust that was Tatooine, how he bit his lip and the corners of his mouth curled into a small smile at the idea. The kid was a dreamer, Han could tell right away. Yet his scoffs of contempt at the boy didn't feel as sincere after noticing, almost as if he never really meant them. Maybe it was then, maybe after, maybe he always had felt this way. But he couldn’t deny he felt…. something.

The moment Luke laid eyes on him, he had a feeling he was in trouble. Everything felt like a whirlwind of emotion, the death of his Aunt and Uncle, Old Man Ben’s stunning information, the beautiful girl pleading for help displayed on the droid, the sudden mission and purpose he had, and now.... him. The pilot’s hair was dark and had a sort of bounce to it, his eyes almost gleamed like he knew something you didn't, his smirk and body language oozed confidence. Luke committed everything about him to memory, the way his shirt collar was opened and crooked, the way his eyebrow was raised slightly as if daring someone to argue with him. Luke desperately wanted to pick a fight if only to wipe that look off his face. This man had seen the stars and the edges of space. Luke felt a twinge of jealousy, or maybe just a twinge of something entirely different. He couldn't deny he felt something, whether the feeling was contempt or longing Luke still hadn't decided.

Luke and Han edged around each other uncertainly, not sure how to interact. Insincere challenges issued but never fully delivered. Then they were being pulled towards the Death Star, and placed with a mission with what felt like impossible odds. Through winding steps of the mazelike Death Star and the synchronized steps of the Stormtroopers, the two searched for who they were looking for. There she was. Suddenly the confused and repressed feelings between the two seemed pale in comparison to her. She like their adventure was a whirlwind of incredible feats and rage. With the new member in their party Leia forcing down her overwhelming grief with her uncontrollable need to fight for her cause. Luke’s confusion bubbling over into loss for whom he had only moments ago. And Han’s instincts that have kept him alive for so long screaming at him to abandon these people he barely knows but already cares deeply for, the war outside themselves seems easier.

Luke is stepping out of the cockpit in a daze, only just barely aware of what had just taken place. With the lights in the rebel warehouse overhead he looks like an angel descending to earth, descending to Han. He had never felt so much relief to see that face again, he stepped forward, he stepped back. “Let the Princess greet him”, Han decides, “I’m not the one he’s hoping to see.” Luke smiles in the arms of what feels like his new family, so soon replacing the one he’d lost, his grin falters as he sees Han turn away but returns once more when Han offers him a grin of his own and a slight nod as if to say, “good job.” It is enough.

Time passes, the rebels cling to life so barely. In the frozen stronghold in the dead of night, cold lips meet and numb hands hold, and they grasp onto each other and grasp onto warmth. Small smiles are shared and teasing is not unkind. It is cold, it is frozen, and it is temporary. But it is bliss, and it is theirs. All too soon it will go wrong, and they know it will, so they make use of their time. The rebellion can only hold so long. Eventually they leave pursued by the Death Star. It feels painful but it wasn’t meant to last. Luke pursues the teachings of Yoda, Han pursues the help of Lando. They should’ve known it couldn’t last. Han and Leia gaze at each other before he goes under. He loves them both. He says, “I know” instead. He feels cold again, but not the way he felt before. He wishes he could’ve seen then both before he froze. Luke feels pain, not unlike the pain of leaving Hoth. But it is tripled. His father was supposed to be a hero, his father is a monster. He feels the loss of his hand, he feels the loss of Han. Luke and Leia embrace each other, both grieving. Luke pretends the reason he cries is the pain of his hand.

Luke feels hardened. He feels frozen again. When Han unfreezes, a part of Luke does too. But not all, not enough. Han still has the questions he froze with, he still loves the two of them. Luke is different, he is lost and cold. Leia is different, she is strong and warm. The war still calls to them, no matter how hard they try to ignore it. They have a duty to the galaxy that Han doesn’t remember accepting. There is no rest, no time to feel things. They have to stop the Empire, they have to stop Luke’s father. Luke faces impossible choices, he feels deranged, his moral compass has failed him and now he is hopelessly lost in a forest of misguided decisions and darkness. His father recognizes that forest. His father has been lost there for a long time, he refuses to leave his son drown in darkness alone as he did. As his father fades away, Luke believes he’s finally unfrozen. He tells Leia she’s his twin. Han regretfully thinks to himself that polyamory is out of the question now. Leia links hands with Han and looks up at him, he feels himself smile. Han looks to Luke and his lips curl into the small smile Han loves as if to say, “Its okay.” Han gives Luke the slight nod that always drew him in. Luke decides its okay.

More time passes, so much time. They are old and they were happy. Leia and Han were happy. Luke resigned himself to happiness. Then came Ben, Leia and Han were overjoyed. Luke was ecstatic. Then came Kylo Ren, Leia and Han were devastated. Luke was ashamed. He leaves, he can’t look at Leia and Han anymore, he can’t face them. He tries to find peace in nature but he can’t ignore what he knows. The Force tells him everything, he is too closely linked to Han and Leia. Perhaps he never fully unfroze. Luke feels it when it happens. Feels it like it pierces his own heart instead of Han’s, wishes it had. He knows Leia felt it too. He hears her cry out in anguish though he’s millions of miles away. He unfreezes. Finally and completely. Luke allows himself to finally cry and finally grieve. Eventually a girl stands before him, she felt Han die too, Luke can tell. She holds out his old lightsaber defiantly, almost daring him to reject her, to say no. Luke does not say no. He feels he finally left Hoth.

[chadhowsefitness]

New Post has been published on Bringing Back Manliness | Alpha Male | Chad Howse Fitness

New Post has been published on http://chadhowsefitness.com/2017/03/developing-true-grit

BECOMING A MAN OF TRUE GRIT

We’re weak because we can be. So many in our modern society are pussies because even pussies can now hold down a job or just get money from their government. This wasn’t always so, in fact, it’s the only time it’s ever been so. (Read This: You Know You’re A Pussy If…)

Entitlement isn’t the result of a youth that’s brought up to be tough, gritty, honorable, and strong. It’s the result of a youth that’s brought up without forced toughness. I recently began reading about Cato, Caesar’s mortal enemy and a hero of the founders of America. In Cato’s time young Roman boys were forced to be tough, they were routinely exposed to the elements, thrown into competitions, and forced to practice toughness. Many didn’t make it. But it was a part of Roman culture to prepare their boys for the dangerous and unforgiving world that they were to grow up in and one day lead.

During Alexander’s time he and his pals were forced to bathe in freezing rivers, run on hard ground until their feet callused like leather, and ride all day without rest. Their teachers didn’t encourage them with words like “come on, you can do it,” or, “just one more step”, as they do today. No, when it looked like the boys were about to quit or toward the end of the day when they were given time to rest, their teachers – or trainers – would say, “While you lie here at ease, the sons of Persia are training to defeat you in battle.”

Well, while you lie here at ease, someone else is working, writing the book you want to write, starting the business you want to start, or strapping a bomb to some young kid and sending him into a crowded city corner to kill people in your town. Your enemies and your competition are always training, to think otherwise is weak.

There was a race amongst Spartan boys where they’d have to run 10 miles with a mouth full of water, at the end of the race they’d have to spit the water out.

It isn’t enough to force hardship, but you must endure it without a sound.

Grit isn’t something that can be done for show, nor is it something that you can tell others you’re practicing. It must be done in silence, but to wait for the world to impose hardship upon you rather than you imposing it on yourself is to wait for success and riches and to wait for what you want in life; you will not acquire it; you will not get it.

Grit must be trained, and though you weren’t trained in this way as a lad – in our modern society your parents would be locked up for training you to become a man as they did for centuries before us – you must train this way now. Grit is vital to manliness.

Without grit, courage and resolve, strength of character, other virtues like honor or goodness or selflessness will not stand time’s test nor life’s trials.

Winning Grit

Grit is won daily. It isn’t won in an instance. It’s won daily in doing things that make you uncomfortable. Things that you may not want to do at all. Alexander could have had a heated bath. The Spartans could have adorned their youth in anything they wanted. They chose not only simplicity and frugality, but purposely chose things that would be seen by today’s standards, as torture.

Grit must be earned and won by living a life that is difficult. And this difficulty must be forced. This isn’t to say you live a life devoid of pleasure. We’ll cover pleasure a bit later, but it has a valid and important place in our lives. Nothing beats a bear at the end of a long, tough day of work in the sun. But it’s how life was before technology robbed us of the calluses that once covered men’s hands.

Soft hands make soft people.

Often, by simply looking at a man’s hands you can tell if he’s got grit. Or maybe his nose. Grit is something beyond toughness. We can all be tough, but grit means you’re tough even when the chips are stacked against you. In the wonderful film, True Grit, Mattie Ross goes out into the world alone, searching for a man who will help find the man who killed her father. She specifically seeks out a man with true grit, who just happens to be played by John Wayne.

Why grit?

Why not seek out someone with toughness or kindness, you know, someone that will help her out of the goodness of their heart?

Goodness doesn’t necessarily get the job done. It doesn’t do what must be done, no matter how hard it may be. Grit has a ruthlessness to it, and a man, in some ways, must be ruthless because he needs to make the best decisions, no matter how unpopular they are. (Read This: The Art of Living Tougher and Grittier)

Which is why most politicians lack grit. What was once a vote for the best leader, is now a popularity contest that holds the politician willingly at ransom should he or she make a move that isn’t popular, or at least perceived popular by the media and an often vocal minority.

Grit Exists More in the Country

You find gritty men more often in the country, the woods, the fields and the farms, than you do in the city. It’s because of what the city is versus what the country is.

No matter where you live, if its rural, you are, in part, at the mercy of the elements. A bad storm can come in and wreak havoc on your farm. A cold season can ruin your crops. A city is, essentially, man’s attempt to control the elements. Every so often they’re reminded that there are things that man cannot control, but it’s within the confines of a city where the hands become soft. And this isn’t coming from a fella living out in the woods, I’ve lived in or near a city my entire life. Grit isn’t easy to create in a city, it takes a lot of effort and a willingness to get uncomfortable and away from some of the things that make our lives easier.

The Man With Grit

Great men in history all seem to possess this almost indefinable characteristic. Grit, in the dictionary, is defined as courage and resolve, strength of character, which is a good definition, but incomplete if you don’t know what courage is, nor strength of character is. Grit is something that’s difficult to define, but easy to spot. It’s something that great men throughout history have possessed, and the weak have lacked.

So what is strength of character?

What is character?

The dictionary once again comes up with an incomplete definition, one that seems to be open to a broad interpretation when we know, very specifically, who has character and who doesn’t. That’s what’s tough about grit and character and even honor and courage, we know what they are but do we know how to teach them?

The mental and moral qualities distinctive to an individual.

That could be anything. But we know it isn’t. Character, like grit, needs a backbone. It has a backbone but by definition it’s lacking one. When we know or meet someone with grit, a man who’s strong of character, he’s led by something greater than his wants and desires. Yet, it’s more than just discipline that guides him. It’s a moral compass that helps him navigate through an increasingly amoral society. Yet it isn’t mere goodness that creates a gritty man, a man of character. Ruggedness a gameness also must exist.

Character is the morality within grit. It’s the ship that guides grit. But grit cannot endure, nor can it come to fruition without gameness.

Read This Next: Practicing Grit and Gameness

[genkidesurun]

I’m bored and have no story (or curhatan) to share... so it’s time to duel answer some questionnaire! Actually, the original post [here] got more than ninety questions, but I’ll just pick the ones I’m interested in and alter some of them a bit. 

1. If you had to be gay for a day, what celebrity would you most like to take on a date? 

It’s arduous to project the kind of girl that’ll draw my attention. But since I have the hots for nerdy guys (with fast-paced speech, silly gesticulations, and, of course, glasses!) like John and Hank Green, I’ll probably go for girls with such similitudes. Hmmm... Emily Graslie, perhaps? 

6. What are the top five most contrasting songs on your playlist? 

When you have both metals and nasyeeds in your playlist... It’s like what Wali called ‘tomat’ (red--tobat maksiat). All those fucking and shitting and hell, to praising The Lord and acknowledging your penitence and baper-ing; repeating over and over and over and over... 

8. If you could make just ONE change to this world, what would it be and why? 

Erase the notion of witches (wow, I’m feeling like Madoka; ups, spoiler alert). Can I wish for immortality? 

9. If you could wake up tomorrow and be fluent in three additional languages, which would you choose? 

Quenya, Parseltongue, aaaaannddd SIMLISH, YEAH! Have you listened to Katy Perry’s Last Friday Night sung in gibberish--I mean--Simlish? You really should! 

11. What are the top five movies to make you cry? 

Hello Ghost 

The Green Mile 

Hachi: A Dog’s Tale 

You’re the Apple of My Eye 

Miracles in Cell No. 7 

Yes, I’m such a crybaby. Hello Ghost and The Green Mile made me ugly the most. 

12. What’s the scariest nightmare you’ve ever had? Describe it in detail. 

Uh... overslept and missed exams. Good thing they were just dreams! 

13. Would you rather raise 25 children or have the chance of ever having children taken away? Why? 

WHY SHOULD I OPT FOR RAISING 25 CHILDREN?! AIN’T NOBODY HAD TIME (AND MONEY) FOR THAT. 

17. If you had to lose one of the five senses, which would you choose and why? 

Rather than senses, it’s probably better to discard emotions. 

21. If your life was about to become like Cheaper by the Dozen and you were going to be saddled with twelve children, what would you name six girls and six boys? 

Let’s say those children were orphans taken care by me. I’d happily give them the names of fictional characters! Before I familiarize you with my kids, let me introduce myself first: Karlisha “Kirun” Runa Niephaus, the caretaker and the custodian, along with Raine Virginia Sage and Damuron ‘Raven’ Schwann Oltorain. 

(Boy) Vandesdelca ‘Van’ Musto Fende The big brother of Tear. As the result of his upbringing as an orphan at early age, as well as being the oldest in the orphanage, he became precocious, looking after his sister in their parents’ absence and willing to help the caretakers attending the other children while also struggling on his study. He was an amiable fellow and well-respected throughout the orphanage. Currently in the last year of senior-high and busy preparing himself for a law school. 

(Girl) Mystearica ‘Tear’ Aura Fende  Van’s baby sister who adored him dearly. She had grown into somewhat a wallflower; a shrinking violet. Although shy around people, Tear was a girl with a strong moral compass, never quivered to defend her friends from bullies. Like her brother, she had a beautiful, melodious voice that had brought her to become a choir member in both the town’s church, alongside Van, and her school. Currently a seventh-grader. 

(Boy) Ffamran ‘Balthier’ mied Bunansa Both dashing and quick-witted, Balthier was the conspicious of all. His charm and eloquence could easily impress anyone he met, thus making him the most popular kid around. Albeit a bit self-centered at times, Balthier could show his altruitic side, especially when it came to his bestfriend’s affairs, Ramza. Currently a ninth-grader and a valuable player of his school’s basketball team. 

(Boy) Ramza Lugria Beoulve A boy who survived from a wildfire that burned an entire village, including his parents, his beloved sister Alma, and his bestfriend Delita Heiral. His meek and tender disposition clicked perfectly with Balthier’s smug and jaunty manner, therefore creating a bridge of trust between them. Ramza had an eye for world history, spending most of his time in the library to read books and write essays. Currently a ninth-grader and established a close relationship with the history teacher Goffard Gaffgarion. 

(Boy) Edgar Roni Figaro Sabin’s older twin brother who was an electronics hobbyist and a gamer. He was the technician around the house, repairing the appliances and, sometimes, modifying them. Knowing very well that he had insufficient funds to begin with, he befriended Cid Del Norte Marquez and worked at the latter’s workshop as a part-timer. Though a geek at heart, Edgar didn’t constrain himself as a mere geek; he was surprisingly flirtatious, but to no avail. Currently an eleventh-grader. 

(Boy) Sabin Rene Figaro   Edgar’s younger twin brother. Unlike his prudent and erudite twin, Sabin was quick-tempered and straightforward, and excelled at physical activities, particularly martial arts. Under the tutelage of his karate master Cyan Garamonde, Sabin achieved black-belt in a no-time and had won many tournaments. Of all their differences, he and his brother shared the same unflappable determination and ambitions. Currently an eleventh-grader.

(Girl) Estellise “Estelle” Sidos Heurassein Cute, courteous, and bright; Estelle clearly caught everyone’s attention, but still being humble as she looked up to Philia. She was one of those bibliophiles who could even recite various passages from heart. After the incident involving her two bestfriends, Yuri Lowell and Flynn Scifo, Estelle promised herself to become a splendid doctor, thus leading her to be studious, hoping to obtain a scholarship. Currently a tenth-grader, a model student, and a member of the science club. 

(Girl) Margarita “Rita” Blastia Mordio A curious prodigy with an IQ of 160; however, lacked of social competence. She liked to correct people whose perceptivity was wrong, which inadvertently annoyed them unbeknownst to her. Rita was close to Raine’s little brother Genis due to their similar level of intelligence and close age, and to Estelle who always welcomed her presence. Currently a fifth-grader. 

(Boy) Genis Kloitz Sage The genius younger brother of caretaker Raine whose brain power could disparage the grown-ups’. Even as a child, he could solve his sister’s undergraduate math problems and sometimes engaged in Edgar’s projects. Due to his superior intellect, he demonstrated repellent disposition and was cynical towards others, but would greatly respect everyone with the same intelligence as him. Currently a sixth-grader and had a crush on his P.E. teacher Presea Combatir. 

(Girl) Rutee Atwight Katrea An upbeat, tomboyish lass with misunderstandable attitude. Having a firm moral sense yet being irascible at the same time, Rutee could easily pick a fight with anyone she deemed erroneous. Despite this shrewish demeanor, she was in fact solicitous and attentive towards her close relations. Due to the hapless circumstances, Rutee became eager to earn money, working as anything as her employer wanted her to be. Currently an eighth-grader. 

(Girl) Philia Clemente Felice Like your everyday bespectacled girl, Philia was smart, genteel, and naive; pretty much a foil to Rutee. A devout Christian, she highly regarded her belief and attended the church every week. Through her science teacher Batista Diego, nature and chemical experiments had greatly interested her as she aimed to be a chemist in the future. Currently an eleventh-grader, a model student, and the chairwoman of the science club.

(Girl) Rydia Asura Mist The youngest and newest in the orphanage, being five years in age. She was rescued by the sailors Cecil Harvey and Kain Highwind from ship drowning, a disaster that killed her mother and developed her fear of waterbody. She loved animals dearly as she often visited the town’s farm and pet house with the company of one of the caretakers. 

25. What’s the most frightening thing you’ve ever seen in your life? 

Failures. 

26. Name five books you think everyone should read and give a brief synopsis for each. 

Too lazy for the synopsis. Just check them out on GoodReads: 

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (by Agatha Christie)  Lemme proudly present one of Christie’s masterpieces. I personally found this more exquisite than And Then There Were None. 

A Short History of Nearly Everything (by Bill Bryson)  I know Sagan’s Cosmos and Hawking’s The Brief History of Time are popular as hell, but hell... they were published in the 80′s (but still gold though, you really should check them out). We need newer ones and Bryson’s is certainly the best--for me, at least, at this time--in elaborating big history and the development of science. 

Why Evolution Is True (by Jerry A. Coyne)  A nifty allusion for Darwin’s The Origin of Species. No. Don’t protest. Dawkins probably produces more of this kind of books than Coyne does and, of course, is far more popular than any evolutionary biologists alive. Dawkins is a brilliant writer and all, but Coyne has the apt for making the theory easier to comprehend. 

Little Women (by Louisa M. Alcott)  Still the best bildungsroman. Ever. 

Speaker for the Dead (by Orson S. Card)  Sci-fi, philosopy, anthropology, politics, religion; all in one. Yes. I’m such a weirdo to enjoy the second book far more than the first one. 

27. Do you believe one can fall out of love? 

It’s a fact. Why bother asking anyway. 

28. What are your three favourite sounding words? 

Peculiar  Don’t you think the word ‘peculiar’ has such a peculiar pronunciation? 

Halcyon  Archaic one, yes. So old-fashioned that Kirun--who fancies classics--is indulged by its subliminal beauty. Moreover, it was used as the title of a Bleach’s chapter: ‘Goodbye, Halcyon Days’. Aren’t ya romantic, Orihime? 

Preposterous I like to shout out this word--in my solitude, of course--whenever expressing my disbelief. 

31. List the seven deadly sins in order of the one you feel you commit the most to the one you feel you commit the least. 

Pride, greed, wrath, envy, gluttony, sloth, then lust. 

32. What’s your current desktop picture? 

46. What’s your favourite ever television commercial? 

49. What’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you? 

“Kirun kan pacarnya aku.” -- by some girl 

51. Name five facts that the vast majority of people won’t know about you. 

I’m a girl (see? I knew you’d be surprised). 

Clearly not a fujoshi. What? You guys don’t believe me? Fine then. 

Though having [too] many guy friends, all of my bestfriends are girls; which are, of course, very few in numbers. 

Yes, I’m very aware that I love Gaara so dearly, but I’m still normal too, you know, since I had crushes in real life. And they were boys. I know, I know, I’m so gay, right? Wait, what am I exacly; male of female? 

Contrary to popular belief, I’m actually a piiiipp who wishes to openly express my opinions and matters without worrying any prejudice nor distressing the ones I love. 

54. Share five goals you want to complete in the next 30 days.

Sing Asterisk (of Orange Range’s) fluently. This one’s freaking hard. 

Read more than ten books. 

Write at least a short story. My imagination has been dormant these days. Inspirations, I summon thee! 

Survive without snacks and confectionaries. Kirun, you can do this! 

Yes. For one more time. Survive. 

58. State eight facts about your body.

I have all the necessities of human being. 

Oh, except my appendix had been removed. 

Thank goodness the tail remains vestigial. 

I’m getting fatter (don’t kill me, people). 

A bit taller than average. 

Pale as Suzanna-on-action. 

My nails aren’t neatly trimmed. 

I hate to admit this, but... my nose is... flat--annoyingly flat that even my cute, golden-hearted but veracious little sister pointed, “Sis, is your nose always that tabular?” WHY LIL SIS WHY?! 

60. Are you allergic to anything? If so, what? 

Romantic love. Sure I do not resist to read or watch romance, but if it happens directly to me... NO. PLEASE. STAY OUT OF THE LINE, MISTER/MISS. 

61. Describe yourself in one word/sentence? 

“Tetapi sesederhana-sederhana cerita yang ditulis, dia mewakili pribadi individu (...)“ -- Jejak Langkah (by Pramoedya A. Toer) 

63. Share five facts about your childhood. 

Can I write it in quotes?

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” 

“If you don’t imagine, nothing ever happens at all.” 

“We need never be ashamed of our tears.”

“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” 

“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” 

71. Name five people who are famous who you find attractive.

John and Hank Green (I really can’t choose between those two), 

Matthew Macfadyen (best Mr. Darcy ever!),  

Mark Ruffalo (husky voice and wistful countenance, how I love those combination), 

Kim Rae-won (probably the only Korean actor that I find cute), and 

Eddie Redmayne (HOW CAN YOU PLAY NEWT WITH SO MUCH CUTENESS?! HOW CAN YOUUUU!!!). 

81. Share five facts about your best friend(s). 

Most of them are humans. 

One is the embodiment of integrated-circuits. 

Some are ailurophile. 

Few are bibliophile. 

None is pedophile, gladly. 

82. What’s the most superficial characteristic you look for in a partner?

Has to be the opposite sex. Duh. 

83. Share five ways to instantly win your heart. 

Are you Gaara? If not, well... screw you.  

88. Give a description of the person you dislike the most. 

We share the same room. We share the same clothes. We share the same food. We share the same body. We share the same mind. 

91. If food was people, who would be your best friend, your life partner, your enemy, and your ex? 

Best friend: okonomiyaki and curry ramen. 

Life partner: mom’s seared, chilli scallops. 

Enemy: pare. 

Ex: instant noodles. 

[emperorren]

on reylo being one-sided

(and why I’m not a huge fan of this scenario)

This is something I’ve wanted to address for a while---the fairly popular idea that the “only” romance we’re going to get in canon between Rey and Kylo will be one-sided on Kylo’s part. That there’s no way Rey can ever return his feelings (or, more accurately, his obsession), and will never forgive him for what he’s done.

I’m curious as to why this became so easy to believe in our corner of the fandom (and I mean specifically reylo shippers). Is this because we want to keep our expectations low? Is it because we recognize that some of the arguments “against” this ship are valid? Is it because, despite all meta and character analysis, we ultimately see Rey’s character as incompatible with Kylo’s, or we don’t believe in the writers’ ability to make her compatible without “ruining” her? Are there any actual signs of this dynamic being necessarily, intrinsically unrequited? 

The answer to the last question, in my opinion, is no. Kind of the opposite. But I’ll get to this later; meanwhile, I’ll concede that this is probably the easiest, safest scenario to speculate on. Kylo being fixated on Rey is already de facto canon, we’re not exactly making wild speculation here. From “what girl?”, to "forget the droid, we have what we need”, to the way he watches her for who the hell knows how long while she’s unconscious, to “I can be your teacher”, it’s clear that our bad boy finds Rey fascinating, and it’s not a stretch of imagination at all to assume that this fixation will only get worse from this point on---that he’ll probably try again to kidnap or lure her again to his side, now that he knows how powerful she is. Villainous crushes are a Thing, so there’s nothing particularly outrageous or unrealistic about this. 

Rey, however, is much more problematic. Her developing some feelings (whatever their nature) for Kylo really seems at odds with the way her character is portrayed and with her other main relationship (Finn). She doesn’t seem to feel anything but unadulterated hatred for Kylo at the end of the movie, and she has every reason to feel this way: the guy killed her newly found parental figure, hurt her best friend, is complicit in genocides and the destruction of an entire solar system, his every action proved that Leia was wrong about him. That Rey can ever feel even the slightest sympathy, let alone attraction, for such a person does sound like a stretch. "Falling” for Kylo would either irreparably taint her likability as a protagonist (what kind of person is attracted to someone who hurt her friends?), or, as many ant*s fear, turn her into an ooc, pallid imitation of the strong willed, independent, loyal young woman we’ve seen in TFA. Rey doesn’t have any real “reasons” to fall for Kylo, and the authors can’t make it happen unless they bend her character in really unpleasant ways. That’s the assumption.

But we shippers still want to see some romance---because what we saw blossoming in Kylo is unmistakable and too juicy not to be explored by the narrative. A tragic unrequited love on Kylo’s part that ends with him embracing the fact that Rey will never return his feelings, but still sacrificing himself for her safety, and redeeming himself with this purely selfless act---that sounds like a good compromise, right? Right. It’s not bad. It’s feasible from a storytelling perspective, it leaves Rey’s agency, personality, motivations etc. intact, while giving a payoff to Kylo’s anticipated *pull to the Light* without turning the story into a cheesy, bad trope-ridden romance in which the bad guy “gets the girl” as a prize for becoming good.

Still, I'm skeptical.

I’m 100% here for angst and a conflicted, tortured Kylo Ren who doesn’t know what to make of his feelings for the enemy, but do I really want to watch him chase a recalcitrant, disgusted Rey around the galaxy for the next two movies? Hell, no. Not only I’m afraid I’d find this repetitive and quickly exhausting, but the discourse around him would only get nastier, the “stalker” reading of his character more substantiated. Honestly, I don’t want to hear any of that.

But more importantly: even if it’s done well and the stalkey vibes are kept at minimum, it would work for Kylo, for his arc. Rey, on the other hand, would remain crystallized in her rejection of everything Kylo Ren is and stands for, which reeks of character stagnation, tbh. Especially compared to the enormous development that Kylo would undergo should he start to genuinely care for Rey. 

You know, if you put all the burden of character evolution---of “meeting halfway”---on Kylo Ren and none on Rey, the inevitable risk is making him much more interesting than her. (honestly, he already is, because the writers bothered to give him some complexity, some flaws that read as flaws, and not just as endearing quirks that don’t compromise the overall adorableness of the character.)

I personally don’t see Rey as already whole, and I strongly reject the idea that “she shouldn’t change anything about herself”. Not changing anything about yourself doesn’t sound like a great idea if you’re the protagonist of a trilogy that is simultaneously a hero’s journey and a rite of passage into adulthood. Rey needs an identity arc, a trajectory. She starts as a character with a rather black/white sense of morality, that the narrative doesn’t really challenge or present as even remotely problematic. That’s definitely less complex than, for example, Finn, who has a moment of “fuck, I’m getting the hell out of dodge” and then comes around, who lies repeatedly to Rey, to Poe, to Han, to the Resistance, who has this huge shadow of his former identity as a stormtrooper looming above him for 3/4 of the movie. Finn is conflicted---he doesn’t share Rey’s unflinching loyalty to bb8 (although, unlike Rey, he did meet bb8′s owner), and his primary concern is getting the FO out of his system and saving Rey. Rey otoh jumps on the good guys’ bandwagon almost immediately, the only thing holding her back (her desire to go back to Jakku to wait for her family) conveniently pushed aside to shove her into action. Amazing, but two more movies of Rey never questioning herself, her loyalties, her assumptions, never showing a single flaw, never even being tempted, sound absolutely dull to me. Luke is so memorable as a hero because he evolves throughout the movies; he’s not stagnant. He begins his journey as an idealist, naive farm boy with a very black/white mentality (the same we find in Rey), but then he’s broken, he learns something that forces him to reconsider his place in the war (in the universe) and his perspective shifts, and he sees a man to save where he used to see only an enemy. 

Of course, Rey’s arc doesn’t necessarily have to be similar to Luke’s, and her evolution surely doesn’t hinge on her relationship with the main (anti)villain. But the way they’ve framed her interactions with Kylo---including the fact that their duel represents the climax of the movie---tells me that this dynamic is going to be crucial. It would be a missed opportunity if Rey’s feelings weren’t as complex and layered as the ones Luke has for Vader.

I see the word “agency” tossed around a lot when promoting the idea of Rey never *falling* for Kylo. It’s a legitimate concern. But I think there’s a difference between:

a) feeling something for a person; b) acting on those feelings; c) letting those feelings define all you are or, worse, destroy who you are d) becoming a passive object of someone else’s desire

I definitely don’t want options C & D for Rey, and I only want B with... reservations (that is, if Kylo stop being an aggressive, self entitled ass, and changes himself in turn) but I think A is crucial---not for Kylo, but for Rey’s arc and complexity as a character. Feelings don’t have to be explicitly romantic, and she might continue on her path without giving in to them (i.e., refuse to let them dictate her actions)... but that she’s never going to feel sympathy for him in her heart is nonsensical given the way they shaped them as each other’s foil.

It’s important to note that Rey’s esteem of Kylo has already hit rock bottom by the end of TFA. Henceforth, it either rises or remains static, and I think we can all agree we can’t just watch two more movies of Rey thinking of Kylo as a monster. Well, I suppose someone could, but I for one would be bored to tears. (storytelling-wise, a character screaming their hate against their enemy in such a transparent, literal way in the first act is only a good choice if it’s going to be subverted later.)

Unrequited love is also at odds with my perception of this dynamic as intrinsically mutual. 

Everyone commented on the yin and yang subtext, that was possibly a source of inspiration for a lot of imagery surrounding Rey and Ren (starting from their curiously similar names). The thing about yin and yang is that they both need each other---they both strive to incorporate the other to achieve wholeness; it’s a two sided feedback. If Rey, the yang, doesn’t need, or care for, or feel temptation for Kylo, the yin, then you can throw the whole yin/yang narrative out of the window. There’s no yin/yang dynamic if the yang doesn’t need, or want, the yin. 

Even at this early stage, it’s a give and take between them. Kylo invades Rey’s consciousness to grab the map, Rey turns the tables on him and “steals” power and knowledge from his mind. The duel is a power play, a battle for dominance where each of them gets to have the upper hand at some point. Everything Kylo does to Rey, Rey returns in spades, almost mirroring him. So far, their interactions have been essentially violent, but should Kylo begin to feel something akin to affection, or compassion, or attraction for Rey, it makes sense to me that this would stir something of the same nature in her, an equal but opposite reaction. Why? Because they’re linked through the Force, she “feels” him as he “feels” her. Because she learns his story, and realizes that he wasn’t born bad. Because she starts dealing with her own darkness, and this makes her see Kylo’s in a different... light, no pun intended. I think these issues are already solidly rooted in canon, and in the hands of a skilled writer (and I think the authors behind this trilogy are skilled, if maybe lacking a bit of courage), can become a perfectly realistic premise for Rey to start feeling “something” for Kylo while maintaining her complexity 

tl;dr; “Rey redeems Kylo by doing absolutely nothing” is infinitely less interesting to me than “Rey and Kylo change and redefine each other through their collisions and interactions”. If I had to choose between a one sided romance on Kylo’s part and no romance at all (but rather, a mutual... friendship? ambiguous antagonism?) I’d choose the latter without blinking. I’m more interested in the mutual nature of whatever’s going on between them (even if it’s just platonic), than I am in any explicit (but one sided) depiction of romantic feelings.

[thachthanhnghi1]

Wedding outfit Colours

Koreans do not always have a chance to experience initial love, or perhaps mutual compassion during adolescence, as is customary within our country. Korean language mail order bride is a good of all as a result of its unique features. Their sincerity and kindness is definitely something that is greatly appreciated in West Europe. That they always act positively and help everyone around them. Brides out of Korea turn into good moms and conserve of their partners and children. In this passage, you can find away more details about each of the features of a woman.

Today most, not only a few, American girls are eager to remove their virginity as soon as their hormones kick in – and do so with hardly an extra thought, remorse, or embarrassment. Eleven year old women are trapped giving oral sex to several 13 year old forceful at the same time and so the boys should “like her. ” Although this is marked a “christian” country declaring to have “morals, ” ladies are just not educated that virginity and advantage are holy and can not be replaced the moment they’re spent on pastime sex.

In love, they can be peculiar. Korean women of all ages have never recently been faithful, however, you canвЂt think that they might unlike their partner. Korean ladies really love have fun in body feelings, they need variety. But they seldom identify a romantic relationship with all the manifestation of affection. For them, intimacy is more of pleasure, joy, or perhaps self-indulgence. Korean brides feel the love of a man over a different level. How to recognize that you like the guy by the look, they may tell you. They easily fall in love. To get this sense, they need to actually know the chosen an individual well. But if the person felt love, you can be sure that this sense is for a very long time.

So what I will be saying is that she didn’t have a social lifestyle. Her dad wouldn’t let his daughters to dress provocatively. Among the to be home just before dark. Celebrations and organizations weren’t in the farmville farm country. And only have to go to a “disco” a couple times when they were 12-15 and of sixteen with their Dad as chaperone. Her actions included going to school and working on the family town. Visiting neighbors, going to her aunt’s house a couple hours away simply by bus with her Mom and staying for your week or two during slow park season. And this was about that.

It demonstrates that guys want to dominate in South Korea. Even though Korean females contain a lot of respect for men and in a natural way submissive that they don’t want to get married to local men. Korean women like American guys not simply for their attractive look however the way that they carry themselves and take care of their associates. So if you are searching for an Asian lady on the net, you will find a great choice of sole ladies so, who also look for lifetime lovers abroad.

Most of the time, my ex girlfriend always nagged myself to eat in a fine dining restaurant instead in Mcdonald or Jollibee. She wished me to invest money onto her, what a spoiled little girl. She wasn’t also my wife yet! Just imagine whenever we get married. I might ended up living my life in poverty.

Korean brides happen to be loving towards their lover and strive to take the ideal proper care of them. They are simply very mindful towards their very own men’s demands in a long term relationship and cherish anything that comes with marriage, such as a large number of relatives. An individual only must become close to a Korean girl to understand the depth with their commitment to someone they will love. When you get to know them they usually open up for you, you will surely be turned visit heels for him or her.

In fact , it’s far worse for the purpose of such the bride to be known as the self-confident and self-willed woman that to have a trustworthiness of an insensitive or short person. Checklist of virtues of a new bride from Korea includes the chance to be up to date, painful, soft-hearted and polite, however first of all, person. Mothers often tell their daughters: If you don’t just like the food, give it to the dog; if you do not like your partner, put up with it”.

Meet Awesome & Delightful Korean Women of all ages For Marriage & Dating Online

These foreign brides are a few of the sweetest, richly uneven, and warmest people likely to ever connect with because Mexican women have a status for being nice, gracious, and loving. You are going to achieve greater success over a date if you demonstrate your financial viability. Of course , like cannot be bought, but inclination will be given to even more prosperous job hopefuls. And it’s not really the fact that with cash you can buy a much better life for yourself. Just a marriage with a man in the future should grow into a marriage. And as the head of the friends and family, he can support his wife and children.

Little women below spend almost all their money to obtain clothes and everything sort of makeup stuff. Their main goal to locate a rich males who will provide them with money they usually won’t need to work. Their very own dream is not just a abundant men nevertheless oligarch who will buy them BMW, Mercedes, The bentley and all the luxurious stuff that exists widely in Moscow. This sort of young females drink and smoke and at the age of 25-30 they commence to realize that all their beauty commence to evade mainly because they beverage too much alcohol and they commence to look exclusively for any men who will marry her. After they discover some guys who need simply sex and a prepare on a kitchen they become lazy, grumbling and all the bad attributes of persona learn to appear (everything you authored about American women).

Southern Korea is actually a country with a high quality lifestyle. Therefore , do not think that you will be able to buy a Korean woman. These females are not buying sponsor, although a partner with whom to develop unified relationships. Moreover, Korea provides a high level of education. It indicates that Korean women are excellent interlocutors and can preserve a chatter on virtually any topic. That is a truly happy marriage if you are interested in spending some time with your better half, even after many years of relatives life.

The same as in any other country, finding your Filipina fiancée and eventual better half in the Philippines can be difficult. You can easily acquire conned and ripped off. Your is just like dating in person however, you must count on Internet connection mostly because you have no second option – if you are rich enough to travel 10, 500 miles aside and live there for several months. So i’m not abundant so it was necessary to outline a set of qualities that form the good from maybes and the probabilities from the bad. My spouse and i somehow achieved this without getting stung mainly because I meticulously thought out my personal preferred pair of characteristics just before I started out looking for job hopefuls.

A Foreign Affair (AFA), a business that helps men locate women through international trips, says organized tours to Republic of colombia are now trading out. AFA arranges group tours where 10 to twenty men travel together to Medellin, Cartagena or Barranquilla. During the tour, they attend fixed Social occurrences where the guys meet a huge selection of beautiful Colombian women looking for marriage. Women of all ages can also place their background on the AFA web site, with the hope of finding a husband.

My significant other is exquisite without makeup, had very little used clothes that was modern, recognized how to are present on a few pesos every day, and existed a very poor life with no complaining nevertheless had guaranteed small hopes and dreams for her near future. She had no boots and shoes to go to university when smaller, had you used tote, and her and her two siblings used each others apparel to have variety. Today she will buy lots of copies of brand name purses and watches, lots of nice sneakers that are inexpensive, blouses which can be on profound discount sale, etc . to ensure that she has two dressers and two huge closets packed with stuff for the point of bagging her older stuff and putting it in the garage area. I do begrudge her anything since she did not have nearly anything until I just came along although I would if she was insisting in the real manufacturers which a city girl could because the goal can be have the greatest brands of almost everything at your expenditure that they observe in magazines.

Your girl will be happy to tell you about her family, her life, etc . because you are with any luck , going to eventually turn into part of her family. Your lover never leaves her family group. She is permanently theirs and you simply become their very own relative too. If you usually are finding this kind of openness in a candidate the woman isn’t the one you prefer or she’s shy about you feeling like you’re a higher level of individuals than her because she will be very poor right up until you https://bestrealdatingsites.com/asian-brides/korean-brides/ convince her you aren’t like this. You will consider tiny steps to bring yourself closer to her gradually and she’ll agree to you bringing those basic steps. She do not ever lurch toward you while gushing take pleasure in comments.

Anticipate to pay your total expenditures. The endless question about who should pay the bills by the end of the date, in Korea, is usually chosen in favor of the woman. Once the man responds the moment marrying a Korean girl, respectively, he begins to be aware and support it beforehand. That is, usually, a man pays the check. Although sometimes there are circumstances when a girl offers to pay the main menu — for example , piece of food. Do not refuse it to her, but be sure to order pay for anything extra. If you have certainly not received presents to pay off, it means you will have to pay for everything – nowadays and in the near future.

Thousands Of North Korean Women of all ages Sold When Brides In China, Many With Kids Still In

The tune describing a bride, who is almost all dressed in white, does not pertain to the widespread bride after all. I think that this is excellent advice. In the event you really want a great Asian partner from the East or South-East, maturity will probably bring you the best chance of contentment. A ten years younger woman is wonderful for the ego for perhaps a hot instant, then the foolishness of the decision will become noticeable. My Thai wife and I are both middle-aged ( My spouse and i am ten years her senior) and the woman brings me personally great enjoyment and lasting love. Having said that, all of us met and live in my country, nevertheless We am accessible to moving to Thailand later on.

Korean girls for marital life are chosen not only because of the magnetic external data. These kinds of girls are distinguished by their humbleness, which likewise magically functions on males because that they prefer very soft and supple women. Matching to Korean language traditions, a guy is the brain of a home, therefore girls do everything to become the very best lovers in life. Seeing that men love young ladies, social traditions recommend marriage for females of a incredibly young age.

Anything overlooked at weddings are the name options on desks. I recommend keeping all web site the same and in line with all the theme of wedding event. Standard brand are done all over, try to mix it up and personalize the name options. Maybe every person table can have a sub-theme that plays through your wedding accessories. You can integrate unique wax lights layouts and this will impress guests. Case in point satin towels and trees make for an intimate setting. Whilst covering the party area area with small poles elegantly draped with satin laces and ribbons or garlands of trees makes for an incredible scene. Everybody will appreciate the time and energy putting into the tiny details designed for the wedding reception area.

What am I looking to say in essence? An Ibo man always carry at heart his monetary gain or profit in no matter what thing he does in life- whether it be business, education, relationship, etc . It is this trait that earned Ibos criticisms from other Nigerian people, because in whatever they are really doing, they can be always conscious of what they might gain financially. To spa it up, Ibo guy is just for a Chinese gentleman in terms of- money intelligence, creativity, and worth.

The good news is that “Send Me Zero Flowers” despite once more as being a romantic funny which thrives off of bafflement is not just a rehash of Doris Moment and Steel Hudson’s prior two films. The whole thing moves on with the enjoyable storyline regarding George planning to sort out stuff for when he dies and Rock Hudson has thrilling with various established ups including choosing his funeral plot and discovering his wife a friend. In fact even though Day nonetheless entertains with a wonderful cosmetic expressions “Send Me No Flowers” is very much Hudson’s movie. And what is as well nice is the fact whilst Tony Randall all over again finds himself making up the trio he gets more to do and supplies another great method for comedy. That quite match up to “Pillow Talk” nonetheless “Send Me personally No Flowers” is definitely better than “Lover Come Back”.

The crowning of 2015 Miss Universe Paulina Vega set Barranquilla, Colombia on the map. Barranquilla now has recognition to be home for some of the most beautiful and skilled women in the world. Not only is certainly Miss Galaxy from here, Grammy Award winning place singer Shakira, and presenter Sofia Vergara also phone Barranquilla house. Vergara superstars on the DASAR series Contemporary Family since Gloria Delgado-Pritchett. She’s recently been nominated for four Golden Globe Awards, 5 Prime time Emmy Honours, and six Screen Stars Guild Awards, almost all stemming out of this role. In 2014, she was ranked as the 32nd Best Woman on the globe by Forbes.

Bows will probably be informal not to mention formal. Even though the general usual for men ought to be to maintain the hands at their own individual sides as well as bend forward from the belly, for girls it is the same with typically the hands positioned on the clapboard, with the sight looking downward. Formal bows will be much lower compared to laid-back bows. A fabulous bow is obviously returned by using a bow and may normally last only approximately 2-3 just a few seconds. A-tremble hands, at times in conjunction with a good ribbon and bow, has now become a common practice when it comes to Japan, specifically with outsiders together with holidaymakers. As a traveler, for anyone who is applying this custom, ensure you change to the left instead of straight, to settle away from knocking to the reverse guy. Any kind of sentiment should piece of art a anticipating the waves, different it can be thought about impolite.

Korean language brides prove that love may be eternal and mutual. They are simply a good and respectful example of ideal partner and spouse. Now you know to find Korean new bride. Don’t be scared of your feelings and emotions and the perfect Korean language bride definitely will once wink to you.

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