#and with that I bid thee all a good night

[the-monkeies-girl]

Idk if anyone’s curious but this is my face and this cactus dress I got… I would simply die for it thank you

[nighttimesoup]

i fear i shan't have time to blog tomorrow

[galedekarios]

"i'm strong enough. i'll carry on alone."

i've already made a more detailed post about the loss scene that was part of act i and gale's romance in early access.

the scene held a lot of weight and was a turning point in the relationship between gale and the protag, while also highlighting just how far gale has fallen, in terms of social standing and in terms of power:

Gale: Khat-Tsjin Deth-Thra! Player: You don't sound very happy there, Gale. Gale: Happiness is like a stray cat: sometimes it seeks you out, sometimes it ignores you. Tonight, I'm ignored. It's getting alte. I think I'll turn in. Perhaps some sleep will do me good. Player: They say you should never go to bed angry. Gale: Isn't that advice for couples? The only one I'm angry with is myself. Please - just let it rest. Player: [Insight Success] We shared the WEave the other night. Now share what's on your mind. Gale: Very well. Just now, I was trying to cast a spell I once cast with ease, but I failed. You see, this fire - there was a time that I could make it come alive. That it would take the shape of a dragon and roar in delight. There was atime I could silence a Beholder with a word, and lift a tower from its foundations with a flourish. There was a time I was all but one with the Weave. But no more - a mere shadow of the wizard I used to be. Why? Because I've lost. Player: I don't understand. What is it that you've lost? Gale: I've lost... Player: [Insight Success] Go on. Every burden is easier to carry when shared. Gale: An apt enough observation. I've lost Mystra. I sought to impress her personally. To turn the eyes of my muse upon me. To win the favour of a goddess. But I failed, and all I invoked was death and dismissal. My death. Her dismissal. Player: I don't know what to make of what you've told me, but I sympathise. Gale: Thank you. You're a good friend. I often think of that moment we shared together - one under the Weave. I hope you think about it too.

it's a wonderful scene that offers a lot of insight into gale's character as well as his past, but what i haven't focused on in the original post is the dialogue the player would get from gale if the protag failed the check to convince him to open up and share the burden that was making him visibly upset:

[the banter is identical with the one above up to this point] Gale: I've lost... Player: [Insight Failure] Go on. Every burden is easier to carry when shared. Gale: I'm strong enough. I'll carry on alone. Gale: With that I bid you an evening better than my own.

i think this shows a very interesting side of gale and one that we both don't get to see often and / or press him on: the side of gale that masks his worries, his fears, his insecurities and his pain to soldier on and do what he feels needs to be done.

we catch glimpses of it in the full release as well, specifically during and after elminster does his duty as mystra's chosen and informs gale of her demands of him:

Weary Traveller: You must find the Heart of the Absolute, whatever that may be, and use yourself as the catalyst that will burn it from this world. Player: We'll be rid of both the Absolute and Gale in one fell swoop. Win-win. Weary Traveller: I may be slow to anger, but I will not have you sully this moment of most sorrowful import with ill-considered levity! Gale: It's all right, Elminster. If ever gallows humour were appropriate, this is its grim-smiling hour. Weary Traveller: It brings me no pleasure saying this, my friend, but such is Mystra's will. Yours must be the sacrifice that will undo the Absolute. And for your sacrifice, you will be redeemed - such is Mystra's promise. Weary Traveller: With that, I've said my sorry piece, and need only bestow unto thee the charm I was bid.

it's elminster who is upset on gale's behalf, not gale himself. he treats it as 'gallow's humour' - whether or not it's meant like that by the protag.

the same view he takes on shortly after, once the protag asks him how he is feeling:

Player: How are you feeling? It can't be easy, facing the possibility of death... Gale: Oh, you know me - ever the optimist. I'm trying to focus on the positives. devnote: Gallows humour Gale: The truth is, I was living on borrowed time already. Consuming those items would only have kept the orb sated for so long. Gale: If anything, I feel more at peace than I have in months. At least now I know my death will have purpose. It won't be a distant 'bang' in the footnotes of history.

Player: You're seriously considering doing what Elminster said? Gale: Of course - he offered the clearest solution to our problem. All I have to do is find the right place and time, close my eyes, and let go… devnote: Trying to sound upbeat, not fully engaging with what he’s saying (that he’s going to kill himself). Gale: Then the slate will be clean, wrongs will be righted, the Absolute will be gone… devnote: Trying to sound upbeat, not fully engaging with what he’s saying (that he’s going to kill himself). Gale: …and I along with it. devnote: Still trying to sound upbeat, though this time the reality that this means he will die weighs a bit heavier

the game gives you no option to press him on any of this. on this front of maintaining optimism, of gallows humour, clinging tightly to the idea of there being purpose in his own death, yet not fully engaging with what that actually means.

until he can't avoid it anymore, and even then, he carries on. we know it's already of limited comfort to him by the time the last night alive scene / act 2 romance scene takes place:

Gale: I am terrified - I will not claim otherwise. My face could scarcely conceal it even if my words sought to deny it. nodecontext: Hushed, vulnerable Gale: There is no point in running from the inevitable. Better to meet it, on my own terms. nodecontext: Resigned

and it's echoed later too, in act 3, when he offers himself up as an out, a failsafe, for the protag and the companions:

and it of course culminates in the scene - if you chose to take that route - which gale ascends to the elder brain alone, spelling his friends and companions away to safety.

he says he is strong enough to carry on alone, to do what he believes must be done, what's been ordained to him, by fate or by mystra, and he is. despite being terrified. despite wishing he didn't have to be.

it's an interesting aspect of gale - but his relief is all the sweeter for it when he realises that he doesn't have to be strong enough and that he doesn't have to carry on alone.

he's found friends and possibly love.

every burden is easier to carry when shared indeed.

[insertdisc5]

Hi again again, hope this finds you just as well as the other two. Last ask from me for now - I'll try to limit myself to 1 ask max in the future, and I'll do my best to space them out as well (probably also keep them from being too wordy, while I'm at it.) - but I want to give my thanks to you for being so kind with your responses, and for providing the answers that you did.

You clearly care for your works and the fans of said works, and it shows even by your responses alone - even if I only asked 2 ISAT-related questions. For that, you have my utmost respect, and I'm glad to have interacted with you even in this small anonymous fashion. That's all I wish to say for this ask, so for now I bid thee farewell.

I once again wish you well on any future endeavors, near or far, and I hope you have a good night/morning/whatever is appropriate for your time zone currently.

polite anon thank you for your asks and you are so very welcome and i hope you have a delightful rest of your day. i bid u adieu

[fastlikealambo]

Connubium.|| Coriolanus Snow x Black Fem Reader Chapter Nine

table of contents.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Summary: Stealing from The Capitol is a deadly offense, yet you’ve done it more times than you can count but when you do something you should not have done, Volumnia Gaul decides a fate for you that might just be worse than death.

Notes: This takes place post The Ballad of Songbirds And Snakes and Coryo is in his last year at The University, studying under Dr. Gaul. This will not follow canon, I’m not an expert on all the lore so I apologize if I get things wrong.

Disclaimer: You know Coriolanus is a POS, I know Coriolanus is a POS, please don’t yell at me because this is just a fun little story, something for thee hotties, and  if you feel that strongly against President Snow, please let me know if you’d like me to sign you up for tessarae.

18+ only

trigger warnings for blood, vomit, injuries.

We are finally at the end, wow, this has been so much fun. I'm still a little unsure about this ending but I just want to say thank you for reading over these past few months, thank you so much.

  “And we’re back with our President and First Lady to be! It’s so good to see you both smiling after such a tragic time.” Lucky Flickerman beamed into the camera.

    “Thank you for having us Lucky and thank you to everyone watching at home.” You said with a soft smile, taking Coriolanus’ hand in yours.  In return, Coriolanus lightly kissed your knuckles and the studio audience cooed in response.

    “Let's get down to why we are all here, shall we?  It’s been three long and sad months since that fateful day and what a day it was. I should know, I was there and vomited all over my favorite suit!”

    “It really was a great suit, Lucky.” Coriolanus chimed in, earning a  laugh from the audience. 

  “Tell us, Coriolanus, what was it like in those moments?  We’ve all seen the footage of you cradling your beautiful wife, the danger, the drama! In your own words, tell us and everyone watching at home, about your wedding day.”

With a last look at you, Coriolanus Snow, husband, murder, and President-elect of Panem, opened his mouth and began to speak.

The night before his wedding, Coriolanus Snow was not in search of a final fling before an eternity of matrimonial bliss nor was he drinking himself into a stupor to bid his old life behind.  

When he kissed you goodbye after your long important walk and talk, he watched you get into the waiting car, shut the blinds and got to work. Crassus Snow’s record player crackled to life and with a sonata filling the apartment, Coriolanus surveyed the upwards of hundreds of champagne bottles on the dining room table.

He had not lied, if you asked him to burn down Panem, he would fetch a match yet after tomorrow, that would not be necessary.

For you, he would poison his wedding guests and murder President Ravinstill.

And for him, but that's besides the point.

As night turned to dawn, Coriolanus packed the champagne, the scent of apples and rosewater hiding the danger beneath. His guests would get something of his own collection, sweet and light, just enough to make them vomit and collapse, enough chaos to distract from the main attraction.

For President Ravinstill, he would not stray from tradition.

Nightlock.

Not just nightlock berries ground with a mortar and pestle, that was lazy, noticeable.  Every little piece of the berry was used, sprinkled in with champagne already designated for the soon to be former president. 

He watched, oh how he watched Ravinstill, take flute after flute upon his arrival. 

Yet at the very end, the person whom Coriolanus wanted at his side to witness the end of an era was currently unconscious on the floor beneath him.

Coriolanus Snow, with all his careful planning and plotting, had lost.

It had been two minutes since you had stopped talking, one minute since you stopped breathing and ten seconds since Coryo had tried another dose of the antidote. Coriolanus looked to the purpling corpse of Ravinstill, face frozen in death, and refused to let him win. 

There was no Panem with you.

    “ Not yet, Mrs. Snow.”

 “Coryo!”

A small gasp and the click clack of heels brought Coriolanus out his head and back to you as Tigris came running into the room. He had made sure Tigris was away from the venue before the champagne was served  by simple timing but now he was glad to have her here by his side.

    “Coryo, Coriolanus? Is she-

  He did not, could not, answer that. 

    Coriolanus brushed tears back and gave you another rescue breath, watching your chest rise and fall with his help only to remain just as still.  He checked for a pulse again, felt that weak irregular beat beneath his fingertips starting to slow.

Please don’t go, he whispered.

     “Coryo, I can hear sirens, we have to get her outside.” Tigris urged, voice thick with tears and Coriolanus was vaguely aware of himself pressing his lips to your forehead before gently picking you up. It all became real in that moment and Coriolanus began to run. 

The sight in front of him was more horrific than he had imagined to be with his wedding guests in various states of consciousness and the pungent aroma of vomit and blood wafting through the venue. Peacekeepers and medics were beginning to swarm the area and  with you in his arms, Coriolanus remembered there was still a part of his work that needed to be executed.

    “Help, somebody help! There’s something wrong with my wife, I don’t know what’s happening but President Ravinstill, he’s back there, he’s collapsed! I tried to help him but-” Coriolanus broke off, false tears in his eyes as he shook his head at the listening medic. The medic nodded at two other medics and peacekeepers who ran towards where Tigris was pointing. 

  Coriolanus reluctantly let the medics take you before following them into the ambulance himself without a word, barely hearing Tigris’ promise to meet him at the hospital.  Alarms and instructions between medics faded away as he squeezed your hand.

Please don’t go.

At some point, a shrill monotone sound invaded Coryo’s ears and it was then and only then that he let himself splinter. There was more noise and action around your body and unable to hold your hand, Coriolanus curled in himself, hands in his hair, caught between suffocating fear and such incredible rage.

The ambulance came to a stop at Capitol Hospital and all Coriolanus could do was watch a nurse climb onto the gurney take over compressions and let that same gurney carrying Panem’s possibly dead next first lady pass him and race inside.

Only then when standing alone did Coryo care to notice that the inside of his mouth was stinging, letting his tongue pass over the beginnings of a bloody sore. Every time he had breathed for you, what remained of the poison on your lips traveled to his own. 

The taste of blood in his mouth was nothing new to Coriolanus. 

There would be no Panem without you, all would crumble and perish before him, there would be no capitol, no games, just the end of all.

Coriolanus Snow had made up his mind: should you pass this day, Panem would know the dark days once more.

   “I’ve never been more afraid in my life, Lucky. If I could go back and save our dear President Ravinstill too, I would have done more, I should have done more, there was just so much happening.  I couldn’t lose my wife, without her I would lose myself.” Coriolanus broke off, a small sob escaping him and the audience was more than happy to lick up his grief.

 With a soft kiss on his cheek, you guided his hand from your thigh to your stomach with a smile.

Lucky loudly blew into a hanky before gasping when he saw Coriolanus’ hand on your stomach.

   “Mrs. Snow, is there something you’d like to share with us?”

   “Because of Coriolanus,  the extraordinary medical team at Capitol Hospital, and the support of Panem, I’m still here and I’m so happy to announce I’m pregnant.”

The audience roared and it was then you knew the girl from District 6 had all of Panem in the palm of your hand.

But there were games left to play.

FIVE MONTHS LATER

  “Ma, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.” You urged, your hand wrapped around hers, tears in your eyes. 

A few long seconds later, your mother weakly squeezed your hand, the same as your Pa the day before.  

You were taking it slow but the doctors promised they would fully wake any day now and pre- inauguration press and third trimester be damned, you would be at their side the moment they opened their eyes.

You kissed your mother on her forehead, promising to come back tomorrow. 

But now, you had a very special appointment.

   “Little thief, you’re glowing! How can I be of service?” Dr. Gaul looked up from her research with that all too familiar venomous smile.

  “I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done in aiding my parents’ recovery. The doctors say they will wake up any day now.” You said, taking the seat she offered.

   “How wonderful! It’s good to hear my favorite lab rats are on the mend. Hopefully seeing their daughter pregnant and married won’t send them right back into a coma.” 

 You gave a hollow laugh but sat up in your chair.

  “ They’ll be happy to know I’m still alive.  I almost wasn’t, as you well know. It took the doctors so long to treat me, they couldn’t figure out why I was so much sicker than everyone else. So many tests were run and even now they still don’t know.”

  “Have you asked Mr. Snow? He’s always had such an insight into poison.” Dr. Gaul remarked pointedly. 

It was no secret that Coriolanus was involved in Ravinstill’s death but thanks to your dramatic yet romantic near death experience being caught on camera, Panem did not care.

  “ I would but he’s been so busy touring the districts, preparing for the inauguration. Speaking of, there’s something I need to tell you, actually it’s easier if I show you.” 

 One of your security detail came forward and turned on Gaul’s television. 

Lucky Flickerman came on to the screen excitedly, a breaking news banner beneath him and to his right sat Coriolanus.

  “ Mr. President, I’ll cut to the chase, my producers have told me you have something to share with the fine people of Panem? ” Lucky asked, bouncing on the edge of his chair.  Coriolanus smiled into the camera, hands folded on his lap.

   “To honor the tragic death of former President Ravinstill and to celebrate the upcoming arrival of our daughter, the First Lady and myself would like to announce the suspension of The Hunger Games this year.”

Last night, you had asked Coriolanus if would rather be feared than loved.

This was his answer.

You couldn’t hear the TV due to the rather dramatic shrieking of Volumnia Gaul.

As if on cue, peacekeepers entered Dr. Gaul’s lab began to take it apart, boxing up research, emptying cabinets and Dr. Gaul herself stood in front of you, laughing.

  “I underestimated you, little thief. Will you kill me now or televise it?” She asked, head held high as two peacekeepers appeared on either side of her.

You stood up from your chair slowly to face the now former Head Gamemaker.

  “I don’t need to kill you. You tortured and poisoned my parents and through your puppet Ravinstill tried to kill me, death is an afternoon treat for you. I want you to witness the future of Panem, witness them forget your creations the more time passes, and one day, when someone asks what The Hunger Games were for, the answer will be simple: nothing. From now until the day you die you will remember me not as a hostage or the wife of a President, but as the little thief who stole your greatest treasure, your legacy.”

Your time with Dr. Gaul ended in the place where it all began.

If only she had chosen a girl of fine capitol breeding.

EPILOGUE

One week after the presidential inauguration of Coriolanus Snow, Rose Snow comes into the world screaming, Coriolanus holding your left hand and your mother holding your right.

Once upon a time, you had three rules.

Never be seen.

Never take what you could not carry.

Never intervene.

Now you only have one.

To live without fear, now and forever. 

Thank you to everyone who has been waiting, I hope that this was worth the wait! Thank you all for reading and I’m so happy this is out now. If you would like to see a sequel to connubium, please interact and reblog this work!

[lizzyscribbles]

Today's MHA ramble is either gonna be great or ineligible and there will be no in-between. I'm on my computer instead of my phone today so I can type so much faster, but, I am slightly dehydrated and out of it because I just spent like eight hours outside in the sun for a renaissance fair so maybe I'll just pass out half way through, who knows.

Lizzy's MHA thought/ramble of the night: MHA and why I think it does the "power of friendship" trope the correct way (IE: Not cringy/weird).

Now, I honestly think trying to wrap up the intricacies of the end of MHA in just "the power of friendship!!" is doing the series a huge disservice, but in its simplest form, that kind of is what happens. To be honest, I'm such a sucker for this trope. I love it when we get to see all the people the MC (Izuku in this case) has made an impact on over the course of the series and they all come together to back the main character, that is thee shit and I will eat it up.

However, the thing I love about MHA's approach to this is something we see explored a lot through the series: the idea that you don't have to go at it alone. Like, I feel like the ending has so much more of an impact because instead of them all the other characters standing behind him and going "Yay!! You can do it!! Good job!!" No, instead they run beside him and say "rest, we'll clear you a path. We know we can't do this for you, but at least let us do this".

Because that's what a friend is. That's what friendship is. It's realizing that not only is a friend someone you want to protect, but it's someone who protects you.

It gives me chills Every. Damn. Time.

It's through that we get to see the impact Izuku has made on everyone in the series. I joke with people that even when Izuku has nothing to do with something that's happening, he has something to do with it, and that really comes to a head in the final chapters. In a sort of ironic way, it's what ends up defeating All for One, because it's literally the only thing he never managed to get. Deku says as much while they're fighting, that deep down All for One really is just a lonely man. He had power, people to do his bidding and hang on his every word, but the top of the world is a very isolating place to be because there's no one who can look you in the eye. Followers and friends are two different things, a friend is an equal, a follower is a pawn.

I think it's why All for One was so attached to his younger brother Yoichi, because deep down, he knew All for One in ways that no one ever could. It was the closest to a genuine loving relationship he ever got.

Honestly, it's part of why All Might failed the first time around too. He had a few friends, sure, but in the end he was surrounded by mostly fans. People who adored and appreciated him, but did so from behind a barricade. All Might pretty much worked alone - and Deku definitely couldn't have made the progress he made without the trail All Might blazed - but Deku had the one thing All Might never did: People who fought alongside him even when he didn't want them to.

And, honestly? I can't blame All Might for avoiding it. After all, Deku almost does this same thing. They both wanted to protect people so badly they don't want to accept help. They see themselves as the only person who's allowed to make sacrifices because they're so scared they'll loose someone. It's part of the reason I find such comfort in Izuku as a character, because he never wants to see anyone else hurt because of him.

However, because Deku reached out first in the beginning, because he made friends and took care of them whenever he could, because treated them as equals, they said "too bad so sad, you get our help whether you like it or not, because that's what you'd do for us". It's the beauty of those final episodes of season six and why I love them so much, because 1-A had no reason to go after Deku other than they were worried about him. They didn't take no for an answer, because sometimes it's a friend's job to take you by the hand and scream in your face to "TAKE A NAP!!! EAT SOME FOOD!! YOU'RE WEARING YOURSELF DOWN AND YOU NEED A BREAK!!! SIT DOWN AND LET US CARRY YOU FOR A WHILE!!!"

It's exactly like Ochaco says, they don't want to be protected. They're not fragile victims to be looked after. They didn't get blindly wrapped up in this mess, they dove in head first because they cared about Izuku and wanted to stand at his side.

And therein lies the difference.

All for One had followers.

All Might had fans.

Deku had friends.

Followers will only do as they're told. Fans will only cheer on. But friends? You can't tell them to do shit, they do what they want, and if they want to help you then they will. Friends go the extra mile. Friends run beside you when no one else can. Friends clear the path for you so you can deliver that final big ass punch.

That's the magic of this trope, and you can see it so clearly here because it's realistic. And by that I mean Izuku doesn't get a magical burst of energy because everyone was cheering his name from the sidelines. It came from them actually doing shit to give him a chance. It came from Aizawa bandaging his wounds, it came from Iida grabbing his hand and half-dragging him across the battle field, it came from Eri giving a little bit of her quirk, it came from Bakugo showing up at the last second to blast the crap out of someone, it came from the countless attacks launched by the rest of the heroes to give him a chance to get back on his feet.

You know what they say, actions speak louder than words, and that's the magic of this kind of storytelling. We don't need to be told they care through chants or claps, they just show us.

That's the true "power of friendship". People who don't just stand beside you, but sometimes run in front of you so you don't trip over that stump in the path.

That's friendship. That's love. And I think that's incredibly beautiful.

...these posts get longer every time. Maybe I need to stick to my phone so my thumbs get tired faster. 😂 This is what happens when I'm allowed to cook late at night. If you made it to the end, thank you and I salute you.

[sgiandubh]

Hi! Really enjoying your posts but have a question. Why do you suppose anyone even cares where Sam is at any given moment? Is it all in the name of trying to prove he is or isn’t with Caitriona? What good does that do either side when we so rarely know where she is?

(I’d argue that someone shows us where she is most often when someone has already shown us where he is, and that alone 1) is fishy, and 2) only explains a small fraction of her whereabouts, but that’s the silly shipper in me talking 😉)

Dear Whereabouts Anon,

I am terribly sorry for the late answer, but in fact, I think now is the perfect time to answer your questions, given what happened yesterday/today.

I'll answer in order:

I think you noticed already: this is a very thirsty fandom, that has been spoon-fed since the beginning with banter and innuendo, both by These Two and by Anons. When the banter ended, the habit remained. Where is he? Where is she? Where are they? This is also a very 'give me everything and give it to me now ' fandom. The minute you post something of some import is the minute you are, pardon my French, fucked: endless Anons, ranging from pleading to cursing, will land in your inbox. Gimme. Your post will be obsolete in a matter of hours, at most. Gimme everything, all the time. Last but not least, I suppose S&C live, love, procreate and break up several times a day in the minds of some people in the fandom: knowing exactly where they are could possibly help reassure them everything is ok with Those Two. It is the direct consequence of the long timeline of PR slaps, drama and plot twists the shippers have witnessed over the years and I can't be judgmental. It is what it is, the lay of this insecure land.

Not always - I just tried to explain the shippers' motivations. For Mordor, it's all about ABC: Anyone But Cait. Literally anyone, which gave birth to the Fitness Harem merry-go-round. The protracted strike pushed it to new peaks of the grotesque, when it comes to foolishly speculating. No female (not even me, just to take a perfectly absurd premise) could ever be seen near Ginger Jesus, that immediately the Chinese Whispers game starts: who is she? where does she live? what's her trade? Ad nauseam.

It reassures shippers and it serves multiple agendas in Mordor. As simple as that.

I completely agree with your conclusion. And now, I'll have to bid thee good night. I am beaten. :)

[torchwood-99]

Something really wonderful about Eowyn and how she is written is that even though she is a woman, and driven to extreme emotional lengths, at no point is she depicted as an "hysterical woman" by the narrative. If anything, when Eowyn is allowed to speak, she can be brutally logical.

In her argument with Aragorn, Aragorn presents what is a generally good point, but Eowyn absolutely rips it to shreds by pointing out what his hypothetical point means for her (and other women) in reality.

‘A time may come soon.’ said he, ‘when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.’ And she answered: ‘All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honor, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.’

Aragorn cannot dispute that. Whether he agrees or not, he cannot find fault in her reasoning. He has to change tack by addressing emotions.

‘What do you fear, lady?’ he asked. ‘A cage,’ she said. ‘To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.’

Now Aragorn tries to use logic again.

‘And yet you counselled me not to adventure on the road that I have chosen, because it is perilous?’ ‘So may one counsel another,’ she said. ‘Yet I do not bid you flee from peril, but to ride to battle where your sword may win renown and victory. I would not see a thing that is high and excellent cast away needlessly.’ ‘Nor would I,’ he said. ‘Therefore I say to you, lady: Stay! For you have no errand to the South.’ ‘Neither have those others who go with thee. They go only because they would not be parted from thee — because they love thee.’ Then she turned and vanished into the night.'

He tries to use her own points against her, and she instantly gets back at him, hit for hit. He tries to respond to that with a mix of flattery and general "you just can't, that's why". Even then, Eowyn points out his double standards. For admitting her love, almost, Eowyn has to turn away and leave, yet she is left with the last word.

Even when facing the Nazgul, Eowyn has the last say, using the Nazgul's own words against him.

A cold voice answered: 'Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.'

A sword rang as it was drawn. 'Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may.'

'Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!'

Then Merry heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that Dernhelm laughed.... 'But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.'

Eowyn is staring downt he fucking Witch King, and is Rules Lawyering him. The Nazgul throws fear at Eowyn, and Eowyn throws reason back. To devastating effect.

'The winged creature screamed at her, but the Ringwraith made no answer, and was silent, as if in sudden doubt. Very amazement for a moment conquered Merry's fear. He opened his eyes and the blackness was lifted from them.'

That bit of wordplay strikes doubt into the heart of her enemy, and courage into the heart of her ally, who is able to provide her pivotal assistance in her victory.

Again, when Eowyn debates with the Warden, he makes a good general point about wishing for peace over war, and wished people would heal instead of kill, and Eowyn points out why this ideal just doesn't work in reality.

'But for long years we healers have only sought to patch the rents made by the men of swords. Though we should still have enough to do without them: the world is full enough of hurts and mischances without wars to multiply them.'    'It needs but one foe to breed a war, not two, Master Warden,' answered Éowyn. 'And those who have not swords can still die upon them. Would you have the folk of Gondor gather you herbs only, when the Dark Lord gathers armies? And it is not always good to be healed in body. Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter.'

Eowyn points out that as much as the Warden would wish there was no war, when a war is started against you, it must be fought against.

Eowyn's more tragic declaration that she would rather die in battle than live to be healed also doesn't strike me as "hysterical", but a response that is logic, that isn't tempered by faith or hope. She knows in all likelihood death is upon them, the chances of victory are slim, and for that reason, she would rather die in battle, than be healed, only to be slaughtered when the enemy comes.

It almost puts me in mind of the of the opening to The Haunting Of Hill House. "No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more."

That's Eowyn. Living alone, in darkness, her dreams denied her, forced to live under the reality that victory is improbable, and all that is awaiting her is death.

When she meets with Faramir, she responds to his use of logic, helped along by the fact that he doesn't question her wishes, but instead advises her how best to achieve her ends.

  'But I do not desire healing,' she said. 'I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace.'     'It is too late, lady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength,' said Faramir. 'But death in battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting.'

He acknowledges that Eowyn's wish to die is a wish to die on her own terms, instead of being slaughtered, and doesn't dismiss her as irrational or hysterical. He sees the truth of the matter, and the advice he gives her is advice on how best to do what she wishes.

He also acknowledges they are in the same situation, talking about themselves as "we", assuring her he's on her side, and is not in opposition to her. He's not framed as a rational man schooling the irrational woman, but as a fellow at arms who sees himself in her situation and is sharing advice, one comrade to another.

That respect, that understanding, is enough to move Eowyn to tears, and she shows Faramir some vulnerability. She can do so, because someone is treating her as a reasonable being, and is actually listening to what she has to say.

We also see that Eowyn can put her rational, logical thinking into practise. We only have a glimpse of her taking charge of Dunharrow, but it's clear she has everything well arranged, despite the high pressure situation, where she is dealing with both the people's practical and emotional struggles.

“All is well. It was a weary road for the people to take, torn suddenly from their homes. There were hard words, for it is long since war has driven us from the green fields; but there have been no evil deeds. All is now ordered, as you see. And your lodging is prepared for you; for I have had full tidings of you and knew the hour of your coming.”

She gives a concise update on the situation, on the struggles they endured, a logical and empathetic reasoning for those struggles, and shows that everything has been sorted in the end, with no major issues at hand.

And there's no condescending suggestion that when Eowyn is right, or accomplishes something or is aware of something, that it is because of her "woman's intuition" or "natural woman's empathy", which sounds flattering at first, but in practise only acts to deny women their ability to use reason (like "men do") while still explaining why they might still have any insight. No, Eowyn is able to look at the situation around her, and draw logical conclusions.

The refutation of Eowyn's suffering being only that of an "emotional" or "hysterical" woman without an outward source comes most clearly when Gandalf explains to Eomer that Eowyn's suffering doesn't come from her thwarted love for Aragorn, nor does it stem from a vague, unknown emotional font from within, but as an entirely justified and reasonable response to the situation she was in.

'My friend, you had horses, and deed of arms, and the free fields; but she, being born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man, whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonoured dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned on.'

Women being inherently "emotional" has often been used to explain why a woman might be suffering, might be angry or frustrated or resentful, without having to assign fault or responsibility to anyone or anything but herself.

It is never her circumstances or the actions of the people around her that has elicited this emotional response, but her very womanhood. And therefore, her troubles can be overlooked or dismissed, and those around her can continue to act as they will, without guilt or blame.

Here, Gandalf and the narrative absolutely smash that insinuation, by rightly pinning the main cause of Eowyn's suffering on the terrible circumstances she was in.

Eowyn is allowed to be at once emotional and logical. Her extreme emotions are allowed to have a logical reason behind them, and she is at her best when logic and emotion are united. In leading the people to Dunharrow, she shows both reason and compassion. In standing before the Nazgul, she uses both her devotion to her uncle, and a nifty bit of wordplay against the Witch King. When she meets Faramir, she is able to open her heart, because he shows his respect to her as a rational being right from the first.

[kadavernagh]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The kingdom of Terramoist PARTIES: Regan and Jonas SUMMARY: The worms need some assistance on matters of love. Jonas and Regan help sort out their wormance. CONTENT: Worm spice

The rain from last night would bring the worms, and the worms would bring Siobhan’s face flashing in Regan’s eyes, burning into her occipital lobe. The examination room… Regan had been so cowed during that exchange, so pliant, after the trial had bled her out. Despite that, if there was anything she regretted saying to Siobhan, it was not ‘I hate you’. It was ‘I will think of you next time I see a worm’.

As it turned out, it was not only the next worm, but the one after that, and the next, and the hundreds that followed. Each had Siobhan’s presence oozing from their clitellae; their seductive squirming was like her long legs; the lines between segments her scars; the way they pulsed, like Siobhan’s desperation pushing itself to the surface. 

But Regan needed out of the cabin, because its jaws snapped around her whenever Jade wasn’t there. Outside was better, if only slightly. So there probably would be worms thriving. Was Siobhan thriving, too? Regan planted herself on the front steps, legs far apart, elbows on her knees, and tried not to stare down at the mud.

“Good morrow, my lady!” 

Regan jumped, then blinked at the small voice that seemed to come from below. Fine. She would look. Hadn’t she learned that the inevitable was the inevitable? There was a worm by her foot, an impressive specimen, pink and thick. But there was no way. Worms could not talk. And even if they were intelligent enough to (they were not), the worm had no mouth to speak of, and it wasn’t like it could see her. But the tiny animal looked up as if it could, its body wiggling with each word like they were being funneled through its anatomy. The voice came again. 

“How fare thee? I am Princess Soggerella from the Kingdom of Terramoist, and I am hither to bid for thy help. Prince Worming is to wed a compostor at dusk.”

It definitely talked. Unless there was a speaker in the mud. Unless it was her blood rushing behind her ears. Unless it was a strange echo from afar. Unless it was her phone. Unless a lot of things, which were becoming harder to believe than whatever twisted reality she was living in.

The worm tried again. “Well met?”

Recently, Regan had noticed the human simulations had begun to stare up at her through the screen. Between that and this incident, she really had to start wondering if her brain was supplying its own stimuli after being starved of what it wan– was accustomed to: the morgue, the death, the autopsies, the way all of it was able to touch peoples’ hearts, both literally and figuratively. Also, why was the worm even speaking like it was from the Middle Ages? Why a princess? Were worms a monarchy? Was Jade going to think she lost her fecking mind? Did she? Fearg an chinniúint, she would respond; Regan was going to speak to a worm.

The stubs on Regan’s back tried to flick, as they often did in the face of the unknown. “Uh… huh. What are you, really? Not fae. I would be able to tell. Not a worm. This is impossible.” Regan pressed her lips together. “Should be impossible.” Yet she found her face closer to the worm. At least its talking distracted her from Siobhan. And everything else, for that matter, including that those stubs had grown a little. “Why are you talking, um, to me?” The worm should have gone to Hamstring. Why didn’t it? Hamstring was so good with worms. Everyone knew it. Cliodhna knew it. Regan flushed with shame at the way her fingers had curled tightly around the wooden step. She released it.

“I am but small,” The worm curled up in demonstration, “and thou are nigh.” 

Nigh? Close, that meant close. Well, that wasn’t exactly flattering. She was a worm hero out of convenience. Her ego could have used moistening right now, too. “What is it that you’d like me to do? I am not going to kill any worms. I am done with worm battles.”

Hearing that, the worm drained from a healthy pink to an ashen grey, like Regan’s own worms had been. “No, not slay! They hath found the worm bride, the compostor, yet I don’t think the bride is a worm! This bride is too long, vertically. Thou must interrupt the ceremony. Kingdom Terramoist shall fall if thou dost not. As shall I.” The worm drooped. “Prince Worming… the prince is long and grey, lithe. Some do believe the prince to be ill, yet Worming is my heartworm.”

Regan rubbed at her eyes. No. This was all still happening in front of her. And Prince Worming sounded like one of her worms. How was that… she supposed this was close to the field the worms did battle at, but could that really be true? And if Worming was one of hers, was Soggerella one of Siobhan’s? Regan did not like that. She stifled her prejudices, but barely.

The worm went on. “I learned of love on a blissful February day. Mine mother read mine poetry. And I love the Worm Prince. The Prince shall shower me with love and his slime packet if only I were granted a chance.”

Ó, lobhadh mór, definitely Siobhan’s worms.

But Regan had another chance to do right by her worms now. If stopping the marriage was for the good of the kingdom, then she should do it. But what about Prince Worming? Did he return Soggerella’s affection? Regan had raised her worms on vastly different literature, painting a harsh picture of the moors, detailing strife; Siobhan softened hers with notions of romance. As always, for better or worse (and it was usually worse), Regan decided she needed to see for herself.

“Fine. You can show me. But I need to be back here before the sun sets. Can you even see the sun?”

“Prithee, follow meeeeee.” The worm squiggled into the woods at a much slower pace than even the average geriatric post-hip replacement patient. Reluctant, Regan glanced back over at the cabin – new memories with Jade were coating the old, but the paint thinned sometimes, and she could still see what was underneath: iron blades and spattered animals, secrets and isolation. Remains of her own making deep in the soil.

Regan followed the worm.

—

Yesterday had been a normal day with normal happenings until just past 12 in the afternoon when a small voice called up to Jonas from the soil. From there things went terribly, horribly wrong. Of all the things in Wicked’s Rest to have happened from giant cicadas to a shrimp cult to someone breaking into his house to spread cream cheese on his shoes, this was by far one of the strangest. The surprisingly deep voice came from a worm. Not just any worm, but Prince Worming himself. The small crown atop his body solidified his position as did the ball of worms wriggling underneath him keeping his gray skinny body from touching the ground. 

“This one.” The curt sentence was punctuated with a nod of what Jonas assumed was the worm’s head. 

“I um… excuse me?” Jonas wasn’t sure what was stranger, that a worm just talked or the fact he could hear them so clearly. He didn’t get much time to ponder it though as the worms started creeping up his legs, slimy mucus coating the skin as they inched higher. His eyes widened as he did his best to sweep them off. However there were simply too many of them. It wasn’t long before Jonas found himself sliding slowly across the ground on a bed of sickly colored worms, passers-bies ignoring his calls for help. He had been dragged deep into the forest and left to sit tied to a tree until the sun came up the next day, kept under strict worm guard. 

As the sun began to filter between the tree tops Jonas was finally approached by what seemed to be a worm general, “Greetings wormling! I see you are up and attem with the sun! Very good! The prince likes his early mornings, he truly chose a most fitting bride!” The worm spoke as if he was an older gentleman, in fact Jonas could swear he saw a tiny gray mustache on the worm’s face. “It won’t be long now, you must be quite the happy wormlet. A bit big for my taste but it’s the prince you’re marrying, not me.” The worm’s hearty chuckle rang out by Jonas’ ankles. 

Jonas sat quiet as the shock seemed to set in. He was here to marry a worm?! What’s worse is that they didn’t seem to realize he was a human at all. Did he really look so wormly? “I um am flattered? But I must get home. I do not think I am quite um right for the prince.” He mumbled softly. He had never had to turn down a worm before, let alone a royal one. Then again he supposed he was more letting the general pass on the message in his stead.

“Nonsense! This is great honor to be wed to the prince! You must just be having, oh now what do the children call it ah yes the wedding wiggles. They will pass once you are down the aisle.” The worm patted Jonas’ foot with the end of its body before slithering away. 

“Wait! I do not wish to go down the aisle! I am not a worm!” Jonas’ calls were promptly ignored by the worms around him who were all going about their daily duties in the tiny camp. He was beginning to think that he really ought to stop lending Blue out to Jamie for jobs, then again maybe she was warning his friend about the fact Jonas was in danger. He prayed silently Blue was getting help somehow or that Lil had noticed he hadn’t come home the night before.  He didn’t want to be a worm bride, he didn’t think he could fall in love with a worm let alone make said worm happy even if he did. They ate different things and obviously had different lifestyles, but more importantly Jonas could never really be in support of a monarchy. Sure it was fun to imagine a prince sweeping him off his feet and having a tragic romance where the prince couldn’t love him because of their different status in life but throwing it all away to be by his side, but that was more of a fantasy to lull him to sleep at night rather than an actual desire. The prince in those dreams had never been a worm either. 

Perhaps Jonas had to simply accept his new worm life and worm husband until he could find a good chance to slip away. Would his friends notice him missing? Surely Lil would. What would she think of a worm brother in law? Would they even let him meet her after the wedding? Where would Blue be kept? Who would take care of his bakery? Was there anyone out there looking for him right now? The questions without answers seemed never ending. 

—

Every few paces, Regan waited for Soggerella to catch up with her, then she questioned her sanity. She was following a talking worm into the woods – not just any worm, one of Siobhan’s. To stop a wedding. She had never dared do that before, even when she thought a relationship was destined for death row. How many weddings had she been to? Some… she couldn’t remember. Names and venues hid in the grooves of her brain, but she knew they were there. And she remembered a few unconventional wedding gifts she had given. Who wouldn’t appreciate a bulk order of formalin? How else were they planning on preserving soft-bodied organisms? (They liked the money more.) Greg... the name came. Greg and Allison. That was who. She hadn’t interrupted then, even though she knew Greg was not a particularly good cardiologist. What did she know about hearts, though?

This was taking too long; she couldn’t be missing when Jade returned. Eventually, Regan just picked the worm up and had it direct her. But Soggerella did not know left from right, so Regan was relying on the subtle gesturing of a worm tail (posterior? Not quite a tail). It had been about an hour, and she regretted not bringing water before setting out. The worm was starting to look a little dried out, too. But she was assured they were almost there. Finally, Soggerella told Regan to stop.

Regan was facing a thick tree. “Here? Are you sure?” She asked the worm, with an uncertain tone. 

There was no uncertainty in the worm’s voice. “Welcome to the vast kingdom of Terramoist! Thou art a guest of the princess. Strive to blend in. Draw not attention to thyself. Knowest thou my decree?” Stop the wedding. Regan did. “Now I must return to mine own quarters. This pink, fleshy skin of mine doth need moistened before I present myself before Prince Worming and prove that I am a suitable bride.”

Regan set the worm on the ground and watched her squiggle away to moisturize. Meanwhile, Regan took in her surroundings. There wasn’t anything special about this place, as far as she could tell. Except… what was that around the tree? And when the birds quieted, she heard something like breathing. Human-sized breaths. She did not know how worms breathed, but this was from something large-bodied in comparison. She placed her hands against the tree and slowly peered around.

At the human there.

One she knew.

“Jonas… Ballard?” Right, he was deaf. Regan circled in front of him so he could read her lips. It was certainly him. No need to repeat the question. She had many others, though. For example, why was he tied to a tree with what was only a string? And why were there strange leaf and rock tent-like structures at his feet? And then, finally, why had the worm brought her to Jonas?

She shook her head and snapped the string with a quick grab at it. Because Jonas hadn’t, for some reason. “Hello. It is me. Why didn’t you do that? Does Lilian know you’re here?” She asked him. Perhaps this was self-imposed exile for his bagel crimes. That made sense.

A grey worm emerged from under one of the leaf tents and shouted. “HOLD IT!” Regan knew, personally, that something could be tiny and loud at the same time. But this was a worm. Her eyes ticked to Jonas for some kind of explanation. More shouting came from the direction of the pencil-thin, ill-looking worm. Oh. Her worm. Who didn’t recognize her. “What do you think you’re doing, soldier? This is Prince Worming’s bride.”

Soggerella wiggled out from under a leaf, newly moist, and wept slime at the mention of the other bride.

The commanding worm continued. “You can’t just barge in and take the bride for yourself. We have the red carpet ready.” The worm pointed its tail to, what Regan now realized, was a rectangular mass of reddish worms forming a long mat. It ended in front of a flat rock decorated with intricately patterned dirt.

“Compostor!” Soggerella wept more slime. “Worming was to marry me! We were to continue the tradition of union between our families! We were to rule Terramoist! This worm hath no royal pedigree. The worm is a commoner!” If it was love, real love, how could Regan judge the way Soggerella’s voice became a soggy warble? She and Siobhan both saw the way their worms had coupled on Worm Day.

The army worm seemed sympathetic, to an extent (don’t ask Regan how she intuited that) but he served the prince. “You are wrong, Princess. Go back to Dampmoss. Find a strapping young worm, and rule there. Prince Worming chose his bride, and he knows what he wants. A worm who eats common dirt does not grow this long. This bride is fit and strong, girthy with the Jade sauce.” 

Regan choked. These were her worms, alright, if she possessed any previous doubt. She looked down at the grey worm (did it have a mustache?) with a raised brow that was longer and thicker than it was. “You think this, uh, this–” she gestured to Jonas, “– is a worm bride? Oh… kay. Huh. Where is this Prince Worming, anyway? I need to speak with him. I am someone important, you see. An, uh, envoy. From Cadaverville.” 

Regan reviewed the facts. She was here to stop Prince Worming from marrying… Jonas, who the worms thought was a tall worm. Because Princess Soggerella was in love with Worming. If she helped Worming see how great Soggerella is, the two of them could bring an era of prosperity to Terramoist. And she would redeem herself, her failure to take care of her worms, to treat them kindly, to see them to victory against Siobhan’s (it was mostly about the victory). Well, maybe more importantly she couldn’t let Jonas marry a worm. Probably. Did he want to? Regan gave him a sideways look. “Are you in love with this worm? Not this hairy one. Worming.” She got a stern look from the grey commander. “I mean, Prince Worming.” It was an utterly foolish question, but she didn’t feel like a fool. In fact, Regan stood tall, a human among worms (and Jonas). She should have been thinking she was insane. Or wondering why she was bothering with this when none of it was real. But those thoughts from earlier made way for a different one: for the first time since she’d come back, she felt useful.

—

Jonas was tapping his feet as he sat there awaiting his wormy fate, when suddenly a familiar face popped around the corner of the tree. “Dr. Kavanagh!” His face lit up at the sight of the terrifying woman. “Oh um I did not want to get swarmed again.” Once time was enough. He didn’t particularly like the feeling of worms crawling all over his skin, he also didn’t know how long it took worms to make string. It seemed a little rude to just break something that may have taken months to fashion without hands. He may have already resigned himself to his fate before the woman appeared from the forest to save him.

“I do not believe my sister uh knows I am here.” If she did he was sure Lil would have broken in by now and caused havoc upon the worms or died from laughing he wasn’t sure which. Perhaps it would be both. She at least wouldn’t let him marry the worm that he was certain of. She knew what kind of man Jonas liked and Prince Worming was as far from his normal preferences as one could get, not that he would ever insult Prince Worming, they simply were not compatible. Apparently there was someone else who also thought the same. A princess? Jonas hadn’t seen her before while here. She looked much healthier than the gray worms that had kidnapped him. She was very pink and more girthy than the general and Prince Worming were. Apparently she was also in love with the prince, how lovely! Though apparently she had already been rejected by the prince, something Jonas could relate to. He felt bad for his comrade in unrequited love. He was about to squat to talk to her as Regan seemed to be handling the situation just fine for now when a certain question made him pause and look at the doctor in disbelief. 

“Oh no! I do not. I um am not into worms.” 

The general seemed to take particular offense to that, “Not into worms? What kind of worm is not into worms?! The audacity!” He huffed and grumbled in his shock at such a notion, his little mustache trembling. He seemed to want to say more when a commanding voice sounded from the other side of the camp. 

“General, what is all this commotion before my wedding?” Prince Worming himself was being carried across the clearing, worms making sure to get out of his way as his caravan passed. He was now adorned with a small white cape, gold patterns of worms wrapped around branches and leaves were stitched into it. His crown was golden in color as well and looked cleaner than it had yesterday. He stood tall despite his sickly body, what Jonas supposed was his chest was puffed out as he took in the people who had come in uninvited. The balls of worms under him paused at Regan’s feet. “What is the meaning of this, you tall one speak. Explain to me what is so important that you feel the need to interrupt me on my most special of days.”

— 

Jonas certainly recognized her. Regan was (mostly) done questioning reality when someone from Wicked’s Rest showed up in an unexpected place. That was simply something that people here did. The ham child in her bedroom, Wynne and Elias in Ireland, Jade in that custom, two-person casket with her under the moonlight (that last one might have been a dream). So why couldn’t Jonas be tied to a tree with a string, surrounded by worms? Sure. “Then you should tell your sister about… whatever this is,” she gestured toward the army worm, who, yes, definitely had a mustache. That was its face, right? She was an expert on vertebrate anatomy, not worms (another disappointment of her grandmother’s). At the worm's booming fury, Regan almost regretted asking Jonas about his worm fetish. Almost regretted it. 

Motion near the ground caught her eye. What the scread was that? No, she probably should stop asking that, too. Worms. The answer was always worms. The roiling ball of worms rolled over, and Regan could see now that there was one worm at the very top, a princely crown adorning what she assumed to be its head, and a decorated, white cape the length of his body trailing behind him. She had never known worms to be so industrious. And… was this one of her worms? By context clues, she knew he had to be Prince Worming. 

“What is wrong with commotion?” Regan narrowed her eyes at the regal worm. There were more important things than being offended. Like Jonas. “I mean, um, W– Prince Worming. Hello. It is kind of you to call me tall.” Jade might like these worms. “Pardon my intrusion. I am here because I, um, the reason you’re sickly and grey is–”

“Enough!” The prince declared. Several worms that had squiggled out of the way of the worm ball trembled in the dirt. “You call me sickly? I am strong. I had trifling rations of Jade sauce and a harsh upbringing. I learned of war and the foggy Irish moors when I was only a clod of dirt. My mother screamed while the girthy worms knew lullabies and poetry. I am a soldier and a prince, and you come here to disrespect me, my bride, and all of Terramoist! Speak for yourself! Why do you come here? Why do you attempt to harm the kingdom I will inherit?”

No confession then. Regan winced. How could she not? It sounded like a traumatic life, and she was the one responsible for dragging Worming through the dirt (or… a similar metaphor that worms would not actually enjoy). It seemed smarter to not admit that. The word harm had her head sinking into her collarbone. Maybe she should just let the worms have Jonas. He could leave on his own. And then Regan wouldn’t be once again responsible for causing these worms pain. She had harmed so many animals, but the worms survived. Her thoughts turned to her grandmother struggling in the tar pit, still standing, still alive. Would it have been better if Siobhan’s worms had killed Regan’s worms instead of loving them? This was absurd. She shook herself free of Cliodhna – not for the first time, and not for the last. All she could do was try and find the best outcome for both parties. Regan could do this. She had done similar countless times! Like… uh… well, actually she couldn’t recall a single compromise she had made. Forget it.

She didn’t think she’d be able to convince them that Jonas wasn’t a worm, but maybe she could help them see (could they see?) what a low-quality worm he was. And what a fine specimen Soggerella was, in contrast. Soggerella, who was sinking into the dirt that had been made moist by her tears and slime.

“Look how moist she is,” Regan said, gesturing toward Soggerella as if presenting her. “This is, uh, a fine worm. Boneless, which is unfortunate, but it cannot be helped. Meanwhile, this other, um, worm…” She gestured toward Jonas now, “has dry skin. There is no sheen of slime. You see?” Regan grappled for Jonas’s arm and waved it up in the air; the sun did not gleam off his skin. “Not nearly as permeable as you would like.” She wasn’t sure if she needed to convince Prince Worming or the army worm more, so she made sure both of them could see how pitiable of a worm Jonas was (was not?). “You have such a beautiful kingdom. There is a dead bird or squirrel somewhere underneath us. The tree here is dying. Decomposition is in the air.” She had no idea where the kingdom actually was – was it just this patch of soil they were on? “Don’t you think you’re deserving of an equally beautiful bride? Hm?”

“I’m beautiful!” Soggerella continued to weep both slime and desperation. “I shall be your bride! Pick me! Not this… this serpent!” 

Prince Worming stiffened from atop his worm ball. The army worm’s mustache twitched. If worms could look contemplative, this was probably, well, what it looked like, which was not much. Was Jonas reading their body language? She eyed him, trying to figure it out, but he looked almost offended and a little hurt. “What?” She mouthed to him.

—

Perhaps Jonas was a little too sensitive, he wasn’t sure why Regan putting him down was punching holes in his self esteem. It was the smartest thing to do after all, these worms seemed to think he was one despite everything. Still he never thought of his skin as dry, maybe in comparison to a worm but Jonas had always made sure he kept his skin soft. But she was right he was ugly according to worm standards, really something that shouldn’t bother him but the lack of sleep was catching up and his emotions were a little more worn than they would be with a full night’s rest. He shook his head at Regan not really wanting to admit that her comments had an effect on him, it would be embarrassing and really he embarrassed himself in front of Regan enough. Still perhaps there was another approach than just simply insulting him in front of their wormy captors. 

Instead he turned his attention to Soggerella, crouching in front of the pink slimy worm. She truly was the most moist one here but her desperation to be loved by someone who had no feelings for her was hitting a little too close to home for him to just sit back and ignore it. “Um your majesty, I…” He fidgeted a little, trying to focus on the right words that would comfort the tiny creature. He wasn’t sure if the techniques he used on human ghosts would have the same effect on a worm but there was no harm in trying was there? “Your feelings for the prince are truly something beautiful, love always is, but that does not mean you should try and force the Prince into something he does not want. It is not fair to you or to him. Chasing someone who will not look at you is far more painful than letting go.” 

Like Jonas was one to talk with how he held onto Zane still like a dumb lovesick puppy. Maybe these words were also for him as much as it was for the girthy girl in front of him. “You deserve to be loved by someone who will love you back.” He turned to the prince, careful not to step on any of the worms in his entourage, “You also deserve the same my lord, I am incapable of loving you and trying to force me to do so is simply not right. Maybe you do not wish to join with Soggerella despite her many beautiful worm qualities, but I am sure there is another worm out there for you who will love you just as you love them.” 

Another voice popped up from behind them, a grey lady just as slim and wet as Prince Worming pulled herself from the woods and spoke. “The tall one is right princess, I Georgeous your faithful servant have been in love with you this whole time! You do not need a prince who cannot see your worth for I am here! I have always been here! I came here to stop you from stopping the prince from marrying!” The tiny creature sounded out of breath as she shouted her affections across the admittedly small distance between them. Her long flowing locks of auburn hair seemed to be blowing in a wind that wasn’t present, “Please come home with me and forget this man!” 

Jonas blinked at the addition of another character, standing up to take in the now love square that was forming among him and three worms. Though he was truthfully hoping he was more or less out of it by now having properly turned down the prince, much to the shock of the trembling general on the ground. Jonas was sure if he shook any harder the tiny mustache on his face would surely fall off.  

—

As Jonas was giving some of the worms a pep talk (possible he just wanted to be closer to the worms, because he was attracted to them), Regan tried to ignore the gentle pulse of a dead rodent only a few inches underneath her feet. It wasn't a bird; she had likely been right about the squirrel. And it felt like it might only be bones now. Would Jade like– No, she needed to focus. And not on the rodent. The worms, she was here for the worms. She owed the worms. And they were alive, so really, Regan deserved double the praise, because the worms weren’t particularly interesting to her beyond her guilty and their apparent capability to speak (she nearly shot a mental apology to her grandmother but thought better of it). Oh, it wasn’t one rodent. It was two. Were they like the lemmings? Regan toed the soil like she could dig the remains up with just her foot. Jonas was still talking to the worms. Something about being loved back, like he had experienced some rejection of his own. That was unfortunate. Death never rejected anyone. His future would be brighter.

Maybe she could dig them up with her foot. They weren’t all that deep, so– a tiny cry from behind her made her jump. Another worm? A long, grey worm with what looked like a full head of ginger hair slithered in front of Regan. She was a little sluggish, actually. This had to be another one of her own worms, right? Like Worming. There was a resemblance… siblings, perhaps? Regan snapped to actual attention when she heard what the newcomer was saying. Soggerella’s worm servant, her handless maiden, was in love with her. Regan’s eyebrows rose to her hairline. 

All eyes (Regan’s and Jonas’s, not the eyeless worms) were on Soggerella. The crowd was silent. Like worms. The prince looked offended, his cape flung in front of him. Regan was never shy about breaking silence – in fact, she usually saw it as a personal invitation. “Princess?” She asked, “Is this satisfactory?” Not what Regan had come here for, which was irritating, but who was she to stand in the way of love? Even Siobhan refused to do that. A happy ending for everyone, and Regan could clear her conscience. Well, everyone except Worming and the general, but Georgeous was one of her worms, too, and she would be happy.

When Soggerella cried back, Regan breathed out tension that she hadn’t recognized.

“Oh, Georgeous! This whole time? Truly? Thou? And thee?” Soggerella fanned herself with her tail. The slime pouring from her face thickened, pooling beneath the two worms. The sun marked it with a rainbow streak of light. “Forget the prince! Thou are grey as the most wondrous stone, my five hearts doth grow drenched. Thee shall not retire to your abode yet, for, together, our love will be known across all of Terramoist.” 

Soggerella wrapped around Georgeous, and her girthy pink head angled upward, to the very top of an impressive throne of dirt, as if she strived to be there. The army worm mumbled something to the prince, concerned. Regan still wasn’t the best judge of worm expressions, but Worming seemed almost afraid.

And, hold on, the worms were… gay? Could worms be gay? Weren’t worms– oh, forget it. She wasn’t sure what was worth questioning anymore. She could return to her mental breakdown later. Jonas could join her if he wanted, though he seemed rather comfortable here. She was going to have to rip that particular band-aid off of him.

“We are no longer necessary.” Regan tugged at Jonas’s sleeve to get his attention. “You’re too long, and I’m too impressive. I mean, uh, normal.” Leanbh. Maybe not impressive. But normal! Several standard deviations above regular normal, though wouldn’t that mean– “YES. Normal. Me. Come on. We should leave them to their blissful worm intercourse.” Seeing worms copulate once (hers, with Siobhan’s, which were really too girthy when you thought about it) was already more than she needed, but there were a couple of questions that kept her in place. “Do you think this is good for the kingdom?” Regan asked Jonas, then checked on Prince Worming again out of the corner of her eye. The worms that had previously held him up had scattered, gathering around the coupled Soggerella and Georgeous instead. His cape was torn up. His long face drooped, slime wetting the earth. Regan looked back at Jonas. “Soggerella requested my help for love, sure, but also for the good of her, uh… worm… people. What do you think will become of Worming?” 

Regan gave the princely worm one last, lingering look, an uneasy shadow hanging over Worming, and, perhaps, all of Terramoist. It was probably nothing, that feeling (harbinger of death? Not anymore). So Regan chose instead to think about Soggerella and Georgeous, and their true, wet love. That was good, wasn’t it? She had helped. She had been useful. She had done something good, something that didn’t have to do with death, and didn’t it feel so right?

—

Jonas' eyes widened as the worms seemed to writhe and wiggle on top of each other. The happy pair was passed down the aisle of red to the stone that acted as an altar. A pink priest, if his hat was anything to go by, was holding his head up high as he read the vows to the girls praising their union under the light of Wormodite, the goddess that granted them love and blessed the little wormlings that would come from such sacred unions. Jonas wasn’t sure what to think about the fact that worms were monogamous or that they had a religious institution set up. Then again he never thought worms could talk or had genders until today.

The tug on his sleeve broke him from his thoughts of how a worm society was more accepting to the lgbt community than his own, as he stared at Regan’s lips. “I think you are quite um impressive.” He wasn’t sure why the doctor seemed to be putting herself down but was more than happy to leave this place. “You came to help them and helped me, that is um far from just normal!” Joans smiled but paused at the question looking back at the forlorn prince, feeling bad for his former captor. 

The worms around him were celebrating in tangled messes, doing what he didn’t know, well until the good doctor brought up copulating. His eyes widened and he did his best to look away feeling as if he was being a pervert for watching something so intimate. Jonas lifted his hand to block the view entirely, “I um am unsure. Perhaps he will find another lover, but I do not um think it is right for us to meddle anymore.” Scientists were always saying it was better not to interfere in nature, or as Star Trek put it ‘No starship may interfere with the normal development of any alien life or society,’ they should leave them as they are to do as they please. Then again the crew of the Enterprise hardly listened to such a rule. 

It was taking a great deal of effort not to go back and pick up the sad gray worm. Jonas was trying to remind himself that said worm had kidnapped him just last night as he walked away from the clearing, “Oh, um would you be able to help me find my phone? I um… Lil may be worried for me.” He also didn’t want to leave his phone where the worms could find it and reverse engineer the technology. That sort of thing always happened in Star Trek. he couldn’t imagine what it would be like for the worms to have electricity and telephones, but something told him it was for the better that they did not. For once Jonas was very glad he could not hear, he couldn’t begin to imagine what worm sex sounded like and was more than happy to never find out. No for now he would ponder how to explain things to Lil once he got back home and what to bake for the doctor as a thank you. The worms would fade from his mind and be left to the fate of their own making. 

[synnthamonsugar]

in the spirit of saturnalia, WOE WRITING ERIS/DRIFTER BE UPON THEE

Dastardly ... you understand the assignment. Anyway I had a lot of fun figuring out how to commit my "ideal" Eris/Drifter dynamic to paper. (And maybe getting closer to answering such questions as "how DO you write FWB when the B doesn't come into play presently?") Want me to write/draw something outside my usual body of work? Inquire here.

Drifter attempts to find purchase in Sanctuary's cramped and impossibly cluttered galley, stacking ration crates, jugs of water, empty trays and a partially-disassembled hand-cannon into a precarious heap until he has enough space on the scuffed steel counter. A few feet away, his coat lay draped across one of the chairs surrounding the small metal dining-table.

"Have you forgotten our agreement?" Eris asks, emerging from the hallway, straightening out her veil. Unarmored and unbooted, she's nearly impossible to hear approaching, impressive and unnerving in equal measure. 

"I'm not stickin' around," he defends, rummaging through the mostly-bare cabinets, turning up a dusty packet of noodles, some freeze dried veggies, seasonings and sauces, a bit of oil, a can of meat? . . . it's not clear if they were brought by Eris or some scout who'd holed up here previously, but nothing's broken or bloated, so it's decent enough to work with. Ferreting out some clean pans among the mess, he lights the stove and sets to work. "Just that neither of us ate. I'd feel bad leaving without fixin' that."

"The sentiment is appreciated, but I can feed myself."

"Well … I can't. Not at my place at least. The Derelict's cleared out and I'm not rifling through the Annex this time of night. Don't need Hawthorne asking questions … worse, Ada. She talks." Eris gives him a cross look. "Look, I'll replace your food when the next shipment of supplies comes. With interest."

"Take your time. I favor the ration packs anyway."

"I noticed," he gestures at the empty retort pouches. 

Eris leans against his back and peers over his shoulder, tip-toe, to get a better look at the stovetop. Noodles roil in a pot, while the mysterious meat-product sizzles in the pan, sliced thin enough to crisp. She's not particularly gregarious when it comes to physical contact, not beyond what's necessary, so the small gesture feels outsized. "Smells good."

"Don't take a whole lot," he remarks, stirring in the dried vegetables. They watch in slack fascination as they rehydrate from hard chips of foodstuff to something resembling diced mushroom, cabbage, scallion. "First thing you learn out there — it's all in the preparation, not the ingredients."

"I think the ingredients are important," Eris replies, letting go to fetch a pair of chipped bowls, some tumblers and mismatched cutlery from the shelf. Clears out enough room for two at the table.

"Maybe for hive rituals. This is cooking, Moondust." 

The noodles are better than expected, aided perhaps by their own hunger. As they eat, they talk idly about plans for the next day. Drifter, overseeing gambit matches at the newly-reinstated arena on the outskirts of the Dreaming City. (Eris is more interested in the details of Awoken zoning bureaucracy than he has the patience to explain.) She is cagey about her own, not saying much more than it involves meeting with Ikora and Queen Mara. Knowing he's unlikely to like the answer, he doesn't press further. 

When they at last finish, Drifter slips on his coat and meets Eris' cheek in a brief kiss that she returns. Bidding each other goodnight, they go their separate ways, tired and sated.

[sh00kspeared]

SilverV Week

Hey @silverv-week , I’ve been excited for silverv weekend for a while and have something to share! I really wanted to write something based on the prompts but didn’t get to it since I was hyper focused on a different project in which I’m translating Cyberpunk into Elizabethan/Shakespearean English (to the best of my abilities; I love Shakespeare but am not a scholar or anything).

Warning, this isn't overly polished and is still kinda only partially edited, so it's likely that not all of the phrases sound fully Elizabethan. I rewrote part of Johnny and V’s conversation in the Tower ending (with a few more outward declarations of love so that it would constitute as SilverV), so here there be spoilers!

Johnny: I am fain to see fair Night ere my skyward leave— marry, she is a fair nunnery.

V: I needs say farewell. Pray you, open the door?

Weiss: Be not afeared— eternity is a foreign word and thy leave shall be short.

V: I am not a man who casts lots. [aside to Weiss] Pray you, open the door.

(the cart door opens)

Johnny: Lo, ‘tis fair Night, slumbering at thy feet. Marry, she is smaller than she once was— or thou hast grown.

V: Thy ruse is disquieting. I am undeserving of much, but above all, I am undeserving of thy love.

Johnny: Thou knowest I’m an ever fixéd man— My ruse will thus remain so steadfast as An anchor’d barque by golden-dusted shores. As thou hast slavéd as a watchman’s dog I pray thee, wear thy pride upon thy brow A diadem of triumph o’er Thanatos.

V: Dost thou yet love me? Thy bidding is crushed by mine own hand.

Johnny: Aye– With thee I spake beside the quarry– thus Our peace was sown for evermore and naught Of all my promises hath changéd since. Once I dreamt of mirthful things which hath Been cloven since; and yet, above all else, Th’ dreams I held for those I loved Were crumbl’d more than aught else I held dear. My bidding is to lend my soul this rest, Or else to stay with thee till we needs part, For I am fill’d with mirth that thou wast this: He who remainest my life’s final friend.

V: May I still call thee friend when thou art slain by mine own hand? O, that I weren’t a murderer!

Johnny: Aye, V– in sooth, thou art my dearest friend, And such that ‘murd’rer’ is a foreign word. Our tales end ever seal’d in a stroud, With caskets graven with my name or thine. I forthwith choose the stroud which bears my name, For verily thy body is thine own.

V: I am loathe to see thee die.

Johnny: I know thy heart— ‘tis for thine own good.

V: I ponder a world where we are strangers.

Johnny: On my word, the rapier would have pierced thy brain and turned thee into a grave man. And, hadst thou survived the foil, thou would have been an even graver man sans my counseling.

V: There is yet sooth in a jest– thou art my savior.

Johnny: The Relic was thine anchor, but valor and will was thy true saviour. Our journey was most star-alignéd.

V: Thy reserve is unbefitting of our circumstance.

Johnny: Once I didst hide my weapon in th’ cheverel sheath of Hades– I am an adept of death.

V: Put aside thy jests.

Johnny: ‘twas e’ery day I felt death pressed to my back– insomuch that I spent my days entrapped in a dance with it. But, sooth– ne’er have I felt such peace than I do now.

V: I have brushed fingers with th’ broad welkin as well. ‘Tis a gast thing.

Johnny: I am afeared for thee— as I am a gravéd man, eyes palled cannot see thee, nor can they see the world. But, sooth— I would be ever more gasted wert thou to be palled in place of me.

Dr. Lorenzo: you are afeared. I will give you this elixir— you must be well-brainéd ere the Relic is removed.

Johnny: all so soon asleep, lambkin.

V: all so soon…

Johnny: give me thine oath, sweeting.

V: were mine ears with cotton stuff’d, still would I swear upon the holy writ with both hands.

Johnny: Thus, lend thyself this mercy: Find thee bliss, Water fresh, and ale gold, and vales green. Sheathe thy rapier, fill thy hands with softer things, Thy mouth with laughter and thine ears with hymns. But this above all else: be faithful to Thyself as shepherd’s dog, unto thyself So true that one may gaze upon thee and Proclaim, ‘Sure as stars doth glister, thou art V.’

V: Johnny… I…

J: Good night, sweet Vincent, and dream thou so sweetly that thou may never wish to wake. The sun falleth on a mirthful day.

[lastavengedarchived]

[ inbox // dd: cutting edge ] accepting ⸻ @hubrisdescent ⸻ "A quiet evening, thank God." Matt @ Karen

Sundays typically where the quietest of nights for her, rarely would she work the weekends save for special broadcasts or making up a night if she had to miss a midnight hour. There had been every intention for her to go to bed early, to not wait up, as was the habit formed due to being the signifcant other belonging to Hell's Kitchen and surrounding neighborhoods. Waiting for that chance to bid him off safely for the night or be thee one first to see his bruises then welcome him to bed.

He's back early, a habit of there being a knock to the window, threee soft raps before it's opend. A familiar man, in a red suit, returns to their tiny abode. A look towards the clock that Karen had finally bought for herself (she's lost time since starting at WSFK) informs her that the Devil's retired early. Now that doesn't mean he'll remain here if something reaches his ears, but the hour was much more reasonable about the three ams bedtime they shared.

A QUIET EVENING, THANK GOD ⸻ She hears him say, loud enough for their living room as he finally makes his way to her. His explanation for ending Daredevil duties earlly. She had only called out a GOOD EVENING HONEY when she ha let her know he had come through the window. Karen doesn't budge from their ugly green sofa with poorly sewn patches to repair it.

❝ I wouldn't speak so soon. The ruffling papers aren't mine.❞ She says all too knowing, for all his senses, he's still blind and wouldn't be able to tell what the stacks of paper on the coffee were by smell or sound. ❝ Sharpe came by. ❞ Satan herself she is pretty sure she overheard Matt and Foggy complaining to each other about their boss once or twice.

❝ You need to review all of this for 9:30 tomorrow. Non-negotiable case.❞ That had been Rosalind's words exactly. Karen sets the notebook she had been writing in, heavy-handed neat print since Matt would be able to feel the shape of the ink, the way she pressed on the paper. Lucky for him, Karen had felt genorous and one night of revising her legal assistant role wouldn't hurt. ❝ She'll be making tomorrow a living hell if you aren't studied. Her words. ❞

[ask-the-stchoir]

Good night to all the fucked-up-girls, catlady-fuckers, headless peeps, ukrainian bad boys, sweetest people you'll ever meet, and whatever Ocean is 🌟

🌹goodnight!!

🌌good night !!

🐑I bid thee goodnight:3

💵AUEHH NIGHT🔥🔥

🍬sweet dreamsss:3

🌊goodnight!

[cassieno]

Crowley, Aziraphale, William Blake and John Milton

Let me spin you a yarn. Well, not really. I’m going to preface this with: I did never study literature, I just enjoy reading the occasional poetry and my brain is currently relating everything to Good Omens.

So here goes nothing.

William Blake’s The Tyger has been a favourite poem of mine for a while. I go back to it every few months. This time i found myself comparing it quite a lot to Crowley. It goes:

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies. 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

Now the imagery here is playing into themes of revolting and revolution. (Frankly, it was about the industrial revolution at the time, but as far as I’m aware the religious imagery was used here.) Remind you of someone?

The use of the word “Dare” in the last two verses especially. How dare Crowley ask questions? but also How dare God destroy his nebula? How dare God destroy creation. How dare she create destruction.

The end of the poem goes as follows:

When the stars threw down their spears 

And water'd heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The poem very clearly involves themes of duality and violence. Did God make the lamb and the tiger? Did they make something innocent and something violent to destroy it? Did they smile upon their creation? Upon its destruction? Or maybe these are shades of grey?

Same with Crowley. We saw him struggling with his place in the world during S2. “Lonely? Yeah.” Was he only created to destroy whatever good was in the world? He knew heaven was wrong just as he knew hell was wrong, too. But it poses the overall question: What place did God carve out for him when devising the Ineffable Plan?

Now the Beauty of this Poem is that it has a pair called The Lamb. The Tyger was published as part of the book “The Song of Experience”. The Lamb was published before as part of “The Song of Innocence”.

For my purposes here i relate these titles to Before the Apple and After the Apple, or Before the Fall and After the Fall. Innocence and Experience.

The lamb is so contrasting to its views of God. It very much reminded me of Aziraphale in that way.

Little Lamb who made thee 

         Dost thou know who made thee 

Gave thee life & bid thee feed. 

By the stream & o'er the mead;

Gave thee clothing of delight,

Softest clothing wooly bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice! 

         Little Lamb who made thee 

         Dost thou know who made thee 

         Little Lamb I'll tell thee,

         Little Lamb I'll tell thee!

He is called by thy name,

For he calls himself a Lamb: 

He is meek & he is mild, 

He became a little child: 

I a child & thou a lamb, 

We are called by his name.

         Little Lamb God bless thee. 

         Little Lamb God bless thee.

Just looking at these poems next to each other shows the contrast. The Lamb has a very easy answer to the question: Where do I come from? What’s my purpose?

As it’s easy for Aziraphale to say, too )or at least it was before Job): God.

He came from God, God was good and hence everything else was in order and just and jolly good.

Anything else was bad and therefore opposed God. His purpose was to follow heaven and the Plan.

The Tyger then poses the same question we as the viewer got in S2: How far can you go along with that easy answer? Did God really have to test Job? Did she know beforehand that Crowley and Aziraphale would work together? And if so: Did she make the Tiger and the Lamb?

Now onto John Milton because this post isn’t quite long enough yet: Blake used a lot of metaphors in The Tyger from Paradise Lost. Mainly about the Fall of Lucifer

But. BUT when i started reading it the description of the Serpent in Paradise Lost hit me like a train.

I cannot post the whole part here, but please read the whole section for yourself.

Here’s my favourite parts:

The themes of rebellion, revolution, the fall, the sorrow in Hell, the pain, the description how the efforts were futile.

It just all fits so very well. You feel bad for the Serpent, you can feel the loneliness seeping through the lines.

And of course this reminds me of Crowley.

"He trusted to have equal'd the most High" is Crowley feeling safe enough with God to go and ask a question. Make a suggestion.

“With vain attempt” Like with Crowley, nothing changed. He had to take it into his own hands.

"With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum'd: Such place Eternal Justice had prepar'd. For those rebellious" is the juxtaposition of eternal damnation as a form of ‘Justice’. It’s Crowley’s “I only ever asked questions. That’s all it took in the old days.” It is not just

"O how unlike the place from whence they fell!" it’s that we saw the pure joy that is Angel Crowley.

"Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace. And rest can never dwell, hope never comes" is the only part that doesn’t fit.

Because for Crowley hope did come in the form of Aziraphale and Humanity. He clings to music and plants and fine wines and sleep and cars and love.

I don’t know if this whole thing has a point. I think it is fun to find parallels in media. I think literature raising these imageries of Eden, the Serpent, God and Morality are bound to raise the same questions.

Isn’t that wonderful to see? How humanity will always try to figure out the same things in new ways with the same metaphors and maybe not the exact same questions but it boils down to something similar, doesn’t it?

Or maybe Crowley sat down with Blake and Milton at a bar once and told them what he really thinks over a few bottles of wine.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Morning and Evening by Charles Spurgeon

Evening, January 9th

"The night also is thine." – Psalm 74:16

Yes, Lord, thou dost not abdicate thy throne when the sun goeth down, nor dost thou leave the world all through these long wintry nights to be the prey of evil; thine eyes watch us as the stars, and thine arms surround us as the zodiac belts the sky. The dews of kindly sleep and all the influences of the moon are in thy hand, and the alarms and solemnities of night are equally with thee. This is very sweet to me when watching through the midnight hours, or tossing to and fro in anguish. There are precious fruits put forth by the moon as well as by the sun: may my Lord make me to be a favored partaker in them.

The night of affliction is as much under the arrangement and control of the Lord of Love as the bright summer days when all is bliss. Jesus is in the tempest. His love wraps the night about itself as a mantle, but to the eye of faith the sable robe is scarce a disguise. From the first watch of the night even unto the break of day the eternal Watcher observes his saints, and overrules the shades and dews of midnight for his people's highest good. We believe in no rival deities of good and evil contending for the mastery, but we hear the voice of Jehovah saying, "I create light and I create darkness; I, the Lord, do all these things."

Gloomy seasons of religious indifference and social sin are not exempted from the divine purpose. When the altars of truth are defiled, and the ways of God forsaken, the Lord's servants weep with bitter sorrow, but they may not despair, for the darkest eras are governed by the Lord, and shall come to their end at his bidding. What may seem defeat to us may be victory to him.

"Though enwrapt in gloomy night, We perceive no ray of light; Since the Lord himself is here, 'Tis not meet that we should fear."

[stolenoc]

Imprints

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Pairing: Felix/The Detective (Delaney "Del" Keaton) Description: Del and Felix walk into a bar... and boy, did it hurt! Word Count: 3000 A/N: My contribution to @wayhavenficexchange! This one's for @thee-morrigan, and features one of their Detectives, Delaney "Del" Keaton. Thanks for letting me borrow her!

On the outskirts of town, nestled in a little residential area standing boldly before the forests surrounding Wayhaven, was Bloody Mary’s.

It was, not to put too fine a point on it, a complete dive—and not even the fun kind, filled with illicit plumes of smoke and rough customers that glared ominously at newcomers.

The first time Del had been inside the place, back when she’d reached the tender age of 18 and taken it upon herself to partake in all the grownup activities Wayhaven had to offer, she’d taken one look at the small gathering of perfectly pleasant old people sitting around at the bar in amiable silence and noped right out of there. In her duties as an officer of the law, she’d had cause to visit a handful more times, on each occasion leaving it almost certain those same old people had been sitting precisely where she’d last left them.

Standing outside the place now, on an empty street in the dead of night, she said to Felix, “You know, I’ve always thought this place was a bit haunted.”

He nodded quite seriously, his eyes fixed on the buzzing neon sign nailed above the door, simply spelling out ‘Blood’ with the few letters that had bothered to show up to work that day. He said, “Oh yeah, this place is super haunted. Can we go in?”

“Obviously,” Del said, already pushing on the door. It was really quite ancient, a thing of chipped green paint and warped wood just this side of rotten—yet despite the age (not to mention the lock), it opened smoothly, without a hint of creak or protest. Del peered into the yawning darkness within, through swirls of dust lit only by the streetlights, then stepped to the side. She bowed gallantly, an elegant sweep of her arm bidding her companion to enter. “After you, kind sir.”

Felix, being Felix, took his place on the other side of the entrance. His bow was, Del had to admit, far deeper than hers had been. Affecting what he likely believed was a posh accent, he said, “Oh, goodness, no. I insist, Madame.”

This back and forth lasted only a few volleys before an affronted voice cut right through their giggling, calling out from the gloom, “Are—are you guys coming in?”

Felix, who had practically folded himself in half at this point—vampire flexibility really was something else—straightened up with a start, and Del might have fallen over in her own shock if not for the steadying grip he had on her shoulders.

His hand found Del’s, and the two wordlessly struck a compromise, both resolving to squeeze past the threshold at the same time. It was a tight fit, but not an uncomfortable one.

If she didn’t know better, Del might have thought a light switch was flicked on the instant she stepped through the doorway. Where she’d been looking at a shadowed, silent room, she now found warm lights and tinny music she half recognised, playing from an unseen radio. The dust, too, had vanished, save for whatever the lone bartender was currently wiping off from the bartop with her customary rag. 

A bartender who wasn’t, Del was fairly certain, supposed to be there.

“Rory?” Del stepped forward, tugging an obliging Felix over to the bar. She hadn’t spoken to Aurora for years, not since they’d both graduated from the same high-school year, and they’d shared an awkward, ‘Seeya!’ on their way out the door. Crucially, Del had been pretty sure the woman had ditched town for the big city months ago, without so much as a word of goodbye to her family. 

At least, that had been the conclusion Del’s predecessor came to, in those last few days before her retirement. Del had to admit that, for a woman making her way in the big city, Rory was extremely still tending bar in Wayhaven’s quietest little dive.

Rory looked almost as surprised herself, once the recognition had finally bloomed over her face. Smiling a little hesitantly, she said, “Hey, Delaney.” Then, she winced. “Sorry, uh. Officer Keaton. Ma’am?”

Del slid onto a barstool, waving off her concern. “No, you’re okay. Just Del’s fine.”

“Maybe ‘Detective Del’ as a compromise?” offered Felix, as he took his own spot to her left. “I like the way it sounds, actually. I’m Felix, by the way.”

“And it’s very nice to meet you, Felix,” Rory said, her smile suddenly much more genuine. Del also didn’t miss (or particularly care for) the appreciative once-over the woman gave her frustratingly attractive boyfriend. After a beat, she finally turned back to Del, and said, “Detective, huh? Guess I missed the memo. Does that mean Detective Reele finally retired?”

“…She did, yeah,” Del said. She wondered if she looked as confused as Felix did in that moment, his brow furrowed and jaw hanging open, if just a little. “A few months ago. You didn’t know? It was in the papers and everything.”

Rory grimaced. “Ah. Well, I’ve sworn off the Wayhaven Press, you know. Ever since he took over the articles.”

She pointed at the flaking, green wall behind the bar, and Del followed her finger to find, as expected…

“Oh, I know that guy,” Felix said, inspecting the grinning visage of Bobby Marks, immortalised beneath a sign reading, in bold print, ‘Do Not Serve’. He asked, “Does anyone in town like that guy?”

“No,” Rory and Del said, as one.

Then, sighing heavily, Del amended, “Well, no, I think most people do. You know, once. Twice, max.”

Rory nodded sagely. “Yeah. No more than thrice.”

“Thrice?” Del sucked in air through her teeth. “Damn, Rory.”

“Anyway! Can I get you something, Del?” Rory asked, suddenly very interested in wiping off a nonexistent stain on the bartop. “Uh, how about you, handsome?”

Felix grinned, and said, “Oh, no need, Delaney’s already got me. Hey, can we actually get some Bloody Marys? Since we’re here.”

At the Del’s flat, unimpressed stare, he raised his hands defensively, and said, “What? I’ve never had one before.”

“They’re disgusting,” Rory said, shaking her head sadly. “But everyone orders it here, like it’s the law, or something. You know it’s not, right?”

Del sighed. She supposed a drink couldn’t make things less weird. She said, “Just the one, thanks. And some peanuts.”

“Oh, yeah, we gotta have peanuts,” Felix agreed, wholeheartedly.

“Uh huh.” Rory just shook her head, already pulling a clear bottle of vodka from beneath the counter. “So, what brings you here, Off—Del? Am I in trouble, or something?”

“Nope, no trouble,” Del said, and she mostly believed it. “Though I did get a call from the bar’s owner. You know Mary? Mary Rosalin?”

Felix oohed in appreciation, and said, “Oh, that’s why it’s called—that’s really cute.”

“Would you believe it’s a coincidence?” Rory asked, smirking. “She didn’t even name the place. Anyway, yeah I know her, she’s my boss. Is she okay? Haven’t heard from her in… a while, actually.”

Del certainly didn’t doubt that. She said, “Yeah, she’s fine. It’s just, she drove past the bar around midnight last night, and saw all the lights on. Do you know anything about that?”

Rory spared Del a brief look of utter bewilderment, even as she dutifully poured tomato juice into a tall glass. She said, slowly, “If it was before one, then it was probably me. You know, running the bar. Which is open at night.” 

“Well, that’s weird,” said Felix. “Why’d your boss call the cops on her own bar?”

“No clue.” Rory frowned, rummaging around beneath the counter, emerging triumphant with a bright yellow lemon press. “Maybe I should call her. I swear, it’s seriously been ages since I spoke to her. She usually pops in every other night, if only to nag at me, I don’t know why—”

“Do you remember who was here, last night?”

“Huh?” Rory shot Del an impatient glare, but nodded all the same. She said, “Oh, yeah, of course. Same people as every night. Old Cole Brennan, Beth Hayes. We’re really only open for our regulars. They’re a tight bunch.”

Felix looked around, as if to locate the regulars in question. When his search turned up an empty bar, he asked, “They’re not here tonight, though?”

Rory rolled her eyes, gesturing vaguely around her. She said, impatiently, “Well, no. Obviously not tonight.”

Del pressed, “But you’re sure they were here last night?”

“I… yes, of course I am.” Rory’s smile was really more of a permanent wince, at this point. She said, “No, I remember, now. I saw Beth help Cole back to his car, just before I closed up. Um, you know, you—you asked for peanuts. I’ll just go get you a bowl—”

“Rory.” Del leaned forward, capturing the woman’s hand in hers. It was as cold as ice, but she squeezed it tight, all the same. She asked, gently, “What happened next?”

Rory was frowning, now, but not at anyone in particular. Instead, she glared at an old stain on the previously immaculate bartop, as if she could clean it away with nothing but her racing thoughts. She said, “Um, I—I don’t know. I’d just closed up, like I said, and then… I walked home. Like always.”

Felix raised an eyebrow at that, possibly working his way to the same dreadful conclusions Del had made. He asked, “You walk home every night? Alone? Don’t you close at one in the morning?”

“Some nights, yeah,” said Rory, with a dismissive shrug. “This isn’t exactly New York, you know. It’s honestly more dangerous here during the day, when there’s traffic.”

Del’s heart sank. That was more or less word-for-word what she’d thought, only a few months ago. It was even mostly true—assuming, of course, Wayhaven wasn’t currently the target of a mass-murdering rogue vampire.

As if following the same cues as Del’s own thoughts, Rory said, “No, you know what? I think I bumped into someone on the way home.”

“Who was it?” Felix asked, when Del’s voice failed her. 

“I don’t know, I—I’d never met him before.” Rory shivered theatrically, and Del felt the goosebumps spreading over her arms as the temperature plummeted. “Kinda a weirdo, actually. He walked up to me, and he told me… he told me to—.”

“Relax?”

Rory nodded. From the rapid rise and fall of her chest, Del assumed she was trying to hyperventilate—but without any sound, or accompanying puffs of air, it didn’t seem to be doing much. “I was—I was scared, I think, but then he said that, and I… wasn’t…”

She closed her eyes, suddenly slumping in place, narrow shoulders dipping below the bar. She asked, flatly, “Hey, weird question: Am I fucking dead?”

Del… assumed so, though she was hardly an expert. Felix was nodding sadly at her, though, so they at least had consensus. She said, “We think so. Yeah.”

“And you knew that. This whole time?” Rory demanded, angrily rubbing the heel of her hand over perfectly dry eyes. “Is that why you’re here? What, are you here to arrest me for being dead, Off—Detective?”

“Of course not,” Del said, rather proud of how she sounded patient and calm even though she really wanted to scream, right then. “Look, I know this must be scary, but we can—”

“Oh, what do you know?” Rory snapped. “You’ve got no idea what this is like! I don’t even fucking know!” 

“But I do know!” Del insisted. “At least a little! That weirdo you were talking about? He hurt other people. He hurt me, too!”

“Yeah?” Something flashed over Rory’s face—Guilt, maybe? Sorrow?—but it soon faded right back into fury. She spat, “Well, he didn’t kill you, did he? Lucky break.”

Del winced. Yeah, fair, that might not have been the right angle. She sighed, and said, “No, he didn’t. I lived. I know it’s not fair, but I did, and you know what? I made him regret it.”

That actually gave Rory pause. She said, doubtfully, “You… like, what, you killed him?”

Del hesitated, not really sure how to answer that, so she settled on the truth. “No, but he can’t hurt anyone, anymore. My guy wishes we killed him.”

“Oh.” All the air seemed to puff out of Rory’s chest, at that. She crossed her arms, and said, “Well. Good. Great. I’ve been avenged. Today is a real roller-coaster. What the hell do I do, now?” 

“Er.” Del looked to Felix for help, and received for her trouble a sheepish shrug. So they had consensus on that, too. She tried, “Was... was there anything you needed to do? Like, unfinished business?”

Yeah, that sounded good.

“I mean. Not really?” Rory sighed. “I guess I’ve always loved this bar. Did Mary close the place? After I...?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“That’s such a shame.” Nodding firmly, she said,  “You know what? Fuck it. I’m gonna make that my unfinished business. I wanna serve one last drink, see if that works.”

She blinked, then looked down at the vividly red cocktail she’d been working on. Snorting, she said, “Oh. That’s—no, that’s actually really convenient.”

She took a deep breath–stopping only when it became obvious that she would never run out of lung capacity, lacking lungs to begin with–and then she placed the glass in front of Felix. She shrugged uncertainly, said, “One Bloody Mary. Enjoy.” and then she promptly dissolved.

It wasn’t a thing of beautiful, searing light, like in the movies, nor was it particularly horrible. If anything, Del thought, the process looked a little like a slide-show transition. Motes of dust began to fill the spaces no longer occupied by woman, until finally they all burst out in a rush of air, unpleasantly chill and smelling of ash.

When Del dared to open her eyes, it was to find reality had returned to Bloody Mary’s. The bar’s lights had blinked out, leaving her squinting in a darkness she was oddly acclimatised to, as though she’d been sitting in it the whole time. The bar was silent, save for her own ragged breaths,, and that radio, with its playlist of music she could almost remember, was still nowhere to be seen. 

There was also no trace of Rory, which wasn’t really a huge surprise, considering that she’d exploded, but her absence still left a pit in Del’s stomach.

She looked next for Felix, and was relieved she could still make him out beside her (if only just) through the haze of swirling dust that had filled the room.

“That was—” she began, cutting herself off in favour of a minor coughing fit, ejecting the fine layer of dust that had taken up residence within her throat. She felt Felix pat-patting her back, which felt nice even if it didn’t really help any. Finally recovering, she managed, “Ugh. That really sucked.”

She didn’t mean the coughing. Well, not entirely.

Felix hummed agreeably, lifting his glass up to inspect it in the scant streetlight streaming in through the front windows. It was, naturally, completely empty, despite the fact it had been brimming with liquid not moments prior. It was also coated in a thick layer of dust, aside from the shape of grasping fingers imprinted along the sides, and a clean, glinting line along its rim.

He said, rubbing fretfully at his mouth, “She was right, that was awful.”

“Fee—”

“When did you figure it out?” he asked. “I wasn’t even sure what we were looking at. She smelled weird, but not that weird. I swear she had a heartbeat, too. Ghosts are so tricky.”

Del sighed, leaning over to let her head rest upon the bar, suddenly exhausted. Then she sat right back up, grimacing as she wiped the grime from her forehead. She said, “Just didn’t make any sense, is all. The owner called the station about squatters on her property, and we show up to find a missing person serving drinks. Also, things were weird in there, dude.”

She nudged him with her shoulder, adding, “Thanks for coming on patrol with me, by the way. Apparently my real job is exactly as haunted as my fake one, now.”

Felix snorted, reaching over to wrap Del in a side-hug, pulling her in close. As she leaned into his warmth, he said, “Yeah, it really is. You should call me the next time you have to arrest something spooky. Unless it’s a skeleton.”

“What’s wrong with skeletons?” Del asked, before she’d really considered the question. Then: “Wait, is that a thing? You legally have to tell me if there’s skeletons walking around.”

“Some say there’s a skeleton in all of us,” Felix said, solemnly. Then, after a long beat, he asked, “Are you okay?”

Del wasn’t really sure. She said, “Yeah. No. I don’t know. You know, I’m just thinking about the day we met—well, the day after the day we met, I guess. After the warehouse?”

Felix huffed an amused breath across her cheek. He said, “Oh, right, the day we muscled into your investigation and... wait, was that when Adam broke your desk? Or was that later? We made such a good first impression.”

“You made a great first impression,” Del corrected. “Adam, not so much. He was so condescending that day, I swear to god. He stood there and told me that Janet Greenland’s murder was only the first that I knew of, like he knew any better.”

She sighed. “And, of course, he did. I remember when Rory went ‘missing’, Fee: She didn’t. She was gone, and everyone just said, ‘Welp, there she goes! Good on her!’ But, oops! Apparently she loved this stupid place. She loved it so much her ghost didn’t even wanna leave.”

She said, “I thought Janet had it bad—and, god, she did—but at least people knew her. I still don’t even really know Rory, and I watched her ascend or whatever. This sucks. Fuck Murphy.”

“Fuck Murphy,” echoed Felix, grabbing his glass, and lifting it in a dusty toast. When Del didn’t laugh, or whatever he was hoping for, he winced, and quickly put the thing back down on the table, with a heavy clunk. He said, “Sorry, I know you’re a lot better with feel-better words than me. I think you did really well tonight, though, you know? You helped Rory move on, and all.”

Helped her move on to where, though? Del wasn’t sure what happened to ghosts that passed on, and was even less sure she wanted to ask about it, in case there was an actual answer. Still, she appreciated the sentiment. She said, “Thanks. I hope so.”

“And I know so, so there,” said Felix. He gave her one last squeeze, then hopped to his feet. “Anyway, I’m being really brave about it, but I think this dust is literally going to kill me. Can we go home? We can cuddle and stuff there.”

Del’s laugh morphed into a minor coughing fit, which was all the convincing she needed. Like magnets, hers and Felix’s hands met in the darkness, and she allowed herself to be tugged to her feet. As they squeezed through the doorway back out into the night, Del did her very best not to notice the distinct lack of buzzing from the neon sign above their heads, now as dark as the bar whose name it bore.