#but god i can really see the miasma of complication coming from that as it relates to aegon and aemond

[navree]

https://href.li/?https://www.reddit.com/r/HouseOfTheDragon/comments/zjkdxf/now_this_is_an_interesting_tidbit_from_tom/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

what do you think of this? aegon and aemond were loyal to one another till the end in the book, I really hope their relationship "spiralling" isn't permanent

I think it's not out of the realm of possibility that we're going to see the relationship spiral for a period of time. TGC makes some good points in that video, which is that Aegon and Aemond have a lot of complicated feelings towards one another that have yet to be fully expressed or resolved. One thing we also have to keep in mind is that Aegon and Aemond are going to go from massive highs to massive lows in a really short amount of time in season 2. Aegon is the only person, in the book, who isn't viscerally angry/horrified/disgusted with Aemond following the events of Storm's End (he literally throws him a party my son I love you), and I think that'll likely be important for Aemond, now that the show's made it clear that he didn't intend to kill Lucerys and clearly understands that this is a massive fuckup. So we might see them get closer for a moment, if Aegon's the one trying to stick by his side while Alicent and Otto are upset with him, both out of whatever brotherly affection might exist, as well as knowing what it's like to be seen as the screw up.

Problem is, Blood and Cheese follows soon after. Blood and Cheese, for however much it was spurred by Aemond's actions, is an attack on Aegon. It's Aegon's mother who is physically assaulted in her own rooms, it's Aegon's children who are terrorized, it's Aegon sister and Aegon's wife who is being psychologically tortured, it's Aegon's daughter threatened with rape at one point, and it's Aegon's son who is murdered. Blood and Cheese are a strike by Rhaenyra against Aegon, his son for her son. And while everyone in the family is going to be hugely affected by what happens, we know from the book that Aegon takes it really badly, that he "raged, and drank, and raged", and I don't think it's out of the realm of possibility that, in that rage and that grief over what's happened to his family, is going to let loose on Aemond. Blood and Cheese say point blank "an eye for an eye, a son for a son", Jahaerys for Lucerys, and who killed Lucerys? Aemond did. It's entirely possible that Aegon is going to blame Aemond for what happened, and be vicious in doing so, and that the relationship will spiral out for a time, especially if all those other unresolved feelings get dredged up in the ensuing conversations.

I don't think it'll be a permanent rift. Things said in grief and anger are often excused, and Aegon's going through it in a way nobody else except for Helaena could understand, and Aemond's likely going to go the route of blaming himself for what happens (personally I think we should get one of those scenes where Person A allows Person B to beat them into the ground without fighting back because they think they deserve it, I would like to see it), but whatever spiraling that happens as things reach an emotional crescendo with them doesn't have to last, and likely won't. Rook's Rest happens soon afterwards, where Aegon and Aemond are fighting together against Rhaenys, and Aemond's going to be named the Prince Regent (and despite wanting to be king, very conspicuously doesn't name himself as such and only calls himself "Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm" while Aegon recovers).

And even beyond all of that, one thing to remember is that the actors aren't the writers. TGC has amazing insights into Aegon as a character and generally seems to get him far better than even the writers do sometimes, but he is still ultimately beholden to act out what he's given, and what he says at a convention isn't necessarily gospel truth unless the writers take what he says into account when starting pre-production for the next season. So his interpretations isn't necessarily how it's even going to go.

[lilkermit14]

Lavender & Mint

Fem!reader x Pero Tovar 

Synposis: In the conventional village of Cullfield lived an unconventional woman who served as an apothecary for the townsfolk. Stubborn and set in her ways, the woman of three tens remains unmarried and childless and plans to continue as such for the rest of her life, much to the horror and confusion of the village. But this unconventional woman has some surprises in store for her when an unconventional man named Pero Tovar rides into town, an event that will change both her and his plans forever—and may flip Cullfield upside down too.

Notes: Idk why I kept mentioning poop complications this chapter but I’m sorry and enjoy. It’s been a while but the CHAPTER is here. Please reblog!!!!

General Warnings: minor injuries, slow-burn, eventual smut, blood, childbirth

For this chapter: Non-sexual references to poop, mention pregnancy, murder, implicit brief reference to infanticide or child abandonment, pre-marital pregnancy and it’s complications in the 1400s, religious “morals”. 

Chapter 5: Garlic 

Last chapter // Next chapter

“When was the last time you passed bowels, Mister Ashdown?” you inquire, pressing on the old man’s stomach knowing you have found the root cause of his stomach issues. He blinks for a moment thinking as he lays on your observation table, before telling you, “quite some time I’m afraid.”

“I see,” you move your hands away putting your hands on your hips, “well, it seems that you just have a case of constipation––burdensome but not something hard to fix or that will have you laying on your deathbed.”

“You sure?” he asks, almost confused, moving to rise up from the table by himself only for you to come to his assistance. You clarify yourself, “Yes, you have many signs that point to it. It can be caused by a lack of competitive foods in your diet and is more likely with old age.”

“I’m not that old,” He interjects, but you compete, “Yes, but you're old enough for a blockage sir––you’ll be glad to know you’ll live to be truly old as long the burden is treated.”

He huffs now in a sitting position with legs dangling from the table, “so what do you have so i’ll shit.”

You huff at his language, “standard garlic will help move the process along, and I’m suggesting you make sure to eat more greens and berries to clear your system.”

You always assumed that you were let free to discuss any matters with your patients when they were the only ones in the shop, as no one else resided in your residence besides you. But that arrangement had changed and you were not the only one that resided in your home, “If my cock and bowels stop working just have someone put me out of my misery.”

You turn rigid and scandalized to see the face of Pero Tovar standing in your back entrance of the shop—entered unbeknownst to you through quiet steps and a lack of clear view. Mister Ashdown has no qualms defending himself, “I’m only five tens and if my cock doesn’t work how is my wife pregnant?”

You want to scream having to hear this conversation and did certainly not want to be reminded of the conversations you were subjected to by Farrah Ashdown. When the woman at four tens and five found out she was pregnant she spared no expense in telling you how it happened. You opted to rush him along before you could get his account of what he does with his wife, “okay sir here’s your supply get going now.”

“Enjoy the shit,” you hear Pero say and before mister ashdown can respond he is out your door. You turn to Pero fury and rage evident on your face as you are prepared to let the flames of hell loose on him. All he has is a stupid look on his face as he lets out the word, “what?”

“You bastard,” you begin pointing your finger at him moving towards him with menace in your voice towards a man that stands unbothered, “you do not talk to ANY of my clients in such manner especially in my shop.”

“Why is that hermosa? I would be rude to that man outside of your business, what makes your apothecary different?” He queries again with that name, only increasing your anger and distaste for him at the moment. With clenched teeth, you answer him, “I don’t care what you say to Mister Ashdown in town, but my shop is a place of respect––a place where anyone can come for health problems even if they are embarrassing. I want people to know they won’t be judged here because if they feel like they will be, they will come when it’s too late and I can’t do anything for them.”

Pero raises his brow at you, but lets you continue your rant uninterrupted, “When my mother was still alive, a young woman at ten and six came to us complaining of diarrhea, something she was embarrassed to talk about because it was gross and she did not want suitors to find out. Turns out she had sickness from a miasma––we took one look down the town well and discovered a deer had fallen in and died overnight.”

“That was lucky,” he comments, still invested in your story despite the vile nature of talking about excretion. You continue, “Yes, and we may not have caught it so soon if she didn’t come to us. The sickness is fast acting, in hours many more villagers could have been sick, but it was only her––and she lived.”

“Lived?” you smile at his question feeling pride at the healing powers your mom had and hope you live up to, “Yes, the sickness causes dehydration quickly but if you keep the person well hydrated and area clean to prevent reinfection––they will live. This summer she gave birth to her third child at my aid.”

“So their trust is important to you?” you give him a simple nod, glad he is understanding what you were asking of him. You turn to clean up the materials you had brought out to examine Mister Ashdown, not realizing that Pero was not done with questions, “Like how that woman came to you the other day crying in distress?”

You freeze––you had really thought the interest in Mariam had ended when William had first asked you about her the day after asking if she was okay. You nodded and told him it was just feminine needs and didn’t serve much interest in men, something that usually turned men away from asking questions. Well not Pero Tovar I guess, “Why was she crying?”

“It’s a complicated matt––”

“Things of safety are something I have to worry about you know,” He interjects, and you turn your head looking at him to see something serious cross his face, “I have to keep everyone in this village safe––you in particular hermosa––and I want to know if theres something you need to tell me.”

“Part of gaining trust is not telling personal information,” you counter, pulling together to formulate a lie, “It’s nothing of safety she was upset about something––she’s a friend of sorts to me.”

You can tell he doesn’t buy it––he can probably pull the full story together even though you doubt he’s heard a single thing about Mariam’s husband beating her––but he accepts, slouching and learning against a table in thought, “William and I may go for a short hunt––there's not much action in this town I’m afraid and we could use some fresh game.”

You nod, “If you catch any pigeon, I know how to handle it so it's not gamey.”

He huffs, “We're not very good hunters I’m afraid, so you’ll probably only get that or rabbit.”

–––––––––––––––––––

Pero Tovar had useful traits to him––like getting you pigeons––but he was mostly an annoyance. His mere presence always had you on edge, as you waited for something, something from him. It was usually something he said but if not it was his scent or stench rather of pine and something that was him. It was also his sloppy manner, the way he seemed raised with no table manners as he ate all your meals. He spoiled Mite, petting him and feeding him table scraps much to your despair. He was also too loud, his boots filling up the cottage and shop with noise, something that never usually happened.

You lent some time today to make more bread for the household, settling at your dining table and working the necessary ingredients for dough together. Mite lays in the corner, not doing his job as per usual and watching you with some sort of interest in the mannerisms of bread making, but he was likely just hoping for more food in the future. Kneading dough you begin to imagine the dough is Pero kneading your frustration into it. You press and it is his stupid broad shoulders that take up too much space. You pull, it’s the curls on the nape of his neck that are too unruly and untidy. You slam it down, it’s that stupid smile that appears on his face when you have entertained him. God you hate Pero Tovar.

“You may want to stop before you overwork the dough sweetheart,” You stop and see Mildred Becker staring at you with an amused look on her face. You huff Jesus, what does she want, “Sorry for my state, I didn’t hear you enter.”

“Don’t worry I understand too well––I always work out my anger into the dough,” you chuckle a little thinking about how a woman with too many children works out anger the same way as you––you definitely hate Pero Tovar, “I just stopped by because I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

You perk up, “Is Cateline suffering from baby blues again.”

“No, No thank the lord––we’ve been watching over her better this time,” Mildred rounds off, and you remember despite the grievances she gives you, she is a good mother to her children. She was the first to notice that something was wrong with her daughter after the birth and came to you to talk about it. From there Cateline was able to recover and enjoy motherhood, “Something with your house guest Pero Tovar has come to my attention.”

“What did he do,” You ask, prepared to beat Pero Tovar with your broom, but Mildred settles you, “nothing he did, just something someone is doing around him.”

You raise your brow at her beckoning her to continue, “You know Stanislava Rolfe?”

“Of course,” you affirm, surprised she is asking you such a question when you have treated everyone in Cullfield five times over. Mildred continues, “Yes well, She has begun to work at the Inn as a barmaid––she did well with charming Balthasar I guess.”

You were wondering why a poor farmer's daughter’s career path interested you, but you didn’t interject, “I happened to take a quick ale there with my husband, when I noticed something with her and Pero Tovar. You see she appeared extra flirtatious with him––and although barmaids usually are flirty with men in hopes for extra coin, it was more intentional.”

You frown, how could such a beautiful young girl be interested in such a disgusting brute, “Why is she interested in him?”

“Who knows? Many of the girls around Cullfield were excited to see unfamiliar battle-hardened men I supposed,” She ponders for a moment, “all we do know is that she is likely interested in him.”

“I don’t think he is interested in taking a wife,” You contest, brushing aside that Pero would have feelings for the young girl of two tens. Mildred just gives you a hardened stare, “He doesn’t have to be interested in matrimony to want something from her.”

Oh

“Was he showing interest back?” you dig trying to figure out the full extent of what you are formulating must be a whirlwind romance. Mildred hums, “no I suppose not, but sometimes men take persistent interest as a way to have a good time.”

You bite your lip remembering that Pero did not fornicate with prostitutes but barmaids, and feel a ball of ache and pain in your stomach at the thought. Mildred instates, “I came to you about this because I want you to try to stop it.”

“Stop it?”

“Yes, make it clear he is to not have such guests,” Mildred explains, and you can tell by her tone and expression you are in for some sort of story, “You know well enough that things go arigh when an unmarried woman gets pregnant, right.”

“Of course,” you remember the chaos that erupted in families when one of their daughters ended up pregnant, and the hasty weddings that came from it. But Mildred had a different story, “although most of the time it gets swept under the rug with a quick marriage and everyone just chooses to ignore it––horrid things can happen when there's not one.”

Mildred sits down at the nearby table, in clear thought of something dark and you go to sit down at a nearby chair, “When I was about ten and eight, and old enough to understand these things, a girl was taken advantage of by a soldier in our village. She was ten and six, and him far older so he should have had the wisdom not to mess with her. What mattered was after it happened, he left with his troop and was never seen in my home village again. She got pregnant, and tried to hide it at first––her mom was dead and she had no older sisters or aunts to go to, so she was afraid to go to her father. When it became too obvious, hate inspired awful things in the leaders of the village, and by the time she gave birth it accumulated.”

Mildred takes a moment to pause, emotions brewing inside her and you feel yourself frozen in place, “she tried to talk to them, pleading, saying he pressured her––persuaded her, but they all pointed and said witch and condemned her son too. She was burn’t at the stake, and her son––well he was never seen again.”

A pause fills the air as you sit in shock, digesting what Mildred has told you, “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

Mildred huffs, “I’m sorry too, I made sure to get a husband that would get me out of that village and landed a good one on the way––I had seen what that village did to women and children for the sake of moral value and did not intend to stay so my daughters could see too. Adultery is a two person crime that only one party, the feminine one, receives punishment for.”

“So that's why Pero and Stanislava are of such concern to you?” You assume, and Mildred nods, “Although I think Cullfield is of better standing, I don’t desire to find out what they would do if such a case erupted. The girl may be doing this because she intends to capture a man with a better job, but mercenaries rest for a few women and not those of ten and eight.”

“I can understand her intentions I suppose,” you contemplate, believing that she doesn’t hold much true interest in him, but for a better life. Mildred hums, “so is there a chance you can talk to Pero about it?”

“I already established that he is to not bring guests into my home, and I doubt they would find a secluded enough place otherwise,” you reassure, standing up, “I can even remind him today if you would like.”

“That would be good,” Mildred agrees, joining you in standing and allowing you to guide her to the door, “be on the lookout too if you see her come preying––even though he lacks true interest.”

“I will,” you say, and somewhere in your heart you feel prepared to beat Stanislava Rolfe with your broom instead of Pero.

________________

Gardening was no easy task but it was the most necessary task the runner of an apothecary and a household had. Today your tending to crops was more focused on your food supply rather than collecting the necessary ingredients to keep your shop running. You're pleased to see that the last of your harvest grew well, and know that your winter stock will last even with your house guest. You had already pulled out all the carrots, and beets, and had shucked the vines wounding your house of beans and brussel sprouts. You were now left to work at the tough vines of the gourds and squash, planning on leaving the single pumpkin for Pero to handle––who should be on his way home from helping Balthasar with something at his inn.

Standing up with the final gourd in hand––you see something that fills you with immediate displeasure and sickens you to your core. Pero is walking up to your house pursued by Stanislava. You don’t quite know why you feel this angry at him; maybe it’s because you gave him explicit reminders on conduct or maybe––something else. Seeing the near, and well hearing Stanislava, you attempt to think fast to try to get her to leave. Greeting them both in an unnatural kind manner, “Pero, Stanislava, greetings.”

Pero gives you an immediate strange look while his shadow is oblivious and greets you back, “I was just telling Pero this wonderful stor––”

“Oh I must ask how is your rash healing up,” You feel like clapping your hands over your lips the moment the words fly out of your mouth. Stanislava stops in her tracks staring at you blankly, “what?”

“The one I gave you the ointment for––on your groin,” Oh my God what were you doing.

Stanislava turns bright red, “Good thank you––I––I have things to tend to at home, good evening you two.”

Stanislava hurries off, and an amused smile erupts on Pero’s face, “thank you for finally scaring that crow off––she’s been yapping my ear off with nonsense for weeks––I guess you're my scarecrow.”

“Excuse me?” scarecrow, you were going to kill this man. He smiles, a genuine smile, “Yes you scared off my crow––like a scarecrow would. Plus you're covered in leaves right now.”

“Do not call me that”

“Fine mi espantapájaros”

“I swear I’ll smother you in your sleep”

“Is that a true promise for you? Like how you promised not to tell customers private information yet just shouted about the crow’s crotch rash,” at that your body works on it’s own, taking the gourd in your hand and flinging it at Pero’s chest. It was a magnificent shot, and caused the vegetable to break and splatter it’s internal organs onto Pero’s chest and neck. Pero steps back from the impact and looks down on the goop he’s now covered in, “Now, no good espantapájaros does that.”

You press your palm to your face, “Just cut the pumpkin for me and bring it inside, you could use a good bath anyway, your stench is disgusting.”

“I do not smell,” he retorts, and you ignore him, bringing inside your harvest. You really do hate Pero Tovar.

----------------------

Apothecary’s feelings––hate or nah yall?

Garlic is use to treat a lot of ailments in Arab traditional medicine, including  heart disease, high blood pressure, arthritis, toothache, infections, and––as seen in this fic––constipation. Listen, I know the constipation part is true because I ate a pesto made with raw garlic and LORD did I shit. Anything else, not quite sure but hey worth a shot if you are desperate. 

It is also seen as an immune booster for colds and coughs––in fact if you are congested from a cold putting a clove of garlic in each nostril can clear that shit OUT.  

Garlic is also believed to help asthma symptoms. IDK if it actually is true but that’d be iconic because my mom loves garlic and she has asthma. 

Garlic is my favorite seasoning. I put it in my soup. I put it in my eggs. I put it in my ramen. I put it in my burgers. I put it in my cooch––

taglist:

@poenariuniverse @harleyamidala @yespolkadotkitty @storiesofthefandomlovers @babybelou @legally-a-bastard @computeringturtle @clydesducktape @sixties-loser @buckysalefty @april-14-blog @prettylittlegoldfish @softpedropascal @maybege

[curatedcomiccollection]

Review of Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind

The 1984 (basically) Studio Ghibli film Nausicaä and the Valley of the Wind that garnered much acclaim at home and in the West began as the seven volume serialized manga of the same name, written and penned by Hayao Miyazaki from 1982 to 1984.  

The story is set a post-apocalyptic world. Centuries of industrial innovation and excellence led to an empire that spanned one thousand years until the Seven Days of Fire, executed by God Warriors, living machine type creatures whose bones decay on the ruined surface of the earth, swallowed by the Toxic Forest. A couple centuries after this horrific fall, the insects become more violent, the toxins consume more, and fewer humans manage to survive one year to the next.  

Nausicaä is a young princess of the autonomous kingdom Valley of the Wind. As the only child to survive into adulthood, and her father fatally ill from the poisons of the forest, Nausicaä steps up to take on her responsibilities. She is still learning how a leader is required to act and think to best protect their people, but she has won the hearts of the kingdom and has a special way about her that grants her a connection with the giant insects of the forest – in such a manner that she can understand some of their thoughts and calm them. While their kingdom of 500 suffers under being on the periphery of human settlements, far from the large cities and very close to the miasma-spitting Toxic Forests, the kingdom has one usable gunship from the old days that ancient treaties specify is to be used to aid the Emperor. Nausicaä has been summoned to war.

Hayao Miyazaki co-founded Studio Ghibli and is well-known for his beautiful stories as an animation, filmmaker, screenwriter, author, and mangaka.

Nausicaä and the Valley of the Wind is available in English on Amazon here: https://www.amazon.com/Nausicaa-Valley-Wind-Vol-1/dp/1591164087/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1Z9K4N9GLMV6Q&dchild=1&keywords=nausicaa+of+the+valley+of+the+wind&qid=1586889800&s=books&sprefix=nausicaa+of%2Cstripbooks%2C159&sr=1-2

TL;DR: Miyazaki’s manga is beautiful and mesmerizing. Carefully rendered backgrounds, flawless fight scenes, and complicated, amazing creatures bring more depth and urgency to the story he is trying to tell.

Spoilers and more under the cut:

Most of the manga I read today is the standard 5” x 7.5” (approximately) and the images value the expressions and characters over the backgrounds (which are no less beautiful and rendered when they aren’t faded from distraction) and rely on screen tones. Miyazaki’s, whether due to his personal quirks, the style from the late 70s/ early 80s, or the magazine Animage’s personal preference, is different. The pages are about 7” x 10” and there are many panels to each page. The characters participate in scenes and many times it’s the background (forest, insects, airships) where the action is taking place. Very few instances use screen tones, and it’s done very lightly, making use of Miyazaki’s inking for shading (many pens were lost in the making of this artwork).

As far as comparisons go with the movie, the original material is allowed to move at a slower pace. By which I mean, at the end of volume 1, Nausicaä and Prince Asbel strap on and prepare to leave the tranquility of the purified sands under the Toxic Forest – which leaves many more characters, adventures, and trouble for the heroes as the film used that as more of a turning point before the final climax.

War is what Nausicaä expects from the start of the manga and her place on the front. The alliance with the Emperor is strained with the Valley of the Wind when his fourth child, Princess Kushana, a clever, honored warrior, is sent to the periphery to take a control stone of a God Warrior from the factory kingdom of Pejite. She ravages the kingdom, a peaceful ally, but loses a refuge ship of women and children that has Asbel’s twin sister concealing the stone. Despite Nausicaä’s attempts to save it, the ship breaks under the weight of insect attacks and she finds the dying princess, who begs her to give the stone to her older brother. Kushana pursues the stone to the Valley, where Nausicaä stops her in the fields and angrily begins a duel, which Master Yupa manages to stop and the Emperor’s army withdraws for the time being, until it calls all its allies in the periphery, including Nausicaä and her gunship, to war, across the Toxic Forest.

The characters are very interesting and a sense of “diplomacy” is attempted as Kushana twists the kingdoms on the periphery cleverly. She has a much more complicated relationship with her family, as her three older brothers get to fight on the front and take human cities, while she, the better warrior and leader, is sent to the edge of humanity. Nausicaä herself has many more layers as she comes to terms with being able to better and better understand the creatures around her. She relates her sudden rage in the duel to the ohmu’s rage and is frightened by her inability to control herself. More than anything, the insects themselves have a deep characterization. When Asbel is fending off insects in the Toxic Forest and Nausicaä tries (and a little bit fails) to save him, he doesn’t catch her or save her from the insects, it’s the ohmu that calls the insects away and catches her (and gives Asbel and his gun a good smack as well). In that moment, the ohmu is able to communicate with Asbel (who is very shocked) and tell him that they are respecting the wishes of Nausicaä not to kill him (and they’re off to the south because they have to fight). Whether the insects were always able to communicate if humans listened, deep in the Toxic Forest enabled him to hear, or his proximity to Nausicaä allowed the communication of the two, the ohmu reveals an intelligent understanding, respect, and a prophecy of the creatures (and the earth itself?) that they believe Nausicaä will fulfill.

I really can’t wait to see what the next volume holds.

[pengiesama]

Dies Caniculares (Fic, Mikleo/Sorey, Fantasy/God AU) (Chapter 3/6)

Title: Dies Caniculares (Chapter 3/6) Series: Tales of Zestiria Pairing: Mikleo/Sorey

Summary: Mikleo dreams of travelling the world, having exciting adventures like his uncle. Unfortunately, he lives a pretty boring life in the tiny mountain village of Camlann. If he’s not working at his family’s temple, he’s having to deal with his mother’s constant attempts to match-make him to every eligible girl in town.

He also happens to be best friends with a god. That god happens to be a dog, who happens to be able to turn into a frustratingly handsome young man. Complications, as they do, inevitably crop up.

CHAPTER THREE:

Mikleo almost has a pleasant date, but is interrupted by a dastardly plot and has to make use of men in black suits and a getaway car. (The last time he was in the city he found a dead body in the water supply, so it's still an improvement.)

(CONTENT WARNING: shapeshifting, eventual mpreg.)

Link: AO3

This is a collaboration between me and @sensenaoya! I’m honored to be allowed to write for their wonderful AU, and even more honored to have their lovely art illustrating it!

Please heed all content warnings!

Check out my commission info here.

Read on Tumblr!

Sorey yawned wide, and settled his muzzle on his paws. He considered himself a morning person – certainly he was in comparison to how grouchy Mikleo was in the mornings, not that gods really needed sleep, normally – but it got lonely and dull waiting for Mikleo to get back from his early morning appointments. It made Sorey want to find a sunbeam to lie down in, and sleep away the hours where he couldn’t see Mikleo’s smiling face.

A warm breeze ruffled Sorey’s feathered coat, like a gentle hand. He sighed at the feeling, and let his eyes drift shut, letting his imagination wander.

He imagined a morning spent with Mikleo at the shrine, lounging on the stairs, feeling the air begin to warm around them, listening to the low sound of chatter from the attendants tending to visiting worshippers. He imagined Mikleo’s hand in his hair, his hand on his cheek, his hand in his own. He imagined not having to hide in his dog form; imagined being able to stand next to Mikleo. He imagined being able to have people look at the two of them, and whisper the same gossip that Sorey sometimes overheard while trotting through town on four legs.

What a pair. A splendid match. Muse must be over the moon. Perhaps we’ll see some little ones around the temple grounds soon.

Sorey had travelled for hundreds of years, alone, without suffering overmuch for the lack of company. He had always loved humans; loved watching them live out their too-short lives, loved watching them grow and learn and make bonds. But, all the same, he always held himself back. He was always the observer; the scholar, studying a culture he couldn’t hope to ever really know. However, that fateful night in his grandfather’s old temple had changed all of that, it seemed. The lonely ache in Sorey’s chest was almost pleasant, in its own way. In Sorey’s more solemn moments, he understood that it was an ache that he would have to learn to cherish. In eighty, ninety years, when Mikleo couldn’t be with him ever again, Sorey would have to face down the wide world alone once more, with memories and the ache to last him a thousand years and then some.

A familiar scent reached Sorey’s nose, and his ears perked up; welcoming the interruption of such melancholy thoughts. Mikleo was back from his morning appointments, and it was Sorey’s (self-appointed) job to greet him. Sorey got up and shook out his coat, and gave brief regard to the feathers that flew loose with the motion. Maybe Mikleo would tut at the sight of his molting coat and insist on brushing him that afternoon. Sorey felt his tail begin to wag, unbidden, at the very thought. He bounded off, tail going and tongue out, to race toward the temple gates.

However, once the gates were in sight, he was greeted with an unsettling sight: Mikleo and Muse, arguing fiercely.

“—this has to stop, mother, all of this has to stop—”

“Oh, does it? And why is that?”

“Because it’s a waste of everyone’s time! None of the matches you’ve talked up so much have lasted more than three months.”

“Because you don’t put in the effort. It takes two!”

“Oh, so it’s all my fault? It couldn’t be because I don’t have anything in common with any of these girls? And it couldn’t be because some of those girls were misinformed by their matchmaker on my goals in life? It couldn’t, maybe, just a little, be a bit your fault as well? It takes two, after all.”

Mikleo had had disagreements with his mother before, especially regarding this topic. But this was angrier than Sorey had ever seen Mikleo or Muse. Sorey regretted dallying along on the way here, and rushed down to intervene.

“You’re expecting to meet someone that shares all your hobbies and dreams exactly? An exact clone of yourself, perhaps?” Muse shot back. “You’re too young to realize how foolish that is! If you’d even tried to meet any of these girls halfway, any of them, you would have been married a year in. You’re the one being stubborn and lazy, Mikleo; and hurtful, and disrespectful at that—”

“Let’s talk about disrespect,” Mikleo started in. “About how these torrid affairs have smeared our family’s name in town, and damaged the reputation of the temple. Have you visited Maotelus, recently? There’s something wrong with him, something making him weak and sick, and you can bet that it’s related to all the negative energy this idiotic soap opera is stirring up in town. Malevolence is building up faster than ever, and soon, it’ll be faster than we’ll be able to keep up with.”

No, no. That wasn’t why Maotelus was so tired and weak. It wasn’t the reason at all. Sorey knew the real issue; Maotelus had told him, with strict instructions to never speak of it to anyone, not even Mikleo. Sorey understood why – it would be something that would break Mikleo’s heart, and shatter his dreams. Sorey would sooner die than see either thing happen. But even though he was honor-bound forbidden from revealing the truth, Sorey could at least break up this disagreement between two of the people he loved the most.

Sorey tore in full-throttle, and jumped up on Mikleo to slobber kisses all over his face. Mikleo squawked at the sudden interruption, and stumbled back under Sorey’s weight. Once Mikleo was suitably covered in drool, Sorey disengaged and descended upon his next target. He swirled around Muse’s legs, whimpering piteously, rubbing his feathered coat all over her temple robes. He stared up at her with soulful eyes, and let his tongue blep out of his mouth just so. Muse was just as weak to his puppy-eyed looks as Mikleo was, and Sorey tried his best not to abuse his power unless it was absolutely necessary – like it was here, to break up a fight, or like it was last week, when Muse had fresh meat buns from the temple kitchen.

Thankfully, his intervention seemed to be just the thing needed to disrupt the argument. Muse tsked at him, and leaned down to stroke his head. Sorey’s eyes slid closed as her fingers crept behind his ear. Oh, Mikleo’s skill at petting was clearly passed down through the generations.

“Oh, Sorey,” Muse sighed. “Shedding again. It must be this summer heat. I’ll brush you out later today.”

Sorey whuffed in gratitude. He felt Mikleo’s gaze on him, and he cracked open one eye to meet it. Mikleo…was still ruffled in more ways than one, but was clearly grateful for Sorey’s help; and more than a little abashed.

“I’ll go on the date,” Mikleo said quietly. “Where is it today?”

“In Ladylake,” Muse said. Her shoulders straightened out, and she recovered from her mood to puff up a bit in pride. “You’ll be meeting the mayor’s daughter in the city’s most exclusive café.”

Mikleo’s jaw dropped. “Ladylake!? That’s two hours away by train!”

Muse’s hand slipped into her robes to produce a train ticket. “Yes, but the mayor ensured you’ll be travelling in comfort. He wants a good match for his youngest child, and asked me directly to have you court her. You made quite the impression on him during last year’s exorcism.”

Ladylake was a huge city, and huge cities generated a similarly huge amount of malevolence. Normally, this was tended-to by the city’s own staff of priests, but last year saw the city’s underground system of aqueducts grow so thick with cursed miasma that the city’s officials were dropping left and right. In desperation, the mayor – Mayor Diphda, Mikleo recalled – had reached out to the temple at Camlann, having heard rumors of the power of the gods that was hosted there. He paid a tidy sum to have a retinue of Camlann’s finest priests (and Mikleo) come to Ladylake to try their hands at the city’s salvation.

Mikleo had studied Ladylake’s aqueducts for years on paper, and had been thrilled to see them in-person, even though the circumstances weren’t…ideal, perhaps. Even with this study under his belt, it was difficult at first to pinpoint where the source of the blight was located in the aqueduct’s many winding paths. He stayed up for days, pouring over maps and textbooks with Sorey, and on the third day – buried under papers and with ink-stained hands – they deduced that the source was located directly underneath Ladylake’s city hall.

Now, this in itself was hardly surprising, and perhaps that was why the city’s officials rolled their eyes at Mikleo when he presented his findings. The city’s seat of government was a hotbed of malevolence and corruption? Water was wet, the sky was blue, and there had to be another source to blame for the malevolence seeping through the street drains and through kitchen faucets. Unheeded but undaunted, Mikleo descended into the aqueducts with Sorey at his side. They would find the source of the taint, and get to see the aqueducts’ ancient stonework up-close. Two birds with one stone.

One brief but exciting expedition, and down one howling ghost who had been assured that justice would be served, the aqueducts were cleared of malevolence…and they had a corpse on their hands. It was the body of a government official who had been missing for weeks, and – from the gossip Mikleo and Sorey had heard around town over their visit – he was a man who had been the leader of the opposition in the city council against the mayor’s plans to permit mining in the sacred mountains surrounding Ladylake.

“Mining in those mountains would loosen minerals into the groundwater,” Sorey had whispered to him in concern. “It would taint the whole city’s water supply, and make so many people sick. And those are the mountains that border Camlann, so Camlann could wind up sick too…”

“You’re not concerned about humans besmirching holy ground for profit?” Mikleo asked.

Sorey looked a little embarrassed. “Well, we name things sacred for a reason. The gods probably declared that land was ‘sacred’ because they knew it was dangerous for humans to develop it. But I guess it’s sacred to me, personally. I wouldn’t want them knocking down my grandfather’s old temple, or damming up the river that feeds our waterfall.”

Mikleo was just one man, and an outsider at that. He had no sway in Ladylake’s political circus, even if it could potentially wind up harming Camlann. He could only give a statement to the city’s police force, and pray that Maotelus’ protection would stay strong enough to protect the mountain that held so many sacred, precious things.

So much for that. He was stepping off a first-class cab on a train, and climbing into a car that was waiting to spirit him off to a date with a potential murderer’s daughter. He was without a single friendly face. (Sorey had stayed back in the village, watching after him mournfully as the train pulled away. The train didn’t allow pets. Mikleo wondered if they had a discount rate for local gods.) How could his mother even entertain this match? He had told her of the whole incident, of his suspicions and concerns. Surely she didn’t expect him to marry this girl, and use that to sway the mayor’s opinion…

As Mikleo stepped into the café and looked around, he felt entirely out of his element – as if he didn’t feel that way the moment he’d left Camlann. The city was so loud and busy, and this café looked so exclusive. Had Ladylake always been like this? Had he only been able to bear it because Sorey was with him? It did not bode well for Mikleo’s dreams of travelling the world, that was for certain. An older woman in an understated but well-tailored robe approached him, and bowed.

“We thank you for coming out all this way, good sir Mikleo,” the woman said. “Allow me to bring you to the young mistress’ private booth.”

Mikleo returned the bow, murmuring niceties, and followed the woman as she walked. He briefly entertained the thought of running away, but wasn’t sure if he’d be able to make it back to the train station on his own. Nor was he certain he could make his way out of the café on his own – he was led deeper and deeper through the luxuriously-decorated halls, and was thoroughly disoriented.

“Lady Alisha. Your suitor has arrived.”

“Thank you,” said the girl waiting in the private room. “Mikleo, was it? From Camlann.”

“Yes,” said Mikleo, a bit more tersely than intended. He heard the door shut behind him, and saw little option to do much other than sit down across from the girl – Alisha. “It’s a pleasure.”

Alisha gave a tight smile. “Y-yes, it’s a pleasure. I hope the trip was uneventful.”

“It was…” Mikleo trailed off, and caught a glimpse of the book Alisha had been reading when he walked in, and was now trying to stealthily slide off the table. “…is that the Celestial Record?”

Alisha visibly perked up, and hesitantly slid the book back onto the table. “Y-yes! Have you read it?”

“My uncle wrote it,” Mikleo said, with no little fondness and pride. “I read it when it was in its first draft.”

Alisha’s eyes went huge, and she gripped both sides of the book in her excitement. “Y-you did!?” she exclaimed. “Have you seen the original journals Mr. Rulay wrote his notes upon? Oh, I’ve always wanted to see them for myself…”

“No you don’t. His handwriting is terrible,” Mikleo said. “And most of them have some sort of horrible stain on them. But really, they’re fascinating. They go into more detail than the Celestial Record had the page space for, and they have a certain aura about them, it’s a…”

“Spirit of adventure,” Alisha said dreamily. “Yes, that’s how I imagined them.”

Alisha was blonde of hair and had eyes like new leaves in spring. She had the poise of a noble lady, and the easy, bright smile of a young maiden. Her violet robes gave her a summery sort of look, and the color suited her well. Her copy of his uncle’s book was well taken care of, and clearly well-loved; its pages dotted with bookmarks of every color and little slips of paper to mark notes on. For the first time since all this matchmaking nonsense started, Mikleo was actually…well. He could maybe entertain the thought of lasting more than three months with Alisha.

They took tea and lunch in their private booth, and chatted non-stop all the while. Alisha, like Mikleo, dreamed of seeing the world. But alas, as a politician’s daughter, she did not have the option to travel far and wide unescorted, nor the option to see the world as it truly was – the busy city streets and endless forests, the real world, not the carefully-curated world of exclusive teahouses and state dinners. However, she said, rising from her seat and offering her hand to Mikleo, she could at least show him around Ladylake.

“I understand that you likely did not get the chance the last time you were here, on business,” Alisha said. “I would love to show you some of our proudest landmarks, like the Great Waterwheel, and the Great Sanctuary…”

“Sounds great,” Mikleo said, making Alisha chuckle.

They left the café, with Alisha’s handmaid and a few men in dark suits following them at a respectful distance; allowing the “lovebirds” their privacy. Alisha was a wealth of information about the history of her city, and her running commentary on various landmarks was nothing less than riveting. Even his uncle’s book didn’t go into this much detail – he could almost hear Uncle Michael’s old rants about his publisher cutting out chapters’ worth of text. Alisha smiled up at him in the noontime sun, and…

…

…her pale blonde hair was the wrong shade, her green eyes were not rich enough in color. Mikleo shook off the feeling, and sighed. His mother was right. No matter what, it seemed like he’d never be satisfied with any match.

“Alisha,” Mikleo began. “I—”

“Little miss Diphda, out for a walk! What’s your father up to today!?”

“Selling us out for more gold to line his pockets!”

Mikleo looked up and around at the source of the jeers, and found that a small crowd had gathered across the street to sling accusations at Alisha. Alisha kept her back straight, and turned to address the crowd.

“Please, citizens of Ladylake!” she said, in a loud, clear voice, over the voices of the crowd. “I assure you, my father is not planning on allowing the desecration of the sacred peaks of Lakehaven!”

“That’s news to the mining guilds! They’ve been building some biiiiig machines lately!”

“Justice for Councilman Pellinore!”

“Pellinore rolls in his grave!”

A black car rolled up, and Alisha’s handmaid and bodyguards firmly and quickly took Mikleo and Alisha by the arm and all-but-shoved them inside. The door shut, cutting off the sound of the crowd outside. They were in their own separate cab from the driver and Alisha’s retinue, maintaining their privacy, so their courtship could continue. As if it could. Mikleo was silent, and could not quite meet Alisha’s eyes. Alisha, likewise, seemed to have retreated in on herself.

Finally, Alisha spoke up.

“I am sorry that you had to be caught up in Ladylake’s troubles,” Alisha said, and seemed entirely sincere at that.

“I was the one who found Pellinore’s body,” Mikleo said, without even thinking. What was he saying? “Underneath city hall, poisoning the aqueducts.”

Alisha looked at him in the eye, her expression heavily with sorrow. “You are a priest of the temple in the holy mountain. You can hear the voices of the gods?”

“I can,” Mikleo said.

“Can you also hear the voices of the dead?”

“I can.”

Alisha was quiet for a minute or so. She breathed.

“Did you speak to Lord Pellinore’s spirit? When you found his remains.”

“I did. He said he suspected your father was the one who ordered his death.”

Alisha’s next breath was ragged, and she took a moment to compose herself, dotting at her eyes with her hankie.

“I’m sorry,” Alisha said. “I have no right to weep. I’ve denied my family’s sins for too long, ignored all the evidence.”

Mikleo didn’t really feel the right to comfort this girl that he’d just met, and awkwardly reached out to pat her shoulder. She gave him a watery smile.

“I’m so sorry, Mikleo. Truth be told, this…I’m not very interested in this matchmaking business…”

Mikleo breathed out a sigh, and couldn’t help cracking a smile. “That’s one more thing we have in common, it seems.”

Alisha laughed, and some of the stress seemed to leave her posture. “Wonderful, that’s wonderful. I…I already have someone, you know. I can’t tell my father, it’d cause such a scandal. But she’s so beautiful, and exotic, and mysterious…”

An image flashed across Mikleo’s mind, of Rose and her bizarre costume choices. He knew better than to meddle in his friend’s love life, but he hoped Rose was being sincere when she referred to Alisha as more than just another fling. And he hoped that she was kidding about the wicked king assassination thing. Sorey always told Mikleo that she had the scent of blood about her.

“…do you also have someone in your heart, Mikleo?” Alisha asked curiously.

Golden hair and emerald eyes and a smile that blazed like lightning in a storm. The thought shook Mikleo’s heart.

“…no one in particular,” Mikleo said. “But I wish you the best with your special someone. And please, don’t stop pursuing your dreams. That’s a promise we can both hold each other to.”

“Yes,” Alisha agreed. “We’ll meet again and trade travel stories, I hope. My flower and I, and maybe someday, you and your one and only.”

The car dropped Mikleo off at the train station, and Alisha waved at him through the window before the car pulled away. She had directed one of her bodyguards to keep watch over the train station, to ensure Mikleo’s safety while he waited for the train to come. Mikleo didn’t have time enough to raise his hackles at being watched, before he realized that he was already being watched by a familiar figure.

“Sorey?” Mikleo said, shocked.

Sorey was in dog form, and was sitting near the outdoor gardens at the station, watching Mikleo out of the corner of his eye. He was very clearly sulking. Mikleo spotted an ice cream vendor nearby, and bought a vanilla cone before jogging over to Sorey.

“Sorey. You’re here,” Mikleo said, with no little surprise. “How did you…?”

Sorey turned up his nose at the ice cream Mikleo offered, and huffed through his muzzle.

“I can fly, you know,” Sorey said snippily. “These feathers aren’t just for show.”

Mikleo was aware of that little fact about Sorey, but that didn’t explain why he followed him here. The ice cream was melting onto his hand, and he gave his fingers a quick lick. Sorey stiffened, and looked away again.

“Sorey.” Mikleo offered the ice cream again. “You must be starving. And it’s hot out. Please, have this.”

“You should probably share that with Alisha,” Sorey said, almost accusingly. “It looked like you two had such a nice time together today. And you went sightseeing without me.”

Mikleo dotted the tip of Sorey’s nose with the ice cream, and watched as Sorey was helpless but to lick it off.

“How long were you watching us?”

“I saw you go into the café, and then walk off for a city tour arm-in-arm.”

“So, you didn’t see the crowd yelling at Alisha. Or how we got shoved into an unmarked black car to escape in one piece.”

Sorey stared at him in shock, his eyes softening in concern.

“…no, I didn’t,” he admitted. “Mikleo, are you alright? What happened?”

Mikleo told him the whole story, feeding Sorey the melting ice cream as he spoke.

“…so she’s already got someone in her heart, and we have more reason to be concerned about Rose’s extracurricular activities,” Mikleo finished.

Sorey nuzzled up to him, his previous sulky mood completely absent. Mikleo accepted the affection greedily, and buried his face in Sorey’s silky neck.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you,” Sorey said quietly.

“I’m glad you were safe elsewhere,” Mikleo replied. “Plus I know you get really nauseous in cars.”

Sorey huffed again. “That was one time!”

Mikleo laughed in delight, and heard announcements for the approaching train.

“I’ll hop on that train and head home,” Mikleo said. “Will you be okay flying back?”

“Of course!” Sorey said, with a doggy smile as bright as his human one. “I’ll beat you there. Meet me up in Maotelus’ chamber, and you can tell us both all about Ladylake?”

“Of course,” Mikleo replied. “It’s a date.”

Before Mikleo could realize what had happened, Sorey stole a quick kiss to his cheek, leaving the heavy smell of vanilla and a lingering tingle of warmth. Mikleo watched Sorey trot off into the gardens, toward a secluded patch of trees to mask his takeoff. He barely heard the bells announcing his train, and very nearly missed it, were it not for the station attendant approaching him directly.

He sank into his seat on the train, and watched the countryside fly by, with thoughts of touring Ladylake again with Sorey by his side racing through his mind.

–

Chapter Directory

First - Next - Last

[technicallyoneofakind]

Late Night Talks

Decided to experiment with a writing style. I saw someone do something similar with a mostly dialogue driven drabble. Let's see if it works.

Spoilers for later part of the game. You know the drill.

Warning: There is mention of self-harm later in this one.

Disclaimer: If I owned the rights, Ni no Kuni would be a darker game than it is. Be thankful I don't.

~.~.~

A quiet night in the inn in Perdida, just before journeying into the miasma marshes. The familiar tamer slept in her own bed, the fairy somehow having rolled off onto the floor out of the two boys'. The boy wizard couldn't sleep. He was excited yet terrified. What if he couldn't defeat Shadar? What if he couldn't free Alicia's soul? What would happen?

He didn't dare open the companion to lull himself to sleep- he worried about waking everyone up with the light… So what else was there?

He was wide awake. He just stared at the ceiling, counting down each time Drippy's lantern shifted. When that didn't work, he switched to counting the seconds between the thief's snores- though that was never constant as they often varied in volume.

He was at a loss. How long would he have to wait until his mind settled down until his nerves ceased to rattle? Dang it. He thought, looking around the room. He turned on his side and watched the still back of a blanket covered Esther and a snoozing fairy whose small chest rose and fell.

He wasn't sure how long he stared. It was about an hour, he believed. He turned back to face the rogue, whose back also faced him. He always seemed to curl up and grab his shoulders for comfort. The kid assumed that behavior was out of habit, considering the man's years of living alone. It was hard to seriously hurt someone if they laid like that with their backs against a wall, he figured.

The man didn't really tell them much about anything. He kept himself quite reserved. He really didn't dwell on anything that had to do with his personal history- so all of their experience and knowledge of Hamelin was from either first hand, through Marcassin, or what little bits and pieces they could press together.

He supposed he could learn more… He shook his head, closing his eyes. He didn't want to bother the thief. He had a pension for getting really irritable the less sleep he had. He'd drink a decent portion of coffee- which they all needed to focus their skills- in the morning as a consequence if his night didn't fair to well.

He turned back on his back. Back to the ceiling again. It wasn't like he had much of a choice. "Urgh," he groaned softly, throwing an arm over his eyes in defeat.

A soft moan from next to him sounded. At first, he assumed it was just another snore, but then the thief shifted; he was prone to staying in the same position all night- not much of a restless sleeper. His posture had loosened from the tight ball he held himself in and he tilted his free side slightly as he turned his head a little to look at the young mage.

"Oliver…," Swaine mumbled, drowsy. "You're… still up," he yawned.

"Couldn't sleep. I'm really nervous." He didn't move his arm. "Sorry for waking you."

"Mmm…"

"You should probably go back to sleep, Swaine."

"Mmmhmm…," the thief groaned back.

There was silence for a moment. The boy lifted his arm a little to peak at the man sharing the bed with him. He hadn't curled back up. He always curled up when he willingly went to sleep. He was still awake.

Another few minutes passed.

"Are you… asleep," Oliver hesitantly asked the thief.

"Barely. It's hard for me to fall back asleep once I've fully woken up."

"What fully woke you up," the boy prodded curiously.

"Wondering what could possibly keep you up and make you so nervous."

"Oh… umm…," Oliver whispered as he turned back to face the rogue's back. "Just pre-battle jitters. That's all."

"Oh? Do you need something to calm you down then? Where's your Companion?"

"Well… You see… I need light and I didn't want to wake up anyone."

"Gotcha." He heard Swaine sigh before he rolled over to face him. "Perhaps I could tell you a story or something. Would that help?" He chuckled lightly, softly. "Hell, maybe it will lull me to sleep."

"What kind of story?"

"Anything. You name it."

"…"

"…Well…?"

"Can you tell me about Hamelin- what it was like growing up there?"

The thief coughed, choking on his own spit in shock.

"Are you okay, Swaine?"

"How about something different, eh? Hamelin's boring! You don't want to hear about that," he waved off, harshly whispering.

"No, it isn't! It's really cool! I want to know what it's like living in a machine city," he whispered back.

"Oh geez- Oliver, it's like any other city- crowded, everyone trying to get things done as quickly as possible, and impossibly huge. That's it."

He just stared back at Swaine. "That's not what I saw."

There was stammering then a silent bout of contemplation from his older friend. "Okay. It won't be much- so you may want to find another topic."

"I don't mind."

"Good…," he sighed, reaching up and rubbing his head in annoyance. "I can't speak for most people, but it was very militaristic. I remember being taught how to wield a sword and various strategies of battle. It was a very very thorough and strict training regimen." He scoffed. "That's the thing about Hamelin. It's heavily focused on the distant future."

"Is that it…?"

"That's all I want to divulge, yes."

"But- but!"

"What," he snarled. "That's all there is to say, Oliver."

"Did you have any favorite holidays…?"

The thief was quiet for a moment. He had never really thought about holidays all too much before. "Er… Yeah. It's… umm…," he glanced up at the ceiling and then down to the blanket. "The royal procession."

The boy looked down then glanced at the ceiling as he began to piece information together. "Wait… Isn't that the only well-known holiday Hamelin has?"

Swaine cleared his throat. "No… Not really. We have truffling contests and the Yule feast, but those pale in comparison to the royal procession which really celebrates two things." He held out his free hand signifying the number. "Our annual accomplishments and the current emperor's birthday."

"So… Why do you like it so much, then?"

"It's the inventions," he nonchalantly informed. "I love seeing what Hamelin's best minds come up with. Even as a child I looked forward to it."

"But… wouldn't you have to be at the front of the float when you were a kid?"

He waved it away mockingly. "It didn't matter. Back then, I got to go see the inventions personally before we left the palace. Many people, then and now, would kill to get that close to them."

"Oh, wow," the wizard gasped in amazement. "What kind of machines were there?"

There was a heavy, reluctant breath. "Erm… I can't say for certain- it varies. The royal procession happens every year. It's like keeping track of birthdays- you just can't remember them all." He paused for a moment as he placed a hand on his chin. "Tanks… Tanks were often a big thing. Everyone loves hog tanks."

"…"

"What," the thief asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I just thought- I mean…"

"Mean what?"

"I thought you invented the hog tank."

Swaine looked at Oliver in shock for a moment. "…You did read the Wizard's Companion, right?"

"I thought they were talking about you and… Marcassin," he admitted, hesitant to bring up the sage.

"Oh." He lied on his back. "Yeah, no. That wasn't us." He had a small smile. "Though, I will say, that hog tank we fought was a design I drew up and gave to those two inventors. So, I guess I helped design them to some capacity."

"Huh…" The kid beamed back at him. "That's still awesome, Swaine!"

"Eh…" The thief shrugged. "That sort of thing's common in Hamelin. Someone pitches a design, and, if the design is feasible enough, the inventor tries it out." He looked over at his young friend. "That's how we progress."

There was a moment of silence between the two. Another hour seemed to pass.

"I still can't sleep, Swaine."

"Ugh," the man responded. He scrunched up his face and looked over. "Yeah, me neither." He rolled over and tried to force himself to sleep by curling up again. "I'm going to try." He glanced over his side. "Think about hog tanks. Maybe at some point, you'll wear yourself out mentally."

"I'll… I'll try."

Swaine didn't respond. The boy rolled on his back and looked up at the ceiling. Hog tanks… How are they made…? That suggestion just made it worse. Now he had to know how hog tanks worked! "Hey, Swaine?"

"What," he snapped softly.

"How are hog tanks made?"

"It's too complicated and too late at night for me to explain that, Oliver."

"But now I can't sleep because of it!"

The man sighed and relaxed his form. He rolled over to face Oliver again. "Fine. I'll tell you something else."

"Like…?"

"I don't flipping know," he almost wanted to shout. He swung his free arm in the air over the layer of the blanket covering him. "What do you want to hear?" He stopped for a moment when the mage opened his mouth. "And don't say hog tanks," he warned harshly with a pointed finger.

"…"

"…Well? Anything?"

"Umm… What was it like being a thief- you know, after you left Hamelin…?"

"I'm not telling you that, Oliver."

"You don't have to tell me the bad stuff-"

"It's nothing but bad stuff. No. Something else."

"Uh… Well… I've never been heartbroken so…"

"Oh, god, Oliver," he hissed. "Is there anything you want to know that won't dredge up old memories?"

"I can keep it secret."

"I don't want to dwell on the past any more than I have to." He sighed. "Even so… I really shouldn't tell you. You have enough emotional garbage as it is to go through."

Oliver hummed in thought for a moment. "…I think I can handle it."

The man groaned and slowly rolled his eyes. "Don't you already, you know, know about heartbreak? You heal people all the time," he whispered back.

"Yeah, Mr. Drippy told me."

"Then why do you want me to tell you? Of all the things that fairy's good for, it's explaining something until it can't possibly be explained further." He shrugged. "What's the point? What's there to learn?"

"But that's from Mr. Drippy. It was… kind of broad. I want to know what it felt like from someone who's gone through it." He paused for a moment, looking at his own hands. "Maybe it will help me help the brokenhearted better."

He sighed and shook his head. "From hog tanks to heartbreak- what a transition." He scowled at the boy. "Sorry, but I'd rather not." He rolled over, finally giving up. "Goodnight."

"Can I at least ask why…?" When he saw Swaine tense up, he flinched. "Or not…" He lied on his back as he studied the ceiling again. He figured heartbreak was painful. It was no wonder he didn't really want to say anything. "It must be really bad. Whatever it is, I'm sorry I brought it up." He had no idea what the man had gone through- all he knew was that even he didn't deserve it. "I'm sorry you had to go through it."

This kid was… persistent- but not in the trying way Esther could be. He cared- there was a genuine warmth about his curiosity. It was late. It was just Oliver. If it did help him be a better wizard, then besides himself, where was the harm…?

"…Okay…," he breathed, gripping his shoulders tighter. "It's kind of fuzzy… my memory of it. That's what it can be like. There are bits and pieces. Most of them..." He felt his voice catch in his throat as he recalled his experience. "There was a bit of pain."

"Pain? Did you get headaches or something?"

"Not always. I often blacked out and woke up in completely different places. It got worse and worse…" He shook his head from what the boy could tell. "But that's not all. I knew when I was conscious because of the pain." He rubbed his free shoulder before tensing up again. "Things get really blurry. You start wondering what's real and what's delusion." He laid back onto his back. "The weird thing about the human mind is that you remember fear and pain more than anything else." Even as he said this, he looked away from the mage, concealing the wounded look he had.

"So if it wasn't headaches… what was it?" He watched as the thief glanced at him. "Was it your heart…?"

He shook his head. He grunted uncomfortably as he turned away again. "I… really don't think I should say, Oliver. Just thinking about it disgusts me."

"Does the past really hurt that much…?"

"Yeah… They say the past can't really hurt you. They also say it can haunt you." He looked over his shoulder. "The past doesn't haunt me. It might as well be bludgeoning me."

"Only if you let it. You can fight it…"

He raised an unseen eyebrow. "How?"

"Telling someone about it. Talking it out with someone you trust."

"Oliver," he groaned. He rolled over again to face him. "I hardly trust anyone as it is!"

"Do you trust me?"

"H-huh," the thief stammered, caught off guard by the question. He furrowed his brow and stared back at the boy. "Of course, I trust you, Oliver. What kind of question is that?!"

The wizard nodded affirmatively. "Then tell me. I'll listen."

The boy stared at the thief and the thief stared back. As Swaine considered his answer, he bit the inside of his lip. He groaned uncomfortably again as he turned his head suddenly to squint at the adobe ceiling. He looked back at Oliver again. "You've got your wand handy, have you," he requested.

"Uh… why?"

"I'll show you what I mean."

"Umm… you mean to cast Magic Lantern?"

He saw Swaine nod in the dark.

"That will wake the others."

"We'll pull the blankets over our heads. Besides…," He lifted his head to look at the girl and the fairy. "One isn't even facing us and the other… well, the fairy could sleep through an earthquake."

"Huh. Okay. Yeah, let's do that, Swaine." He nodded at the cad again as he reached down to his bag and pulled out Mornstar. The two of them sat up and proceeded to throw the blankets over them, making a makeshift tent. Oliver cast the spell, allowing them to see for a decent amount of time.

Swaine sat in front of him, his legs crossed. He seemed to be unbuttoning his short-sleeved orange shirt- his coat was hanging on the end of the bed.

"What are you doing," the wizard asked him with a look of confusion.

"Hold on." He slid off the shirt and set it to his side. That's when the kid saw it. Scars, different shapes, and different sizes populated the former prince's shoulders. Some of them were raised, the others were sunken in based on how they healed.

The deepest ones seemed to be on his sides, running along his thin, now slightly more nourished frame.

"What happened to you," the sage asked him, his voice taking on a more frightened and concerned tone. "Are these from fights? Did you get into a lot of fights, when you were heartbroken?"

He shook his head somberly. "No… At the time it seemed like a good idea- a way of keeping track of when I was… myself." He ran a few fingers across the scars on his shoulder. "I guess I never was really. I'd never willingly do this before I lost restraint. I'd never do this now. It was only then." He leaned forward. "Losing a piece of heart is literally losing a piece of yourself, Oliver. You stop being you. You start doing things you'd never think of doing. Wanting things you'd never think of wanting… and you become…" He raised a hand, his palm facing the blanket.

He let it fall, the back of his hand tapping his knee limply. "…Useless." He shook his head a little. "Or worse, a menace." He heaved a heavy breath and looked down at the scars on his sides. "I think I knew what was going on… or at least what was left of me. I knew I needed to get a grip, so I…" He gestured outward but still toward himself with his hands. "Did this as a reminder of being 'awake'. I knew I could make a sound decision when I was in pain." He traced one of the deeper scars on his abdomen.

He watched worriedly as the thief did so. "Why are those so deep…?"

"I got used to them. They stopped hurting as much." He scoffed as he looked to the side. "Luckily I stopped when I saw you three. I think something shifted- or clicked, more like- before I got any worse." He gritted his teeth as he looked down at them. "I hate that I had the gall to do this to myself."

"You couldn't control yourself."

"I know… but see, this damage is the kind of damage healing hearts can't fix."

"But you said it yourself, Swaine. You wouldn't do it again, now! Healing hearts can keep this kind of damage from happening again!"

There's a fair point, Swaine thought with a raised eyebrow. "They're permanent reminders of my darkest hour, Oliver. At the time, there was little I had in the way of support." He gave a short, sad laugh. "I could have bled out, you know. I might as well have jumped off a cliff." He leaned back on his hands and scoffed. "I believe it got so bad I wondered if dying would be a better option."

Oliver shifted uncomfortably. "Did you…" He cleared his throat nervously. "Did you try to kill yourself?"

For a moment he sat straight back up with panicked wide eyes. "What?! No! Not really. I mean, I toyed with the idea. I even jumped off the very last dock in Castaway Cove to see what jumping off of something would be like- on a whim!" He leaned back again. "Then I believe I didn't like feeling suddenly soaked- spied something attractive and decided to steal it." He lifted a hand and waved in front of him. "Or something like that. I remember being drenched in water so, I must have taken a dive somewhere."

"Swaine," Oliver complained. "I'm serious. This isn't something you joke about."

"So am I. I wasn't flipping suicidal, just very very lost and confused."

He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. "I'm glad I didn't actually die in the long run." When he sat up again he suddenly felt a pair of arms wrap around him and Oliver's hair brush his chest. He froze, not expecting the sudden embrace.

"I'm glad, too."

He lifted a hand, hesitating as he held it above the mage's ginger hair. He smiled down at the teen and patted his head. "Heh. Thanks, kiddo."

The mage let go as Mornstar started to flicker, the spell wearing off. The thief took what chance he had to put back on and button back up his shirt. They re-wrapped themselves in covers, preparing for another attempt at sleep.

It seemed to work, as Oliver yawned as he snuggled down into the blankets.

"…You won't tell the other two… right," Swaine asked worriedly.

"I won't. I won't even tell Marcassin." The thief heard another yawn. "That's something you should really tell him yourself."

"Thank you, Oliver," he breathed gratefully. "If it means anything to you, I feel a lot better getting that off of my chest."

"And Swaine," the wizard called.

"Hmm?" He glanced over his shoulder at the boy's back.

"You should know, I'm happy you're still around. You're really a good person… and a good friend."

A warm feeling washed through the thief. He smiled as he looked back at the wall. He needed to hear that… from someone. He was glad it was Oliver. He felt himself relax a little more before drifting asleep. "Sure thing, kiddo. Sure thing," he whispered to his now sleeping friend.

~.~.~

Author's note:

Well… That was… something. Initially, I wanted to focus more on the self-harm (because there is something seriously wrong with me and I need to seek counseling), but I decided against it. I seem to be veering more towards thief boy's spell of heartbreak right now- that and that grey area in between Hamelin and Castaway Cove. We really don't know much about those years in between. On top of that, something caught my attention (EAD13 might have had some influence on this)- he covers up a lot. He hides his past a lot. What if it's not just modesty? I mean, he's skin and bones, so it could be the fact that he's pretty malnourished for someone his age and he doesn't want to draw concern, but that wasn't enough for my decrepit little mind, was it?

I often equate heartbreak as a sort of representation of depression and other mental illnesses- but mostly depression. From what I know, many people experience depression differently and do things for different reasons. Some escape into other things. Some hurt themselves (for varying reasons, reasons I can't hope to fully grasp myself). Some can't get out of bed in the morning. Granted, I've never considered myself as a person that suffers from depression, but lately, I've been kind of worried that I might be. I know I'm out of my depth- as I know people who've suffered from it, who have hurt themselves during it, but I've never experienced it at its worst myself.

Aaaanyway. I decided to give a nice bit of character bonding and fond backstory giving before the more serious stuff. Sorry if this caused any issues for anyone. Just… be kind to yourselves, alright?

Anyway. Thoughts? Critiques? Even if not, I hope you enjoyed and took something from this. Sorry, it got a bit dark.

[lialox]

Gifted Blight AU

Episode Prompto Spoilers. Full story below. :D 

Rating: Teen, but with trigger warnings

Pairings: None. Maybe Promptis or Noctis/Luna if you look hard enough.

An AU where the complications of Prompto’s birth actually causes him to be very sensitive to the sun. (You know why.) The sensitivity doesn’t just show itself in freckles and sun-burnt skin.

It shows itself as cancer. 

The doctors say it’s caused by the UV light from the sun. There’s no cure. His body rapidly heals what the light seems to decay, forcing his cells to grow unnaturally.

Growing up, it was hard for him to make friends. He knew he was going to die, so what was the point? People always acted different and weird when they found out and he hated that.

But Noctis was different. After telling him of his doomed fate, Noctis only gave him a sad, understanding sort of smile and said:

“Some things are just out of our control. Decided before anyone could have a chance to say otherwise. Everyone’s gonna die at some point--only difference is that, some people know when. Might as well live life to the fullest.”

Then he takes the fourth nap he’s had in a day because they’re going fishing early tomorrow morning. Typical Noct, “living life to the fullest”.

Fast forward to the day they leave Insomnia. Despite Prompto’s failing health, the bros think it’s a good idea to have Prompto see as much as he can before... before he can’t anymore.

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to come with?” Prompto asks. He’s playing with his fingers again. “I mean, with my sickness and all.”

“Of course it is,” Noctis replies. “I’ll take you around everywhere I go. It’s good to get out.”

So they take him around Lucis. Through the deserts of Duscae and the rolling hills of Leide. The peaks of Ravatough and the depths of ancient ruins. Prompto records it all in his camera, because he’s not sure if he’ll ever have a chance to see it again. They let him stay, even when Insomnia falls and the Empire is hot on their tail.

Noctis, Ignis and Gladio all do their part in taking care of their friend. 

Until they reach Altissia.

In summary, there are two types of MTs: "Imperials” (Niffs who have been powered by Magitek like cyborgs, or use Magiteknology) and those androids who have “Magitek” in their names and have glowing red eyes. People are not commonly aware of it, but those androids have no organic parts to them.

Not anymore, at least. The process goes like this: A human is infected with the Starscourge at a young age. Starscourge is a parasite that develops this thing called miasma (the thing that blocks out the sun later in the game) within its host. Miasma is then harvested from the people as an energy source, at the expense of their life. This energy is then stored as what we know as a Magitek Core. **Reference**

Verstael has spent his entire life studying this process. His most recent project is focused on being able to transfer the will of a human being into these cores--a process that should be completely feasible. After all, the entirety of a person’s being converts into miasma before it’s placed into a core.

By the time the events of Episode Prompto occurs, he’s on the brink of death. It’s been weeks since he’s had his medication as he’s got all of the signs--all of the worst ones anyways. His vision is blurring, he’s got massive headaches that escalate into seizures and the halls he’s wandering all blend into one. He’s coughing up blood the entire Episode, leaned on the walls for support. It’s a wonder he made it through so far, but he had to. 

His friends are waiting.

Aranea tries to save him, at the part where she’s supposed to. But it’s not the same, because Prompto... Prompto can’t go on anymore. He’s too sick, and no matter how good of a fighter Aranea is, she can’t escape the facility while dragging a near-unconscious body along with her.

So she makes a call, and damn is it one of the hardest things she’s ever done. 

She leaves. Not without leaving some sort of hope though--no, Aranea isn’t that type of person. She hooks him up to some whatever medical equipment she knew how to operate, and disguises him as an MT. A part of her wondered if she even needed to do that in this particular side of the facility. As she turned away she promised him: 

“Listen kid. Hey. Hang on tight, you hear? I’ll be back with back-up, it’s just... things are gonna get ugly from here on out. ...Hey, are you even up? I’m coming back, and I’m counting on you to be here so I’ll have something to come back to.”

Prompto doesn’t--can’t respond. He lies there, on an unsettling operation table trying to contain his pained noises. Then a patrol passes by. The magitek unit doesn’t seem to see him as an enemy. It’s as docile as they come, and Prompto gets one of his brilliantly stupid ideas.

He takes it down. Rips out its core. And gods, does he show his mechanical ingenuity when he hooks up the offline MT into the initializing machinery with an empty core. 

Then, ever so slowly, crashing into various instruments along the way, he makes his way to where the tanks were. Where the “series” he was from were.

It feels like he’s on several levels of inebriated when he steps into one of the tanks. There’s blood dribbling down his chin and, and gods, he can’t stop coughing.

And the gears start to whir. A pale, viscous fluid begins to pool at his feet. 

For a moment, Prompto thought he was going to drown in the fluids that began to fill the tank, but the fear was overwritten by pain as it shot up from his legs first, burning up through his thighs and eating away at his gut like he’d stepped into a pool of acid. He looks down and--oh god, his legs are gone. They’re gone, they’re gone, they’re gone, and all that’s left was a wisp of particles making their way higher, and higher and then there’s ringing in his ears, and he really is choking on that fluid now, and he’s trying to grasp, claw at at his throat but there’s nothing, where are his fingers, and--

Darkness.

It feels like a million years have passed when Prompto’s vision flickers back, and the first thing he sees is himself. Or what looks like him. Then he realizes that it’s impossible for that to be him. He’s looking at a clone. His actual body should’ve faded into miasma.

He takes a deep breath--finds that he can’t... and looks down on to his hands.

They’re made of steel and circuitry. All hard casing and neutral paint.

Prompto almost found humour in the way that a part of him thought he couldn’t do it. Of course he could. He’s the clone of the damned genius who invented all this in the first place.

He’s traded his dying body for an MT’s and he’s never felt better. Now that he can really fight back. Now that he feels nothing at all. 

The first thing thinks of is Noctis. He can finally help him now. He’ll stop being dead weight, and they can stop taking care of him all the time. Finally, he can stop being useless.

Prompto has to find out if Noctis is okay. But now that there’s so much that’s changed, he’s not sure if he can face them anymore. 

The next time he sees Aranea, it’s at a cave just outside the facility and the meeting came with a spear pointed at his throat.

“Aranea?” Prompto blurts out, his voice a mess of static from a damaged voice box. He’s sitting by the fire, back turned to the water’s edge. He hasn’t had the guts to look at his reflection. 

She gives him a similar pep talk to the one they had in game. Of all the tough love Aranea throws at him, one thing in particular struck him right at his heart:

“This is what you wanted, kid. You wanted to help your friends, and for you to do that you gotta live. There’s no shame in wanting to live.”

These words almost carry him to the pinnacle of the Keep, searching for Noctis. He was so intent on helping him from a distance, if he ever saw them. Even with Aranea’s words, he can’t just walk up to Noct as a bucket of bolts. He just can’t.

But it doesn’t go according to plan. Ardyn captures him; binds him in that metal frame. 

Prompto’s screaming at Ardyn to let him go the whole time because the only thing scarier than pain and death, was the thought of Noctis rejecting his existence. His existence, which was now truly nothing but Magitek.

Ardyn finds it hilarious. So he guides the whole gang to Prompto.

When Noctis walks into his cell, he’s furious. There’s fire burning on the ring on his hand and magic flaring within his eyes. 

“Don’t you get fucking tired of the same joke, Ardyn!?” Noctis spits, turning around and looking for cameras. “Where the hell is Prompto?” Silence. The MT on the frame chose not to stir. “WHERE IS HE?”

“Oh, how awful,” the voice on the intercom coed. “You’ve come all this way, only to fail to recognize the very thing you’re looking for. It must hurt your dear friend Prompto’s feelings.” The voice paused, letting the words sink into the frantic mind of Noctis Lucis Caelum. “Isn’t that right? Prompto?”

And when Noctis speaks, he doesn’t sound angry anymore. He sounds broken. “What the hell did you do him?”

They could almost hear the shrug in his voice. “Hm, nothing at all.” And the voice cuts out.

Noctis extends a hand towards the steel mask. Pries it loose. There’s nothing but metal and wiring on this inside. Of course. They’re called “MT” for a reason.

“Prompto?” Noctis whispers.

Prompto hesitates. It’s only after he realizes that he’s got nothing left to lose that he finally replies: “...Noct.” It sounds like a mechanical whimper. If machines could even do that.

Ignis and Gladio gasp behind him as Noctis pries him free from the metal frame. 

Even after all is said and done, his friends still accept him. Prompto wishes he still had the ability to cry.

When he sees the last trace of Noctis disappear into the Crystal, and fires bullet after bullet into the Chancellor’s back, he felt something deep within wrench and twist. His mind clouded with an emotion he couldn’t release and he understood that even a soul on its own could cry.

As it turns out, being an MT was great in the eternal night that followed. Daemons don’t attack him. He could wander around the world with the same--no, even more freedom than he had before, now that he was’t sick. He took on the most dangerous of missions, taking him to the dens of monsters or from one side of Lucis and back. The missions he went on were impossible for a human. The ability to last for days in a world of daemons without food or water became the most valuable thing on Eos.

He’s never done so much in his life, and he’s never been so lonely. 

A decade passes before he finds his best friend again, only to find out that he has to say good bye.

“What will happen to you?” Noctis asks, curled up under a blanket on the caravan’s bed while Prompto is sitting at the floor. The steel of his back scrapes against the wooden structure of the bed. There’s poorly drawn cactuars all over his steel plates. “Once the sun comes back?”

“I’ll be with you every step of the way,” Prompto replies quietly. “Ever at your side. Remember?”

Noctis does remember. The guilt that’s settled deep within him, surfaces once again when he remembers why Prompto chose to do what he did. He remembers that he was the reason why his best friend’s soul was trapped in an empty shell. He remembers that Prompto should’ve died a decade ago, but only stuck around this long to fulfill a promise made in the name of friendship.

He remembers that, despite this world needing so many more people like Prompto, he has to let him go. So he chocks down any final requests he would have, because the only thing he could think of to ask was for Prompto to live.

But, that thought isn’t quite right. It’s not Noctis who has to let go. Prompto’s already gone ahead, but he won’t move on to the next life without Noctis. He’s waiting for him.

When they reach the throne room, Prompto’s shot with a violet orb he couldn’t dodge--and when he wakes up the battle’s just about over. The only thing left to do is for Noctis to deal the final blow.

“Do you still want to take me with you, Noct?” Prompto asks, fiddling with his thumb.

“My mind hasn’t changed.” Noctis holds out his hand.

Prompto reaches up, hand wavering just above his heart. He unclasps a metal lock just under his left shoulder to reveal a glowing, red orb. Carefully, he unscrews it, and it’s released with the hiss of an engine and a satisfying pop. He’s able to place it in Noctis’ palm just before the red of his eyes dim.

He collapses, one knee first in front of his King. Then his entire body slumps down at the steps outside the Citadel.

“Thank you,” Noctis whispers into the core. Every shade of crimson shifted ethereally. This was Prompto. He treated the core with more reverence than the crown treasures of Lucis.

And it was Prompto he held onto when Kings of Lucis raised their blades. It took thirteen to strike him down, but only one gem in his hands to keep him together. Once Noctis stepped into a realm of void, he saw that his friends and family were with him--but only for a moment. 

It was a fleeting image that didn’t dare to stay. Maybe he wanted to see them one last time that he hallucinated them.

But the ones to stay were Prompto and Lunafreya. The two whose bodies have long since gone, but have found ways to stay by his side. They were both eternally in their early twenty’s, young and baby-faced. They make short work of what’s left of Ardyn, shattering him into oblivion where immortals can’t return.

The battle leaves their ethereal forms in shambles; barely pieced together by each other’s light.

“Okay,” Noctis breathes, when all is done. “Okay.” He repeats again, then looks to Luna, then to Prompto. “Let’s go.”

“Uh. Me too?” Prompts’s eyes flickered to Lunafreya. “I don’t wanna third wheel or anything--”

“C’mon,” Noctis rolled his eyes. “I told you I’d take you everywhere I go.”

The astral plane is long and expansive. There’s no end to the possibilities the three of them can do. Now Prompto isn’t the only one waiting, and there’s a feeling of weightlessness within him now that he hasn’t imprisoned himself into a core.

Dawn rises in Eos.

And their souls are freed.

[qqueenofhades]

Hey, so I read your post on Richard the Lionheart and sexuality from a while back, and I found it interesting, but I was also wondering how much of that is colored by our modern view of things? Like, can we really know or is it just our way of reading things that they wouldn't? Thank you for your time.

Hooooo boy.

Fair warning, this will be long. It will also be ranty about queerness and history and other things that I have strong feelings on, so if that is not someone’s bag, I suggest you just keep on a-scrollin’, scrollin’, scrollin’ in the deep.

(Also in case anyone is wondering, the post being referred to is here.)

Honestly, I am not sure where to even start with my views on Straight Historians writing Straight History (as I have been complaining to @extasiswings about) and how I have encountered a particular amount of it around Richard. Basically, most of it ends up in two different camps: one, to “prove” that he was straight and also a good king, or to “prove” that he was gay and also a bad king. In short, the discourse around his sexuality has become tied to value-judgments on his success as a ruler. John Gillingham, much as I otherwise respect his work, is probably one of the biggest culprits in the former regard. After a lot of frankly sloppy work had been done on Richard, reacting against the idealized Victorian image of him as a glorious/righteous crusader and essentially painting him as completely undeserving of his heroic status, Gillingham showed that the historical reality was (surprise!) a lot more complicated and in many ways a lot more admirable than that. However, this involved having to bend over backward to discredit the numerous pieces of primary source material/comments in chronicles that seemed to suggest, shall we say, some questions around Richard’s sexuality. Whether Gillingham realises it or not, his agenda has pretty clearly been to strip any suggestion of queerness away from Richard, since in the existing paradigm, it would not be possible for him to be both not straight AND a good king. (And frankly it surprises me, although it shouldn’t, how much people have never even tried to go for a middle ground. I have never once seen a suggestion that hey, Richard might have been bisexual, or at least strategically so, in any published work on him, even though it’s imho clearly so.)

I dealt with some of the chronicle evidence commenting on Richard’s questioned sexuality in the post. There is more. There is the 1187 reference to his and Philip’s “vehemently” intimate friendship that alarmed Henry II. There is the 1191 penance in Messina for sexual sins (prior to leading the crusade, i.e. he really needed to be in squeaky-clean spiritual standing), there is the 1195 rebuke in Roger of Howden referencing the “fate of Sodom,” (which Gillingham is helpfully at hand to explain just means not obeying God well enough – WOW, GOOD THING SODOMY DIDN’T ALREADY MEAN A SPECIFIC SIN AT THAT TIME PERIOD AND EVER SINCE, JOHN, NOW THAT WOULD JUST BE CONFUSING, BUT I’M SURE IT WAS JUST A SLIP OF THE TONGUE. YEP DEFINITELY NO CORRELATION HERE AT ALL.) There is the 1198 rebuke from Hugh of Lincoln, once again for sexual sins. There is also a chastisement from Fulk of Neuilly, a traveling preacher, that referenced Richard’s transgressions in this regard. And oh boy have I listened to/read so much commentary from Straight Historians on how apparently this was just a particularly naughty kind of sex with women. Nothing to see here. Move along.

Let’s then ignore the fact that Richard’s father, Henry II, his brother, John, and his great-grandfather, Henry I, were rampantly known for their womanizing, that they had multiple illegitimate children (in Henry I’s case, more than twenty) and that we generally know some of the names of their mistresses, if not all. The lengths chroniclers went to excuse this, if they noted it at all, were vast: William of Malmesbury claims that Henry I only did so much porkin’ because he had a noble duty to beget royal blood into the world. You can also then helpfully ignore the fact that none of these men, again known very well for womanizing, were rebuked the way Richard was even once, let alone repeatedly. Yes, he had an illegitimate child. He had one. One son. And no recorded names for his supposed mistresses at all. So we can, following the Straight Historian paradigm, just assume that he was banging tons and tons of women, whose names we know nothing about, and apparently had really great 12th-century birth control because he had no children as a result, even though the rest of his family had done the same thing and indeed, had a lot of little Jon Snows running around. And that this was somehow Kinky enough to get the church on his case, explicitly referencing sodomy, multiple times from many different places, rather than turning a blind eye to it as they did to every other king of the time period because… well… The Gays Are Bad, I guess.

Frankly, I am not interested in reading the inevitable “here’s why all this evidence is definitely wrong” disproving section that comes up in most stuff about Richard. Protip, if you have to really labor to explain why multiple pieces of evidence, from multiple different sources, are all out of context, wrong, or Nothing to See Here… you might just be doing it wrong. 

On the other side of the coin, then, we have people like James Reston. I’m not going to link to his book, because frankly it’s terrible, but he wrote a historical study, purportedly of Richard and Saladin, that congratulated itself for “dealing frankly” with Richard’s homosexuality, or confirming it, or some other wording to that effect, and then went on to claim that Richard’s marriage was never even consummated, total sham, he was basically a really awful person and also Gay, Gay, Gay. Aside from the fact that there is no way we can know half of the stuff Reston claims with such confidence (and it goes against what we do know of Richard and his wife’s relationship, again in the context of the 1195 excerpt from Howden), it was just as clear that in Reston’s mind, Richard’s success or worth as a king was just as linked with his sexuality. Gillingham had to scramble to explain how all the pieces of evidence did not actually apply to Richard because he was a good king; Reston’s project is to tie Richard to them as closely as possible to confirm that he was in fact Bad all the way around.

Oy mother fucking vey.

I likewise don’t want to hear about how “we didn’t think Richard/William Shakespeare/so on and so forth were gay until the modern period, so it’s clearly just a matter of cultural context!” I have actually seen the argument made for Richard’s straightness that nobody actually wrote down/accused him explicitly of being gay (or the medieval equivalent), therefore he cannot have been gay. Yep. That is actually the criteria. None of this other chronicle evidence which exists uniquely around him, and nobody else of his famously womanizing family, can prove it, because nobody says it outright. We can barely get the Straight Historians today to write about it, when LGBTQ is a recognized and high-profile demographic with pride months, equality drives, political battles etc. What on earth makes you think that they would even remotely think of doing it beforehand? That is the entire f’n point of any academic discipline: to look at things with new information and to draw new inferences. We didn’t “invent” the fact that, say, germs made people sick instead of “foul miasmas” or whatever else; we learned that it had always been the case. We didn’t “invent” that the earth was round; we looked at the evidence and realised that it was. Likewise, we didn’t “invent” queerness; we just realised (very slowly and still in some goddamn cases not at all, in the year of our lord 2017) that it was the case. Which is why you get the Straight Historians, and the general operation of that system, working overtime to “prove” that no, no queer people ever existed before the 20th century, just as apparently feminism and resistance to the patriarchy was only invented in the 1960s and women were just silent and passive and resigned or even happy to be oppressed before then.

Oy MOTHER FUCKING vey.

We also see this with the other king who was almost certainly Not Straight, Edward II, in the 14th century. He is blamed as a bad king because he was too busy Gayin’ (remember the effete prince whose boyfriend gets pushed out a window in Braveheart? That’s him) and likewise, Braveheart goes as far as to (wildly implausibly) suggest that William Wallace was Edward III’s real father, because clearly Edward II could not a) have sex with a woman, when in fact he and Isabella had four children, and b) could not have fathered a famous warrior like Edward III what with all the fancy boy, limp-wristed homo bangin’ he’d evidently been doing. The other side of the coin is to describe Piers Gaveston and Hugh Despenser the Younger as Edward II’s “close friends” (he gave Gaveston the jewelry he was supposed to give Isabella as a wedding present, and had Gaveston sit in her place during the wedding feast, THEY WERE BONING) and try to blame Isabella and Roger Mortimer instead. In both cases, Edward II is presented as a Bad king because he was gay, or a Good (or at least Not That Bad) king because he was straight. Again. Bisexuality Does Not Exist. It Has Never Existed. Shhh.

Because the Plantagenets are also a popular subject for historical fiction, I always see this come up in some way as well. Take for example Sharon Kay Penman; I have read most of her books and enjoyed them. However, in her most recent novel about Richard, she basically apologized for writing him as gay in a passing mention in one of her earlier books, and said something to the effect that it was based on “limited research.” Evidently, she has now read the Straight Historians and can basically breathe a sigh of relief and make Richard safely non-queer again. Her version of Richard, likely not coincidentally, is also fairly likable. There are minor critiques of his peccadilloes here and there, but he’s still a character you can root for with no major flaws. Removing any “mixups” about his sexuality has made him a Good Guy again.

I encountered this in my own novel about Richard, on which I once got a review remarking that the reader liked my writing and my earlier stuff, but disagreed with all the “assumptions” I made about Richard’s sexuality and that basically the Plantagenets were interesting enough without getting into any of that Stuff, heaven forbid, and they didn’t like that I had included it. So yes. Evidently I made “assumptions” rather than doing, you know, research, and that if I was going to write a fictional version of Richard, the only one I should have written was one where I didn’t deal with his sexuality (or just made him Straight, I suppose). Because it was interesting enough if I didn’t.

Aaaaaand people wonder why THEY DIDN’T WRITE DOWN THAT THEY WERE NOT STRAIGHT ™, THEREFORE THEY WERE STRAIGHT ™!!! is almost entirely still accepted as an actual legitimate counter-argument.

It is also not the case, of course, that everything ever has actually been queer. I disagreed that medieval “brother-making,” or adelphopoiesis, was an actual, full-fledged form of medieval gay marriage once I looked at the evidence more closely, as while it was used to join two men together in a church-sanctioned relationship, it was probably then to live together celibately. However, I agreed that the practice of matelotage in the 17th-18th centuries absolutely was, and likewise, if historians have to write 12 books and pull all the receipts to even try to suggest that someone was, y’know, Not Straight, why don’t they have to do the same for the Straights? Because we are still operating in a system in which everyone is inherently and default-assumed straight, and which the Gays have never existed prior to the system finally acknowledging that they did in the 20th century. So, as we’re just barely starting to get a discourse acknowledging the existence and agency of women in history (you know, HALF THE GODDAMN HUMAN RACE), and that has come with considerable pushback anyway, we have even less that for a discourse of queer history that isn’t a very niche subject. Because history as a construct (and I say this as someone with multiple degrees in history, working on her doctorate) is still an incredibly white, androcentric, heterosexual space, so it’s NO FUCKING WONDER that it doesn’t accept the entrance and possibility of accommodating something else easily. Does it mean that those others don’t exist at all, and never did?

Spoiler alert: No. It does not.

IN THE YEAR OF OUR GOD DAMN LORD 2017.

OY MOTHER FUCKING VEY!

So yes. This leads me back to Richard. Can we “really know?” No, because we can’t get into the actual head of someone who’s been dead for 800 years. But that is the same with literally every other person ever on every topic and feeling they might have had, and it’s always funny how the sufficient level of “proof” necessary to claim that anyone was Different gets higher and higher, the further you get away from the “default” (that Straightness is the natural state of all human beings and anything else is a “deviation.”) And yes, of course we’re looking at it differently now, because we’ve learned new things. At least some of the time, and you can see how much resistance there STILL IS. We have figured out some absolutely amazing things, and yet sometimes we are so incredibly fucking god damn dumb about what should be the simplest and most evident fact of all of humanity: that people are different from each other, and always have been. There’s a surah in the Qur’an about God/Allah making us that way on purpose, so we could then get to know each other.

If only.

Lastly, I don’t give a big ripe fart if all the evidence about Richard is somehow, as Gillingham would like to think, totally wrong and he was Straight, because I have written a fictional version of him that fits with that evidence and which allows him to be much more complex than Good king or Bad king, Straight king or Gay king. Which allowed him, in short, to be frigging HUMAN. That’s also why I wrote Sam Bellamy the way I did in The Dark Horizon. There is not an actual document somewhere saying THIS MAN WAS NOT STRAIGHT, NOTARIZED BY THE GAY POLICE!!, but as I was researching him, I discovered that SO MUCH about his character, appearance, actions, backstory, etc was easily explained by making him queer, and which made him more interesting to me as a result. I am queer. Took me a while to figure that out, but it made SO MUCH of my life make sense, and for me to realize why I had been pushing against the “I bet straight women also find women very attractive/fantasize about marrying women/want to be around women/etc, I’m still totally straight I swear,” mindset as much as I had. Guess what! Simple explanation! I’M NOT STRAIGHT!

(I’m bi. Shh. Don’t tell anyone. We don’t actually exist.)

So yes. I am gonna write queer characters as a novelist/fic writer, and I am going to write a lot of them, because you can bet they existed, and I like to do my small bit for the “representation matters” train. As a historian, I am not going to be the person explaining why 58 pieces of evidence or whatever are Wrong and clearly, Watson, Straight. Doesn’t interest me at all. I want to be more honest to myself, and the world, than that.

So yes.

There you have it.

[bibliophilicwitch]

Morpheus // Μορφευς

A revival polytheist’s introduction to working with Morpheus including mythological background, Hellenic (Greek revival/recon polytheism) basics, and a starting point of offerings, prayers, and spells for the Shaper of Dreams.

M Y T H O S

The Oneiroi are dark-winged daimones of the underworld and are the personification of dreams. They are able to take the form of animals at will and are said to leave Erobos each night like a flock of bats. The Oneiroi leave Erobos from one of two gates, either the gates of horn which emit prophetic, god-sent dreams, or the gates of ivory, which emit false dreams without meaning.

Parentage and siblings depend on which of the Greek or Roman epics, essays, or plays one refers to. In Hesiod’s Theogony, the Oneiroi are the children of Nyx by parthenogenesis while in Cicero’s De natura deorum, they are the children of Nyx and Erebos. In Hesiod’s Theogony, they are the siblings of Hypnos while in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, they are the children of Hypnos and Pasithea.

In the Metamorphoses Ovid gives the names of three of the Oneiroi including that of Phantasos, who takes the form of inanimate objects in prophetic dreams, Phobetor, the god of nightmares, who can take the form of beasts and monsters, and Morpheus, the god of dreams, who can take the form of men and is seen to be tasked as a messenger to the gods.

Ovid, Metamorphoses 11. 585 ff (trans. Melville) (Roman epic C1st B.C. to C1st A.D.) :  "[Hera commands the messenger Iris summon Dream :] ‘Iris (Rainbow), my voice’s trustiest messenger, hie quickly to the drowsy hall of Somnus (Sleep) [Hypnos], and bid him send a Dream of Ceyx drowned to break the tidings to [his wife] Alcyone.’  Then Iris, in her thousand hues enrobed traced through the sky her arching bow and reached the cloud-hid palace of the drowsy king [the God of Sleep] … Around him everywhere in various guise lie empty Somnia (Dreams) [Oneiroi], countless as ears of corn at harvest time or sands cast on the shore or leaves that fall upon the forest floor.  There Iris entered, brushing the Somnia (Dreams) aside, and the bright sudden radiance of her robe lit up the hallowed place; slowly the god his heavy eyelids raised, and sinking back time after time, his languid drooping head nodding upon his chest, at last he shook himself out of himself, and leaning up he recognized her and asked why she came, and she replied : ‘Somnus (Sleep) [Hypnos], quietest of the gods, Somnus, peace of all the world, balm of the soul, who drives care away, who gives ease to weary limbs after the hard day’s toil and strength renewed to meet the morrow’s tasks, bid now thy Dreams, whose perfect mimicry matches the truth, in Ceyx’s likeness formed appear in Trachis to Alcyone and feign the shipwreck and her dear love drowned. So Juno [Hera] orders.’  Then, her task performed, Iris departed, for she could no more endure the power of Somnus, as drowsiness stole seeping through her frame, and fled away back o'er the arching rainbow as she came. The father Somnus (Sleep)  chose from among his sons, his thronging thousand sons, one who in skill excelled to imitate the human form; Morpheus his name, than whom none can present more cunningly the features, gait and speech of men, their wonted clothes and turn of phrase. He mirrors only men; another forms the beasts and birds and the long sliding snakes. The gods have named him Icelos; here below the tribe of mortals call him Phobetor. A third, excelling in an art diverse, is Phantasos; he wears the cheating shapes of earth, rocks, water, trees–inanimate things. To kings and chieftains these at night display their phantom features; other dreams will roam among the people, haunting common folk.  All these dream-brothers the old god passed by and chose Morpheus alone to undertake Thaumantias’ [Iris’] commands; then in sweet drowsiness on his high couch he sank his head to sleep.  Soon through the dewy dark on noiseless wings flew Morpheus and with brief delay arrived at Trachis town and, laying his wings aside, took Ceyx’s [ghostly] form and face and, deathly pale and naked, stood beside the poor wife’s bed. His beard was wet and from his sodden hair the sea-drips flowed; then leaning over her, weeping, he said : ‘Poor, poor Alcyone! Do you know me, your Ceyx? Am I changed in death? Look! Now you see, you recognize–ah! Not your husband but your husband’s ghost. Your prayers availed me nothing. I am dead. Feed not your heart with hope, hope false and vain. A wild sou'wester in the Aegaeum sea, striking my ship, in its huge hurricane destroyed her. Over my lips, calling your name–calling in vain–the waters washed. These tidings no dubious courier brings, no vague report: myself, here, shipwrecked, my own fate reveal. Come, rise and weep! Put on your mourning! Weep! Nor unlamented suffer me to join the shadowy spirits of Tartara (the Underworld).’  So Morpheus spoke, spoke too in such a voice as she must think her husband’s (and his tears she took for true), and used her Ceyx’ gestures. Asleep, she moaned and wept and stretched her arms to hold him, but embraced the empty air. ‘Oh wait for me!’ she cried, ‘Why haste away? I will come too.’  Roused by her voice’s sound and by her husband’s ghost, now wide awake, she looked … but found him nowhere … She cried, ‘… He is dead, shipwrecked and drowned. I saw him, knew him, tried to hold him–as he vanished–in my arms. He was a ghost, but yet distinct and clear, truly my husband’s ghost, though to be sure his face was changed, his shining grace was gone. Naked and deathly pale, with dripping hair, I saw him–woe is me!’"  [N.B. Ovid uses the original Greek names for the three gods of dreams.] – Theoi.com

Sources (further reading): Oneiroi (Theoi.com), Morpheus (Theoi.com), Oneiroi (Wikipedia.com), Morpheus (Wikipedia.com), Phobetor (Wikipedia.com), Phantasos (Wikipedia.com)

U P G

UPG is an acronym for unverified personal gnosis and refers to interactions with entities that are not supported by the original mythos. Here I explain what I have found deities tend to expect and how I recommend starting a relationship with Morpheus.

There is a general consensus by revivalist or reconstruction polytheists that deities prefer to be honored in a modernized equivalent of how they were honored in their ancient culture – though this certainly isn’t the rule. Some deities are more specific and demanding than others while some really do not care. Morpheus has been found to be rather easy-going though he really prefers at least an attempt and, the more effort given to that attempt, the happier he is. The term used for the reconstruction/revival of the ancient Greek religion is called Hellenismos and more information can be found below.

Building a relationship with a deity is where one often starts to part with traditional lore and become influenced by others’ and one’s own UPG. So while you use the framework of Hellenismos for your worship, you use the UPG of others, and later your own, to form connections to build upon with the deity. Starting a relationship with a deity is a complicated business and often varies from person to person, but when I am asked how to start, people are often asking me about ways to approach Morpheus. I recommend starting with a small offering to Him. This post includes a list of associations for Morpheus, suggested offerings, and spells that can be used to offer and/or honor Him. I also recommend musing over what Morpheus means to you in your spiritual and personal development (Is he a messenger? Is he a teacher for astral travel, lucid dreaming, etc? Is he a symbol of hope for you to encourage you to reach for the stars and dream big? Is he a symbol of escapism? Is he just a god of dreams?).

Quick while still on the topic of UPG. When I first started working with Morpheus there was very little available to me. I ended up considering that as the god of dreams it would follow that daydreams would also fall to him. Daydreams are our fantasies and dreams. Those fantasies and dreams can spark some amazing art and writing or drive us to achieve the futures we dream up, so I often associate Morpheus with the arts and see Him as one of our biggest supporters in finding the strength and courage to achieve our dreams.

H E L L E N I S M O S

Hellenism 101 Pt 1 & Pt 2

Miasma, Katharmos and Preparing for the Gods

On pollution and purification

Purification in Hellenismos

Basic Hellenic Offering Ritual

On Khthonic Worship

Greek Phrases for Worship

A S S O C I A T I O N S

Epithets: Μορφευς, Morpheus, Shaper of Dreams, Sandman, Mildest of the Gods, Balm of the Soul (Ovid p. 165), Oneiros, Kai’Ckul, Lord L’Zoril, Shaper of Forms, Lord Shaper, Prince of Stories (The Sandman, Neil Gaiman), Dream Giver, Sleep’s Guest, Lord Shaper,  Father of Dreams, Lord of the Night, He Who Tells Mortals Stories, Formshaper, Shadowmaker Animal: Cats, Fireflies, Moths, Butterfly*, Racoons*, Wolves*, Crows Colors: Black, Blue, Gold, Purple, Silver, Red Crystal: Amethyst, Herkimer Diamond, Scolecite*, Hematite*, Lapis Lazuli* Celestial Body: Moon Day: Night Direction: West Element: Water Incense: Opium, Lavender Moon: New Number: 6*,7* Plant: Chamomile, Dandelion (in seed), Lavender, Poppy Season: Winter Sun In: Pisces Rules: dreams, daydreams, lucid dreaming, meditation, astral travel **, imagination, creativity, inspiration, wishes, encouragement, communication, divination Other: feathers, wings, skeleton keys, stars, night, horn, ivory, tea, baths, sweet coffee

NOTE: A lot of this could actually work as associations for Hypnos, the Onoirei, Ikelos/Phobetor, Phantasos, and some could work for Nyx. Additionally this was originally posted to my old blog now an archive.

* Notes items not listed in lore or shared with other followers of/workers with; feel free to reblog to add personal commentary ** Depending upon one’s understanding on the astral; some may have an understanding that wouldn’t work with associating the astral with dreaming.

D E V O T I O N S / O F F E R I N G S

track your dreams on a calendar

keep a dream journal

get enough sleep

turn off your electronics one hour before bed (gets you in a deeper sleep faster)

perform an evening ritual

learn/practice lucid dreaming and/or meditation

write a letter to Morpheus before you go to sleep

herbs/teas associated with calmness, sleep, or dreaming

crystals/gemstones/minerals associated with dreams

stardust / dream sand

sleep-inducing herbs/flowers/etc

prophetic herbs/flowers/etc

horn and/or ivory (as in the horn/ivory gates thing)

wing/feather related things

sleep-related things (pillows, etc)

prayers

spells

playlists

M I S C

Personal Experiences

Morpheus and Dream Catchers

F O L L O W E R / D E V O T E E S

bibliophilicwitch

dreamingthedoe

Hermaiondiaktoros

kaesdeliveryservice

keysandtorches

nebulouswitch

nihilistic-void

nowitssovivid

occolteyes

oneiropoloi

orriculum

samuel-brien

stormsandsage

E - S H R I N E S

dreamingofmorpheus

midnightandpoppies

the-dream-king

[victoriousscarf]

for the meme: Jason Todd and Slade Wilson

Jason: First impression

Okay I’m reaching back to 2008 for this but I’m pretty sure the first time I ran into Jason was Hush because I read Hush really early. I remember it being my introduction to a lot of characters (including Dick as Nightwing) which is both great because it covers like Batman’s entire rouge gallery and crew but is also awful because it covers everyone and that gets confusing fast hah.

So my introduction to him was Bruce’s overwhelming guilt and rage over his death. That’s a pretty strong impression. I also know I read Under the Red Hood fairly early and liked it enough to get the animated movie the instant it came out. But I don’t remember really LOVING Jason at that stage. Like I liked him but he wasn’t someone I was so into. I’m pretty sure the first time I ever wrote him was Find the Sun. I had Dick and Tim in the first story I ever wrote but I’m pretty sure Jason wasn’t in it.

Impression now

God I can not with this compassionate broken and angry child. He’s brash yet kind, too messed up by his own tenderness and driven to extremes by his anger. Someone hug this boy.Favorite moment

Damn I don’t know. I mean the end of Under the Red Hood when Bludhaven is nuked and he fights Bruce anyway creates this really interesting triangle between Bruce Jason and Dick and tho Dick isn’t there he’s still so much a presence of the screen, the favored son vs the one who messed up and died and Bruce’s panic while finally facing this ghost. I don’t know if I can say it’s my favorite but it fucks me up to this day. I also like him fucking with Black Mask that always gives me a kick. And I really love him first meeting Dick back as Robin (the post zero hour one, not Nightwing Year One).Idea for a storyI’m sure variations have been done but I’d love more about him dealing with the Lazarus pit and how that continues to effect him. Unpopular opinionI really don’t like new 52? Like I’m all for Jason having actual friends and there’s some good in Red Hood and the Outlaws but like that’s never where i go first. Like Roy and Kor almost always are Dicks friends first. I wish Jason had been allowed to keep growing in the pre 52 with maybe some more links to Donna and Kyle and building a life post all the things he had done instead of scrapping the slate back and making him WAY less angry or brutal. Like, I’m glad new 52 reframes his compassion but I really like his compassion held in tenuous balance with his rage. (I feel starved for truly angry characters okay that aren’t just assholes). Pre 52 had some major issues with him too but tbh I’m more in Under the Red Hood territory than Red Hood and the Outlaws. Favorite relationshipYou gonna make me say it??? Really? Okay fine I’m totally into him and Dick. And I don’t just mean I really like making them kiss: I am so fascinated by the possibilities of their relationship in canon: favored son vs second son, and how Jason’s idolization of Dick turns to rage contrasted with Dicks behavior toward Jason starting as Robin, changing to his guilt and missing Jason so much turning to complete disregard for Jason when he comes back which directly contradicts Dicks entire reaction the whole time Jason was dead. Dreaming about him, getting into fights with Bruce, and perhaps most importantly beating the Joker to death with a crowbar when he mocks him about not remembering Jason’s name. (Sure it got fixed almost instantly but like mocking Jason’s death drove Dick, guilt complex almost fell apart when he let someone else kill Blockbuster Dick, to actually /kill the Joker/ which makes him the only member of the batfam who actually avenged his murder at any point??? Does Jason even /know/?) Add on legacy issues (when Dick disappears for a year Jason takes up the Nightwing suit too) and like yeah I’m fucking here man. I mean I love Bruce and Jason and the pain between them, and Jason and Tim starting with rage and moving to actually being friends but like the miasma of whatever the fuck is between Dick and Jason keeps dragging me back. (Come home brother is the only page I want to keep from Battle for the Cowl)

Favorite headcanon

Jason is acting president of all Robin’s have a crush on Dick Grayson club. They’re still trying to figure out where Duke lands but Steph is a member, tho she got the least of it since her stint as Robin covered Dicks mental breakdown era.

Slade:First impression

Damn I don’t remember. I’m fairly certain I ran into him in the teen Titans before anywhere else and he’s always interested me but I can’t quite remember which issue I found him in first. I know I spent a lot of time tracking down Judas Contract since it was out of print at the time and I have like a really early printing tpb from the 80s as a result. And even more time finding the issue where he just strolls into Dicks apartment to tell him he’s in Bludhaven because that issue never was collected in trade, so I was checking every comic store I could find and their back issues.

Impression now

I’m really disappointed he’s become more of a generic villain in a lot of DCs media. Like I loved him under Wolfram, when he was a Merc with an honor code and snarky outlook who was as likely to tutor the Titans as attack them. He almost became an ally a few times. And like I haven’t dug into his post new 52 comics that much but he just seems so bland and like oh ho ho he’s such a badass and that’s all that matters!!! So like I’m still attached to the character I just haven’t paid much attention to his recent canon.

Favorite moment

Hmmm… I mean I really like the time he allies with the Titans and the old squad was just side eying him the whole time while the newcomers where sorta more like eh? Is he so bad? And then Dick rode a goddamn nuke because why not.

But honestly it’s probably him and Dick standing outside the abondoned Titans tower, fighting over their guilt over Joeys death. It’s showcases both of their emotional pain, Dicks temper, and Slade’s strange capacity for compassion.

Idea for a story

Can I have another 80 stories set in Flashpoint with him as a pirate???

Honestly I’d be really here for an actual nuanced story exploring his relationship with his kids. Too often it gets reduced to hate or them being too much like their father and that’s not what I want.

Or! Considering I have no idea what the fuck is happening with DC right now but I just read that Superman and Lois from pre and post new 52 just got combined and have memories from both universes combined Slade dealing with his kids and Dick and sure throw Ollie in here too. The fact he’s both not met Grayson and has spend years intimately knowing Dick and the workings of his mind would be a trip and could be fun, plus his more complicated relationship with Joey and Rose pre new 52. Also Ollie would have a shit of a time figuring out his two lives (as he’s a set of characters that changed by far the most with the new 52) and why not throw Slade at him again too for old times sake? (Hey asshole remember when I crashed your wedding? I’m not even–actually yeah yeah I do you ASSHOLE)

Unpopular opinion

I have no idea??? I honestly don’t know what’s popular and what isn’t with him. So far no one’s bitched at me with anything to do with Slade.

Favorite relationship

While I’m totally here for the respectful turned to hateful rivalry between Slade and Dick (and honestly that’s another relationship that’s been stripped from Dick that drives me MAD) my favorite is actually Slade’s relationship with his kids. He’s distant, moves on a scale as simply a neglectful and not great dad to full on abusive and using his kids for his own ends (like for sure sticking kryptonite in Roses eye is a great idea!!!! But that was also at the height of Slade loosing his morals and mind). But as much as he wasn’t there for Grant, it was Grant’s foolish death and Slade’s pride that sent him on a collision course with the Titans. His guilt over Joey, first with his muteness and later for killing his own son, the fact that as terrible as he was to Rose he wants the person he respects possibly the most (Dick) to take care of his kids, especially her. The fact that when he looks at Rose the emotion the black lanterns see is love. The fact his entire plot in Flashpoint was his quest to save his daughter as the world goes pear shaped into apocalypse. Slade loves his kids he’s just a terrible fucking father and I love it.

Favorite headcanon

He still respects Dick despite everything they’ve done to each other.

[twopintsandaprayer]

i’m going to mainline some tylenol and forget that this whole afternoon existed

I see a therapist, like a real live person, at the beginning of may. I’m so utterly petrified that I’m going to say the wrong thing and undermine the help that I need. I wish, like I always do, like I have always, always wished that I knew the right thing to say and the right way to act. I need to be honest, and calm, and somehow condense my 20 plus years of medical history and my fucked-up family life into a succinct, half-hour session. I have to trust this person immediately, be open, be attentive. that’s ...a tall order. like I said, I’m petrified that I won’t say what I’m supposed to in order to make my case and I’ll be dropped from priority. I come across as....well, as not really that ill.  My psychiatrist called me defensive and combative. which I am. it’s not a pleasant trait but my god its firmly in there.  I’ve been living with depression since I was about 10 but it’s not...not very visible. It takes a very long time for that sadness to be apparent to someone else. It comes across as hostility and nihilistic humour, to be honest. I don’t like admitting it to myself, how deeply this combination of futility/self-loathing goes. It comes on like it’s never left. I think I failed my exam today. I’ve been contemplating dropping out of school completely because I don’t really see the point in continuing. the margin for error is so so small and I am unforgiving towards any mistakes when I could have tried so much harder. I don’t really know how to fight, you know? And it’s all so horrible, self-reinforcing. I know, point-blank, I have no reason to be like this. Yeah, emotional abuse from my father and my mother probably is autistic and is entirely too logical and judgmental for a fuck up like me as a daughter. also she was horribly horribly emotionally abused for like, a long ass time. - like I learned no coping skills or emotional regulation and I have like, negative self-worth and I have always been super super intense, childish, and the last to pick up on any emotional cues. that’s all pretty small stuff though, like everyone has a shitty childhood? my life has been pretty privileged, I cannot deny that at all. my psychiatrist keeps looking for trauma, reasons for me being like this. I don’t...really know how to explain to him that there’s no real reason, I’ve just always been this way. too loud, too close, too possessive, too needy, too young, too slow, too judgmental, too constantly seeking validation. Wholly, completely self-centered. Emotionally manipulative. I look into my memories and there is barely anything real, it’s all just a miasma of anxiety and talking over people. like, I don’t remember what things were like when I liked myself? I must have, at some point. I don’t remember when doing stuff didn’t fill me with fear, when the memories of good times weren’t tainted by my fuckups. And the constant, constant need to be liked, to have some kind of purpose, connection, something real. Some reason to keep getting up and putting myself through all this. The amount of friendships I have ruined or that have slipped through my fingers, or I have undervalued, or I have strained, just by being me. I never, ever, know it’s going to happen until it does. There’s an inevitability to it. I mean, my father was a lovely person, until you got to know him. He would give you the shirt off his back but he’d never, ever apologize for anything. We were all happier when he lived on a separate continent. IK mean, we talked all the time and we saw him a couple times a year. But the day to day living? That’s...that’s the kind of distance my presence requires. He knew he made us that unhappy. He was so terribly unhappy himself. He had plenty of reasons. I miss him a lot. We’re basically the same person. Unhappiness just kind of oozes out, infecting everyone around us. It’s hard to see at first. But it’s there. You feel it once you get to know me. 

How do I describe that to someone I don’t know? I can barely describe it to myself. I can barely type it without crying. How inevitable and ingrained this unhappiness is. And there’s no reason for it. It’s just...it’s like I’m missing something. Some piece of humanity that would make me real. That would make what I do sincere and normal. I know I have an issue with boundaries. I know I come across way way way way too much way too quickly.  It’s been a constant refrain since I was about 10: if only I didn’t need people, I would be all right. I don’t know what I’ve done until after the fact, until its too late. Needless, endless apologies should be my tagline. 

it’s just so horribly lonely. I’m so tired of being alone. I’m constantly trapped by and surrounded by my own self-hatred. It’s so cliche it makes me sick of myself. I don’t have any reason to be this hard on myself. I don’t have any reason to be this depressed. I can barely qualify as having depression. I just ...don’t see any point? Of living? Of trying?  I don’t remember what it was like not to feel this way. I don’t think I was ever normal. 

it’s this constant struggle of ‘I have a mental illness’ and ‘no i’m just lazy and entitled and I don’t want to do the work I just want perfect results’ and ‘I don’t have a legitimate reason to be this way’ and ‘I really cannot handle this for another second’. My whole family is the type to say they’re fine when they are literally crying their eyes out/in severe amounts of pain/ready to collapse/at their limits. everything’s fine, fine, fine, always fine. 

i do know that in the end, the only one who can save me is me. i just don’t really see any reason to. Like, I keep grasping at straws? I can’t kill myself though, I can’t do that to my mother or my brother. The thought of living for another 40 years (I mean, my diabetic complications will probably get me sooner than that) just feels me with dread and exhaustion though. The primary reason I don’t want to have kids (other than medical, cause I’m on too much medication that’s rough on a fetus) is because I don’t want to be resentful towards my kid for having to stay alive for them. Who can I say that to? How horrible does that make me sound? What a fucking load of shite, I’m so full of it. For some stupid reason, I thought things would just be better? I thought being on meds, and having a stable life, and being back at school after fucking it up so badly the first time, that I’d be better? 

It’s a wasteland, though. The space between not wanting to live and not being able to die. It takes such constant effort to keep all my shit in check. everythin just spilling out everywhere. 

But I’m just...like this. This is just the way that I am. I’m so sick of myself. I can’t fully put it into words how much I hate myself. All these opportunities and possibilities and a life that’s been free of trauma and responsibilities, and I’m just ...kind of a waste? A big ole burden on my family and friends? It’s...the weight of that makes it hard to breathe. It makes it really hard to try to do anything and it’s so fucking stupid. Just this big old cycle of never ending uselessness. I don’t really believe I can do anything. Everything, friendships, communication, school work, organizing shit, engaging with things, meeting up with friends, keeping my life together. All of it is ...more than I’m really able to handle. Everything’s a bit too much? Like i was supposed to tell my bank that I’m a student by november. I got the letter and everything. 

I just never went with it to the bank. 

Still haven’t. 

Thats such a microcosm for my life. All the materials, all the ability, all the chances, all the ducks lined up in a row and then...nothing. Just a disappointment and a missed chance. 

I can’t believe I’m 32. Nothing but my own self-hatred to keep me company from here on it.  Well. And my cats. I am though, a bad cat owner. keeping these hellbeasts inside is more than I am capable of. Haha, that’s pretty low on the priority list though. 

This is the work that I need to do. I don’t have a clue how to approach it. That’s what I need help with. Finding something to hold on too. It’s getting harder and harder as I get older. It shouldn’t, because my life is actually so much better now that it was. The bad stuff just gets harder and harder to walk back from. I think it’s the loneliness? I wish I wasn’t so horribly horribly lonely. My choices are always, do it alone or don’t do anything at all. Reach out and be rejected. Reach out and panic when someone reaches back. Reach out and alienate the person forever. Reach out and be told it was not my place. Fail, again and again to differentiate. Fail, again and again to learn. 

anyway. Tylenol. sleep. one more week of exams. 

my marks are going to be so horrible this year.