#betrayals the surest way to my heart

[eco-lite]

I never make my own posts on tumblr but I’m foregoing my lurking for a second to crosspost this review I wrote of A Stitch in Time. I kept it generic for the locals on goodreads, but I though people on here my like it. Review is pasted below the line.

How do I even begin to review a book that fostered such emotional attachment that I found myself bringing it with me around the house just to have it nearby?

Elim Garak is just one of /those characters/ for me. I knew from his first appearance in Deep Space Nine that I was not going to be normal about this man. A former intelligence agent for the Obsidian Order, Garak was exiled to Terok Nor/Deep Space Nine for reasons we never come to learn in the show. It's clear that blood is on Garak's hands, but he is such a deeply complex and likable character that it doesn't truly matter what he's done in his past--not to Julian Bashir, station CMO, who is drawn to Garak's lies and secrets and mysterious personality. The two form a close but tenuous bond based on a mutual love of engaging conversation and literary critique.

We come to learn bits and pieces of Garak's past throughout the show, but it's not until Andy Robinson's A Stitch in Time that all of his past is laid bare. As the actor who portrayed Garak, Andy put a lot of time into coming up with a backstory and motivations for his character. And boy, did that time and effort pay off. Andy has brilliantly constructed the world of Cardiassian society and Garak's history within it. It's clear that he understands Garak in exactly the same way I do, and that was truly special (and sometimes harrowing) to experience. There were many moments throughout my reading where I found myself staring introspectively into the distance as I reflected on how closely I could relate to the bitter loneliness of this book. Andy, why are you staring into my soul? I thought this was supposed to reveal things about Garak, not me!

The novel is framed as a nearly-400-page letter to Julian, asking him to bear witness to Garak's past and his healing from it. This letter is an explanation of why Garak is the way he is--a baring of his soul to the one person who has ever been willing to understand. It's a terribly intimate piece of writing. Although their relationship has grown distant, Garak ends his letter by inviting Julian back into his life--to behold the person he has become, and share in the healing of himself and of Cardassia.

Andy handles this story beautifully, and gives so much depth to Cardassian society and its people. Kelas Parmak is a gift of a character, and Palandine, Pythas Lok, Tolan, and Mila the regnar are all wonderful additions to the Star Trek canon. I also love the ideas introduced about spiritual and political healing--both things the war-ravaged Cardassia desperately needs. Although this novel deals heavily with loneliness and isolation, betrayal and manipulation, it is ultimately a hopeful story. Both individuals and societies can heal with the help of community--a timeless message we all need to hear.

If you've read this book, please talk to me about it! I have so many thoughts I couldn't put into this review, and like Garak, "the surest way to [my] heart is through conversation."

[uselessidiotsquad]

🙉, 🔫, and 💔 for Riag!

I'm coming for that angst

- @storm-called

*rubs greedy hands together* The surest way to my heart besides an axe directly to the sternum is angst >:3 Ty for the ask!

🙉 HEAR-NO-EVIL - what is the worse thing your oc could hear from someone?

Oh this one is a bit interesting because in a way, it's already happened. Finding out later that killing the dragons was a BAD thing was a shockwave of a blow for him. Finding out that, not only was the thing he'd based his entirely existence around (from even before existence if you count the Dream) damaging but also there wasn't an alternative at that point.

It's the whole drinking sea water because you're dying of thirst but only doing more damage - yet there's no other options.

That the thing he considered his existence to be formed around, that he gave everything to - mind, body, heart and soul - was harming the world because no one understood things well enough yet. Anything he decides to do, he does 100% there is no half-assing, it's either 0% or 100% and to find out the 100% did *HARM*?

Ouch and bad news bears.

🔫 PISTOL - do they trust people easily? how easily will they turn their back to someone? have they been backstabbed before? will they betray someone if given an ultimatum?

Riag doesn't trust easily, it takes a lot of work. He's more of a 'wait and see' type of person. Actions are louder than words so if they work at gaining his trust, he is less distanced but still at arms length.

As for the second part, it really depends! He does not like to see people suffering if he can help it so it would take a good deal before he turned his back to someone, even if he didn't know them/care for them. If it was someone he did care for - that would basically never happen.

Surprisingly, Riag hasn't really been backstabbed or betrayed in the most common meaning of the word. He considers the Pact to have sort of discarded him post-Commander duties and brushed him off, but nothing so serious as a betrayal.

And oh that's a tricky one. Again, if it was just a random person and he was given an ultimatum then yes he might betray them if he thought that he was doing something for the greater good. If it was one of the few people he has let into his life? Ultimatum or not - he wouldn't. He'd sooner be mulched.

💔 BROKEN HEART - what could their partner do that would absolutely break their heart?

This one gave me some trouble just because of how Riag is as a person at this point in his life. The flower boy is basically always anticipating heartbreak. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong and be his fault (even when it's not his fault, he will find a way to blame himself for it).

Riag's already sort of convinced himself it's inevitable it's just a matter of when. And because he's the picture of ride or die, most of the big heartbreaking things he wouldn't even hold it against him.

The only thing that would just completely wreck him would be for Trahearne to just leave, with no explanation, no closure. There one minute, gone the next. And have that be the end of it. That would just ruin him.

[deihy]

SLYTHERIN ADORA AN EXPLANATION

My take on this tweet made by Noelle Stevenson.

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Ok, so, as much as I liked that Hufflepuff Catra was confirmed, reading “Adora is a Slytherin trying to be a Gryffindor” has been the single most interesting thing of this week, and is what I wanted to focus on because how can Adora NOT be a Gryffindor? Well, I tried to find that answer and I think I get it now.  

But, before we begin:

*Disclaimer: I’ll be using the split model created by “thesortinghatchats”, which divides each house into a Primary (why a person does things, their priorities and motivations) and a Secondary (how a person does things, what are their methods and styles to accomplish goals). I like it because I think it allows for more nuance in character analysys, but I also know there are people who don’t find the system useful and may want to skip this.

With that clarified, here we go:    

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The reason is so hard to think of Adora as anything other than a Gryffindor is that she IS one: a Gryffindor Secondary.  

                                 “So, what do we do now?

                                 We do what we do best.

                                         We improvise”.

                                   -  Adora, Roll With It.

By that I mean three things:

1.   Adora has a knack for improvisation. She may plan beforehand, but if the plan falls apart (which tends to happen to her a lot), it doesn’t matter since she won’t let that stop her. For instance, she might not be able to heal the land of Plumeria, but she can try to stop the Horde soldiers that are there. On top of that, she is very good at making things as she goes and at using the tools available to her advantage. (See: Every Catra vs Adora fight ever).

2.   Her way of doing things is to be bold and direct (both in her words and actions).

Adora’s MO is to decide what should be done, and then doing it, no matter how hard. Be it joining the Rebellion the same day she leaves the Horde, fighting for Plumeria when its people won’t do it themselves, or going against Glimmer’s wishes and leaving for Beast Island to save Entrapta. And it’s the same for how she talks; most of the time, you know what she’s thinking and how she’s feeling because she’ll just tell you if you ask her, even if she’s not the best of communicators.

This does not mean she is incapable of being discreet (sneaking in and out of The Fright Zone and then of Bright Moon), or of telling lies (to catch the Horde spy), or considering other possibilities before acting (the different plans in “Roll with it”). However, these are the exception, not the rule and, in the case of the lies, you can see how uncomfortable she feels when she has to tell them.

3.   This unwillingness to let fear stop her or to be dishonest in who she is or what she thinks, it inspires people. Like in the cases of Perfuma, Huntara and Angella.

She’s not a Gryffindor Primary, though.

Why? Because she values her friends, her most important people, more than anything else. 

     “If you wanna take down Adora, you have to go for the heart.”

                                    - Catra, Princess Prom.

Ok, so. Being a Slytherin tends to be associated with selfishness, with a lack of care for anyone other than yourself and your own, and this is seen as a bad thing. Though it can be a bad thing, depending on the situation, for a Slytherin is just right to value yourself and those who are important to you, and they expect the same from everybody else.

In Adora’s case, she had Catra and Shadow Weaver. She felt she could be herself with the former and that she needed to make the latter proud. Once she found out Shadow Weaver had manipulated her, that all she had ever been told was a lie, and that Catra was aware of it, it became very hard to separate her best friend of the betrayal she felt. When Catra refused to come with her, attacked her and then left her in Thaymor, Adora was left with no one.  

That’s when Bow and Glimmer come in, and by being kind, supportive and patient with her, the way Shadow Weaver never was, they quickly became two of the most important people for Adora. From then and throughout the whole series, Adora has established, again and again, that she fights for her friends, and the surest way to hurt her, or to get her to do what you want is by threatening to hurt the people she loves.

These are my friends. They've been kind to me. Something you never were.

               You never loved me. You just played your twisted mind games.

                                           (…) This is who I am.

                    You hurt my friends, so, now you're gonna pay.

                             - Adora, in the Shadows of Mystacor.

                                                    I'm not Mara.

                                 I'm not the She-Ras of the past.

                                I didn't do this to fulfill my destiny.

                                 I became She-Ra to help others.

                  My attachments, my friends, are a part of who I am.

                                          - Adora, Light Hope.

                                    Your mission is to fix the planet.

                                  My mission is to help my friends.

                                           - Adora, Light Hope

In Plumeria, it isn’t not being able to heal the land what makes her feel bad, is the fact she couldn’t be what her friends needed her to (all I've done is disappoint an entire kingdom. I'm sorry I let you guys down). In “Light Hope”, she had to choose between healing the planet as She-ra, or healing Glimmer, and her response was: “I'll do whatever you want. (…) But I have to heal Glimmer first”.

Friends are also her Berserk button. It isn’t until Catra implies to have hurt Bow that Adora forcefully grabs her in “Princess Prom”. In “the Promise”, Adora only reason to be angry at Catra is that she kidnapped Bow and Glimmer and both were hurt because of it. And once she realizes Catra won’t stop trying to hurt her friends, is when Adora finally stops trying to convince her to come with her.

On top of that, they are also the fastest way to crush her. When both Light Hope and Shadow Weaver tell her she puts her friends in danger just by being near them, or that she’s going to fail them and make everything worse, it’s almost enough for her to give up and do what they want. This is much worse when it comes from her friends’ mouth directly: Well, maybe your best isn't good enough! If it was, my mother would still be here!

To clarify, none of the above means Adora doesn’t have a moral code or that she wouldn’t go against a loved one to do what she thinks is right. After all, she and Bow disobeyed a direct order from Glimmer to save Entrapta. (see also: Catra and Adora’s relationship after she the latter leaves the Horde).

What it does mean however, is that Adora’s motivations will be at least a little tinted by her need to put the people she values first.

Adora thinks is possible for people to change and that others deserve that opportunity, but she also needs to see if the person who raised her (and who she once loved) has any good deep, deep, deep inside of her. She thinks deactivating the heart should be their priority, but it also helps that Light Hope betrayed Mara and then lied to Adora, so she doesn’t feel she can trust her. She wants to protect everyone, but because that’s the hero she thinks Glimmer deserves. And she can fight war against the Catra while still missing her all the time. 

                                      I told you, we can't trust her.

                                            She betrayed Mara.

                                                She lied to me.

                                             She's the bad guy!

                                               - Adora, Fractures.

Now, let’s talk about loyalty. As I said before, Slytherins believe one must do right by the people who are important to you. For Adora, in particular, it means you shouldn’t try to hurt, lie, manipulate or use the people you claim to love.

Just look at how much she hates being used as bait by Glimmer, How angry she is on behalf of Mara because Light Hope (Someone who she loved) betray her, but also how angry she is that Light Hope lied to her as well, and how upset she gets when Glimmer snaps at Bow or her. There’s also the anger and frustration she feels when she realizes Shadow Weaver has been lying and manipulating her all these years.

Speaking of Shadow Weaver, I personally believe this is also why Adora’s bond with her breaks so easily in comparison to the one she has with Catra. I think after the first time Adora saw her hurting Catra, a part of the love she had for SW just vanished, because, how can you say you love me when you hurt someone that you know I love? Plus, once she could compare SW’s brand of love with the one Bow and glimmer gace her, it was easy for Adora to see SW wasn’t doing right by her, so she didn’t feel she owed her anything anymore.

                          It's my fault! The Horde nearly destroyed Etheria.

                                         We were barely able to stop it.

                  If this plan isn't perfect, if I'm not perfect, everyone will

                                               - Adora, Roll with It

One more thing to talk about is Adora’s sense of self. As I said earlier, Slytherins don’t just care about their important people, they care about themselves. Adora, though, is the kind of Slytherin that ties all of her self-worth to her ability to do right by her closest ones.  

Try re-watching the series or reading the episode transcripts and you will find plenty of examples of Adora expressing her need to be worthy of her friends. She needs to be the hero Glimmer deserves, she feels the need to apologize if her powers are not enough because she hates letting her friends down, she feels she should present herself as She-ra because she’s much better than plain old Adora, and so on and so forth.

   From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were different. You were

                                                       - Special?

                No, what you always told me was that I didn't matter.

                             I was special only as long as I obeyed you

                                      - Adora, The Prince of Power

It’s funny that Adora would say this to Shadow Weaver and recognize it as a negative thing, but not realize she’s still following this pattern of basing her worth on what someone else want (Or what she thinks they want, at least).

                                       What? Did you really think this was about you?

                              - Catra, The Battle of Bright Moon

Something else I noticed is that Adora has a pattern of making things personal. Things are her fault, it was her idea, her plan, her decisions, her responsibility, her destiny, her planet. Nowhere is clearer than in her interactions with Catra. Due to their abusive upbringing, Adora grew up loving Catra, but also seeing her as her responsibility. Once they are on opposite sides of the war, Catra is always hers. She always goes after Catra first, whatever she does is in order to hurt Adora, and she is the only one capable of stopping her. Both in Battle of Brightmoon and in Princess Prom, her need to go after Catra leads her to get distracted by her.  

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Final thoughts: I think Adora’s character Arc has been about accepting more of her Slytherin side, the one that concerns her own self worth. It has taken a long time, and there’s still work for her to do, particularly with regards to her belief that she only deserves love if she is useful to others, and in realizing that she is allowed to want things for herself, just because. Still, she has managed to move past taking the blame for everything, especially what involves Catra. We can see this when Adora refuses to let Catra blame her for opening the portal, and later on when she won’t let Glimmer blame her for losing Salineas. She also learns to become more vulnerable with the people she loves; by telling Glimmer she needed her.

I hope we get to see her put herself first more in the future.

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[mortuarybees]

most esteemed mr mortuarybees- having followed the few posts pertaining to the interaction b/w yourself and your mother, i applaud you for your calm nature and amicable reaction to the situation at hand. could a fellow ask you for advice on how to achieve that level of composure? i find that my dearest mother is also of the belief that i dress myself the way i do precisely to spite her (which is untrue, ofcourse, i do so to relieve my poor self of whatever amount of dysphoria i can) and (1/?)

unlike yourself, i find myself easily encouraged to rash behaviour, oftentimes accompanied by many tears. i am of a singularly excitable nature, and it seems as if my emotions have a way of getting the better of me. i am aware that this is a strain in my relationship with my dearest mother, and thus i ask you, nay, beg you to share some advice with this poor soul- how do i remain calm in similar situations? i so wish a reality in which my darling mother would just accept his son the way he is, and we could work on building a stronger, more precious mother-son relationship, but as is, our bond is strained by sentiments of betrayal and misunderstanding. anywho, thank you kindly for your time and i do hope i have not put myself forward too boldly in asking for advice- and if i so have, please feel free to tell me to back off, as it were, and a word from you shall silence me on this matter indefinitely. and thank you, my good sir, for the delightful content you put here.

Dearest Anon,

You will find my response below, both due to the personal nature of my reply, and its length.

You have not been too bold at all, sir, nor have you offended me; to the contrary, I’m very honored that you have sought my advice. Unfortunately, I fear the advice I do have will not be terribly useful. The relationship between my mother and I is fraught, and one I am often hesitant to speak on in detail in a public forum, but will describe, for your sake. At a young age, my family endured a rather difficult schism involving my siblings, which I believe was not handled well, and for much of my adolescence, my mother suffered from a very deep depression, and still does, though now she communicates more openly with me on the subject. I, too, have struggled with depression for as long as I can remember, and encountered some difficulties not long after the aforementioned schism which my mother is still not aware of to this day, nor, I think, will she ever be. All of this resulted in a rather distant relationship despite our co-residence, sometimes speaking only once in a day, and very briefly. Usually, these interactions were quite negative; often even now, with our relationship much improved, any kind words are certain to be passive aggressive, or what one might call a backhanded compliment. Though I love my mother dearly, and do not wish to give any impression to the contrary, I have some unfortunate resentment towards her for this emotional absence, and general suspicion of her intentions.

I made my journey with my sexuality and gender quite alone but for a very dear friend, as many lgbt+ people do, with my mother a very distant thought. She is not horrifically homophobic or transphobic, nor has she ever been, aside from occasional careless comments common to a southern conservative, and in this I am very lucky; however, she is afflicted with the suburban curse: a steadfast belief that if we do not discuss it, it is not real. I have not, truly, made a concerted effort to remain closeted, and I am fairly certain she knows, or suspects, that I am trans, and chooses not to remark upon it, aside from occasional outbursts or snide commentary on the masculinity of my presentation. These are the comments that truly distress me, and continue to do so. However, more often she simply makes comments on the absurdity or formality of my sartorial sensibilities, and these I find amusing, or in some sense validating, both given my lingering childish resentment, and because she is quite the parody of a suburban heterosexual, and so her disapproval is in some ways a compliment to me. If she did express appreciation for an outfit or article of clothing, I would feel it necessary to change, as clearly I am not dressing in such a way that Wilde or Welch would approve.

My advice is quite unfortunate: if your mother is not willing to change, the surest path to your own happiness and an improved relationship is to endeavor towards some emotional detachment from her and her approval. Do not mistake me, I do not advise disowning her, or necessarily even reducing contact with her, unless you wish to or the latter proves necessary for this aim. Taking a metaphorical step back from your relationship in your own heart and mind and surrounding yourself with others who validate and appreciate you and your wonderful gender expression will ease some of the pain of her rejection. In my case, the emotional distance due to other factors helped to keep her disapproval from ever overwhelming me too terribly much when I was younger. Now, as an adult who was separated physically from her for two years while living in my university’s dormitories, and as an overly introspective and analytical person (read: I overthink everything, and stew until I’ve worked something out), I find it easier to view her unclouded by my own hurt feelings, and see our relationship more for what it is: I love her dearly, and she loves me, I do not doubt, but it is very likely that we would not get along if we were not mother and son. When I realized that she did not especially like me as a person, it was admittedly very hurtful–especially because she has, drunkenly, essentially admitted to this–but as time went on, I realized that were she not my mother, it’s likely that I would not like her as a person, either.

In short (or, as short as I ever am), I accepted that we would never have an extremely close relationship–she will not accompany me to receive my first testosterone shot, nor will she be the person who cares for me after top surgery; she will attend my wedding, but she will not be overly involved in its planning; though I often call her when I am down and lonely because I love her and her voice and conversation cheer me, and I know she will pick up, she is not the person I will call if I need to talk about whatever it is that troubles me; if I am in danger, or legal or financial trouble, I will call her, and I know she will do her best to help, but if I am upset, if something has happened in my personal life, I’m panicking or depressed, I know I should not call her to discuss it, because she will not understand, and may be annoyed, and will likely unintentionally make me feel worse–and that has allowed our relationship to greatly improve.

It’s a very difficult thing, to accept that for our own sake, our parents should not be as important to us as they are, that they will not give us the approval and connection we long for and, being only human, require, but it has helped me a great deal emotionally, and it has helped our relationship. Being a step removed, I am able to brush off her disdain in a way I could not when I was fifteen and more desperate for her approval. Understand that though she is your beloved mother, she is also a flawed person, and her disapproval does not reflect on you, but rather on her own views and sensibilities. There are other people in the world who will give you the unconditional acceptance you wish for and deserve–and never doubt that. You do deserve it, and you will receive it. There are important aspects of your experience that she does not and will never understand, and that does not mean she doesn’t love you, or that you shouldn’t have a relationship with her, but for your own sake, I advise that you put some emotional distance between you. Of course, if you feel this advise is not especially useful to you, or not the way you wish to go about it, you are perfectly free to disregard it, as I can only speak from my own experiences.

With my fondest wishes,

Henry 🐝

[sunshinelikesstarwars]

Day 3: Firsts and Lasts

Here we have some firsts and lasts of Satine and Obi-Wan’s relationship. Canon compliant.

—

First thoughts:

She looks pompous. I hope this mission is short.

He looks arrogant. Why are Jedi even here?

First words:

“I told you, I don’t need extra protection! There’s no reason at all for them to be here. Send them away!” A young human female, angry, sharp, turns to a beleaguered-looking advisor on her right. Her hands are curled into fists at her sides.

“Your grace,” a young human man says, his tone even, his face perfectly placid. The fists hidden in his long sleeves are clenched tight.

 First touch:

A hand lifts, elegant. Satine doesn’t look at Obi-Wan as he takes her fingers with his larger ones and bows, kissing the air above her hand, and so she misses the flash of blue fire in his eyes.

He turns away too quickly to see the flash of green fire in hers as she watches him go.

 First fight:

“Absolutely not. Opening a communication channel is the surest way to be tracked.”

“If it’s a secure connection, that would only happen if the recipient themselves was tracking the call! My court is trustworthy. They would never betray me in such a way!”

“And I suppose those bounty hunters had an intimate knowledge of the palace layout and your personal schedule from some other source. And certainly no member of your court could be threatened into compliance.”

“We are Mandalorian! Our new creed is peace! What you speak of is treason, and cowardice, and much too dark a conclusion for a peacekeeping Jedi to come to.”

“You seem to be under the impression that the galaxy is full of idealists such as yourself, your grace, and that sort of thinking will only get you killed.”

“Better dead for peace than seeking betrayal in every corner!”

“Better prepared for betrayal than allowing everything you worked for to die!”

 First laugh:

“Has he always been so…”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says flatly, turning his attention back to the soup over the fire.

Satine chuckles. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.” She brings over some of the food they got from the market and starts to prepare it for roasting.

He smiles back at her, taking a few vegetables and adding them to the pot. “He’s been my mentor for more than a decade. Trust me. Whatever you were going to say, the answer is ‘yes.’” They grin at each other.

There is quiet while Obi-Wan stirs and Satine threads bits of meat onto skewers until Obi-Wan breaks the silence with a gentle laugh. “You know, that actually reminds me of a mission we went on a few years ago.”

Qui-Gon comes back to two young adults giggling like children as they try to keep dinner from burning.

 First cry:

Exhausted, but relatively safe, they finally stop running. Obi-Wan lets Satine down and she immediately starts rummaging through their gear, careful not to put weight on her injured leg. Qui-Gon catches his breath for only a moment before telling them he is going to scout the area, and then he is gone.

Out of sight of his Master, Obi-Wan lets himself collapse. His heart is pounding. He doesn’t quite understand. He’s run faster than that, for longer distances, carrying heavier weights. Why does he feel so weak now?

He jerks awake—had he fallen asleep?—when Satine starts tugging open his robes. Blushing, he jerks upright, then nearly falls back over as the blood rushes from his head. He groans and presses his hands over his eyes.

“You’re poisoned,” Satine announces. Poisoned? Oh, yes, the venomites. Nasty little things. Obi-Wan nods, still covering his eyes. When Satine tries to remove his clothes again, though, he’s still startled.

“You’re hurt, Ben,” she says. “I’m helping. Sit still.”

He’s momentarily, happily distracted at his new nickname being used, until, for some reason, her taking care of him starts bothering him. It takes a moment (a moment in which Satine manages to completely bare his top half and inject some kind of pain medication into him), but it comes to him eventually. He grabs the wrists of the hands that are starting to spread some sort of gel on his arms and looks down at her legs, trying to find the injury he knows is there. “You’re hurt. I drop...dropped you.”

“Shut up!” is her reply to that. “I don’t care!” Her voice sounds a bit strange, and he finally looks up to focus her face. She...she’s crying. Stars above, she is crying from pain and trying to help him anyways.

With a distressed noise, he tries to reach the medical supplies, ignoring his body’s protest. As he searches, he croons, “No, no, I’ve got you, it’s fine, you’ll be fine—“ To his confusion, that only makes her cry harder. Her intense emotions, mixed with his own exhaustion and pain, start to affect him as well, and he tries (and fails) to blink away the tears forming in his eyes as he digs around the bag to find a bandage and some pain medication. “Satine, I’m sorry, so sorry, Tina, forgive me, I’m—you’ll—“

It is during this blathering that Satine throws her arms around him.

Obi-Wan goes still very quickly. After a moment of her crying against his chest, he cautiously brings up his arms to encircle her. That’s what one did with hugs, right? Return them? He wishes he was thinking clearer. He wishes he would stop crying. He wishes Satine would stop crying. He also wishes that the tiny bites all over his body wouldn’t hurt so badly where Satine is touching him. But Satine is trembling, and obviously is in need of comfort of some kind, so he just holds her close and hopes he is doing the right thing.

“Idiot,” she mumbles against his shoulder. “You’re an idiot.”

Obi-Wan does not dispute this. He is feeling pretty idiotic at the moment.

She lets his idiotic self hug her anyways, and he sits and tries to think. Eventually, one thought rings out about all the others: he had tried to rescue her and she’d gotten hurt anyways. There was a lesson in there somewhere. Something about acceptance and attachment, about the inevitability of existence. Something about not being able to save everyone.

 —

 Last laugh:

The drapes on the windows are pulled shut in Satine’s Coruscant apartment. Even though they aren’t necessarily doing anything wrong or terribly interesting, the gossip columns won’t think so, so they are careful with these meetings.

They sit on the floor, an approximation of their many meals outdoors in years past. That is, if the plush carpet and cushions could be mistaken for uneven dirt and stone, or the ornate artwork a dark forest of leaves and creatures, or their expertly-prepared cuisine a crude mishmash of available ingredients.

Satine hums into her champagne flute. “Well, Anakin Skywalker...he’s certainly something else.”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “Tina, you don’t even know the half of it.” He bites into a cracker, then almost immediately starts laughing, covering his mouth. He swallows and says with a raised eyebrow, “You, ah, may have noticed a secret relationship with a certain senator?”

A very un-duchess-y snort is the reply. “A secret relationship? They’re trying to keep it a secret?” She shakes her head and adds a few pieces of fruit and cheese to her plate.

“‘Trying’ is the operative word here,” he says, then gestures out with his flute. “Anakin is about as subtle as...as...well, something very, very unsubtle.” Obi-Wan drains his champagne and settles further into the cushions behind him.

Satine laughs, tossing a piece of fruit at him. (He catches it, of course. Insufferable man.) “Where has your eloquence gone, O Great Negotiator?”

“Oh, shut up,” he says with a grin, and pops the fruit into his mouth.

 Last fight:

“These measures are unnecessary. Mandalore is a place of peace. We are not a part of this war, and we will not act as if we are.”

“Even a neutral party in war is a part of the war.”

“Not this again, Ben. I will keep my people safe.”

“And I will keep the galaxy safe. I must.”

“...I know. I understand where you’re coming from. I just...wish this war was over. I wish it had never happened.”

“Don’t dwell on the might-have-beens, my dear. We’re both trying to end this war, and I do understand your position. You’re a wonderful leader and Mandalore is lucky to have someone as dedicated to their safety and future as you. I’m sorry that this has all turned out so…well.”

“Me too. And though I don’t agree at all with what you’re doing, I know you’re trying to find peace without fighting. You’ve done the best you can with the situation you’ve been given.”

“As have you, Tina.”

“...What a pair we are.”

“Indeed.”

 Last cry:

Sundari is quiet at night, especially at the palace. Satine stands near a holo terminal, staring out the window at the city, waiting for the call to connect.

“Duchess?” a familiar voice calls. She turns with a smile to see a life-size hologram of Obi-Wan standing before her.

“Ben,” she says, and she watches that careful formality melt away. If she can call him Ben, they are alone. Diplomatic shields are hardly necessary.

He sits down on what she assumes is his bed and she crosses to a nearby sofa to do the same. “How are you doing?” he asks softly.

She looks away. “Children, Ben. They were children. They might have died.”

“But they didn’t. You found out what was wrong. You stopped it. They’re safe.”

She scoffs. “Safe. Yes, safe, until the next black market is set up, or the next official compromises their standards, or the next terrorist attack in a public park, or—“

“Tina.”

She stops and pulls in a ragged breath. She’s trying so hard to keep it together. They really were lucky. No children had died. They’d been uncomfortable for a while, yes, but every one of them had gone home. There had been other problems, though. So many problems. “We trusted people to bring us food, and they bring us poison. We trusted someone with the safekeeping of our children, and he risked their lives for his own profit. We...I trusted Almec to do his job, to find a peaceful, legal solution for our problems. And...”

“Corruption at any level can bring down a city, be it industry, education, or government.”

“How depressing the truths of life are.”

They stay silent for a moment, long enough for Satine gather the frazzled parts of herself. After a deep breath, she looks back at the only person she knows she can trust completely, as different as they are. He looks tired, so tired, and her broken heart shatters a little more. “And you? How are you?”

He’s quiet for a moment, perfectly still, and then leans forward—almost collapses, really—and covers his face with his hands. She sees his shoulders start to shake. “Children, Tina,” comes the quiet, muffled response.

She closes her eyes. She has been spared the front lines of this war, the aftermath, but her Ben has not. And she can’t even hold his hand, or stroke his hair, or cradle that too-big heart close to hers.

All she can do is share his tears.

 Last words:

“Satine!” He reaches for her. Too late, too late.

She finds the strength to smile, even as her strength fades away. “I’ve loved you always. I always will.”

 Last touch:

The hand that trembles against his cheek falls away. Still, he doesn’t let go. He can’t. He can’t look away from her face, from her eyes, though they are closed now. That fire that drove her to change worlds has been put out. And with the death of that fire, that light, he feels something within him die as well.

He lifts her hand—elegant as ever, but lifeless and limp—and presses his lips ever-so-gently against it.

 Last thoughts:

This isn’t your fault, Ben. Don’t let this destroy you.

My duchess, my Tina, my love. Forgive me. I’ve failed you.

[chasholidays]

Bellarke au of the 2007 film Stardust there is in fact a wikipedia page but the movie is also something you'd like so watch it if you get a chance. Please and Thank you!

It starts off simply enough: Bellamy’s sister is sick, and if he brings her the heart of a star, she’ll be healed. And, of course, finding a star isn’t so easy, but if that’s the cure, then that’s what he’ll do. He doesn’t have another choice. She’s his sister, and his responsibility; he’d never let anything happen to her.

So he’s going to get her a star. There’s no other option.

It’s just his good luck that a star falls when he needs one.

“It’s your fate,” his mother says, when he tells her. “You were never meant to live here.”

“It’s your house,” he points out. Most of his attention is on packing, but there’s always time for mouthing off, too. “You’re the one who decided I was going to live here.”

“And I always knew you’d go someday. This is what you were meant to do.”

“Taking care of my sister,” he agrees. “That’s what you always told me.”

Aurora smiles. “I did. But–this is about more than just your sister, Bellamy. You’re going home.”

She’s always said his father came from across the Wall, but he can’t say he’s ever believed her. It felt like a polite kind of fiction, a father he could be proud of, instead of whatever father he really had.

His life is simple: he’s the only son of a seamstress, and his sister is ill. He’s going across the Wall to find a cure for her. That’s all that matters. That’s all there is to it.

As quests go, it shouldn’t be too hard.

*

Bellamy thought he knew what to expect from the star. When a star crashes out of the sky, it looks huge, but by the time it hits the ground, it’s just a little piece of rock, an ordinary, everyday thing. He can believe there’s magic in that because no matter how ordinary it looks, it’s still a magical event. And anything that happens over the Wall is, by definition, magic. He can let himself think that the part of the star that lands beyond the Wall is the heart, and that it can cure his sister’s illness.

So it’s very annoying when he gets to the valley where the star fell, and someone else already has it.

“Look, I appreciate you probably need this thing too,” he tells the girl, approaching carefully, as if she’s a wild animal. She looks a little disoriented, as if she wasn’t really planning to take the star, or maybe just didn’t notice it until it struck the ground. “But my sister’s going to die if I don’t take it home.”

She blinks a few times. “Excuse me?”

“The star you picked up. I need it.”

“The star I picked up.”

“We can share it,” he says. “I don’t think she needs to eat it or anything. Just–be exposed to it. I don’t know. I just need to save my sister, and then you can have it back.”

“Have the star back.”

He rubs his face. Is this a Wall thing? Can she just repeat whatever he says? “Fuck, I don’t have time for this. Will you just give me the star?”

“So you can save your sister.”

“What part of this hasn’t been clear?”

She scowls, which he can admit might be justified. He did come out of nowhere demanding that she give up the star she’d rightfully claimed. “I don’t owe you anything, whoever you are.”

“You’re right, you don’t. I’m sorry.” He offers his hand. “My name is Bellamy Blake. My sister is ill, and I was told the surest way to save her was to bring her the heart of a star. I don’t think she has to keep it. It’s your prize, but–I can’t let her die, and I don’t know if another star will fall in time to save her. So–please.”

The girl looks him up and down. “You think you can just take a star home to your sister and cure all that ails her?”

“I’ve been told, yes.” And then, desperation coloring his voice, “I don’t have anything else. If the doctor says this will save her, then this is what I’ll do.”

“And then you’ll come and find me and give the star back?”

“On my sister’s life.”

Her mouth twitches. “So if your sister dies, I don’t get the star back?”

“If she dies, it’s not worth much as a magical item,” he points out. “I’ll give it back no matter what. On my life, and my sister’s. You have my word.”

“The word of a stranger I’ve never met.” She wets her lips. “Where is she? Your sister.”

“Across the Wall.”

“How far?”

“I was able to travel quickly here, but I have to walk back. It’ll take a week or two, I think.”

The girl looks him over again, and then nods, as if agreeing to a statement he didn’t make. “All right. I’ll go with you. I’ll hold onto the star, until we reach your sister. I don’t have any reason to trust you.”

“I guess you don’t. Thank you,” he adds.

“Will she make it? Or will two weeks–”

“She’ll make it,” he says, making himself believe it. “She has the time.”

“Still,” says the girl. “We should hurry.”

“We should,” he agrees. “Thank you. Again.”

She smiles. “You’re welcome again. Now, which way are we going?”

*

Over the next few hours, he starts to suspect there’s something off with the girl. Her name is Clarke, but that’s about all she seems sure about telling him. When he asks her how old she is and where her family comes from, she hesitates, and when he asks what she wants with the star, she only shrugs.

“Stars are lucky.”

“I don’t see why a fallen one would be,” he points out. “If it fell out of the sky and ended up here, how lucky can it be?”

“Lucky for whoever finds it.”

“And you need luck?”

“Who doesn’t need luck?”

He shakes his head, smiling, and she looks pleased, as if she’s won something. And maybe she has. Probably, she’s one of the fairy folk, someone whose life is incomprehensible to Bellamy. That’s how it’s supposed to be, across the Wall. Magic is real here, and thriving, and whatever Clarke wants to do with a star is almost certainly outside of his understanding.

“How did you get here?” she asks, a few hours later. “You said you had a way to travel quickly, and that’s why you came just after the star fell.”

“My mother had a Babylon candle.” He pauses, but if there’s anyone he can safely tell about himself, it’s this girl from beyond the Wall, whom he’ll never see again once she’s gotten her star. “She came here, she said. Before I was born, she said she came beyond the Wall to the market, and that’s where she met my father.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s a nice story, but I know better than to believe it.”

“Why don’t you?” Clarke asks. She sounds curious, as if she really doesn’t know. “If she had a Babylon candle, she must have gotten it somewhere. Why couldn’t your father be some man from this side of the Wall?”

He glances at her sidelong. “Because she knows so many more from the other side. I know she wanted to make me feel better, about not having a father, but–I’d rather she just told me the truth.”

“You’re the one who decided she didn’t. If you’ve already made up your mind that she’s lying, what’s she supposed to do?”

“For someone who refused to tell me anything about her family, you have a lot of opinions about mine.”

“If I wanted your opinions on my family, I would have told you about them. Since you did tell me–”

He has to smile. “Fine, you’re right, it’s my own fault. But no one’s going to worry about you?”

“They know where I am.”

“This cryptic thing is already getting old, in case you were wondering.”

She beams; it feels as if she’s getting more cheerful as it gets later, which is not how Bellamy tends to experience the world. “Not really, no. It’s working out very well for me.”

“As long as one of us is enjoying this,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.

Whatever else she might be, she really isn’t so bad.

*

A week later, he’s feeling much less patient with her.

“You need to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“What makes you think I know?” she asks, but he knows her well enough by now that the tone doesn’t fool him. He just scowls until she wilts. “Stars are useful. You’re not the only one who wants one.”

“So how does everyone know you have one? And what do they want to do with it?”

She bites the corner of her mouth, clearly torn. They’re actually staying in an inn for once, sharing a room with two beds because he’s not willing to leave her alone after a week of people trying to kill them. Just because they dealt with today’s sorcerer and came out unscathed on the other side doesn’t mean he can stop worrying.

On the contrary, he feels as if he has more to worry about than ever.

“Clarke,” he says, pitching his voice low. “Come on. You can trust me. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I thought you’d figure it out,” she says, with a huff of a laugh. “I’m the star, Bellamy.”

He blinks. “You’re the what?”

“What do you think I was doing there? I didn’t just end up in the center of a crater with a falling star by accident.”

“How are you the star?” he asks, still trying to catch up. “You’re not a star, you’re–”

“This is what happens when stars fall over the Wall. We join you.”

“And when were you going to tell me that? Was I the only one who didn’t know?”

“No. Plenty of people don’t realize what I am. But most of them weren’t looking for me.”

His jaw works as he looks her up and down. It’s not such a huge betrayal, not as long as– “Can you save my sister?”

“I don’t know.”

The bottom drops out of his world. “You don’t know?”

She doesn’t back down, chin raised defiantly against his advance. “I don’t know,” she confirms. “I’ll do everything I can. But when we go past the Wall–magic doesn’t work, on the other side. If I’d fallen there, I’d be a piece of rock, and I wouldn’t be able to save anyone.”

“So why did you come with me?” he demands. “What did you–”

“You didn’t give me much choice,” she snaps. “If I told you I wasn’t going to give you the star, or that it wouldn’t work, what would you have done?”

He exhales, trying to get his temper under control. “So she’s going to die.”

“No,” says Clarke. “Look, do you know what I was going to do? I was going to leave you. As soon as I thought I could get away. I was going to find somewhere safe, where I didn’t have to worry about anyone going after my heart.”

“So I’m supposed to be grateful you stayed?” he asks.

“I stayed because I want to help,” she says. “I can’t go to your sister, but if you get her to me–maybe I can do something. Maybe I can save her.”

“Maybe.”

“You never knew if it was going to work. All I can tell you is that I’m on your side, and if you get your sister to me, I’ll do everything in my power to save her. I promise.”

He looks her up and down, as if he can see the lie. “What happens to you after that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you’re really as powerful as you say you are, aren’t there always going to be people looking for you? Trying to–”

“Cut the heart out of me?” she asks. “Maybe. I’ll figure something out.”

“That’s what they want to do?” he asks, horrified. “Cut your heart out?”

“That’s what you needed too, wasn’t it?” she asks, and of course, she’s right. “The heart of a star.”

“I thought whatever got down to us was the heart of the star,” he grumbles. “How was I supposed to know the star was an actual person?”

“No one sees it coming.”

“Fuck. So you just have to–live with this?”

“I’ll figure it out,” she says again.

It’s impulsive and a little ridiculous, especially given how much of his relationship with Clarke has been a lie, but he still thinks he knows, well, the heart of her. Who she really is.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says. “Once I know–once my sister’s taken care of, you’ve still got me, Clarke. I’m yours.”

Her smile brightens. Not just that, her whole face brightens, her whole body. “Really?”

“Really.” He tucks her hair back. “You should maybe work on that–whatever’s happening right now.”

“I’m a star, Bellamy,” she says, like this is obvious. Like he didn’t only just find out. “I shine.”

*

He doesn’t think much of the shining; it’s just another thing Clarke does. When she smiles, or she laughs, when she’s happy, she brightens. It happens to humans too, just not quite as literally. It doesn’t seem like a big deal. Like she said, she’s a star. It makes sense she’d have some quirks.

They get back to the Wall, and Bellamy has to carry his sister across it to Clarke, finds her in their room in the inn with a knife out and ready to fend off one a man who doesn’t actually seem to be getting any closer.

“Ah,” says the man, glancing at Bellamy. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?” Clarke snaps.

He holds up his hands, dropping his own weapon, a perfect model of non-aggression. “I won’t take a useless heart. And yours won’t do me any good.”

Bellamy feels the blood drain from his face. “Clarke, what’s–”

But she doesn’t look upset. “Useless?”

“At least to me.”

“Oh good,” she says, which is even more confusing. Seeing his expression, she adds, “It’s fine. I can still help your sister. You just have to ask.”

“Ask?”

“Tell me to save her.”

It seems odd, but it’s magic. Magic is inherently odd. “Save her,” he says.

“Help him get her on the bed,” Clarke tells the man, and to Bellamy’s surprise he does. And since he doesn’t leave after that, Bellamy takes a position next to him.

“You don’t have anything to fear from me,” says the man. “As I said, she’s useless to me. The first to claim the star’s heart keeps it. Now that it’s been claimed, I couldn’t do anything with it if I got it.”

He frowns, torn between the desire to argue the point and the total lack of desire for the man to change his mind. “I had no idea I was so lucky.”

“I’m sure you still don’t. But you’ll figure it out.”

He doesn’t get a chance to, not until the next night, with everything else going on. First he has Octavia to take home and get squared away, and then he’s not even sure he should be going back, if Clarke still needs him.

But even if she doesn’t, he still can’t leave without saying goodbye.

She’s still at the inn, and when she sees him, she lights up the whole room with her smile.

“How’s your sister?”

“Completely recovered. I can’t thank you enough.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I should be thanking you.”

He frowns. “Because I–claimed you?”

She looks down at her hands. “You didn’t claim anything. You didn’t–” Her eyes flick back up to his, nervous but sure. “It’s my heart, Bellamy. It’s mine to give. And it’s yours.”

“Mine,” he repeats.

“Yours.”

When he kisses her, the room goes bright again, so bright he can see it through his closed eyes, and he grins against her mouth. “So I should stick with you, huh?”

“I was hoping you would want to.”

“Well, stars are lucky, right?” he teases, kissing her again. “I could use some luck.”

He gets it, too, but none of the good that follows–and a great deal of good does follow, as his mother apparently knew he would–is ever equal to the simple fact of having Clarke by his side.

She really is the best good fortune of all.

[utopianparadoxist]

HERALD OF THE POST-APOCALYPTIC POG ECONOMY- Jude Harley, the SEER of DOOM

When you say you’re going on hiatus, that means you ramp up your posting massively, right? I was going to leave this by the wayside but I am, lucky for you guys, I’m still too sick to record. 

Plus the Xefros and A.Claire posts are doing really well and frankly winning over the fandom is my best shot at long-term stability and things changed for the better for me in a big way recently, so I have the time to get out a couple more of the things I’ve really wanted to say before I start focusing on video--these will all be useful scripts for me soon anyway.

Let’s talk Jude Harley, who has already given us a likely Class and a definite Aspect. And who knows--maybe he’ll lead us to a bit of prophecy on the threats our heroes will face in Hauntswitch? Maybe, maybe not, but either way it’s clear I was doomed to make this post from the start.

So let’s dive right in, and let’s start with the side of Jude’s title I’m surest about: His affinity for the Aspect of Doom.

If Jude’s psyche is concerned with anything, then it’s concerned with death, risks, threats, and the rules you follow to avoid them. While not exactly cynical, Jude is certainly cautious and wary. Even his interest in aliens and cryptids frames them as mysterious threats to watch out for--his shirt isn’t depicting a simple alien, but an alien abduction.

He keeps a flare gun because the chance of a life-threatening emergency is a basically constant presence in his mind, and his interest in POGS is linked to his belief in their eventual post-apocalyptic value. Jude sees the worst in the world, and he prepares for it.

Apparently pretty well, too! I’m not AS sure that Jude is a Seer as I am that he’s a Doom player, but if this is a case of Class Roleplay, then it’s an oddly successful one. The big twist of the first half of Hiveswap is, of course, that Jude was right about basically everything--even if he muddled the execution a bit.

The Seer/Mage key verb--Know--is repeatedly linked to Jude’s biggest contributions, and it’s his foresight that keeps not just Joey but her beloved dog Tesseract safe. 

All of this squares quite nicely with the verbiage we can extrapolate for a Seer: One who knows Doom (or through Doom) for the benefit of others.

And we should stress that “for others” part, because where his plans stumble, Jude himself is the one to pay the price. For Joey’s benefit, but also for ours--the audience’s-- as his tragedy give us the deepest glimpse into his psyche and character we get during Act 1.

As @curlicuecal ‘s excellent post on Jude tells us, Jude’s pigeons actually each reflect his relationship to one of his family members, and how he experiences the loss of each of them in turn. Of course we start off with Frohike, apparently Jude’s favorite. Jude is devastated by Frohike’s tragic death, but nothing about it necessarily links the bird to A.Claire except context.

Langly makes things far clearer. When Jude finds himself abandoned, his fury is outright vicious. He makes it clear that he regards this as both betrayal and abandonment, an act of cowardice. He also alludes to being unable to communicate his anger properly and needing to suppress the emotion in order to focus on the task at hand.

Given that we’re talking about Jude, who basically ALWAYS has a task at hand, this all reads as a clear analog for his feelings about Pa. Emotional repression is something of a hallmark of the Harley line--John, Jake, Jade and Jane are all known to dabble in it. If he’s this upset when a bird abandons him, how does he feel about his own father doing so?

All this loss had already gotten to him before the attack on the Harley manor--Joey refers to all of this stress on Jude growing bad enough that Roxy took him to a doctor.

And the losses of his birds leave Jude isolated and desperate--he begs Joey to protect Byers and refers to him as “all he has left”. Not long after, he begs Joey not to go near the portal, saying he can’t lose her, too.

Byers, of course, is the bird that represents Joey in Jude’s heart, and he leaves with her when she’s abducted. However things work out between him and Dammek, for the time being, Jude is now alone. 

And maybe worst of all is that this always seems to have been the plan, because Jude is the victim of Act 1′s titular Kansas City Shuffle.

In order for a confidence game to be a "Kansas City Shuffle", the mark must be aware that he is involved in a con, but also be wrong about how the con artist is planning to deceive him. The con artist will attempt to misdirect the mark in a way that leaves him with the impression that he has figured out the game and has the knowledge necessary to outsmart the con artist, but by attempting to retaliate, the mark unwittingly performs an action that helps the con artist to further the scheme.

Given that we know that Scratch was expecting Joey, and that he is involved in the events that have put her here, we know for a fact that the swap between her and Dammek was always the plan.

Jude assumed the cult wanted the Cherub Portal for themselves, and that may well be true, but it’s his very defense of the thing that leads Joey right to it--and so, right into Scratch’s plans.

In this regard, Jude’s fears have come fully to fruition, as his knowledge of Doom helped the aliens who abducted his sister in the first place. Jude’s shirt is not just a mark of interest, but a prophecy of the fate Jude himself was doomed to witness, and Joey to experience.

And here is where it gets interesting (and somewhat speculative), because Jude’s Classpect is only half as relevant to his family as it is to his relationship with the source of all their troubles, the true antagonistic force behind both Hiveswap and Hauntswitch.

Homestuck’s Doom players were always marked by a duality motif, largely centered on Red and Blue. This was fitting for the trolls, as everything that Beforus and Alternia were doomed to was ultimately linked to the Red/Blue bomb that would eventually lead to the creation of the Green Sun.

Notice how once the sun is created, Sollux’s red/blue motif expires, and reaching the sun is basically the end of his relevance to the plot.

But even then he maintains a focus on Black/White duality. As is fitting of a Doom player, because Duality seems to be one of the biggest fundamental principles of Paradox Space. Everything in Homestuck comes in pairs: Aspects, Classes, Class Verbs, Players--all of it.

Duality is the rule, the boundary--just as death is a rule we all must follow, just as some fates are unavoidable. And so Jude, like the Captors, is similarly marked by a motif of duality. Only instead of the Red/Blue that the Captors are bound by, Jude is marked by the Red/Green color contrast linked to all Cherubs and, specifically, the cherub responsible for these games’ events:

Lord English.

Jude’s Red/Green motif directly references Lord English at least once, when the red and green marbles are used as the Lion’s eyes. Yaldabaoth--the evil, flawed creator God that Lord English is partly based on--is commonly depicted as a serpent with a lion’s head. And this lion has its gaze planted firmly on a globe of Alternia, reflecting Lord English’s indomitable control over the planet.

It goes further.

Whether or not the Cherub portal is a literal doomsday device, as has been hypothesized, it’s undeniable that every member of the cast is doomed. Both Alternia and Earth are doomed by Sburb in a matter of decades, so Jude, Joey, Xefros and Dammek are all on borrowed time.

Hell, this even extends to Trizza, who must inevitably be ousted or killed as Heiress in order to make way for Feferi’s short-lived reign. And on both sides of the Portal, the fates the characters are being led to are tied to agents of the

Lord of Time himself.

Because while Joey and Xefros seem to be dealing with the nefarious influence of Doc Scratch, Jude still has his Cultists to deal with--and they’re likely more linked to Lord English than it initially seems.

After all, The Condesce spent time on Earth before her dissapearance--perhaps enough to craft the perfect Heiress, but almost definitely enough to continue her habit of empowering clown-themed cults to carry out her agendas for her, just as she did on Alternia through Subjugglators and as she will on Alpha Earth through the juggalo presidents.

And while we never learned about the cult of the Mirthful Messiahs in too much detail in the comic, they are described as being spread across the cosmos. It makes sense to think they may be a smaller operation on the Beta Earth, where the Condesce spent relatively little time. But it is still altogether likely that they are already here.

And if so, Jude and his friends seem to be the only ones watching.

I’m really overwhelmed and grateful by the support so many have shown me, and excited to take posts like the one I did on Joey and this one to Youtube, where more of the fandom can engage with classpects in an accessible way!

You can also feel free to drop by and chat about this and other interesting Hiveswap and Homestuck topics in the r/Hiveswap discord!

Hope to see you soon, and until then–

Keep Rising!

[Patreon] [Hiveswap Discord]

[aletheiawrytes]

Or no Other: Part 2

The air was still. Night breathed into the room through the open window, bringing in with it soft streaks of silvery glow and outside, the zephyrs chased after each other into a raging gale. They weren't at peace tonight (and so was my heart - it had been ramming its already broken self against my rib cage, sending echoes of untold pain throughout the very being of me). Rustling of leaves in the trees outside whispered of warnings and woes. Sorrowful grey clouds lazed over the velvety stygian sky, veiling the faint twinkles of the stars. What am I doing? My breathing was the only thing up against the solitude - I was wide awake, but lost in thoughts that began nowhere and would end just about everywhere. It was maddening how everything in the world was in place yet inside my head there was nothing but pandemonium. An apocalypse in the surest sense of the word. Silently, in the moonlit cold, agonizingly familiar warm fingers found mine under the covers.

'Fayth,' he mumbled sleepily as he inched closer to me from the other side of the bed. Mine was finally a crazy little world. Like it was the most natural thing to do, he pulled me into his arms - my bare back against his bare chest, and I was home. In that moment, I was not lost anymore. Nigel. 

We were now a comma, a curve made of emotionally tangled two souls in the center of the messy layers and folds of fabric, tainted with filth that was betrayal and fierce but reckless passion. I was a hopelessly confused woman whose conscience was threatening to leave her broken in his affectionate embrace and he, the ultimate failure at saving my life because no matter how hard he tried (if he ever did), I just couldn't help it; I would still drown a thousand times over. If you think that was insane, get this - I had loved him anyway. I chose to. And nothing anyone says would change that. Ever.

No words escaped me. None would. But he wasn't the easy one to give up, too.

'Fayth?' he repeated. A tone so gentle you would never be able to guess the horrifying power that voice had over me, the power it could have on any person he chooses. Not in a million years will you ever comprehend the madness I had placed myself in because of that voice. Never in my entire lifetime will I ever be able to forgive or love myself for the things I did when he was around, because with him nothing was ever right and nothing was ever wrong. Things just were and that hurt both of us. A lot. But he kept coming back to me for more. And I kept giving in because the pain saved both of us from our unspoken and unspeakable fears. Because sinning didn't hurt as much as death when he looked into my eyes. Because being in his arms was the most sensible thing to do although it murdered me every single time. Every single time, God.

'Nigel,' I answered. A whisper. Because he was so close. 

‘I want to be close to you, Fayth. So close that nothing could come between us,’ he once said. ‘Not even air.’

And here we are, I thought. I could feel his heart beating against my back, and slowly, painfully - his powerful heartbeats found the desperate series of mine and both our hearts chorused the same rhythm that had brought us together half a year ago. I didn’t know what came over me back then but that was when I first thought that it wouldn't hurt to be more than just a senior illustrator who sits across from his cubicle - as long as no one finds out. He must had not known what hit him then, too when he first heard me spoke on my first day and decided that I could be the CEO's wife for all the shits he could give, he'd kiss me anyway. Judge me if you must. It makes hating more bearable for some, I get it. I do. But I won't be defending myself. I was and still am guilty. But so are all of you who had ever wanted someone as fiercely as I have wanted him. As blindly, too.

'Your silence,' he began. His arms tightened around me. 'is hurting me.' Then, a tender kiss at the base of my neck. Sudden but soothing. Unexpected but not surprising. Honest. Impatient. Fiery. He placed another one on my shoulder. Careful but this one was searing. And now my heart would be scarred forever. And you don't have to ask if I was in overdrive. 'What is it?' he murmured into the locks of my hair. ‘Fayth?’

Then and there, I was spellbound. How my name seemed to sound like a spell, an enchantment, when he said it like that. How it sounded like something I had never heard of, something so alien, when he pronounced it that way. And how the unfamiliarity seemed so confusingly congenital it wasn't all blinding agony and regret but also severe longing and wild desire.

'This,' I answered. Uncertainty was numbing my thoughts. There was a sudden tug at my heart, a slight disturbance in my core that I would feel every time I was about to do something stupid. Should I do this? But I was already in his arms, on my way to break God knows how many hearts - how much worse can this get? 'Us.' I took a deep breath. 

Maybe I should. 

'This is wrong, Nigel.' 

Alright, so I did.

'How?' he replied. There was not a moment of hesitation. That was one of the reasons why I fell for him; he didn’t hesitate. He never did. More kisses. In my hair. My ear. My arm. 'We both want this,’ he whispered. Fact. Fresh from hell.

'Nigel.'

'Fayth.'

'This is betrayal.' I finally forced myself to say it even when I knew each word would stab me just the way I deserved it. 'We shouldn't - Nigel - we're breaking hearts,’ I struggled, holding back a sob and an entire mess of horrible emotions. My voice was breaking as reality, ruthless as it was, began to consume me. ‘Hearts that are not even ours.’

'I don't care.' Again. There was no delay in his response. So decisive. So unchanging. So reliable. That was what made him so attractive and so sinfully tempting. He pulled me deeper into his embrace, if that was still possible.

'Nigel, you don't mean that.'

'I don't care if the world ends.'

'Nigel.'

'You want me. And I want you. That should be enough for a reason.'

I knew he was going to say that. I wished I could say the same thing and mean it, like he did - fearlessly. But I couldn't. If I could have a tenth of his strength, his persistence, I would have gone against the world on my own. But I didn’t have it. And it was unfortunate that having him wasn’t the same as having uncompromising loyalty or unwavering courage. 'I have someone to go back to.' There. I said it. God. There was a sudden change in the air. And how I wish he'd just hate me and yell at me and leave without a word, never to return ever - I deserved that much, at least. For all the things that I did in the last six months, I deserved nothing less than a broken heart and the loneliest life to the last of my remaining days.

Firmly, he turned me to face him, locking me in his intimidatingly passionate gaze. 'No, you don't,' he said quietly. In those eyes was a delicate glimmer of hope - that I would never leave and that I didn't mean what I had just said. It was so delicate that it was almost invisible but it found me without even trying. So I held that gaze with the last remaining iota of courage I had, trying my best to not cry. There was nothing uncertain in the way he looked at me, despite having been told that our days together should be numbered. There was only yearning and pure trust and that destroyed me like nothing ever would because he was right, we both wanted this. 

What have I gotten myself into?

'I think -

'Don’t. Fayth, please.' His arms went around me, gently, the strength in them subdued when he sighed, desperately, 'Why can't I be the only thing on your mind?' and broke me into pieces I didn't ever want to collect. Dark, ugly, selfish pieces I didn’t want to have anything to do with. Filthy pieces I wished were never part of me in the first place.

I looked at him, my heart went out to his calming facial features. 'We don't run the world, Nigel,' I said, gently as I touched the side of his face and then ran my fingers through his hair. 'She didn't do anything to either of us. It's not fair for her,' I explained, or perhaps I thought I did, though I wasn’t sure if I even believed what I was saying. I cursed myself for having to hurt him like that but I was hurting myself, too. Yet, I didn't know why it didn't seem like enough punishment.

'It's not betrayal if I don't love her,' he argued. His voice firm. And he frowned slightly. Cute. 'And what did River ever do to deserve you?' Alright. Not cute anymore.

I didn't have an answer for that question. I knew I wouldn't like it if I did. I wouldn't even share it if I did. God knows what kind of blasphemy the answer would be. Because River did not deserve any of this. Because I knew for a fact; every particle that made me who I was knew for a fact that I didn't deserve River Wilkins, and I never would - not even after ten reincarnations, no. Never. There is no heaven for people like us, Nigel. There is no forgiveness, too. I wanted to look away - out of shame, and out of guilt but my eyes were fixed on the flawed perfection that he was, so I said - not without hating myself with every single word though, 'River definitely doesn't deserve a manipulative, power-hungry, over-ambitious, cheating bitch like me.'

His face changed. I had hurt him again, it seemed. 'Hey,' he protested. 'That's not what I -

'Nigel,' I said, softly, stopping him. With a finger, I traced his lower lip down to his chin and along his jawline, up to his cheek and further up to his temple, and brushed the few strands of his hair away from his eyes, so he could see me better. So he could love me stronger, if that even meant anything. 'We have no right to hurt anybody.'

A few agonizing seconds passed between us. His expression was so foreign - God, I had never seen that look in his eyes before, what have I done? The coming seconds felt like an eternity because he had never hesitated. In the past six months, I had known and loved him as someone who does not stop even for the world. He knew what he wanted. He would do anything for what he wanted. So why the silence, Nigel? 

He took my hand into his and held it close to his heart, and what was that in his eyes? And quietly, in a tone so unfamiliar it sent fear and panic up my spine, he said, almost pleading, 'Don't leave me.' That, people, was when I learnt that a dysfunctional heart can be further broken, again and again, as long as it's still beating. 

'We don't have to leave each other,' I tried, dying inside for I didn’t know how many times. Because I know that was already almost a lie. 'We'll just go back to what we were.' And I didn't even believe any of that shit I had just said. How the hell does anyone cross a broken bridge? Why the hell would anyone want to go back to a place he had first chosen to leave? I was so messed up. We were both messed up to the point that we didn’t even know what to do with.

'Fayth.'

'Nigel.'

'Who do you think you're talking to?' he asked. He was really frowning now. His tone reprimanding, but still kind. I really didn’t know how he managed that every time he needed me to give up. 'You know I'm not buying that, don't you?' 

I sighed, helplessly. 'We are hurting ourselves. I know that I'm hurting you, and you -

'Am I hurting you?'

That exact question sealed my lips, and chased away my thoughts. I looked away. A part of me wanted to scream yes, so, so badly but another part would deny that to the end of my life. Did he hurt me? Yes. Treating me like the only choice he had, like he had found stars in my eyes hurt me, because I did not deserve any of this. I had no right to be happy by destroying someone else’s happiness. But do I want him to stop? No, Lord, no. I didn't know what I was doing anymore. I didn't know if I was still sane. I didn’t think I knew myself anymore back then. I didn't know what I wanted or what I shouldn't want anymore. I just wanted to disappear. Like mad, I wanted to disappear. So madly it was breaking me and everything I had ever loved about myself.

'Fayth. Am I hurting you?'

I looked up into his eyes and somehow found a hint of peace there. It could have been an illusion because what peace is there for people so sinful as us? But that was more that enough. There was an entire universe of mad hurricanes and havoc and misery and loss between us, but right there where I was staring, was peace. Or something that almost felt like it. It was unbelievable how easy it was - escaping. Or maybe it was unbelievable how incredibly deep I was in the mess that most parts of me were already giving up on trying to save anybody - not even myself. Maybe I didn't want to be saved anymore. Maybe I should just for once and the last time, just let myself fall.

'No.' It is done. The gates of hell were closing behind me and nobody was on the other side to drag me out this time. ‘No, Nigel.’ Nobody. Not this time. And I guess maybe I was never meant to return. Maybe from now on, I shouldn’t be turning back anymore.

Silently, he gathered me into his arms and kissed my forehead. 'You don't hurt me either,' he murmured, softly. Relieved. 'You never will.'

[harlindroth]

1918 – 2018 Angèle Laval Paul Nougé ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF ANGÈLE LAVAL (Lyrical impromptu for big daily) Tulle; transparent fabric, network of tight stitches, French town whose color and roundabouts I don’t know, but which tells me everything I need to know about it when I see that very slender, brown haired, musical and light young woman who made it the scene of her pathetic exploits. Angèle Laval was then about thirty-five years old. She would be fifty today. I want to believe that she is still alive. But what is she thinking about? What is she doing at this hour when I write about her? To what humble or magnificent object is her hand, her eyes, her heart fixing themselves at this moment? Which way, which path of light or of crime is tempting her steps at present? Or if she is sitting down with closed eyes, populating the night with memories and dreams. Will she give us a sign one day? I scarcely dare hope. She belongs to those who die with sealed lips, to those people without confessions... I have often regretted not having lived, around 1917, in closeness to Angèle Laval. Perhaps I would have had helped her with all my strength. Better than her mother probably, that mediocre accomplice who at best was fit for panic and who, in the end, threw herself in the blackest water at that spot from where one is certain not to come back again. Angèle, who obeyed motives that were incompatible with her mother's, could simulate suicide excellently; it was after all but a forethought episode in a game that she did not intend to give up. I would thus have helped her. Though less well than I might have pleased. Because the rage, the boundless hope or the harmed love that roused Angèle Laval would have left me behind on the way. (There comes a time, alas!, when one cannot fool oneself too grossly about oneself). At best it is up to me to recognize in myself certain features, certain glimpses, the tension and the movement that combined in the amazing silent preparation of events that she succeeded in bringing forth. I can see her exercising in a thousand ways the qualities of a soul that is passionately dedicated to a great design: calculating coldness, minutious patience and that skillful dissimulation without which nothing great is ever achieved. She tries never to lie to herself. I do not know whether Angèle Laval knew Emma Bovary (*). But I am certain that she could have only felt contempt for her indulgent weakness and her peculiar blindness. That petit bourgeois woman maddened regarding the possible – what mediocre shape she gave to her torment, what weak means, what poor adventure she invented; what perfection in the art of betraying all true grandeur in oneself. Angèle Laval would have refrained from following her. She refuses to counterfeit reality and herself in such a summary way. Possible, impossible; these have no essential contradictory meaning for her. She dreams of the miraculous unknown that surely will emerge some day following a favorable incantation. She accepts to act upon the world as it is given to her; she refrains from vaguely modifying its form according to a formless desire – she knows that she would then compromise the action that she is dreaming of exerting. It is necessary that her actions insert themselves into that reality made of shopkeepers, rentiers, functionaries, of young and old maids, of elementary and frightened excesses behind closed shutters, of mean appetites, obscure, peculiarly base and ardent prides and lusts. If that world were to flee from her, what would be left for her? Angèle Laval does not belong to those who relinquish. She wants to act upon the world, not upon the ghosts that she could all too easily substitute for it. Thus her first step is not to invent the universe, but rather, thanks to a precise inquiry, to evaluate its true weight and fruitful horror. ...The world as it is, admittedly, but what should we do with the world? A question that all those on whom one still may rely must ask themselves. Angèle Laval, who strives for sparkling rigor, does not let herself get caught in any vulgar trap. We do not see her bow before some priest and seek protection in eternal life. We do not see her seclude herself in ordinary excessiveness or love. She neglects confessions, anathemas and the poems she could have written. By far her glance exceeds ordinary designs. And thus she is capable of strange sacrifices. Angèle, who is totally dedicated to her essential distinction, withdraws here, devoting herself to mingling with what most strongly excites feelings of revolt around her. For she strengthens and multiplies the ties that burden her. Every day Angèle makes herself a little more imprisoned within her province. I can hear her take part in stupid and calumnious conversations. I can see her alone behind her thin curtain watching the street. There is, at the window, a “spy” that her eyes do not bother to question. Her greatest courage, for the time being, is not to turn her back on that equivocal thickness, not to shut her eyes, not to cover her ears – but rather to participate in it and to live with it. She is still safe. Her curiosity, the attention that she is paying to everything being said and done around her – who would not be able to give an explanation that is obvious to most women; who would guess her secret motives? She is left to gather the elements of her work of fire in peace. Angèle listens and watches interminably. She lets her own memory become populated by the very images and words she abhors. She knows how to remain silent when necessary, to commiserate, to be indignant, to invent opinions that the circumstances require. When she does not have the opportunity to see or hear, she can suppose, guess and verify through a marvellous organization of cunning and audacity. Her mental traps are multiplied and perfected. Suddenly the fruit of that discipline takes the colors of miracle. The heaviest walls acquire the transparency of glass; there are no secret acts in that diaphanous town of Tulle anymore. Angèle sees all thoughts creeping within all heads. Everything has changed within her too. The system of subtle deductions she had so far had made use of vanishes and lets only the agility of a naked mind subsist which moves through leaps thanks to sudden illuminations. Angèle is here, there, and everywhere, at every street corner in time for conspiracy or for crime, in every recess in time for love, for fornication and for betrayal – the entire town is penetrated by her presence, the town belongs to her at last. But what will she do with what she possesses and by what she is possessed? We know that she expects nothing from contemplation or ecstasy. Complacency is not her strong suit. She knows that there is nothing to be won through soliciting wonders. When their hour comes, they will be able to force it to roll transfigured in their stream. Angèle Laval expects the best of the fires that she feels inclined to set in a world that is the least prepared for explosions and flames. But those insipid faces, those lifeless looks, those gestures measured by dusty habits... Just as she refused any exemplary life, Angèle Laval refuses to proceed through suggestion, through intimidation. “Look at me, – see this, – that is, – take a better look, – that is; truly, that exists”. Prophecies do not keep her attention either, as that kind of abuse of trust seems to her not so much reprehensible as all too precarious. Angèle Laval sets her bewitched town on fire. Her procedures have the simplicity of a naked hand moving towards a highly visible point in the bright light. Of all the means that she has taken into consideration, she retains but one, the most vulgar, the simplest, the most suitable one for her purpose. Day and night she draws the large, obscure and fascinating characters that populate her anonymous letters. It is a plume of fire that strikes the town every morning. She invents a style that corresponds exactly to her aim, in all aspects an admirable style: Madam, Your brother's fiancée is a person of notorious misconduct. In October 1918 she did away with her newborn brat… and when necessary, with an unparalleled detachment, she can call herself a wench and a whore. We know the consequences of that enterprise which she untiringly developed for long months. Incidents full of humor take place such as the one with the scorned priest, tragicomedies carrying those very people in a peculiar movement whom one thought were forever accommodated in a stony torpor, and lastly, on a stormy night, Insanity and Death rising together at the two extremities of the town and starting to wave at each other. Slamming doors and capsized minds – that great mysterious storm passes which turns the world upside down however it pleases. ...At the height of the storm that she had released and which center she occupied, I do not know whether Angèle Laval did herself justice. “I gave them everything that could give their miserable life a chance”, she could have said. “I gave them hatred, fury, hopelessness and insanity, I spread those ferments among them which are more precious than happiness.” But it is too much to imagine such clear-sightedness; the mirror that would reflect our true face never answers our questioning look. We only know that Angèle became silent. We also know how her adversaries managed to fight her, those which our abominable world automatically raises against those who have sworn to subvert its corrupted features. Those first in line, as is almost always the case, we know, turn out to be the physicians armed with their dreadful and laughable court of justice-psychiatry. It is of course a matter of quickly demonstrating that Angèle Laval is subject to illness and insanity. How to succeed with that? From her life whose scope they devote themselves to concealing, they grasp and emphasize only those features which according to them constitute the surest guide to the cursed path that they have chosen. Love, inhibition, transfers – into what mediocre abominations have they not tried to drag Freud and a few others? The point of departure for Angèle Laval's subversive enterprise is of course an amorous vexation and a deficiency that these people reduce to their own sad measure. Angèle the typist was in love with Moury the office manager, who was in love with the typist Solange, who pokes fun at Angèle who swears to take revenge and who extends her vengeance to the universe... Moreover, Angèle had a developing case of tuberculosis and displayed the evident stigma of neurosis, and then during the ten hour long test that she had been subjected to during which she was forced to incessantly write while being watched for the moment she would betray herself and resume her writing of fire, Angèle Laval suffered a nervous breakdown... But Angèle remained silent. Contempt is a sure means of defense. Invincibly she kept silent. She would never have consented to give out her views on love, on life, on death, views that we have to regard as incommensurable when compared with the ones that imperatively one would want to force her to acknowledge – life, love, what she was ready to hand over to them at the price of her own ruin. Thus she let the physicians and the judges accomplish their gloomy business. One could think of subduing her only by substituting a vulgar, hideous image of hers that was capable of rousing all adversity in place of the dangerous, mysterious and fascinating one that she presented to the world. Thus one easily constructed a letter-writing maniac, a sporadically semiconscious sick person. If only she had incidentally married her functionary... Erotic substitution always looks right. The image of Angèle Laval nevertheless escapes the absurd sketch into which they tried to confine her. For a moment she allowed a great surge of anxiety and revolt to sweep over the whole of France. One probably recalls the succession of enterprises that resembled hers, of the cluster of scandals to which she is not unknown. So that it is right the judicial system was deplored for not having been able to purely and simply suppress the whole affair. It now seems that oblivion has settled over Angèle Laval. Oblivion and space were part of her calculation. Shadow envelopes her, a cold and pure shadow that delivers her from dubious contact with journalists, judges and the police. But for attentive minds, the night that she inhabits cannot conceal the exemplary lesson. And yet. At critical moments, who could not let oneself think that Angèle Laval failed, and that the madness, the suicides, the tears and the outbursts of laughter that whirled for a while over her town quickly abated and sadly expired at the feet of the miserable beings that they had agitated? What is there to answer? (Angèle Laval must have often thought of the reserves of the world...) Through this manner of revealing herself to us, she could not provide a more or less satisfactory explanation. But she was, in a common way, only a poor woman delivered to a crowd of enemies. Her misery is maybe the very one that any attempt which finds a point of support and its justification in strictly a personal will is doomed to fail. Would one imagine Angèle Laval participating in the activity of a revolutionary party at the hour of insurrection? That chance has been denied her. Thus one could not talk of victory or defeat with regards to her, but simply of existence. She exists. Her hand is raised sometimes and seems to indicate a point on the horizon or some road. This gesture is enough to reject the weak exercises of the petty litterateurs to the limit of the grotesque and the odious, who really believe themselves to have transgressed literature and to think that they are transforming the world through the innocent game of their mute syllables. (Summer 1928) (*) from the novel of Gustave Flaubert (transl. remark). The case of Angèle Laval, the author of anonymous letters sent to many most petty bourgeois people and officials in the French town of Tulle during a few years starting in 1917 provoked not only scandals and great commotion, including a suicide, but also a significant media craze (transl. note). (transl. Bruno Jacobs / Jason Abdelhadi. From projected anthology of writings by Paul Nougé in English)