#and tired of living with the consequences of his pragmatism

[anistarrose]

anyways welcome to the 1,877th day of me being abnormal about Barry Bluejeans and the 1,865th day of me specifically being abnormal about him in clear public view on this blog. it absolutely will happen again and I do not feel remorse

[lilisouless]

Look, Show!Wesper will never be book!wesper

(I know you hate long post, but would you make an exeption for Wesper?)

It´s a vanilla jelly you get from a supermarket vs a fine restaurant´s chocolate pudding (ps, i got hungry writing this and actually stopped to eat a jello from)

I am also aware that the desition of having them hooking up very early on instead of the build up wasn't just pragmatic choices, i really think them being a same sex couple had an influence on that desition, is a consequence of how netflix often treats their lgbtq rep, which is why i get why a lot of people got very upset , specially being lgbtq themselves

Not to say how many scenes will be lost or won't have the same impact.

Now, that being said , there is something on Show!Wesper potentially coming. Is not just the angst, if netflix writers notice what they have done, they could build something interesting

You`ll see, i said before many times that Leigh pairs up often people with similar or complementary issues. The difference between Wesper with Kanej and Helnik is that their problems aren't related to each other

With Kanej, we know their similarities with the touch and how they affect their relationship, not to say anything that their moral conflict, Inej still believes in salvation for Kaz but Kaz can hardly show his good side because is dangerous for him that people know there is someone he loves more than himself. Inej represents a kindness and faith Kaz believes must be left behind, Kaz represents for Inej that people who do bad things can still have good on them , which is something she applies to herself

And Helnik speaks for itself, Nina represents everything Matthias was supposed to destroy, Matthias is part of people who wants to kill her kind. Even without that, Nina is not the concept of the perfect woman behaviour Matthias was raised with and reminds her of this over and over, reminding Nina she is loud and sometimes goofs too much, something her trainers often told her, also got bullied on the orphanage, all this things makes Nina think she is "too much" and people may get tired of her (see her speech to Inej, the best reflection of her insecurities were there) Matthias would eventually realize he actually likes this things about Nina (and letting her know it,a huge step on making amends) and thats why he was so cruel about it.

In both couples, they manage to turn their relationship into something with only joy, but there was pain at one point or another,there were part of each other´s problem thats what i mean.

With Wylan and Jesper that doesn't happen , and this is not a way to say they are better or less important because of it, is just stating a fact and the reason why Kanej and Helnik often think about each other on specific terms while Wesper think about the whole team , but making important highlights on each other. They have meet each other for less time,they are not important on each other`s lives from the begining like the other two, most of their relationship build up is seen on the book with little previous information other than Jesper being send to recuit Wylan and sometimes flirted with him to see what happens (which was pretty ambiguous but you get it). They have a similar conflict individually but the other is not part of it, they mostly bond because of it and are more a companion than a participant on their respective problems. As much as Jesper bitchs on Wylan, he is hardly the reason of his insecurities and Wylan is not related to everything that was going on with Jesper

Now my point: Show Wesper does have a shot on making each other part of their problems, not a whole (that was never a think with Kanej and Helnik...well,on the books anyway🙄) but like i have said before

-Jesper´s loved ones are either leaving or distancing themselves from him,Wylan is the closest person he got at the end of the season. Wylan in exchange has no one, he has no friends outside of Jesper ; sure he has some friendly interactions with other characters but they aren't friends. This means Jesper and Wylan and , maybe unaware, pushing for the other to be their "person" their stability: Jesper offers Wylan a key on an impulse and Wylan decides to move in inmediately.

On the book they find their stability on each other as well, but that was the result of a healthy outcome, knowing each other and deciding that staying together was both what they wanted and the best for them in more than one sense, is not a problem,its a resolution.

On the show it can turn into a problem because becoming someones person its an untold compromise if you and that person have unresolved issues.

By this point i`ll drop spoilers from the book, so if you only watched the show i suggest to not open the cut

Jesper doesn't know Wylan is a merchant son, Jesper hates when people hide information from him, when they consider him untruswhorty or leave him out. This doesn't sound nice if your person is hiding a big deal from you,specially someone you have been vulnerable with. And remember that Jesper in the book , when Wylan stoped talking to him supposedly, his reaction was thinking "he doesn't want to be associated with criminals anymore" and was quite bitter about it. This was Jesper not only not in a relationship with Wylan, they were hardly friends and didn't consider their mutual atraction outside of a phisical thing, "why bother getting attached, he will leave when all of this is over" .

So Show!Wylan , acording to Jesper , may as well be one more of the people who don't trust him or will leave too. Thats how Wylan becomes part of the pain. If this guy,he got so attached only saw the barrel as his playground all along and will go back to his privileged life where Jesper doesn't belong and leave him alone. Its also very unlikely that Wylan explains to him that his dad tried to had him killed, he never says that on the book since the only thing he confess to Kaz was that he couldnt' read,Jesper having a loving father himself which he has a dificult but still loving relationship with, will not even think that Wylan`s dad won't have him back, even if Wylan tells him that.

Also, Jesper always felt like he didn't deserved the people in his life and on the show Wylan hasn't shown to be aware of his gambling adiction or his drop of university, he may hide that from Wylan out of fear he will be judged (and deep inside, feel like he deserves said jugdment)

On Wylan´s side, its harder but not impossible. Jesper on the show already knows he can't read, but lets see this: Jesper thinks Wylan is either a colelge drop out or from the streets, Wylan may think is not the same someone who was never taught to read from someone that had all the resourses to learn and still couldn't.

Wylan doesn't reason "my dad never loved me for real" he thinks "my dad used to love me until i failed him" ,so if the love of his father who knows him from birth faded away very easily, why this boyfriend he has known for one months at most would be diferent? Add that Jesper forgot their first meeting, Wylan may think "sure, he will get over me quickly" considering how fast they got together and making rushed advances, you know "easy comes, easy goes" way of thinking.

So, a soc spinoff can build a whole double abandonement issues conflict for those two. Not book!Wesper but can help to flesh them out and making their relationship not just be the happy side couple, they can still have the grown together wesper had on the books while adding something more.

[gith-egg]

I still have no finished art of my lil gith dude but I want to share him with yall so fuck it I'm making a post about him anyway

Drik ▪︎ Githyanki ▪︎ Ranger

Pronouns: He/They

Age: 22

Height: 6'0 / 184cm

Build: Scrawny, even by Gith standards

Alignment: Chaotic Tired™

Weapon: Heavy crossbow that looks comically way too big for him to use (and almost is)

Companion: Barley, his "cat"*

*half-undead half-gremishka half-cat

Long backstory below cut

In a crèche nestled deep in the Sunset Mountains, a young githyanki was condemned to death. Barely into its fourth year of living, the child had been frail and sickly almost from the start, and would not have been coddled even this long were it not for a particularly lenient custodian. It had become clear the child would not be fit to work, much less fight; to cull it now was as much mercy as it was pragmatism.

And then the child disappeared.

The ability to skim the boundary of the Astral Plane to achieve feats of great mobility is hallmark of githyanki warriors. This is a skill honed through years of disciplined training. Little wonder, then, that the toddler accidentally accomplishing it for the first time in the sheer panic of impending slaughter did so directly into a freezing river.

Perhaps a greater miracle that a dwarven merchant caravan was passing close enough for the sorry thing to be retrieved still alive. With no common language and no knowledge of the nearby crèche, the traders did the only thing they could and took the child along with them.

By the time they reached the next destination on their route - the city of Scornubel - it had become plainly apparent this would not be a permanent addition to their family. Even if the open road had been a suitable stage to raise a young one, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 one ate enough for three and kept getting into places that should have been impossible. Everyone knew the stories of "lost" fey children finding their way under a friendly roof and effecting utter chaos. The child had to go.

Conveniently the issue proceeded to solve itself: the child, again, disappeared.

* * * * *

Almost a decade later, a headstrong adolescent prepared to seek his independence. He was weary of life in this city - tired of the hostile gazes and quickened strides he was met with on a good day, while the others his age found work and opportunities. Drik (as his caretaker had dubbed him: a bug, a meager and invasive crawling thing, how astute) was keenly aware he was not welcome here.

Aishnak, the designator in question, seemed to regard this as a matter of little importance. The kindly old baker assured him there was no need to attain a job or an apprenticeship as there would always be space at his table. This was patently untrue - it seemed like every other week a new orphan showed up on his doorstep - and also, beside the point. Drik did not want to stay in a city that did not want him.

Just give it a few more years, said the old man, you'll find your niche. Just be patient. You're not ready to fend for yourself yet, you're still a kid, the wilderness is no place for one so young, you take the safety of civilisation for granted. Drik had heard it all. He'd also been training with a crossbow for a whole year now, and he knew how to butcher an animal and how to cook and follow a map and, not to be vain, but he was really very good at staying hidden when he didn't want to be found. Better than anyone else he knew. He was ready, and he wouldn't hear otherwise.

Within a week he was back at Aishnak's door. In Drik's defense, which he was very ready to give, this was not because he lacked the skill to keep himself alive. It was because he'd been careless with the life of another.

A feral cat, shot for dinner without difficulty. A litter newly born, discovered after the fact. A heart much less hardened than he'd given himself credit for. Now here he stood with an armful of kittens and a faceful of tears, begging relief from consequences like the child he was.

Aishnak had the grace to refrain from stating the obvious. He promised the kittens would be cared for - save one, as he picked out the runt, the tiny creature already limp and unresponsive. Keeping it with the others will make them ill, he explained; there's naught to do but bury it.

Drik understood. It was a miracle any of them had survived, being so small and left untended. He asked to take the dying kitten back, put it to rest himself. It was only right. Aishnak let him go.

He bundled it against his chest, walked it all the way back out to the place he'd found it, the nest its mother had made in the remains of an old farm shed. He dug a hole, deep enough so that only the worms and plant roots would have the body. He held the sad little scrap of meat in his hands, over its grave. And he cried. He cried and cried and he curled up on the dirt and cradled the thing he'd come here to dispose of and he couldn't do it.

Of course, there was really no alternative, and eventually he had no tears left in him to shed. He had no choice but to pick himself up and finish his work. It was then that he became aware of two things: firstly, that standing up was proving difficult, which was frustrating but not especially out of the ordinary. Secondly, and much more unexpected, the lump of fluff enclosed in his hands was wiggling and making quite a bit of noise.

Drik chanced a peek at the dead kitten and immediately confirmed it was not, in fact, dead, by the metric of it being able to prise its way past his fingers and stumble mewling across his thorax. He didn't have a chance to consider what to do about this though because the next thing he did was fall unconscious.

* * * * *

Another decade come and gone. Lounging in a forest clearing, Drik admired his most recent prize in the morning sunlight: a lavishly jewelled pendant, sparkling not just with the lustre of the gold and stones but with the unmistakeable radiance of magic. Barley corroborated his assessment with greedy scrutiny from where she perched atop his knees. The traveller they'd filched it from hadn't seemed anyone special at a glance, but that just went to show the folly of judging books by their covers.

Offering Barley a quick mental apology - for disturbing her seat and for denying her custody of this latest find, to both of which she shot back a tepid psychic grumble - Drik rolled to his feet and pocketed the necklace. It'd be worth a small fortune, to the right buyer. He was due for a visit home.

[primaveraludica]

To Do, chapter one.

There is barely even time to resume matters about the things we must, so I don’t believe there is enough years left of humanity to answer the questions we must first begin to ask ourselves. It is always tiring to go from one place to another and then having to come back to the beginning, so I get that most people don’t think that Truth will be achieved by remembering our past, and not by the erection of our future. I have always been criticized because, apparently, this pessimism was a contradiction of my beliefs, since my religion earnestly reiterates that the divine light can achieve anything on this earth. I have my doubts about that, about the “contradiction” I mean, and I chose to left the issue unsolved for now. Anyways, the reminiscence of my laic realism resurfaces even in the grounds of religious experience, adopting the form of pragmatism; this childish voice says to me, with reason, that it’s obviously preferable, even if one is a spiritual pessimist like I, to do something about the world.

So, here I am. I am no one to this world, I haven’t achieved anything remarkable, and the time has passed for me to be a prodigy, a God-gifted genius like Mozart. Regardless, I felt the obligation to leave my parents’ house after months of analyzing the thought I resumed in the beginning. I think that it could’ve lead me into the monkish lifestyle if I would’ve been a bit more optimistic about it, driving me in a kind of euphoric eagerness to make good blind enough to be a little useless; or it could have lead me to complete impotence or material suicide if I was a bit more pessimistic. The melancholic grey in which I was on about this matter made me an artist. I strongly believe that the decision of being an artist is always the consequences of a low gradation of a certain mad belief, even in atheist artists. To me, it’s art, death or desperation. To the atheist, it’s often art or murder. This turn in my life is several years old today, and I can’t say it has lead me into despair or unhappiness. It certainly led me into poverty, but I don’t mind too much about this since I decided to be alone for the rest of my life, in a responsible act of understanding my purpose in this world. If I had to raise a family, this whole big plan would be useless since is the correct medium for a completely different end, so I started relations with solitude.

The breakage of this apparent linearity in my life was drawing near on an innocent Sunday morning, a few months after my emancipation. I was writing a song in the room of a student pension in which I lived in and shared with a cinema student called Martin. I was often immersed in this process. Music making in that time was like an anything-goes for me, I don’t know if it was a scarce of taste or knowledge that made me approach it like that, or if it was something higher and more mysterious, but I was certainly having fun. However, I can strongly affirm that beneath this comfort a feeling of insecurity or expectation was slowly growing; it was like a kind of Impostor Syndrome working in the grounds of spirit. It was an obscure and diffuse sentiment that I only understand more clearly now, and it will be self-explained by the events of this story. In the middle of my divertissement, my roommate interrupted me by asking:

–Alex, have you seen Wagon Master?

My roommate was a very kind-hearted person masked by chaotic manners, like most cinema people. Even though I feel like some cinema people are plainly chaotic and anarchic, and so they manifest their soul in their movies, which are often visually amusing but still chaotic, like the ocean or a mandala. This person, however, was a person I could talk to, even when his encyclopedic fervor came out like in this conversation, because he always puts into play interesting concepts meaningful for all art disciplines.

–No, is it another western?- I answered.

–You could say so. What happens with the classic Hollywood’s eminent genres is that they all revolve around certain rules they never fully comply with. What you feel about genres is like what you feel about beauty, it’s not something you can trace enumerating the reasons for you to come to that feeling. It’s never enough with just that. You can say with certainty that Taxi Driver is a noir film, but it’s very crystallized in this example that the “rules” of noir film are hardly enough to explain this feeling you have, this relation you make. Your certainty comes from somewhere else you will never see in your life.

–Martin, I feel like you may be grasping some elevated ideas with that gibberish.- I said to him with a fraternal smile.

–Cinema often lends itself to it.- He said before uncorking a bottle of beer.

–However, I don’t think like you about genres. I think they are more like a hand weapon for us, they revolve around utility and not indescribable sentiments like you say, and they don’t serve the victim, they serve the victimizer.

–It’s very perverse for you to think about art as a battleground, my friend.- He said as he offered me a drink I kindly refused with a sign of hands.

–What I mean is, genres are a way we have of reaching the others’ soul, not something we must venerate and mystify like you seem to be doing. They are our secret keys, useful platforms for us to ease our work, but we can’t admit ignorance to their rules. They obviously have rules for us to study because that’s part of our technique.

–That was all?

It was often the prelude of a long argumentation when he said that. We found it fun to debate about these matters and we didn’t really think we were doing some esthete’s level of work in our chatters. We eager to defend these evanescent standings like in a child’s game, not aware of how much it would’ve mean for us in the future. Even now, I don’t know whether to approach these memoirs with seriousness or just tender reminiscence, but I can’t deny that what refloated from these disciplinary debates was very often something heartily and intimate.

–When you please, Martin. –I said with a sardonic smile before leaning back in my chair.

–You must admit, my friend, as a fellow Christian, that there is a plane of things veiled to us. Mystery embraces the whole world and crystallizes a bit in certain matters and places. You could say, like a Russian priest, that the whole world is preceded by a miracle, you could say that the silence of God is the subtext of the universe, but you can’t deny, as a fellow Christian, gradations of transparency on behalf of Him. I’m not really devout, you see, I cherish more holistic beliefs, but I think we will understand ourselves in this matter nevertheless. Conscience is a clear example of a suggestion of the sacred. Our soul is undeniable, since we all unequivocally exist and we can’t say that we don’t without contradicting ourselves. Anyways, we can’t measure our souls, we can only theorize, just as we theorized about the creation of the universe with enough desperate arrogance to state it as truth, even though modern science, in an act of false humility, evokes the falsifiability of it. So, as I was saying before, these movements, this manners of being, the manner of conscience, beauty, morality, piety, ludicity, creation, occur in realms unknown, they work, as you would say, “in mysterious ways”. That is a very clever phrase. Mystery can’t be deciphered, it can only be revealed, and let’s be serious, we may never see it revealed in our life. This is not pessimism, not even materialism; it’s plain and pure realism. It’s even Christianism. What I propose about genres is pure contemplation of a mystery, not a miracle. We can only vainly theorize, just as many psychologists, philosophers, and even theologians do. Mystery stays unsolved, still. So, as I glimpsed before, and resuming the previous matter, genres are an avatar of this ghost. We never created genres, we formulated rules, theories that claim to be a vanishing point, when they’re just veils over the real thing, like words over the meaning. No artist gets fascinated by the formalities of noir, western or suspense films; it’s critics who fascinate before them when they proudly enounce them. I don’t judge them, however, because the same spirit that made critics formulate genres made clerics erect the Church. As I said, I stay with holistic spirituality, but I must clarify that I take that step back not because of impiety but for awe.

–Often, people take it because of vagrancy. –We both laughed at this with agreement.

–I won’t deny it.

–Anyways, what do you really mean with that? I don’t want to venture say that I understand it.

–It’s kind of an obscure and difficult sentiment, like most of religious experience. I feel awe before God. And I’m pretty sure that your God is the same as mine, but his silence makes it very hard for me to reach him. I think one must have much faith in humanity to join a confession, and I don’t have it. I’m scared that we were wrong about Him. I’m scared of the errors of humanity, I’m scared that corruption may have tainted the Church, every church, really. I don’t want to recklessly encapsulate spirituality; I choose to stay in comfort. My comfort is the recognition of the numen and the moral. What I can concede to you is faith and works.

–I think its good enough.

–I hope so. I really hope so.

-Ramiro E. Solarewicz

This is the first piece of fiction I ever wrote in english. My native language is spanish and I never had a professional capacitation in this language, so I understand if many of you may feel some kind of roughness. Personally, I thought it was a fun experiment overall, and I hope to continue this story in the future. Thank you for reading!

[childotkw]

Imagine this: Harry and Tom are immortal, they were together for so many years, having fun with dominating the world, but then they became quiet bored - Harry with his too long of a life, while Tom got bored of Harry. I never read those kind of fics so I'm curious what would you make of this because you're the Queen of AUs.

Tom met Harry on the streets of London in the early 1800s. They were both street orphans, scratching a living off of the filthy rocks their industrious city was built on, and both willing to do anything to survive. Their partnership was born of desperation and a keen pragmatism but their friendship was something slow and precariously formed, teetering on the edge of betrayal for months and years before their trust solidified.

Everything changed though the day Tom found a strange leather-bound book.

Harry initially laughed at the 'magic secrets' the book claims to hold, but Tom was curious enough to give it a try - both out of boredom and a strange sense of why not?

Neither of them expected it to work.

They were granted one wish each, one selfish desire.

Tom, driven by the need to survive, to climb above the shit life they had been handed, wished for power - abilities he and Harry could use to propel themselves higher and crush whoever stood in their way.

Harry, driven by the need to protect, to keep them safe, by the memories of sickness and death that haunted the streets, wished for them to be able to heal from any injury, any ailment.

Magic burned through their veins, and aging counted as an ailment - but they didn't find out the second one until much later.

After that, it was only natural for them to remain together. Tom loved Harry, and Harry loved Tom, and for years - decades and centuries - they worked side-by-side. They were perfect mirrors, always flowing around the other, push and pull, in harmony.

They moved from city to city, country to country, doing whatever they wanted and never sticking around for the consequences. They laughed and loved and fought and fucked and enjoyed life to the fullest.

But over time, Harry became tired. Melancholic. He developed strange ideas, ideas that Tom wouldn't agree with.

Tom watched as the fierce spark he adored grew smaller as his lover began to talk about settling down and saying such foolish things like wouldn't it be nice to grow old together?

One night while Harry was out, Tom packed his things and vanished, leaving nothing but a letter. He wasn't heartless after all, and Harry had been good to him. He deserved an explanation.

So he left, closing this long, long chapter of his long, long life, and went back to where it all began.

Without Harry, Tom felt weightless and bereft all at once, but he revelled in this new freedom. He sunk himself into the underworld of their new society and built himself an empire from the remains of his enemies.

For four, glorious, bloody years, he forged himself anew - never thinking of his old partner with anything but overwhelming fondness.

It's on the fifth anniversary of the night he left Harry that Tom wakes up to find three of his warehouses had been burnt to the ground and up to sixty of his men were killed.

Bleary-eyed and staring at his phone in confusion, it takes Tom a few moments to notice the old silver knife buried in his bedside table - a letter written in his own hand pierced into the wood.

[asktheheirofslytherin]

saw this thing on tumblr:

Honestly jkr put Voldemort in slytherin but he’s like. literally the most gryffindor™️ ever. If voldy was really slytherin he’d become such best pals with nicholas flamel that flamel wld happily brew some of his life-giving potion for his buddy. Literally no-one but a gryffindor would try to take over the world, split their soul into tiny pieces all for immortality. Look at slughorn. He got all his perks and achievements through cunning and intelligence, no need for useless bravery and all this elbow work. Voldemort is a gryffindor and that’s my hot take.

thoughts??

An interesting hypothesis, but I am going to have to reject it.

It is true, there are many areas of overlap between Gryffindor and Slytherin. It is, perhaps, why we seem to be at odds so very often. We are both bold, charismatic, prone to grandstanding. We both work towards something greater, latch on to certain ideals, value loyalty, and surround ourselves with those who share our beliefs.

But Gryffindors live for for others; for the love of others, for the solidarity of the group. They are often showmen, performing on a stage, reaching outwards. If a Gryffindor were alone, they would lack purpose, direction. Slytherins, however, live for ourselves. We reach inwards; when alone, we unravel ourselves, lay ourselves bare. Our goals and ambitions must first make sense to ourselves, must align with our internal aims. Ambitious is the word used to describe us. Every decision made to better our own lot.

And what would a Gryffindor do with the world? Return it to the people? The means of acquisition would be the fun part - a Gryffindor would tire of it the instant they obtained it.

A Slytherin, well - we are all different, and many would not desire the world - but if one did, then the ownership is the end goal. The acquisition would be a trial to endure to secure the prize.

Slytherins think about consequences - not in a law and order sense, but a personal benefit lens. Does this make us selfish? Perhaps- though I consider it to be pragmatic. Gryffindors are out there throwing their lives away for others, for abstractions. For Love.

The splitting of my soul is the ultimate form of self-preservation.

And note - I rarely enter the battles myself, no? I built up a network of followers, delegate my work. I engage in tasks I find personally appealing - and when I was younger, I operated much like Slughorn - which, by the way, is also a lot of work. One does not earn the trust of scores overnight - but I was not to settle for tenure at Hogwarts and a endless parade of tokens. I, as you say, wanted the world.

[dreamingsnowflake2013]

The Marriage Argument: Tharn’s Perspective

Both Tharn and Type have valid arguments about the marriage so they have inevitably been bound to clash. The reason for the clash is that they’re two people who have been formed by very different experiences, including their individual past traumas, making them into the men they are now: an idealist with a streak for eternal optimism and a realist with a tendecy for negativity; an all-out gay and a former homophobe; a hopeless romantic and a cynical pragmatic, someone who’s loved before and was broken by it and a man who is in love for the first time in his life.

Season 1 focused on Type’s problems, flaws and character developemnt as he had come a very long way. And although Tharn’s issues were addressed, they have never been completely resolved, therefore the focus in Season 2 shifts towards him and delves deeper into his character: his insecurities, hopes and personality traits.  

It’s not only their differences which divide them, but also what they have in common because like repels like, so while Tharn and Type differ in many ways, they are viscerally and uncannily similar in others, which is something many people don’t realise. THEY ARE BOTH FIGHTERS - strong, stubborn as mules and immensely brave - who have overcome huge obstacles, not only in their relationship, but also as individuals. For instance, everyone talks about how stubborn Type is, but it gets rarely mentioned that Tharn is as stubborn, if not even more. He merely isn’t so loud about it.

The most important and inherent aspect of Tharn’s personality is that he is an idealist who has always wished for the impossible and fought losing battles, ultimately having his wishes granted and winning those battles most of the times due to his dogged stubborness and refusal to budge and give up on what he believes in. He’s been like this for most of his life, even before we met him in S01E01, so when some people claim that the Tharn in Season 2 is not the same Tharn, they never really known him or understood him. Therefore, it there is one quote that perfectly describes Tharn in both seasons, it is this one:

Tharn’s always dreamed the impossible dream: to study music, for Type to love him and only him one day. 

Furthermore, he’s fought against the odds and opposition: the prejudice against his sexuality, his parents’ initial refusal to allow him study music, Type’s bullying, Type wanting to keep their relationship a secret from everyone else,... and he has overcome and defeated all of them with his unrelenting optimism and relentless refusal to give up. He still believed in love despite all his terrible breakups and didn’t give up on Type no matter how badly Type treated him, believing Type is a good person.

The very qualities that stopped Than from moving out of the dorm when Type harassed him 7 years ago, leading to them being together, and enabled him to live his life the way he wanted and to win Type’s love, despite the fact he was fighting a losing battle each time - tenacity and pride and insane stubbornness - are both his greatest strengths and greatest weaknesses. So once again Tharn hopes for the impossible: this time, it’s marriage.

Tharn accepted himself a long time ago, coming out to his parents when he was in 12th grade, openly admitting that he was gay in school and later, in work, as well. Unlike Type, he is an all-out gay, therefore he is in a very different place than his lover. However, he, too, had struggled with it. It took him 4 years before he dared to come out to his parents and publicly reveal he’s gay. So ever since, he’s been dealing with everything that comes with it, both the positive and negative. There must have been times when Tharn was marginalized, discriminated against and felt inferior due to his sexual orientation, most noticebly while being bullied by a certain homophobic roommate. 

On the other hand, while Type told his family and friends about his relationship, he’s never come out publicly, so he still lacks the final step and the experience that comes with it.

Performing at his own brother's engagement party the love song he wrote for Type and seeing him propose to the woman he loves, still hurting because Type has refused his own proposal many times and doesn’t want to get married to him, break something inside Tharn. 

He wants the same thing, but he can’t have it and that makes him hurt, desolate, bitter and envious. He’s been with Type much longer than Thorn with Aom and they’ve been through so much, earning their right to be together, yet marriage seems like an impossible dream, the only thing that Type has refused to give him. Not only does he feel cheated of something that should be his, but it makes him feel inferior, marginalized and not good enough. 

Because if he were a woman, Type wouldn’t refuse to talk about him with his co-workers and would have agreed to marry him a long time ago. Instead,Tharn has to come up with excuse why he won't introduce his boyfriend to his collegues. This has been an ongoing issue since season 1. 

 And this is where those who argue that if Type doesn't want to get married Tharn shouldn't make him completely misunderstand the problem - the marriage is only a symbol, representing equality and Tharn's desire to be like any other couple in all the things that matter.

While Tharn can compromise a lot, he is no doormat and has a certain set of morals and beliefs he will never break. He has enough self-worth to know that he deserves better. Once again, it’s the same quality which didn’t allow him to move out of the dorm when Type bullied him. So it says a lot that the only time Tharn seriously contemplated breaking up with Type was when he thought Type slept with Puifai. He couldn’t bear to be treated as second rate, a spare tire, a mistress and a dirty secret and share Type with someone else. It’s a line he will never be able to cross, his pride and heart won’t allow it. Tharn wants equality, thus he wants it all, wants what everyone else has. And being denied marriage to the love of his life makes him feel incomplete, deficient, depraved, as if he were somehow undeserving of it.

Speaking of inferiority, Tharn has never gotten over his abandonment issues: being dumped by all his past lovers, including Tar, his first love,... In fact, it has actually become worse when Type broke up with him 7 years ago. It might have been fake, but Tharn didn’t know that back then, so the heartbreak he felt was real - his body, his heart and his mind went through a real breakup and they remember it all. 

The thing with traumas is that while you might heal and overcome them, you will never forget about them because they leave behind traces, scars that will hurt from time to time and never let you forget about them. During his formative years, Tharn got used to being thrown away and Type’s abandoment was the one that cut him the deepest. Because of all this, Tharn  developed a deeply-rooted and hidden inferiority complex together with his fear of being left behind. Deep down, he always worries that he isn’t good enough and that no matter how hard he tries, he will be abandoned in the end. 

The scar caused by Type’s breakup has never healed and was left to fester, staying latent over the years, and it’s always been only a matter of time before it reared its ugly head. There is always a price to pay eventually and the consequences of that breakup have been merely postponed. 

The mere mention of breakup is enough to trigger Tharn, but hearing Type explaining to Thorn that marriage would make things more messy and difficult when they broke up shatters him, it’s basically the ultimate trigger.

Tharn knows what it feels like to lose Type, he lived through it and it almost destroyed him, so he doesn’t want to experience it ever again because he wouldn’t survive it. Therefore he has been doing everything in his powers to prevent it and bind Type to him in every way possible, desperately trying to stop him from leaving and himself from being abandoned once again. 

And marriage is one of those bonds, actually, it’s a real palpable bond that binds a person’s life to another. It involves people making a sacred and legally binding promise, proclaiming their love publicly, in front of eveyone, and they exchange rings, the symbol of the bond and eternity, as well. In some cultures, the couple’s ahnds get literally binded together. So it’s no wonder that Tharn desires to get married to Type so much. 

Moreover, a proposal, an engagement party and a wedding ceremony are incredibly romantic moments and Tharn is the ultimate romantic with a penchant for grand romantic gestures and declarations, organizing glamping dates on rooftops, giving his boyfriend red roses,... therefore he does want to do it all.

Finally, the primary reason for the inferiority complex and fear of abandonment comes from the fact that THARN IS A MIDDLE CHILD. His family is very loving and he’s never been neglected, but being a middle child means he is neither fish nor fowl, neither the oldest or the youngest. He’s grown used to taking himself out of the equation, to compromise and to share the love of his parents with his siblings. So he desperately wants someone to be only his, someone who he doesn’t have to share with anyone; HE WANTS TYPE AND HIS LOVE TO BELONG ONLY TO HIM, COMPLETELY AND UNCONDITIONALLY. It’s a visceral need on his part and the reason behind his strong jealous streak.

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 01

Note: All right, it's been a hot minute since I uploaded anything substantial in regard to this fic. So I'm going to try something a bit risky! I've archived Insult to Injury as you all know it, with the exception of a few errant reblogs outside of my control. But that's neither here nor there; I am very excited to present to all of you all the definitive version of this fic — the Director's Cut, if you will. ;)

Fandom: James Bond Characters: Madeleine Swann, Lyutsifer Safin, various OC(s) Relationships: Madeleine & OC(s) Warnings: Strong language, intense scenes of violence, general cynicism. Rating: M Genre: Crime/Drama Summary: A troubled psychologist desperate to escape her past criminal ties finds herself drawn into a far more insidious schism. [Post-Skyfall]

[Ao3 | FFNet]

— ACT I —

“Everything which is done in the present, affects the future by consequence, and the past by redemption.” — Paulo Coelho

— Episode I: A THOUSAND DETAILS —

In the sterile comfort of her office, Dr Madeleine Swann stared blankly at her computer monitor. The notification that her application as a psychologist consultant with the Médecins Sans Frontières had been sent six days prior blurred with lack of focus. The location of the mission in question was Conakry, Guinea. Her contract duration would last from the start of May to the end of August; just shy of two months away from now. There was an additional caveat:

All non-ECOWAS foreigners are required to have a valid Guinean visa and a vaccination card in order to be granted entry. Yellow fever vaccination cards are verified upon entry into the country at Gbessia.

Approval for the visa necessitated a seventy-two-hour window of clearance. And it would be at least four weeks until she heard back from the Human Resources Office—up to six if she were unlucky. She sat erect and the movement alone was enough to incite a sharp stab of pain into the back of her head. Through the window the sun cast a reddish glare, obfuscating the monitor and warming the nape of her neck. She shoved her face into the heels of her palms while the pressure in her skull abated to a dull throbbing.

Usually she made a habit of drawing the blinds. There were already enough odd complaints about her office being too cold and sterile passed along by the secretary. It had been a stressful enough week that Madeleine saw no reason to keep the shutters closed, so her clients might have something else to focus on besides four polished wooden walls and the analog clock.

What came off to most outsiders as a cool and direct manner of conduct was simply pragmatism. She had a laptop computer used primarily for sending emails. She recorded the bulk of her notes on patients by-hand and revised by means of portable recorder. She kept no photographs in her home nor office. The casual anecdotes she provided to her colleagues were ostensibly as droll as her taste in décor; though her efforts to blend in had largely gone unappreciated.

There wasn’t anything else immediate to review for tonight. She wished a curt good-night to the secretary before donning her coat and exiting into the crisp evening air.

⁂

It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the clinic to the flat. Above her head the clouds hung grey and pregnant with snow. By the time she had ascended the staircase and opened the door to her apartment her fingers prickled. Numbness seeped into her skin. She’d never much cared for the colder seasons.

“You’re back early,” said Arnaud—a fellow Sociology major from her college days. After graduating from Oxford, Madeleine had taken his offer to return to Paris and transfer over to the 8tharrondissement with the understanding that they would be rooming together. Her colleagues back then often referred to them as friends-with-benefits as Madeleine had showed little interest in dating before. After three years of cohabitation, her co-workers at the office wondered how she and Arnaud remained so cordial while balancing their careers and relationship.

“Yes.” Madeleine hung up her coat, noting that he had not yet changed out of his own. “I submitted my request with the MSF a week ago. If I am accepted I’ll be working as a psychologist consultant. In that case, I’ll be out of the country until August at least.”

“Well, you’ve never landed a position that didn’t suit you.” Madeleine smiled politely. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.” She looked away from him towards the window. “You could open the blinds. It's very bright in here with the lights on.”

“There’s hardly much to look at when the sun is in your eyes. Isn’t that what you say?”

For the most part, Arnaud was easy to live with. Neither of them required financial support and he was of equitable social standing. Her relentless volunteer work did not always lend much time to get to know his inner mind. “It’s late. Are you going out again?”

“No, I got back first. And it’s fortunate. You looked awfully cold when you came in.”

“I can hardly control the weather. And you needn’t worry, I always carry a key on me.”

“Madeleine, we live together. It wouldn’t be right to avoid you. But you know, if I were going out to an unscrupulous club it would make for a pretty good story.”

“Hm.”

“And knowing you,” Arnaud continued, “you probably won’t be going out drinking. The sunrise disturbs you in the mornings, and you woke up before I did, at seven. I assume you’ve been busy all day. In just a few weeks you’ll be working that much harder. You ought to get some rest while you can.”

“So,” a little cooler, “you’ll be another mission?”

“Most likely.”

“All these countries must seem the same after a while.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. When was the last time you volunteered out of the country? 2011?”

Arnaud laughed. “Jesus, this isn’t a competition.”

“But it’ll give you something to talk about to your friends while I am away.”

Arnaud said nothing. Madeleine frowned. She went into the other room and began to change. He could not approach her in the same casual manner as his peers, nor dissect her outright. His life was one of prestige as well as privilege, and Madeleine could not foster any underlying resentment towards him for acting in his nature. The silence held, strained. Then Arnaud said:

“It’s always been important to you. That’s what should matter.”

⁂

In two weeks’ time she got a response from the HRO; the initial interview was scheduled shortly thereafter. By the middle of April she was making preparations to depart. Thanks to Arnaud’s tactic of avoidance she had little reason to tell him the details. No one would know where she was headed unless they broke inside her laptop and hunted through her mail. The situation in Guinea had kicked into mainstream awareness back in February for a week or so before gradually sinking back into obscurity.

Reports from several news outlets cited the emergence of an outbreak primarily affecting South Africa. Originating inland, a mysterious illness that revealed itself first with fever and spells of vomiting, then gradually ate away at the flesh of those afflicted and bore their bones and muscle, vulnerable to further rot. More emboldened journalists had taken to calling it the Red Death on account of this. Neither a cure nor a place or origin had been discovered.

The situation had not improved in the last two months so much as stabilised. Madeleine had been assured several times over email and electronic conference that those working in the field had already taken precautions, and she’d be instructed further on what to do upon her arrival. She was issued a few pamphlets and strongly advised to vaccinate before boarding the flight. Which she had done, but it was very kind of them to remind her.

In spite of Arnaud’s apparent disinterest, his last words to her before she departed had been: “Last year it was four missions. I'd never seen you so tired. I wish I knew what you’re trying to prove.”

After managing to get some sleep on the plane she touched down Conakry International Airport around mid-morning and contacted the Project Coordinator; a shorter man in his mid-forties with a photogenic smile and toupee. He clasped her hand in both of his clammy ones and said: “Very glad you've made it, Doctor. We need you on-site in twenty minutes. Make sure you are ready.” Her luggage was dropped off on the second floor of the Grand Hotel de L’independence, where she and the other MSF members would be rooming. The staff were polite enough, though their attention was fixed on the Project Coordinator.

Her room was spare and a little dingy, and the only means of fresh air came from opening the window and polluting the room with outside noise, but it was at least reasonably clean. A fine sheen of sweat was building on her skin. No reason to delay the inevitable.

Upon reaching Donka Hospital she met up with the rest of the team, most notably the Medical Coordinator, and the Psychosocial Unit. It soon became apparent that there were still not enough medical doctors to handle the influx of infected. An isolation ward had been established before the MSF’s involvement, but they were reportedly at full capacity; the workers in there were clad in full-body personal protective equipment. Another section of the grounds had been set aside and fenced off; rows of tents all lined up, reminding Madeleine distantly of a prisoner’s accommodations. No matter where you went the stench of rot always seemed to hang pervasively in the air.

She was paired off with another psychologist by the name of John Herrmann; American, around her age. He was of a friendlier disposition than she was used to, introducing her semi-formally to the rest of the group before adding:

“So, one thing you should know now, we’ve been having problems with the electricity on site as well as the hotel. There’s no running water either.”

“This isn’t my first mission with MSF. And I lived out in the countryside when I was small. I know how to look after myself.”

Herrmann smiled. “That’s fair.” He scratched his neck. “The mosquitoes are worse. Bug nets won’t help worth a damn. Make sure you close your windows at night, I had to learn that the hard way.”

“I see.” The humidity combined with the smell off-road were already becoming intolerable. But she did not want to appear so snobbish or weak in front of someone she would be monitoring for the next three months. “I won’t go any easier on you just because you are unaccustomed to the environment.”

 “See ,that’s the kind of attitude we need around here!” He clapped a hand on her back; Madeleine regarded him levelly until he relented. “Good to have you on the team.”

The other members on the Psychosocial Unit were as amicable with Madeleine as the situation permitted. None of them got on her nerves as much as Herrmann. His enthusiasm was never to the point of seeming false or obsequious, but he remained just enough of a go-getter to piss her off. After a week of monitoring them she came away with the impression that Herrmann was genuine. He had been consistently genial with the clientele and hospital staff alike, no matter the severity of their condition. She saw no reason to socialise with him outright. The most he ever noted about her mood was: “You’re pretty reticent for a psychologist consultant.”

“I’m here to do my job. That’s all.”

Herrmann shrugged. “I can respect that. We all deal with the situation in our own ways.” He paused. “I can see why the Project Coordinator wanted you. You’re handling this situation a lot better than I would have.”

“Thank you.”

“The workload must be insane compared to what you’re normally used to. I know it took me time to adjust—" he stopped as Madeleine threw him a look of confusion “—what is it?”

“Back home, I am usually referred to as what one would call a workaholic. Or didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No offence taken.”

The higher temperature was not so bad as the humidity that slapped her in the face whenever stepping outside—according to the forecasts, it was only going to get worse within the coming months. There was no manner of ventilation or air-conditioning in the hotel so often times she had to draw the curtains and keep her hair back. She resigned herself by reminding herself that it was better than sleeping in a tent.

There wasn’t much time to be hung-up on much else besides her assignment. The members of the Psychosocial Unit all looked good on paper, but they betrayed their inexperience through a shared level of idealism towards the mission that Madeleine deemed ill-fated. She did not blame them. Young, perhaps fresh out of school, looking to make a difference in the world without truly anticipating the gravity of the situation. Their time spent observing the crises of the rest of the world through the lens of journalism and outside empathy could not compare with the experience of actually sitting down and listening to the stuff their patients talked of with prosaic seriousness.

It often sounded outrageous when Madeleine played back the recordings, taking down notes in the quiet, stuffy hotel room. Mortality was an expected outcome, and the implication of negligence by their government a common topic of discussion among patients. Most conversations were conducted in French or else by way of an interpreter, though the antagonism in the voices of these patients needed no translation.

There was a growing disparity between the narrative put into circulation by the news and what was happening in the field. According to several members of the MSF and the staff at Donka, the media blew the problem out of proportion. The people whose condition had kicked off the “Red Death” story had been subjected to long-term exposure. Most of the patients that came through were not in that same condition, but it created an illusion of immediacy that incited concern in the public eye and a need for donations. Government officials wanted to cover up the severity of the situation as not to detract from any potential business opportunities; until the MSF got involved, they were only employing the most rudimentary of safety procedures.

This latter revelation had shaken up the Psychosocial Unit considerably; Dr Herrmann had lost his patience with the Medical Coordinator. To this end, he’d apologised profusely to Madeleine afterwards though she would hear none of it. Whatever he felt about the situation was not necessarily invalid, but out of consideration for their patients, he would not bring it up again.

Herrmann never held it against her. So Madeleine busied herself in her own work. Whatever quiet camaraderie forged between the other MSF members was not her business. When pressed for advice, she would talk calmly, carefully with the rest of the team about what would be optimal but never overreach. In the sweltering nights and throughout the early morning, Madeleine would pore over her notes, listening to the passing automobiles and indistinct conversation carried over by civilians.

⁂

June crawled by. Currently the MSF were in the process of dealing with a new influx of internally displaced persons (IDPs) from the surrounding prefectures and villages, all of whom had to be tested and separated from those not stricken with disease. Thanks to the cooperation with the local civilians and tireless efforts on part of the medical staff and Medical Unit, there had been a forty-five-percent decrease in fatalities compared to the start of the year.

The atmosphere within the hospital was not improving. The topic of insurgence was the new favourite with patients. Allegedly there had been several attacks on neighbouring villages; a consequence of the lack of tangible progress coupled with deep-seated mistrust of government officials. Now the Force Sécurité/Protection, or FSP, had been brought on in collaboration with an additional Protective Services Detail (PSD) by the name of Kerberos, to ensure the hospital and surrounding property remained untouched.

Their Project Coordinator called them all in for the sake of reviewing protocol in the event of an attack. Outright criticism of the government’s method in handling the situation was discouraged. Madeleine was savvy enough to keep herself abreast of any controversy. For the rest of the Psychosocial Unit, she presumed they were either too naïve or willing to look the other way.

The only exception to this was the Vaccines Medical Advisor, Francis Kessler; a stoic older man with thinning hair and glasses. He and Madeleine had cooperated a handful of times beforehand, at the discreet behest of the Medical Coordinator. Madeleine had found nothing wrong with his conduct. A diligent worker, he acknowledged her judgement fairly but did not overextend his gratitude. Outside of his work he was straight-laced and reserved and wouldn’t be seen socialising with any of the younger MSF who all talked about him as though he were some out-of-touch stick-in-the-mud. As the situation in the hospital became more dire he would stay behind on-site, late into the evening. Whenever they had a break, he would disappear on calls. Once he came back late by only a few minutes and apologised to Madeleine.

“I was supposed to be sent home last month, but with the situation being what it is, I decided to stay on until things are resolved.” He did not sit down, his attention turned towards the path back to the infected ward. “It’s madness. We’ve already waited until things are too severe to think of bringing in a proper security detail—who the hell does the Project Coordinator think we’re fooling?” Madeleine ignored him. “Dr Swann. The Medical Coordinator tells me you’ve been involved in volunteer work for a while.”

“Five years, as of March.”

“Perhaps they would be more willing to listen to someone with your expertise.”

“I’m flattered. But it’s fortunate that I was not selected for my personal opinion.”

Kessler chuckled. “You’ll go far.”

Madeleine had no interest in pursuing this topic any further. “Who were you speaking to?” He froze up, didn’t answer immediately. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have been so blunt. But you leave often enough on calls, and it appears to be taking a toll on you.”

Comprehension dawned on his face, his shoulders relaxed. “Just my wife. This past month has been no easier on her. But I find that it can help somewhat, just talking to someone outside of this element.” Madeleine nodded stoically. “I’ve never seen you contact anyone outside of your unit.” Madeleine did not anticipate the conversation to take such a turn, nor did she wish to divulge much about herself. But she could not deflect as she could in the clinic back home, and Kessler seemed forthright enough to warrant a harmless response.

“I’m living with a friend. We graduated from college together.”

“And you keep in touch while you are abroad?”

“He tends to lead his own life while I am away.”

“That’s a great deal to ask of someone.” Madeleine inclined her head in his direction. This was not a man that emoted often; now the thin mouth was set, and the eyes behind the glasses disillusioned. “Few women your age would devote themselves to a thankless vocation as this. Not everyone is going to want to stick around until you decide you want to settle down.”

Madeleine’s smile did not touch her eyes. She hadn’t even mentioned the nature of her relationship to Arnaud. “We have an understanding, that’s all. Besides, I don’t bother him about his social life.”

Kessler shook his head. In a few minutes they were back to work as usual. By the end of the day, Madeleine resolved to let him dig his own social grave without further interference.

By the time July rolled around Madeleine found her mind snagging easily on technicalities. She became less tolerant of the Psychological Unit’s personal hang-ups with the lack of resources and lack of any obvious moral closure. Smell of rot and disinfectant permeated into her clothing and hair until she had begun to associate the smell itself with a total lack of progress.

She left the window to her hotel room cracked most nights, afraid to open it completely. Alone with her own mind and the recorder. The conversations now circled back readily to death and terrorism. An overwhelming fear of retaliation from looming insurrection.

Madeleine stopped the recording. She checked the time and cursed under her breath. Just past one in the morning. In six hours she would return to Donka Hospital and repeat the process. A month and a half from now she would be on a flight back to Paris. Her mind wouldn't settle on either direction.

Outside her window she heard the distant voice of Francis Kessler. He was conversing in German, from a few storeys down, but as Madeleine came over to the window she understood him clearly:

“…I’ve been saying it for weeks, and they dismiss me every time. These wounds are the result of prolonged exposure from chemicals. We’ve seen evidence of IDPs coming through, exhibiting the same symptoms as the PMCs we treated back in February. How we can expect to make any progress if the Project Coordinator refuses to bring this up? We’re putting God-knows how many lives at risk waiting for a vaccine that we don’t know if we need—and even so, it won’t be ready for another week. There’s not enough time to justify keeping silent….”

Madeleine closed the window carefully. She’d never been one to intrude on family matters.

⁂

When Madeleine exited her room the next morning, she found the Project Coordinator waiting for her in the hallway, along with the head of security from Kerberos and a couple Donka Hospital staff Madeleine knew by sight but not intimately.

The vaccines had arrived earlier than anticipated, around three or four in the morning. Several members of the Medical Unit had stayed on-site in order to determine if all had been accounted for and subsequently realised it was rigged. Thanks to the intervention of Kerberos the losses were minimal. Several doctors had suffered chemical exposure and were currently isolated from the rest of the IDPs to receive immediate medical attention. Others, such as Drs Kessler and Herrmann, had been less fortunate.

Now there was additional pressure from the hospital doctors and Logistics Team to begin moving the high-risk patients to a safer area. The fear that this story would circulate and any chance of obtaining vaccines would be discouraged could not be ruled out. So they would not be reporting this as a chemical attack, but as a failed interception of an attack by local terrorists, stopped by the FSPs.

“Dr Swann.” The head of security, Lucifer Safin, gave Madeleine pause. His accent would presume a Czech or Russian background but his complexion and eye colour invited room for ambiguity. The MSF on staff commonly referred to him by surname; perhaps Lucifer was simply an alias. What set him apart was his face. Gruesomely scarred from his right temple to the base of his left jaw, though the structure of his eyes and nose remained intact. In spite of the weather, Madeleine had never seen him without gloves. “I understand that you were one of the last to speak with Dr Kessler?”

His manner wasn’t explicitly taciturn, more akin to the disconcerting silence one might experience while looking into a body of still-water—met only with your reflection.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, “but that was nearly five days ago.”

“You were instructed to monitor him during that period by the Medical Coordinator?”

 “That’s correct.”

Safin glanced at the Project Coordinator. “I’ll speak with her alone.”

“Of course.”

Safin nodded. They walked down the length of the hall back to her room. His gait was purposeful and direct. He had a rifle strapped to his side. Madeleine tried to avoid concentrating on it. Her attention went to the window. She'd forgotten to lock it.

“Dr Swann.” The early morning light put his disfigurement into a new, unsettling clarity. Too intricate to be leprosy or a typical burn wound, it was more as if his very face were made of porcelain and had suffered a nasty blow, then glued together again. “What was the extent of your relationship to Dr Kessler?”

“I did not work with him often. We talked once or twice but that was all. I have my own responsibilities with the Psychosocial Unit. From what I could tell, he never made an effort to befriend anyone.”

“But you were asked to monitor Dr Kessler.”

“I was requested to do so on behalf of the Medical Coordinator. There were concerns that Dr Kessler was somehow unqualified to continue his work. In observing him, I had no reason to suspect he was unfit for the position psychologically.” Safin said nothing. “The only issue I could see worth disqualifying him for, was that Kessler and the Project Coordinator had very differing views on protocol.”

“He spoke to you about his views?”

“He expressed to me once, in confidence, that he did not understand the Project Coordinator’s hesitance to bring in a security detail.” Safin’s attention on her became sharper. “He also told me he’d elected to continue volunteering here past his contract duration, just to ensure the operation was successful. That was my only conversation with him outside of a work-related context. You would be better off asking the other doctors about this.”

“We have video surveillance in place on the Grand Hotel de L’independence. At around one in the morning, Dr Kessler exited the building and contacted an unknown party by mobile phone. Then, a minute later, you were at your window.”

“Oh, yes. I have been forgetting to close it. With so many longer days, it can be difficult to remember these things.”

“Your room was the only one to show signs of activity at that hour.”

“I was reviewing my notes from that day’s session. I heard a voice from outside, though not clearly. It was distracting me from my work, so I got up and closed the window.”

“Do you commonly review your notes in the early hours of the morning with an unlocked window?”

“I just wanted some quiet. I leave the windows open because otherwise I seem to find myself trapped with the smell of rotting flesh as well as humidity.”

Safin’s expression became easier to read, but not in a positive sense. This was not a man you wanted to be on opposing sides with. Madeleine kept any apprehension away from her face and her voice tightly controlled.

“Look. Without information about Dr Kessler’s lifestyle outside of the MSF, I cannot give you an answer in good faith. I was assigned to survey him. He showed no signs of dereliction in his work, and to my knowledge kept his personal views separate from his work. Whatever he said to me during outside hours was assumed to be in confidence. Many people say things to one another in what they believe to be confidence that they would not admit to otherwise. If I had reason to suspect he was unfit to work, I would have contacted the Medical Advisor immediately.”

Safin held her gaze. She did not dare avert her face. Then he said: “Thank you for your cooperation. The Project Coordinator is waiting for you downstairs.”

The rest of the day she spent in a different wing of the hospital. The Psychosocial Unit was cut down from four members to three. Another inconsequential day of thankless work that never seemed quite good enough. That night Madeleine laid back on her bed and watched the shadows on the ceiling stretch over peeling paint until daybreak.

When she’d arrived at the airport she could stave off her doubts with shallow, private reassurances. As long as you are here, you are just Dr Swann the psychologist consultant. Your father is many miles away and he won’t contact you again. No one else will come looking for you in a place like this.

With a guy like Safin around she was undoubtedly safer than she would have been with the FSPs alone.

Safer, but no longer invisible.

⁂

July brought hotter weather and brittle peace—the vaccines had finally arrived. The wing of the hospital that had suffered the terrorist attack was still closed and they had lost several more staff members wounded in the initial attack. Madeleine and the remaining MSF were encouraged by the Project Coordinator to take earlier shifts. Progress remained steady but there was no clear resolution in sight. The stench of rot imprinted into Madeleine’s senses to the point where she no longer consciously registered her own nausea. Discontent among the staff continued to bubble under the surface on account of the closed wing and bad press.

It couldn't last forever.

A week away from August. Just another humid morning at six AM. Madeleine rose and prepared herself mentally for the day ahead. Stress kept her mind working late into the night, but her position with the Psychosocial Unit barred her from working overtime in the hospital. She was overwhelmed with keeping up the pace, not yet to the point of exhaustion.

There was an inordinate of activity on the road outside as she got dressed and left the room. She put it out of her mind.

Outside the hotel she met up with the Medical Coordinator and a few members of the Logistics Unit. They spent about ten minutes standing idle in the humid air, too weary to speak. The streets were usually empty this time of day.

An unremarkable black Jeep pulled up. The Medical Coordinator opened the door and was about to step into the car when it happened. The Medical Coordinator’s head burst over the interior of the vehicle and Madeleine. The body slumped like a doll to the dirt. Madeleine wanted to scream but could not. She turned and found herself facing down the barrel of a rifle.

Around a dozen men with guns, sans insignia, circled them. The man who had fired addressed her harshly in French: “Where are the rest of the MSF? Why are they not at the hospital?”

“I don’t understand.” Madeleine could see another group of men approaching from the rear. A massacre, onset.

“We’ve been waiting for months for a solution, and you have been injecting us with a useless vaccine.” He aimed right at her sternum. “Your doctors gave them all false hope for months. Now the MSF have abandoned you.”

“You have been protecting them!” the insurgent roared, levelling his weapon. “All this time! You knew why they were here, and you allowed them to experiment on our families like dogs!”

The man at his left turned and fired. The insurgent fell dead. “That’s enough.” One of the men from Kerberos in plainclothes. A dozen more in military gear materialised as if from nowhere. “There is no need for additional bloodshed,” said the plainclothes. “Release them now or you will be shot.”

All around her at once, gunfire. Madeleine didn't wait to see who had fired first. She prostrated herself, hands clasped over her neck, breath clogged in her throat.

All sound ceased. Her head continued to ring. Her eyes were open but she did not process the colour staining her skin, on her clothes, the smell of it. She hadn’t been shot. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

Heavy footsteps approaching. She closed her eyes awaiting the kiss of metal at her temple.

“Dr Swann.” Madeleine shrunk away instinctively from the gloved hand upon her forearm. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Another soldier pulled her upright. Sight of blood on dry earth briefly mixed up with blood spattered across wooden floorboards. Madeleine went limp. Ushered into the backseat of an unmarked Jeep, she could not stop trembling. Shoulder-to-shoulder with another man she recognised as head of Logistics, Peter Miller. The door slammed shut, jolting her back into her own body. Sound of the ignition set her into trembling. Miller’s naked hand materialised on her shoulder. His voice overtaken by the roaring in her ears. Madeleine bowed her head into her hands like a child, whispering: “Ne me tuez pas. Je n’ai rien fait. Je ne sais rien.”

[mybg3notebook]

Additional Scenes:

Death protocol and comments on dreams

Disclaimer Game Version: All these analyses were written up to the game version v4.1.104.3536 (Early access). As long as new content is added, and as long as I have free time for that, I will try to keep updating this information. Written in June 2021.

In these “scene posts” I will explore the scene of the title looking for the information in the dialogues. What I will be looking for is how much Gale “lies”, how much lore is provided, and any extra detail that may be of our interest to highlight. At the end of these posts there are summary points for those who don't want to read the whole post.

Additional disclaimers about meta-knowledge and interpretations in this (post) while disclaimers about Context in this (one).

Protocol Scene

After skipping all the annoying protocol, we can reach to the most important part of it: the comments afterwards.

Gale: [...]I assume you have some questions for me. Only fair to warn you I've precious few answers to spare. I apologise if it sounds thankless. It's just that some secrets simply cannot be revealed. 

[If Tav used the tadpole successfully before] Tav:[perception] I've seen the darkness inside of you, remember? I already know. [success]Gale: You don't know. Not really. But after all you've done for me, I do suppose I should be at least a little bit forthcoming. [Failure] Gale: There is no knowledge in a glimpse of darkness. My secrets are still my own. 

Tav: [persuasion] I brought you back to life. A few answers is the least you can spare me. [success] Gale: I... I suppose that after all you've done for me, I should be at least a little bit forthcoming. 

Gale: Tell you what, I will answer one question that you may have. To the best of my ability. If I can. 

Over and over and over Gale is very explicit that he has secrets he can't or doesn't want to share. This is why the “great betrayal” concept in the revelation scene feels so cheap in my opinion. Gale never denied that something very wrong was happening with him. He certainly opens a bit more once he is brought back to life and tries to compromise in saying something more. We can clearly see his resistance to it. 

Tav: I simply want to know what it is you're keeping from me Gale: I'm dangerous. Not because I want to be, but because of... an error I made in the past. [before gale speaks of his loss] It makes me dangerous – even in death.  You brought me […] [after gale speaks of his loss] I told you how I sought to win the favour of Mystra. I did this by trying to control a form of magic only one wizard ever could. I failed to control it. Instead it infested me. It makes me dangerous... even in death. You brought me […]

Tav: Why did your projection say that many lives depended on your resurrection? [before gale speaks about artefacts] Gale: Because it was the truth, and the truth is a great motivator. I'm dangerous. Not because I want to be […] [after gale speaks about artefacts] Gale: When I told you I needed powerful magic to keep my condition under control, I didn't tell you why. Well, here is part of the why: I'm dangerous. Not because I want to be […]

[After using the Tadpole successfully] Tav: the darkness inside you, what is it? Gale: It's magic from another time and another place. It is something that is beyond me, yet inside me. That makes me dangerous... even in death. 

Tav: Actually, nevermind. If it makes you this uncomfortable, I won't insist.  Gale: That's... well, that's very kind of you. If the roles were reversed I don't know if I'd have your patience.

I mean... really... No matter the conditions, the context or the option picked, Gale can't be more repetitive about three facts: he has secrets, he is really dangerous, and there are 'catastrophic' consequences if we don't help him with the artefacts. None of them are a lie. This is also why I think the party scene is very unpolished: it doesn't acknowledge the fact that Gale already said a lot to some Tavs who explored and pushed Gale to speak, and the scene is presented as a conflict or a “betrayal” when there was none, specially for the case of Tavs who pushed Gale to speak. In either case, Tav is aware of what's happening with Gale: they know everything in broad strokes, or they respect his privacy and know little but they know that what Gale hides is a very dangerous secret. This is why I think calling Gale a manipulative or coercive character is very misunderstanding.

Tadpole Dreams

Dream 1

Gale feels well and healthy despite the terrible symptoms that Tav and their companions shared the previous night. However, Gale is a pragmatic person: this is not just luck and he makes it clear in his opinion:

Gale: What I saw surpassed the vivid. The voice was too true, the touch too tantalising, I can tell you felt the same. Sought out in the night by.... what? An illusion, or a promise? […] let's agree that at the very least there was the lure of a promise. The touch, the kiss, the everything... Did you relented or resisted? […] The dream wasn't just about power, it was about desire. […] It was an expert, this apparition. First the seduction, then the spurning, then that teasing souvenir. 'You are not ready, I will return when you are'. That's what I was promised. We have some restless nights ahead of us. 

For players who pushed Gale to speak during the Loss scene, it's easy to suspect the person he is dreaming about: Mystra. The relationship with Mystra can be guessed during these comments after the dreams. We know that the dreams represent our companions' desires and wishes for power, and they have, in most cases, a sexual connotation. When Gale speaks about the kiss, we can assume that, same as what Shadowheart explicitly said, he slept with his dream person. So, if the player gets the Loss scene before the second dream, Tav will be quite aware of Gale's relationship with Mystra. Again, this is never acknowledged in the 'revelation' scene. 

Dream 2

In the second dream, Gale is darker and bitter. 

Gale: Good morning. I'm sorry, but I'm not in the best of moods. I tire of these dreams. Dreams. The word implies desire, but we're being played for fools. These are nothing but delusions. 

Tav: I recall you being a lot more enthusiast after our first collective dream

Gale: I never said I'm not among the fools.

Tav: The power we're given is real, and there's no denying that.  Gale: It’s not because they’re real, that they don’t deceive. Give it candy and a child stops asking questions.

Gale: These dreams are too good to be true, and I can tell you why. Because their promises are perfect, and in perfection lies their flaw. It's the tadpole reading our every desire, but they don't read between the lines. They don't know some things are impossible. They don't know that... They don't know. 

Tav: Gale, who is the apparition in your dreams?

Gale: She's... It doesn't matter. I just know her to be unreal. 

Tav: What's impossible about what you're been shown? Gale: Forgiveness

3- Tav: I'll leave you to your ruminations.  Gale: Remember: these are nothing but delusions. Don't let the illithid's close readings persuade you of good intent. 

[If Tav can guess it's Mystra after the Loss Scene] So it's Mystra you see. Of course it is. 

Gale: I... why, yes. Clearly the tadpole isn't the only one who can read me like a book. It's indeed Mystra I see. And yet it cannot be her. There was a time when I would have believed - but no longer. I told you that I lost her. Lost her favour and lost so many of the powers I took for granted. What magic I can still weave is met only with undercurrents of disappointing silence. Mystra has not changed her mind about me. That's how I know our dreams are delusions.

[If Tav cannot guess it's Mystra] Tav: [Persuasion] Come, you can tell me. We're among friends here.  [success] Gale: Very well. It's Mystra I see. And yet it cannot be her. There was a time when I would have believed - but no longer. Things were different once, between the goddess and me. But things have changed. The parasite has plans for us [...]

This scene, for those players who can be lucky enough to trigger (it has the lowest of the lowest priorities), removes part of the apparent “shadiness” in Gale. He repeats clearly that he dreams of Mystra, which should immediately make aware the player that this has sexual connotations since these dreams are about desire and power, and Gale also expressed this in the first dream about the kiss. We also discover that what Gale desires the most is not power, but forgiveness. This is why I personally see him as looking for power not as a means but as a goal: Gale wishes to save himself, to remove the “orb” from him, and to be “one with the weave”. The more powerful he would become, the closer to Magic and the goddess he would be. 

However, Gale is a pragmatic, realistic character as we saw in the Ceremorphosis scene: he won't lie to himself. He is very aware that forgiveness is beyond reach. He may have believed it be possible when younger, but he repeats once more that this concept we saw in other scenes: he is aware that whatever he had before is over.

Summary:

During the protocol scene Gale explicitly says, once more, that he has secrets. 

He explains that he is dangerous, even in death, despite not wanting to be, reinforcing the idea that his consumption of artefacts prevents something very 'catastrophic' from happening.

If the protocol is triggered after the Loss scene, he will explain that an old magic 'infested' him.

During the comments after the dreams we learn that the dreams represent desire and power with sexual implications in most cases (if not all).

After the second dream, Gale expressed his scepticism about the dreams. He knows his dream person cannot be Mystra.

We learn that his most intense desire, reflected in the nature of the dream, is forgiveness, not power. Let's remember these dreams can't be fooled. They show the deepest desire/wish for power of the dreamer.

If this scene is triggered after the Loss scene, we learn that Gale is always aware of Mystra's disappointment because he can sense it in the Weave every time he casts magic.

This post was written in June 2021. → For more Gale: Analysis Series Index

[amethystpath-writes]

Hi so heads up I did give this prompt to @yourheartonfire (who responded) and previously other blogs (that haven’t) and I thought it would be cool to see your twist on it too since you enjoy writing medieval and stuff.

This one is long and complicated though so buckle up. But basically it’s a Sleeping Beauty retelling but the protag is Aurora’s ace younger sister and it takes place after the fairytale. Aurora’s sister was raised to be the perfect and pragmatic queen but then Aurora (who is very sweet just doesn’t have a royal education) returns and starts accidentally creating court and political problems since she doesn’t know court etiquette and war strategy and stuff. So then Aurora’s sister has to find solutions but subtly as to not create drama.

Also I’d be rlly happy if you somehow include a scene mentioning the sister’s asexuality. I recognize this is medieval era vibes and therefore a little more difficult to talk about “modern” ideas so you can leave it out especially if doesn’t fit the scene lol

I just like seeing different writing styles and interpretations of prompts. Also I’m so sorry that this is long and specific and complicated. Feel free to change the prompt to fit your vision!

I love that you asked multiple writeblrs this; that’s so cool! Glad I could be a part of it! I did mention asexuality a small bit, but I wanted to add really quickly that asexuality is different for all aces. There’s a spectrum of us actually. I just wanted to clarify because I could only represent one, of course, and it’s the one that I understand most closely as it’s the one I experience myself. Alright, on with it! (Also, Lumen means ‘the light’ in Latin!)

******

Lumen ran a hand through her knotted hair as she watched herself in her vanity mirror. A comb might have untangled it more easily, and it would have been encouraged by just about anyone in the palace, but it wasn’t the knots that mattered at all. Lumen was stressed, and stress led to clenched fists in ratty hair.

It was exciting to get the older princess, Aurora, back. Even when she became Queen, Lumen didn’t mind at all. The kingdom held a glorious coronation with many delicate desserts, beautiful curtains which hadn’t seen daylight in ages, and patterns that were temporarily painted along the ballroom walls and floors to tell the very story of Aurora. It was beautiful, and Lumen felt a swell of pride in her older sister for going through such hardships and still being willing to put her name and face out there for all to know and see.

But the pride Lumen felt was dwindling. Aurora was still incredible- still beautiful, kind, gracious, and all the like…but she was a poor queen. She was overly kind, overly giving, overly positive. Lumen hated to think that way, but it was true. Aurora acted without thought of consequence.

A door opened as Lumen continued to look herself in the mirror. There were pockets forming under her eyes. Not only this, they were becoming dark.

With a sigh, Lumen pulled her hand out of her hair, letting it thunk on the desk in front of her. She looked to her right where the door was and saw her husband standing there in the doorway with raised brows.

“You let your hair down,” he noted. “And you are in your nightgown.”

“I’m tired,” Lumen returned simply.

Her husband stepped into the room, easing the door shut behind him before walking to the princess. He laid his arms on her either shoulder and hugged her while she titled her head back to rest against his chest. “If you are tired, you should sleep. You haven’t allowed yourself real rest since your sister came home.” He kissed the top of her head and backed away into the centre of their chambers.

“I slept well the first night.”

Peeling his shirt off, the previous king said, “You know that is not enough.” He tossed his shirt to the side of the bed and moved on to his pants before grabbing a pair of bed shorts. “I know you are worried, but your sister has advisors. I’m sure they can straighten things out.” Even he didn’t sound like he believed it was a solution.

Lumen stood from her vanity and walked to the bed post near her husband as he finished pulling up his shorts. “Nicholas, they only advise her. They cannot stop her ruling, and everything she has ruled so far is just going to drive this kingdom into the ground.” She plopped on the edge of the bed, putting her head in her hands, elbows on her knees. It wasn’t very lady-like, but she didn’t care. She didn’t think Nicholas did either, thankfully.

“Have you ever tried talking to her?” He sat next to her, a hand on her back.

“Not right now,” Lumen said first and shifted until his hand fell away. As her stress was building up, she just wanted to be left to her own. Not emotionally- she needed to dump that part out- but bodily. Comforting touches weren’t all that comforting. Holding hands, sure. A kiss on the head, sure. But beyond that, specifically…delicate touches…Lumen just…didn’t really want it. Not at any point, but especially when she was aggravated.

When Nicholas hugged the princess earlier, she only allowed it because she could tell it’s what he wanted. Even after two years together, he was still adjusting to Lumen’s wants and needs. Maybe she should have corrected it then- he would have retreated- but if it made Nicholas comfortable, Lumen didn’t mind it occasionally. She just wasn’t one for physical affection. Verbal affirmations were nice; she liked those. She liked encouragement. She didn’t find any amount of comfort in touching. It didn’t take any problems away and it wasn’t entirely necessary. It wasn’t completely appalling, but it also wasn’t actively sought after.

“I spoke to her today, about how her order against the lords was a bad idea.” Lumen scooted herself back onto the bed, and then until her back met the headboard of hers and Nicholas’ bed. “I agree that the lords have too much. Some of them are greedy and have way more than they, or their children, will ever need. I have more money and food than what I could ever need. I have voluntarily given those masses away to those who needed it, but not all the lords will. And you cannot force them to! That is how you get uprisings. That is how you get underground alliances between angry lords and other dastardly kingdoms. That is how surprise attacks happen and”- she sniffed- “and I explained all of this to her, Nicholas. She doesn’t get it. I love her, and I want to support her, but she is going about all of this so wrong.”

“You could try drawing her a picture.”

Lumen gave a small laugh, but then said quietly, “That was a rude comment to make, Your Majesty.”

He smiled at her, slid himself on the bed beside her. “Not ‘Majesty’ anymore, my sweet.”

“Maybe not in this kingdom, but I’m allowed to call you my king.”

The conversation turned serious again as Nicholas asked, “What are you going to do about the turmoil which is your sister?”

Lumen thought with eyes closed and her head against the headboard of their bed. She began shaking the latter. “I don’t know. It is not in my place to make demands of her and simply suggesting things to her doesn’t work. I have no idea what could ever fix what she is doing. I just…I wish she would have waited to become Queen. I think it’s great that she is one; she deserves it, but…”

“But she was not ready for it.”

She nodded, opening her eyes again. Sniffled once more. “The only thing I could do is undermine her orders, but I don’t know how to do that, and I”- Lumen sighed- “I will feel so awfully about it.”

“You will feel awfully about saving the kingdom?”

“Well when you say it like that, it makes it sound perfectly okay, but Nicholas, Aurora is my sister. I can’t just- just sneak about her kingdom and-”

“But it is your kingdom, too, love. It is everyone who lives here’s kingdom. By making the decisions she is making, she is putting all of us at risk. Some of the orders she has declared for the armies and cavalry are ridiculous. It’s jeopardizing us all.” Nicholas continued. “If she is not listening to anyone, I wouldn’t blame a single person for intervening. If you do not do it, someone else will, just as you said, and I’m sure it will be less pleasant than if you did.”

Lumen gave a soft sigh, “I know. I want to try talking to her again tomorrow, though, and if that doesn’t work, then I will take more- um- discreet action.”

“Good. I think that will be good. Just do me a favour, my queen?”

She looked to him, waiting.

“Remember you are doing this for her, too. You shouldn’t feel bad for going behind her back when it is only to help her. I have brothers and sisters. I have an idea of how you feel, but you are not harming her, okay?”

Lumen nodded. “Okay.”

**

“Aurora?”

“Hm?” The queen turned her head over her shoulder, but quickly turned back to make sure the water didn’t boil over. “Oh! Your hair looks lovely today. I didn’t get a look at the dress, but I am sure you are beautiful in it, too. I am making food for the servants. They have been working so hard to clean the ballroom and have hardly had a break. I thought it might be nice to-”

“Aurora!” Lumen shouted. She felt bad about interrupting her sister, but she also knew this was the only way to make her stop talking. Aurora was just so excited and passionate about everything she talked about. It was a nice trait to have sometimes, but Lumen needed to talk to her right now. “I know you think that what you are doing is great- and it is! But, Aurora, I was raised to be a queen and in that, I was taught the innerworkings of the courts. You are a very kind-hearted person, and it isn’t awful that you are that way, but you can’t…Aurora, are you listening?”

The queen was bobbing her head back and forth, humming some sort of tune. Every now and then, she’d mutter a few words. “I know you,” she’d sing, “I walked with you- hm hm hmmm hm hmm.”

Lumen grunted in annoyance. “I really need you to listen to me, Aurora.” Nothing. No response.

That’s it. Lumen shook her head, and without saying another word, walked out of the kitchens, leaving her sister to hum and sing whatever song it was. The queen became distracted easily. Everything reminded her of something else somehow, and it often happened at the most inconvenient of times. Like right now. This was Aurora’s last chance before Lumen would take things into her own hands, and now she was.

**

Lumen started by taking Nicholas’ valuable possessions- rings and jewels and the sort- without him noticing. She was caught the first few times. It was a quick realization that stealing was easier when the victim wasn’t present. But Lumen worked on just about every case scenario so that she could better her newly discovered skills.

She would become a thief for now; a quiet and stealthy thief who stole from the poor and gave to the overly wealthy if only to appease them and stop a secret war that would undoubtfully endow if Lumen didn’t do this. Since Aurora wouldn’t revoke the new orders she made, this was the only choice- to become an inverse Robin Hood.

Later, the former queen would travel to other kingdoms- disguised, of course- and hire people to smuggle in weapons for her kingdom’s army since Aurora was on a crazy, kind-minded rampage that involved getting rid of all the armies’ weapons, therefore making the kingdom defenseless. While she was gone, Nicholas would cover for Lumen, saying both she and he were sick and that servants should have very limited contact with either of them. It would keep Aurora from realizing her sister was gone.

The kingdom needed great maintaining. Aurora was a lovely person, and Lumen still felt guilty for doing any of this behind her sister’s back, but it was necessary. The queen was ruining the kingdom with kindness- something that shouldn’t have been possible, however it very much was- and now Lumen had to fix it. Maybe she wasn’t queen anymore, but that didn’t mean she would cease her pursuit in taking care of her people.

Death was always terrible, but it was worse when it came with destruction and cries of mercy in war than in poor families and smelly streets.

[minervacasterly]

First Protestant King of England, Henry VIII or Edward VI? (And why Edward VI's reign was no less important than his father's)

It is important to dispell myths about the most popular English dynasty, so I decided to briefly take on this topic. A common misconception until recent decades is that Henry VIII was the first Protestant King. In reality, it was his son who was the first true Protestant King of England. I’ve written about this before on my blog, building upon the research by great scholars like Chris Skidmore, Loach, and the short introduction to his reign by Kyra Cornelius Kramer. Besides taking after his father in intellect, Edward VI was fairly concerned with the state of the church of England but unlike his old man, he thought that the time had come to make it into the first true Protestant church of England, agreeing to the issuing of the book of common prayer and a revision of it two years later. Edward VI also frowned upon improper clothing. He loved to dance and watch sports, but didn’t think t0 was a good idea to indulge in these frivolities since the Evangelicals believed that this was a gateway to moral decay. (Don’t you just love those who interpret the will of god so good, that they conveniently forget about the passages where their savior rails against the rich and so on?) Edward’s actions had consequences and these, like the contributions of his reign, are often brushed aside in favor of his more famous father and sisters. One of them, was a rebellion in the North and his half-sister’s resistance to his new laws that forbade people to hear the Mass and forced the new English service on everyone. Long story short … lots of people hung, punished and lots of enemies that his councilors (who as always since people couldn’t point fingers at the king unless they had a sick death wish of some sort) were blamed and were punished for during his half-sister’s reign. Some of you might be pointing out that since Henry VIII was excommunicated and labeled a heretic by most of Christendom, that technically he was a Protestant king but no, seriously, he wasn’t. Henry was, despite these labels, still a practicing Catholic. He agreed to Gardiner’s articles of faith that criticized the church and validated his claim as supreme head of the Anglican Church, and God’s representative on Earth, and surrounded himself by obvious Reformists, but other than that, he forcefully kept everyone in line. Catholics who practiced the Mass or adhered to his new rules while still being loyal to their beliefs were tolerated, but if they pulled a ‘Thomas More’ where they denied the king’s supremacy or insulted one of his beloved wives (before he got tired of them, that is) then yes, off to the block with them!

As for Protestants … Ever heard of Anne Askew? She defended Henry’s actions, she thought he was some kind of Moses as his last wife -Kathryn Parr whom she was closely associated with- would paint him as in her two books (primarily in ‘Lamentations of a Sinner’) and then she defied her husband and Henry’s establishment, pushing for a more Evangelist agenda, and what happened? Oh nothing big … she just got tortured and then burned. As long as you played Henry’s sycophant you were fine. There is also a spiritual aspect that ties into his megalomania. As Henry became more obsessed with securing his dynasty, his focus on spiritual matters also grew. By the end of his reign, nobody could predict what the king would say or how he would act so everyone walked a fine line when they discussed important subjects. Kathryn Parr is one of them who learned this lesson early on during their marriage. If it weren’t for gentleness, and the friendship she established among prominent ladies in her household, her accusers would’ve succeeded in convincing Henry VIII that she was a heretic. She would’ve had a sham trial like Anne Boleyn and then beheaded or worse, burned like Anne Aske. Luckily for Kathryn Parr, she was one step ahead of them. Humbling herself before her lord and husband, she told him that she never intended to change his religious views but just challenged him as people did at the beginning of his reign, so he could stir her towards the right path since she was a woman and these things were too complicated for her to fathom, let alone choose on her own. She lived and continued to be a major influence on future Protestant leaders, such as Jane Grey, Elizabeth I and of course, Edward VI.

Edward VI was greatly influenced by his beloved stepmother’s religiosity and mourned her deeply. He referred to her as his mother. Kathryn encouraged his passion for books and aided his Protestant tutors in stirring him towards their faith, ensuring that he’d become the king they’d all be waiting for, that would transform England into a fully Protestant nation.

It was Edward who began to force religious codes on his people in a way that hadn’t been done before. His father cracked on religious houses on the basis of cleansing them from corruption and because of their disloyalty, and open defiance against his supremacy; but Edward made things worse. The monasteries that were sold to his father’s noblemen left many people begging on the streets while forcing others to adapt to their new environment. When people could no longer handle it, they rose up in open rebellion and like in his father’s time, these were brutally squashed. But here is where it gets interesting … Whereas Henry VIII is blamed for all the evils of his reign, Edward VI is not and the reason for this? He was a kid, don’t be so mean. Leave the poor tot alone. Fact: Edward VI died at the age of fifteen and by renaissance standards, he was not a little boy anymore. Even if he hadn’t come of age, he was not an innocent boy anymore who was oblivious to the world around him. In fact. When Edward VI found out that his uncle had been executed, he was like ‘meh … okay’. And sure, Thomas Seymour was a brash individual who thought he could get away with everything but even after he tried to kidnap his nephew, to act in such a manner and for an uncle who was married to your favorite stepmother and someone you claimed to be your favorite relative, that’s pretty cold. But it gets better. After Edward VI finally got rid of his tedious uncle and his irritating set of rules, Edward wrote in his diary (showing no emotion at all) that the former lord Protector died and that was that. Getting rid of Edward Seymour probably made the little critter sigh in relief because out of all his uncles, the Lord Protector was the one who always reminded him of his duties and responsibilities, not to mention all those rules and not letting him be king! How unfair! And then there was also that issue about the rebellions. Edward VI saw these people as traitors and agreed with Northumberland that they should be dealt with immediately but his uncle didn’t think that was wise, which was why people called him the ‘good Duke’ because they saw him as a friend of the people. Now that he was out of the way, his kingdom would not have to suffer any more dissenting voices, nor any threats of isolation or future skirmishes with Scotland. Edward VI was fully committed to the Protestant cause but convinced by Northumberland, he realized that he would not go far if he did not have any allies. And the whole campaign in Scotland had gone awfully wrong and with Mary, Queen of Scots in France, the only way to neutralize that threat was making an alliance with that country, betrothing him to Henri II and Catherine de Medici’s daughter, Elizabeth Valois. Sadly, Edward VI did not live to marry her or do more for the Evangelicals. He died and before he did, he wrote a paper called “my device for the succession” which became the basis to disinherit his sisters in favor of their cousin, Jane Grey. That opened a can of worms that could have easily escalated into another civil war like the wars of the roses but thankfully for everyone involved it didn’t and his sister won her crown fair and square. But as with every Tudor, once her sister became Queen, she began to make good use of the propaganda machine to portray her sibling as a puppet of Northumberland and other evil lords who had corrupted him and turned him against her. Why was this done? Same reason why people who rebelled against their kings often pointed their fingers at their councilors -because doing so against an anointed king meant that they were upsetting the natural order. It was only in extreme cases, when someone had enough support and belonged to a different dynasty, that they would point it directly at them. Edward belonged to the same dynasty as Mary, and a dynasty divided was bad business for everyone, especially for the first Queen Regnant of England who had inherited a divided country.

Mary I also did something else and that was appropriating some of Edward VI’s religious achievements in an effort to make Catholicism appealing to those who were still unsure whether or not they wanted to return to the church or side with the various groups within the Protestant movement. Sections from the book of the common prayer were added to a new set of prayers in Latin and English, and adapted in a way that didn’t contradict church doctrine. During his reign, Edward encouraged many poets and artists to express themselves. These would reenact passages from the bible, or create allegorical paintings that depicted Edward as England’s messiah, and all those who followed him as true Christians as opposed to the decadent Catholics who were portrayed as heathens.

Edward’s religious reformation became the basis for Elizabeth I’s reign who continued with many of these reforms. Although she did not go as far as Edward or his chosen heiress, Jane Grey, would have liked. Elizabeth I was far more pragmatic, recognizing that if she wanted to rule over a divided country she had to maintain some of the older traditions or else, she’d risk losing everything she had. Unlike her siblings, Elizabeth I wasn’t thought of as legitimate by many of her Christian peers. Ideological purity was a luxury that she couldn’t afford and in any case, she did not want because many Evangelicals didn’t like the idea of the supremacy of kings (or queens). Nevertheless, Elizabeth I built her religious establishment upon her brother’s by issuing a new revision of the book of common prayer and encouraging artists and poets to create works that extolled the Anglican Church and the Tudor Dynasty.

[hurt-spock]

Enforced Rest

McCoy had thought once they got Jim back and were back on the ship everything would be okay.

He was wrong. Jim had experienced a whole new life while he'd been there. And it hadn't been a matter of days, he had lived it for months. A new life, a sense of happiness and completion that he hadn't felt before. He told McCoy it was the happiest he had ever been. 

So when Jim had asked McCoy to let Spock know he needed some time and to continue as he was, McCoy's heart dropped. He couldn't tell a grieving Jim that he was needed on the bridge right now, that Spock had run himself and the ship to breaking point, literally in the ship's case.

Instead, he nodded and told his friend to let him know if there was anything he could do for him. Jim had merely walked away, not saying a word. Not wanting to let any of the crew know that Spock wasn't at his best right now, McCoy called Spock down to sickbay. He arrived quickly, looking a little stricken and McCoy noted that he looked around the room before settling.

“I'm sorry, Jim's fine,” he said, realising his mistake.

Despite the distress it had caused, Spock nodded in understanding. “That is quite alright. How can I help you, Doctor?”

“Jim's quite upset as you can understand. He wants you to stay running the ship for the moment. Honestly, he's not fit for duty right now.”

“Of course,” Spock replied understanding.

“I don't think he even noticed we're on impulse power,” McCoy said. He looked over Spock surreptitiously while the Vulcan was distracted by a nurse passing by. Jim wasn't the only one not fit for duty, in McCoy's opinion. If it hadn't been for the ship's vulnerable state, he would have ordered Spock to stand down too.

“Grief will do that to a person,” Spock lamented. “Was there anything else?”

“That's it,” McCoy said. There was nothing he could do for Spock. No adrenaline boost that he'd have been able to issue had it been Kirk in the same situation. He just had to hope that Spock's amazing stamina held out.

~

Spock heard the door to the turbo-lift open and turned his head slightly.

He recognised the Captain's footfall and knew it was him without turning. The footsteps came beside him and waited.

“Captain,” Spock said.

Kirk was watching from the viewscreen at the ship lazily sailed along. He frowned, confused for a moment.

“We have only impulse power, Captain.”

“Well, is Mister Scott sorting the matter?” Kirk demanded.

“Yes Sir, he is doing all he can to rectify the situation.” Spock insisted. “Mister Scott was well aware of the dangers and consequences of the actions of my orders while in command. He did well to inform me of those dangers, however, I-”

“You did this to my ship? And didn't even think it was worth mentioning?” The gentle fury in those words silenced everyone on the bridge as they all stayed alert to Kirk's mood, working diligently so his ire didn't end up directed at them.

“I believe I just mentioned it, Captain. This is the first time you have returned for duty for me to mention it.” Spock wasn't wrong but the tension in the room seemed to increase dramatically with the words. Spock vacated the Captain's chair as Kirk loomed over him more than ever. When the science officer at Spock's station went to give up the seat, Spock beckoned them back in place.

“My door wasn't locked, Spock,” Kirk spat out, reclaiming his seat. It was a power move as much as anything. To remind everyone who was in charge.

Kirk never liked to be challenged and Spock knew that Kirk would want to prove his relevance and command position after having been absent for so long. Spock would rather that be directed at him than the more sensitive human crew members.

“Seeing as you caused the issue, Mister Spock, why don't you report to engineering and assist Mister Scott in fixing it,” Kirk ordered.

Spock knew, as well as Scott, that there was no fixing their issue. Kirk, despite wanting to regain his authority over the crew had still neglected to ask what the issue was. If he had asked, he too would have known the issue was not one that could be fixed. In Spock's opinion, and given his overtly emotional displays, Spock did not think Kirk was fit to return to duty. However, that wasn't a matter to discuss currently. “Yes, Captain,” Spock said and left the bridge.

The crew on the bridge remained tense and a few of them shared concerned looks to themselves. Uhura was the one who felt the need to say something in Spock's defense. “Captain Kirk, with all due respect Sir, I believe that Mister Spock should not-”

“Lieutenant, when I ask for an opinion from my Communications Officer, it will likely be about a communication issue. Not about how to manage your crew. Understood?”

“Yes Sir,” she replied. She knew there was no sense arguing with Kirk when he was like this, but that didn't mean she had to like it.

~

McCoy didn't expect Spock to stop by sickbay.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“I have just encountered the Captain on the bridge. I am unsure that he should be on duty. He seems overly emotional and looking for conflict,” Spock informed him.

“Chew you out did he?” McCoy asked and Spock nodded. McCoy sighed. He didn't want Spock to be Captain's punchbag but on the plus side, Spock could get the rest he needed now and that was something. “Don't you worry about it, and get some rest, I'll keep an eye on him. In fact, I'll head up there in a few minutes.”

Spock knew McCoy misunderstood the situation and thought that Spock was relieved of duty and was heading to his quarters. If he told McCoy what Kirk had ordered, the Doctor would make matters worse and he didn't think that was what Jim needed right then. He nodded at McCoy and left, reassured that at least help was on the way for Kirk. He felt the full exhaustion hit him for a moment as he let his control slide for the briefest moment before he got himself back under control.

Engineering was next for him and he headed straight there.  

~

McCoy went to the bridge in the guise of boredom.

He noted how prickly Kirk was and even McCoy's own attempts to tame Kirk's bad mood fell flat. It resulted in Kirk ranting about how the ship was a sitting target, powerless as it was and that he had expected more of his crew. He let the whole bridge revel in a large dose of shared guilt before he called Scotty in engineering to ask for an update.

Scotty was casual about the whole thing. There was nothing he could do and he knew it. Kirk mistook this for a bad attitude about it and demanded that he run every test he could think of in order to get the ship running again. He tried to object but Kirk cut off communications with him, ending it with wanting to only hear from him once they had exhausted every possibility he could think of, no matter how long it took.

McCoy was disturbed by Jim's behaviour but excused himself and decided he would pay him a visit after his shift finished in private. Things might go a little better that way.

~

Spock didn't know what was happening, just that everything seemed a little foggy to him and Mister Scott was walking him down towards his quarters as though escorting an intoxicated friend home from a much regaled 'earth night out'.

Despite himself he could not resist and had to endure the odd looks that the pair received walking along as they were.

Spock felt as though he were walking against a flow of water, each step seemed to be hard work and he couldn't understand what was happening to him.

“Come on, Mister Spock,” Scotty encouraged brightly. “Not much further to go.”

When they turned the last corner before getting to the officer's quarters, McCoy spotted the pair and came over to them. “What's going on here?” he asked, instinctively reaching out to assist Spock who was clearly the one who was struggling.

“Not exactly sure, Doctor. Mister Spock was helping me in engineering-”

“What? You were supposed to be resting,” McCoy interrupted, jabbing a finger into Spock's chest despite himself.

“Aye, and the Captain ordered him to assist me in trying to fix an issue that we can't fix! But he won't listen,” Scotty explained. “Anyway, he fell down and didn't seem like he could get up so well. Or.... speak. So I thought I'd bring him to his quarters and call you,” Scotty finished.

McCoy shot an apologetic look to the engineer. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'll take it from here.”

“You sure. He's heavier than he looks that one,” Scotty said.

Despite his condition, Spock shot what he hoped was a glare at the engineer. But he was too tired for words.

McCoy helped Spock as they made slow progress towards Spock's quarters. “Is this what happens when a Vulcan reaches its limits?”

Spock's answer was for his legs to buckle underneath him, and McCoy couldn't stop him from falling to the ground. A couple of ensigns walked past and gave an odd look to their First Officer sat on the floor. One of them looked back, guiltily and addressing the Doctor asked: “Do you need-”

“It's fine, I've got this under control, thanks,” McCoy said. He gave Spock a few moments to sit before he asked “You think you can make it the rest of the way?”

Spock gave a tug which McCoy assumed was him attempting to get back to him feet. It got Spock nowhere and McCoy heaved him upwards with great effort, muttering how right Scotty had been.

Spock felt a new sense of guilt hit him but his pragmatic self told him there was nothing he could do about the fact that he had much greater bone density. He put on more of an effort to support himself and soon enough they were inside his quarters. Spock grasped onto furniture to assist him over to the bed where McCoy helped him lay.

Without a word, Spock allowed himself to be sucked into a deep sleep.

~

Kirk had expected McCoy to ask him to come to Spock's quarters, but he quickly guessed why.

He'd called down to Engineering a short while ago and found out that Spock wasn't down there any longer. He was pretty sure that Spock had gone to visit McCoy to tell him what Kirk was doing and they were going to ambush him in private. He was ready for it. He went in ready to fight and it was knocked out of him the second he got there.

McCoy had a chair pulled up beside Spock's bed, monitoring the Vulcan. He couldn't be sick or he'd be in sickbay, Kirk knew that much. “What's going on?” he asked, keeping the harsh edge to his voice.

“Why don't you take a seat,” McCoy offered.

Kirk relented and took another seat without moving it closer to Spock. “Is this going to take long?” Kirk asked.

“I know you're upset Jim. That's why I've left a lot of this slide. I can't imagine how hard that was for you down there, but we went through something up here as well. We didn't know where you were Jim. You could have been dead for all we knew, and because of the asteroid, we had to leave you. Spock had to choose to leave you.”

“I would have done the same thing,” Kirk said.

“Of course, but it doesn't make it easier, does it? The guilt. He pushed so hard to try and stop that asteroid colliding with the planet. He pushed the ship as much as he could desperate to try and solve the issue as best he could. And he failed. We were virtually stranded, low power. It took 59 days for us to get back to you. He wouldn't eat or sleep because he was trying to figure out how to save that planet, but he did it. He worked out the symbols, saved you and the planet. But what did it cost him?”

“He was fine on the bridge earlier.”

That was it. McCoy was through being nice. “No, he wasn't! He was holding himself together so that you had the time you needed to heal despite never once looking outside of your self to see if your crew was okay. Well, he wasn't okay. He needed you. And you failed him.”

Kirk was taken aback by McCoy's harsh words. The anger. “Bones, I-”

“I have nothing else to say to you right now, Captain. If you don't mind, I'm going to monitor my patient.” McCoy turned from Kirk and let him know that for now, the conversation was over.

~

Spock slept well for two hours before waking confused and groggy.

He wasn't sure why McCoy was in his quarters and, honestly, he couldn't remember why he was in his quarters but he knew this wasn't right. Engineering. He was supposed to be helping Mister Scott. The Captain had ordered him to help. He sat up swiftly, McCoy barely being able to stop him but Spock was weak and only managed a few steps before he found himself fighting a losing battle. McCoy wrestled him into a chair rather than having to lift him off of the floor again.

“I- I should be in engineering,” Spock said. He had got out of the habit of resting and now he'd had a little, he thought he was ready to go again.

“No, you're fine,” McCoy said. “But you can eat. It'll make you feel better.”

“I'm no-”

“And don't say you're not hungry! You haven't eaten in two months pretty much. Of course you're not hungry. Your body is used to you starving it.” Spock looked at McCoy with confused brown eyes. “Look, I can understand the need to keep going when your stressed and that for a Vulcan, the lack of sleep and food is a reasonable sacrifice for you. But that stress is over now. You can relax. You did your job and you did it well. Reset that brain back to normal.”

Spock stood up. “I need-”

But he didn't know what he needed. He needed to do something, to be useful. He couldn't just relax. There was always something to be done.

“Lay back down, okay?” McCoy insisted and guided Spock back to the bed. Spock let himself be led to the bed and sat but didn't lay.

McCoy's communicator sounded and he pulled it out. “McCoy,” he said. He was silent for a few seconds before he asked. “Is it an emergency?” He was quickly told about a medical emergency and knew he needed to attend to that first. “I'll be there in a minute,” he said and closed the communicator. “Spock, I have to go for a short while. I'll be back as soon as I can. Just get some rest, okay?”

Spock nodded and watched McCoy go. He stays there a moment before his brain latched onto what McCoy said. There was an emergency on the ship. There was no time to rest.

~

McCoy realised he had a problem with Spock when he returned after his trip to sickbay and found Spock had gone.

He used the ship computer and located him to an empty meeting room. Inside, he found Spock attempting to use the table to get himself up off the floor.

“What part of 'stay here' did you not understand?” McCoy asked.

“You never told me to stay, you told me to get some rest.”

“Well besides from being pedantic, Spock, this is not getting rest,”

“I could not rest,” Spock admitted.

“Then let me help you,” McCoy said. “Let's start by getting you off the floor, huh?” He grabbed hold of Spock under the arms and helped him sit in the chair. “This is what we're going to do. I'm going to get you something to eat. It'll give you a boost of energy. Your exhausted and at least for you, you're weak. That'll probably give you enough energy to be able to get you back to your quarters. Then, we can have a nice discussion about what it is I can do to help you, okay?”

Spock nodded even though McCoy knew he was reluctant. Spock never wanted to be in need but shit happened. He struggled and strained to help Spock up before he left to get something for Spock to eat. He grabbed the only sedative that he knew worked for Spock from sickbay and then headed back. He half expected Spock to have left but was pleased to see he had remained in place this time, although the thought crossed his mind that maybe Spock couldn't move right then.

Spock ate with all the enthusiasm of someone who was eating the last part of a six-course meal. McCoy encouraged him to eat what he could but didn't pressure him to eat any more than he was comfortable with. When Spock pushed the dish away slightly, McCoy knew he was done. He disposed of the bowl of food. “Okay, so, we just need to get you to your quarters and then you can get the rest you need,” McCoy said.

Spock went to answer but was interrupted by the door opening and Kirk stepping inside. He looked at the pair of them in turn and his expression went from remorse to confusion and then anger in quick succession. He scoffed loudly. “I actually believed you,” Kirk said, directing the comment to McCoy. “I actually thought you were being honest with me and I'd been a jerk and then I catch you have clandestine meetings? Maybe you preferred Spock's leadership to mine, huh Bones? Out with the old, in with the new?” Kirk ranted.

“You're ridiculous, Jim! Can you even hear yourself?”

Jim laughed in McCoy's face. “Oh c'mon Bones, you told me he was exhausted, and a few hours later he's looking fit as a fiddle about as far from his quarters as he can be. I'm not that surprised with you Bones, but I am with you, Spock. I thought you had some sense of decency.”

Spock didn't try and defend himself against Kirk's tirade, but once he was finished Spock merely said: “The doctor did not lie.”

“I want to know what's going on,” Kirk demanded.

“I understand now,” Spock said standing. He supported himself on the table as he stood up but did his best not to look weak. It was a matter of pride. “Your anger is with yourself. For what you lost, for the loss of an ordinary life over an extraordinary career. The loss of love, a woman, and a child. A family that you craved. Despite all that loss, it is easier for you to direct your anger out at us than carry it yourself. I understand, Jim.”

McCoy stepped towards Jim. “We're here for you, Jim. You can talk to us.”

“Are you staging some sort of intervention here?” he asked, exasperated.

McCoy's temper flared as quickly as Jim's at the Captain's inability to grasp the fact that this was about Spock and not him. “What is wrong with you Jim? There's no secret agenda here. Not everything is about you and quite frankly, I'm sick of explaining it to you. If I see more of this paranoid behaviour I'm going to-” But McCoy didn't get to finish that thought as Spock went crashing to the ground behind him.

~

McCoy and Kirk had carried Spock to sickbay. McCoy said that although he wasn't greatly concerned about Spock's condition, he did just need rest and food, sickbay was a lot closer than Spock's quarters.

McCoy could see guilt plainly visible of Jim's face and he insisted on staying with Spock while McCoy got some rest. He had three short hours before he relieved Jim, telling him that he needed his own rest to tend to the ship's needs. Kirk nodded sadly as he headed out, pausing at the door. “Do you think it would be okay if I stopped by after my shift?” he asked.

“Sure,” McCoy said. “But he'll likely be sedated. I want to make sure he gets the rest he needs this time. Sometimes that means taking drastic measures.”

Kirk nodded and hesitated. “He did this for me?”

McCoy knew what Jim was asking. “It's his job and he would die to carry out his duties to the best of his abilities, you know that.” Bones considered it a little more. “And besides from you, there was a planet of people that would have died.” McCoy sat down beside Spock's bed. “I don't think I helped much. I was on his case all the time. About leaving you on that planet about the asteroid. Scotty was pretty miffed about what he did to the ship, too. We all pushed him in different ways. And he did his best. He made the only decisions he could have made.”

“I just hope that he ends up understanding that,” Kirk said.

“He does. He was logical as ever. It's just when things aren't going how you'd hoped, you doubt whatever motivates you. Logic, love, fury.”

Kirk looked at the peacefully resting First Officer. “I'll sign him off duty for a week. If you need longer, you've got it.” Kirk turned to leave.

“Oh, and Jim? How about you come down to my office after your shift tomorrow and we can have a proper discussion about what happened to the two of you over the last couple of months. I think it might do some good.”

Jim smiled. “I think so too.” This time he left.

McCoy turned back to Spock checking the fluids were working correctly. He picked up the hypo ready to administer it.

“Really Doctor, is that quite necessary?” Spock asked.

McCoy pressed the hypo against Spock's neck. “You bet your ass it is.”

[thepandistory]

I am sharing a reflection here from 2019 written by Yasietha Krishnakulasingam who relates the “Pandi” film to her own relationship with mental health struggles. She contacted me this year to let me know how the film had made an impact on her. Thank you Yasietha for sharing this deeply honest and bold piece!  - Saroja Ponnambalam

“I wrote this over a year ago. I didn’t feel like I could share this at the time. The path to addressing my mental health hasn’t been a straightforward one; it’s one that has seen momentum and lulls in equal measure, with both hurdles and, thankfully, help. I’m sharing this because I think watching this documentary helped push me to begin addressing my mental health and I am grateful for that. I wanted to take a moment to acknowledge the varying external factors that affect mental health; things like access to affordable housing, the reality of precarious employment, student debt and structural forms of discrimination, just  to name a few. I think part of our responsibility to one another is addressing these issues.

Pandi

I recently attended a screening of the documentary Pandi, hosted by South Asian Visual Arts Centre (SAVAC) and Tangled Art + Disability. After the question and answer period I left the screening eager for the privacy to collect my thoughts and then proceeded to spend the drive home crying. I arrived home greeted by my resigned mother, pleading with me to tell her what was wrong. If you don’t tell me how will I understand? I think to some extent my mother does understand, despite lacking the formal language to create a conversation around mental health, I know my mother understands my loneliness, I know that in some ways we are a reflection of each other. I know that her desire to see me married is her misguided attempt to address it. We repeat history, inhaling the past and exhaling the only future we know.

I told myself that I wanted to write a review of this documentary—I think what I really wanted was to write.  I wanted to write to Pandi. I wanted to talk to him about his scripts. I wanted to stand alongside him as he burned money and tell him that I too am tired. I wanted to tell him that I see him and in seeing him I can no longer avoid looking at myself.

But I can’t tell him these things because he is dead.  Pandi killed himself.

The documentary Pandi, directed by his niece Maria-Saroja Ponnambalam, is an exploration of the life of this young filmmaker—a continuous struggle between creative expression and financial pragmatism that is compounded by deteriorating mental health.

As a new immigrant to Canada Pandi moves in with his brother Ponnu and his young family, father of director Maria-Saroja. Within 2 months, upon the insistence of his family, he is working odd jobs to make money. At one point he is working 80 hours a week with the goal of saving enough money to both finance his scripts and show the Canadian Government that he is stable enough to sponsor a fiancé when the time comes. Despite interventions with counselling and medication, Pandi’s mental health continues to worsen in Canada. Ponnu suggests he move back to India, informing his sister in Chennai that she should watch over him, with the instructions to make sure he take “all the  medications”.

In India Pandi continues to write, with the mounting pressure to fulfill his financial obligations, he talks openly about suicide. His nephew discusses how Pandi would write dates on chits of paper, asking him to choose his final date, alluding to the day he would kill himself.  One day Pandi is found dead hanging from the ceiling in his bedroom.

It is only years later uncovering Pandi’s old super 8 reels in Canada that Maria-Saroja Ponnambalam  begins questioning what happened to her sick uncle Pandi. How had Pandi become reduced to boxes and unspoken memories? Through home videos, animations of her uncles scripts and very personal interviews with family members, Maria-Saroja pieces together a picture of Pandi’s  life. Pandi keeps writing, keeps creating scripts even as life pressures him to conform to a more conventionally productive life. In one animation depicting a scene from one of Pandi’s scripts, Pandi exclaims to a lover Reena that “I am not a good person to marry”.

It is a common mistakenly held belief that people who talk about suicide do not actually commit the act. When Pandi discusses suicide with his family it is brushed aside as a means of seeking attention   During the Q/A session, Indu  Vashist, executive director of SAVAC, raised an important point, what is so wrong with giving someone attention?

Gomathi, Pandi’s sister, discusses this dilemma briefly in the film, stating that her family was able to give Pandi love and affection to an extent, but that as a grownup “he has to look after himself”. I found myself thinking about this, that maybe we have somehow conditioned ourselves and the people around us into profound loneliness. How do we create community when we are surrounded by the siloes created under the grand pretext of romantic love?

I think it is possible that we resent people who openly display their pain and ask for help because too many of us have been taught to suffer in silence. Some of us go on to ultimately wrap our pain in art —to create as a form of catharsis, a kind of inversion. I think there is something meaningful in that. But if someone writes a beautiful poem about how painful their existence is, can we respond in a way that amounts to more than a facebook like? Maybe if we can find compassion for others, we can extend some of that compassion to ourselves.  

Maria Saroja, reflecting on the film during the Q/A session believes she may have been too harsh on her family, recognizing that dealing with one’s own mental health and the mental health of family members is often a complicated process. We are not all mental health professionals—these people exist for a reason. However I am realizing more and more that we have a responsibility to one another, to reach out to one another without shame not only when we are suffering, but when we see that others are suffering too. Even as I write this I know how difficult it is, how difficult it is to breach the cocoon of our busy lives and reach out to others. I feel myself falling into a kind of commuter apathy, trying to get home through the path of least resistance. I look out the window of the train and know that I have become a passenger in my own life.

I know I am depressed. I know that sleeping away my time is a coping mechanism. I know I have dissociated from myself to get through day to day living. I know I prioritize making money over experiencing joy. I know I am finally trying to address some of these issues.

What happens when we do not have the language to address our mental health needs with our families? When the stigma shrouds conversations in shame? Mental health problems may not feel tangible, but their consequences are tangibly felt by those suffering. The film Pandi beautifully and honestly addresses mental health in a Tamil family, art that is cross-culturally accessible opens the possibility for conversations.

 As the film ends with shots of Pandi, an almost haunting panorama on a balcony in Toronto, there is a visceral awareness that his was a life that sought expression and ultimately witness. So I find myself unable to look away, grateful to his niece, film maker Maria Saroja Ponnambalam for piecing together fragments of his life.

Pandi turns the camera onto the viewer, focuses the lens and asks the question, what happens after you confront the truth?

How do we heal”

Yasietha Krishnakulasingam

[kylandara]

I never truly understood the dark side of fandom until coming to GoT

—————-

I have a few better questions; Why are some fans so zealously obdurate to admit Daenerys, and Daenerys alone, is responsible for her vile and heinous actions? Why is she unburdened with personal responsibility? Why is she privileged to enjoy the luxury of impunity for the terrible consequences of her actions/choices, and why are so many so willing to attribute and assign guilt to everyone else, but her?

It’s fucking scary the lengths some go to to either justify Daenerys or excuse her actions, while blaming others.

In what way did Sansa cause Daenerys to use her flying monster to incinerate an entire city of screaming, terrified civilians? Because she didn't immediately worship Daenerys as some self appointed messiah? Because she had the audacity to inquire about the sovereignty and well-being of her people? Because she pragmatically asked about the logistics of housing and feeding a foreign army and Dothraki horde? Because she expressed legitimate concern for her brother? Because she suggested delaying a rash course of action (rushing to attack King’s Landing with a weary army) following a decimating battle? For not kissing her ass, falling in line, and utterly submitting? You're right. Sansa is clearly to blame. She left Daenerys no choice, really. She feared Jon’s judgment may be askew and suggested wounded warriors recover. That’s more than enough to justify burning children alive, mothers, fathers, the poor, and weak, and helpless, the tired and old and harrowed. It’s because Sansa wasn’t appreciative.

Tyrion? Yes, he also carries the burden of responsibility. His constant pleas to exercise mercy rather than abusing her power, his stifling of her unbridled rage and soothing of her unrestricted hints of wrath and his explicitly urging her to reconsider using a dragon to raze an entire city of innocents make him guilty of blame. Clearly, all of his calls for attempting a diplomatic approach and a more prolonged, conventional siege to allow the peoples of King’s Landing to turn on Cersei and view Daenerys as a peaceful, restrained savior rather than monster flying conqueror, so that she may rule over grateful citizens rather than reigning over the ashes was clever reverse psychology, and he clearly intended to push her into burning the surrendering, helpless masses all along. Tyrion is a clever one! Years of counseling not to do exactly what she ended up doing was a sinisterly effective ploy to kill his sister and extract revenge on the ungrateful city that he swore anger against when on trial for Joffery’s murder. It’s his fault. Dany was duped.

Oh and Jon. Lets not forget Jon. He is to blame more so than either Sansa or Tyrion. After all, he blindly followed her. He pledged his undying devotion to her. He turned his back on his family despite their concerns and protests, and turned a willing blind eye to her degenerating psyche, and abdicated his birth right, submitted to her authority, and stood silently behind her every decision no matter how ill-advised or contrary to counsel- to say nothing of the fact that he took her to bed and loved her- so, more than anyone, it’s clear he is responsible for the carnage and mass murder in the streets of King’s Landing. After all, it’s not as though Jon ever had some sort of compulsion to fight for the living acting as a shield that guards the realms of men, not like he ever pledged his life and honor to protect innocents or anything. Yes, it’s Jon’s fault for allowing Daenerys to led him around by the balls, and not having the strength of character to stand up to her momentary lapse in judgment.

Do you have any idea how fanatical it is to defend or delegate blame for her war crimes and atrocities? All those years of questionable acts of terror and violence and her many empowering speeches of conquest and blood and fire, well, those can all be ignored or excused, when she finally made good on her consistent and increasing threats, well, it’s not her fault, Sansa or Jon or Tyrion are to blame.

I’m going to go puke.

[semelocciditbrevislux]

4 a friend

“… ti insegnano a non splendere. E tu splendi, invece…” “They teach you not to shine. Shine, nevertheless…”

It is a quote from Lettere Luterane by Pasolini. He wrote them in 1975, the year of his death, and you can feel he is more provocative than ever. He was tired, I think, of the hypocrisy he encountered every day; you know, the hypocrisy of a society where people prefer to appear more than to be.

I’m sorry my English is not good, but here is a bad translation of the letter from which the quote.

We are beautiful, therefore let’s disfigure ourselves

If my hypothesis that among the “obedient ” youths of your age, there are, and first of all, “those who were destined to die” – that is to say those whom medical science saved from “ child-mortality”, and consequently are “ survivors “-  which is their pedagogic function for you? What do they teach you just being and behaving according to their nature?

Their main characteristic – as I told you – is the unconscious feeling of being born unwanted, of being a “burden” and “ superfluous ”. Of course this feeling exponentially enhances their need for normality, their complete and unreserved adhesion to the horde,  their fear of appearing different, or even slightly diverse. Therefore to be wildly conformist is the first thing they teach you; a thing – you will see – almost any of the categories of  “ obeying” people of your age teach you. I will better analyze it as our dialogue develops, but before that, three topics are their favorite for a pragmatic teaching ( and consequently so easily to absorb)

They teach you: first, to renounce; a withdrawal which is made absolute, and congenital, by the everyday absence of liveliness, which in them is real, factual, to the point of being physical, but in others (like you) could be a temptation. They should had been dead; or more exactly, they would be surely dead if the social conditions had been different. Since they instinctively have to reduce their efforts to the minimum in order to live: in society it translates into withdrawal. It’s true what a friend of mine from Chia says – he is a youth who remembers the old adages – “ the world belongs to the good, and the ass enjoy themselves”. It is the biggest truth my ears have ever heard. However, I, old middle class rationalist and idealist, therefore “good”, I go on hating with my whole strength the spirit that leads to renounce. Which is the same as integration and indifference. Do not be afraid of appear ridicule; renounce nothing. Let the ass enjoy the world, and envy longingly, for all your life, as I do, their happiness.

The second thing that “the destined to be daed” teach you is a certain obligatory tendency to unhappiness. Every contemporary youth - the people of your age – are unforgettably guilty of being unhappy. It seems there are no more ass: a part from Naples and Chia. They are all good; therefore everyone have their good old sad face. To be good is the first commandment of the market’s power ( you, poor Gennariello, are born in its universe, mind and behavior); good in order to be happy (hedonism of the costumer). Happiness is completely faked as a result; in the meanwhile an instant unhappiness spreads more and more.

You should know, instead, Gennariello, that, contrarily to the eminent adage of Chia, there is also a happiness of the good. Chia’s adage after all says also that “the world is of the good”, clearly referring to ownership and power. But then, side by side with the leaders who own the world, there are the intellectuals who own the world too, and the last one is a real ownership, too, as well as the one of the “coglioni” (ass). It is only question of a different intellectual level. The intellectual ownership of the world, that gives happiness. Don’t let the champion of unhappiness , of ignorant seriousness tempt you. Be lively.

The third thing that “the destined to be dead” teach you, is the rhetoric of ugliness. I’ll explain. It’s been a few years since young people, youths, have been doing everything to appear ugly. They make a horrible mess of themselves. If they are not completely sully and disfigured, they are not satisfied. They are ashamed of their curls, of the rosy or brown splendor of their cheek, they are ashamed of light of their eyes, which is actually due to the candor of youth, they are ashamed of the beauty of their bodies. Who win thanks to this madness are the ugly; who became the champion of fashion and behavior. The “destined to be dead” certainly don’t possess a shining youth; and yet they teach you to not shine. And you shine, nevertheless, Gennariello.

I exaggerated, I went a bit too much against these “destined to be dead”, to the point that I could appear a bit vile and racist; it could seem I’m creating a group of people to condemn. No. Among the “destined to be dead” there are adorable people at least as adorable as you, so blatantly destined to life. If I had been polemic, with peculiar violence, against the teachings which the “destined to be dead” impose to you, that is because I took this category as symbol of the average man; the average man who teach, as a matter of fact, these same things, and without that bit of desperation which could correct them, justify them and make them human.

[xfulmen]

The boy spat crimson that coated his mouth, as a tired scowl trailed over to a fellow Dragonslayer, who lay lifeless upon the dirt. Emeralds widened at the sight, as tired feet began to sprint toward. The Salamander soon found legs to give out, as knees hit the dirt in a rough manner, in front of one of the strongest men to ever wear the Fairy Tail emblem. " Laxus !! " he coaxed, voice hoarse from the battle beforehand. " Wake up !! Laxus !! "

(  @burningsalamander  )

          OMNIPOTENCE INCARNATED had made contact with the dirty ground underneath, smearing wounded flesh, accompanying bruises, severe injuries that proven to be fatal, and the thick liquid substance in a crimson nuance. His pattern of breathing was heavy, inasmuch as his respiratory lungs were in horrid condition, alongside with several internal organs. (  and miraculously, he was still alive  ) His vision felt like betraying him, as lids were about to provide concealment for an eternity. The stalwartness was nonexistent. His valor had evaporated. The customary austerity saturated upon virile mien had tarnished — now replaced with the sight of a fallen warrior, ready to meet his end. After all, those are the consequences of a calamitous conflict; the outcomes of a war. An amalgamation of catastrophy, agony and despair. And the sight of Laxus Dreyar, fallen on the ground, soulless nay, was one of them.

          Perhaps this is fine. Perhaps this is a way to repent all the erroneous actions that he had committed in the past. The weight adjusted upon his shoulders was gargantuan, and seemingly he was unable to life it. Perhaps this was life’s payback for acting our of paralogism, resulting in preposterous acts. Laxus was no saint. He was a lost man, walking a path that led towards perpetual obscurity. Blinded by reputation, glory, and supreme prowess. He was once the embodiment of arrogance and coarseness, and the epitome of heuteur and selfishness. He was a mass of pridefulness, blended with frustration and own ideals to be actualized. And once said mass erupted like a volcano, he paid the heavy price for it. Pragmatically speaking, he never harboured ill intentions towards his comrades, albeit the creation of the infamous ‘ Battle of Fairy Tail ‘, or any other times he showed devaluement towards them. It felt like wearing a mask, hiding truthful purposes, and yet, demonstrated otherwise. And he faced the ramifications for them.

          Even so, he was given a chance; an opportunity to redeem himself and show a different personality. To become someone valuable, trustworthy and reliable. To become someone to have actual goals in life, rather than mere illusions displayed in his eyesight. He underwent a lot, in order for this change to happen. No grievances to be vocalized; he was deserving of this. He deserved his excommunication from the rambunctious premises of Fairy Tail. He deserved being shamed for what he has done, and undergoing tough situations; unimaginable, yet still part of his journey — the road to redemption. And he finally did! Whilst not at absolution, he had still managed to alter himself, his perspectives and motives significantly. He felt like his eyes weren’t blurry anymore, and could see clearly. As if the clouds blocking his view were finally extinguished. Yes, he still had a lot more to change. Yes, he was not perfect (  there’s no such thing as perfection, and that’s not an excuse for him to use  ) But he had managed with the few actions displayed, to show his true self. And eventually earned his spot back in Fairy Tail. 

          Yet, he still felt like he didn’t deserve this. And thoughts like this have been haunting his mind, pursuing him relentlessly. One might say that there’s exaggeration here, but his heart cannot lie. That is how he was feeling and nothing could ever change that. Ever. Regardless all his hard efforts in gaining acceptance, there’s a big part in his mind and heart that scream otherwise. And this is something that he would live on with, endlessly. —– Huh, quite an argumentative thing to say, considering his current condition.

                                                       ❛ … ! ❜

          And somehow, he could hear a recognizable voice reverberating cranial walls. Identical complexions of fire opal managed to offer a glance at its direction, only to spot familiar orchid shaded strands; a familiar presence positioned next to him. One that was sharing the same insignia, and similitude of power; None other but Natsu Dragneel. A fellow guild member and a fellow dragon slayer with different element. A valuable comrade. And one of the few that helped him open his eyes and realize his mistakes. Notwithstanding that he would never admit of such, the flame user is an impactful presence in his life. His actions, his words, helped him acknowledge the wrong path that he was walking, and finally start concentrating on fundamental things; actual dreams in life — everyone has them, and Laxus was no exception. Natsu had an important role in this play, and the lightning dragon slayer was interminably grateful to him.

                              ❛ Huh —– looks like                                     — my time has come. Shit — ! ❜

          Upon having a set of words escaping his mouth, he would also expectorate thick liquidity of a deep red hue. Exhaling ferociously, he sensed that his lungs were about to halt the common act of respiring for good. And unbelievably, he had mustered enough physical strength to voice a few more words. — But that’s not all. He would raise one enormously muscular arm, as a wide open palm was placed atop the ally’s shoulder; a gesture exuding amiability. A rarity coming from the S - class mage. Furthermore, he could sense liquid morphed in the corners of his eyes, ready to stroll down the pores of his face. The unveilment of any emotions was out of question; he would constantly disregard it. But this was an exception. And a final one. Therefore, he would let the salty tears to roll down the would flesh, with subtle lips taking the formation of an upward curve. For one last time.

                              ❛ —- I’m sorry.

                                —- Sorry for — being an asshole to you… . I guess I didn’t know – any better. And lastly —

                                             thank you. 

                                     Thank you — for helping me — find my way. So, be good kid. —- Become stronger — 

                                                  and surpass me. ❜