#by historical I mean anything in the past to clarify

[diapause]

if you see a post that contains some historical writing or art by or related to trans women and your first instinct is to comment or share it and make it about gerard way, maybe consider not doing that

[edenesth]

TWTHH Spinoff: Little Touch of Heaven [2]

Pairing: physician!Yunho x herbalist!reader

AU: historical au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 8.1k

Summary: Dedicating his life to his work, Yunho had never bothered to entertain the idea of settling down. Despite encountering many charming women throughout his career, none had sparked his desire for companionship. But everything shifted when he met a certain herbalist whose medicinal knowledge seemed to surpass even his own. What began as mere intrigue might have gradually developed into affection.

Part 1 | Main Story | Spinoff Masterlist

"Yep, you definitely have a crush on her," Jongho's voice startled the physician as he appeared soundlessly by the entrance of the House of Lotus just as Yunho finished recounting what happened to the general. His wife listened patiently beside him, her smile knowing.

"What—hey! Have you been eavesdropping this entire time? That's rude. This is a private and confidential conversation between the couple and myself," the doctor stammered, feeling embarrassed beyond belief. He couldn't believe he had been foolish enough to think this could actually stay between him and Lady Park. At this point, the whole estate was going to find out.

"You seem oddly defensive, Physician Jung. That just further proves you are flustered and that you do indeed like Miss Ryu. Besides, I don't see anything private and confidential about that story. Sounds more like your desperate attempt to save face," the assistant retorted in his usual clever tone as he entered the room, having received a nod of approval from his master.

Yunho let out a defeated sigh, realising that while he might stand a chance at winning an argument with Hongjoong, the same couldn't be said for Jongho. The assistant could be merciless and would stop at nothing to have the last word. Glaring at the younger man, he muttered, "Yes, yes. Just you wait until your turn comes. I'd like to see how cool you are when you meet the girl of your dreams."

"Don't worry, that'll never happen," Jongho answered, his tone smug.

With a shake of his head, Seonghwa straightened up, "He's right, Yunho. Even the blind can tell you have a crush. But what is it, Jongho? Did something come up?"

The assistant nodded, "Yes, Royal Secretary Choi is here with the latest reports and minutes of the past week's assemblies. He's waiting for you in the study, unless you'd like me to bring him here too."

Choking on his tea, the doctor stared up at him, bewildered, "And why the hell would you do that? It's enough that you two already know about this, now you want the royal secretary to hear about it too?"

At that, the general and his wife burst into giggles. Finally satisfied and deciding not to tease the poor guy any further, Seonghwa pushed himself off his seat, "Have a little mercy on him, gosh," he said, turning to his wife and pressing a kiss onto her head, "You ladies continue. I'll see you later, my love."

"This is how you repay me for treating your wife," Yunho grumbled.

Pausing at the entrance of the room, the general softened and turned around, "You know, it's nice to see this side of you. This Miss Ryu must be pretty amazing to make you like this, I approve of her already. Make sure you invite us to the wedding," he said before leaving with Jongho.

"W-wedding? I don't even think she likes me at all. If anything, she probably hates me after what happened," the physician sighed.

Lady Park smiled reassuringly, a hand stroking her baby bump as she spoke, "I disagree. She did agree to teach you about herbs, tried to save you from your fall, and was even kind enough to bring you a change of clothes when she could have left you be."

"So, you think she likes me back?" His eyes brightened with hope.

She considered her words carefully before responding, "Hmm, not necessarily."

His disappointment was palpable as he slumped slightly, "My lady, please don't confuse me further."

With a gentle chuckle, the mistress clarified, "What I mean is that she probably does not hate you at all. Sure, you were a little clumsy around her, but that's not nearly enough to make her hate you. There's a chance she might grow to like you back. Don't be too dejected, Yunho; there's still hope."

God, I sure hope so.

Meanwhile, your parents hadn't stopped talking about the physician since that day. Your father eagerly handed over one of his many spare outfits kept at the store for emergencies, finally putting it to good use after Yunho's fall left his clothes soaked. You recalled trying your hardest to keep a straight face as the tall man emerged in your father's hanbok, which was slightly too short for him, ending above his ankles and making him look rather ridiculous.

"Right, well, I still have much left to do today. I don't think I'll be able to finish in time if I have to teach you. Perhaps you should come back another day, Physician Jung."

That wasn't a lie.

It wasn't that you were angry with him or anything; you could tell he was remorseful with his endless apologies. You could imagine the embarrassment he was feeling, and you didn't really blame him, but you genuinely wanted to finish up with your Sophora root harvesting, which you had obviously failed to even begin thanks to him. So you would really appreciate it if he could come back some other time for his session.

"Of course, Miss Ryu. Again, I'm so sorry—"

You lifted a hand to stop him with a shake of your head, "It's fine. Now if you'll excuse me, I really have no time to talk."

It had been a few days since then.

According to your father, Yunho had left somewhat dejectedly after purchasing a good amount of those Chinese herbs you'd recommended for Lady Park. You supposed that meant they were effective, and you were just glad you had been able to help.

"Sunshine, you must have been too blunt. You'll scare him away like that, and you shouldn't because he's such a good guy. For all we know, this could be the start of something great," your mother said as she handed you a bowl of congee for breakfast.

You rolled your eyes in response, "Oh my god, mother. You've been saying that for the past few days. I heard you the first time."

Just as you were about to start eating, she smacked you on the arm, scolding, "Then why won't you reflect on yourself and change? You really want to give me high blood pressure, don't you?"

"Ow!" you rubbed your arm, pouting at her, "What do you want me to do? It's not my fault he hasn't shown up yet. Besides, if that was all it took to scare him away, then maybe he's not the one," you said before making a face when you realised what you'd just said, "More importantly, nothing is going on between us. He's only coming to learn more about herbs and improve as a medical practitioner. Seems to me like you and father are making a fuss out of nothing."

Your father sighed as he took a seat across from you, "Listen, sunshine. I can tell he likes you. It was evident in his behaviour that day. He's usually so composed, but he seemed genuinely flustered."

After hastily finishing the congee, you chuckled and set your bowl down, "Come on, father. You've only ever been in one relationship. Since when are you an expert in this department?" you teased before growing serious and wiping your mouth clean.

"And for the last time, my dearest father and mother, the two people I love most in the world, can you please respect my wishes? I won't be able to continue seeing Physician Jung if you keep making things weird like this. I've made my stance on marriage very clear. I'm not interested, and I still am not. I've finally found a friend who shares my passion for herbs, and I want to keep things that way. Please don't make me regret it."

As you spoke those honest words, a stunned silence filled the room. Your parents exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from surprise to realisation. They had always admired your patience, your selflessness, and your unwavering dedication to your family. But in their pursuit of what they thought was best for you, they had overlooked your desires and feelings.

Your father's eyes softened, and he reached out to gently squeeze your hand, "Sunshine, we never meant to make you feel uncomfortable or pressured. We only wanted what we thought was best for you, but we see now that we may have been misguided."

Your mother nodded, her voice trembling with emotion, "You've always been so selfless. We should have listened to your wishes instead of imposing our own desires onto you. We're truly sorry."

Seeing the genuine remorse in their eyes, your heart softened. While you understood their actions were driven by good intentions, they may not have realised that their approach inadvertently caused you more distress than anything. You were just relieved they were willing to listen to you and acknowledge their mistake.

"It's okay, father, mother," you said softly, giving their hands a reassuring squeeze, "I know you only want what's best for me. Let's learn from this and move forward together."

"Here goes nothing," Yunho muttered under his breath as the apothecary came into view. This would be his first appearance since the embarrassing last impression he had left, and he was determined to salvage it. Holding his breath, he stepped into the store, expecting to see Mr. Ryu alone at his counter as usual. However, he was surprised to find you dressed more formally than usual, appearing to be preparing to go somewhere.

Upon hearing his entrance, you turned to face him with a raised brow, "Oh, you're here. I'm sorry, but I won't be able to teach you today. Our foreign medicine supplier has arrived, and I have to go to the ship dock to collect our latest batch of orders."

The physician felt like he could finally breathe again, relieved by your casual reaction to his presence. Perhaps Lady Park was right; you weren't angry with him nor did you hate him. Smiling, he reassured you, "Oh, it's alright. I understand. I can come back another day. Are you going with Mr. Ryu then? Will the shop be closing?"

You shook your head, "Oh no, not at all. It's just me. My father remains here, and business will go on as usual. He's at the back of the store; he'll be here soon if you wish to speak with him."

She's going alone? To the dock?

"I... uh, I'm just wondering, is it really safe for you to go alone? Places like that are often crowded with men. And how will you manage to carry all those supplies by yourself?" he asked, his worry evident.

With a smirk, you replied, "Are you underestimating me, Physician Jung? Do you truly believe it's my first time handling this? I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, I'll manage just fine."

Right on cue, your father emerged from the back of the store, "Ah, you've come, Physician Jung! Are you here for another session with my daughter? She may have already mentioned her plans for today, but perhaps you could accompany her."

Before Yunho could respond, you firmly shook your head, "There's no need for that, father. I'm certain he's a very busy man and probably has better things to do than accompany me to the dock."

The physician quickly interjected, "No, I don't. That's why I'm here today. I don't mind going with you. It could be a valuable experience, and I might learn something from it too," he reasoned.

You sighed, not oblivious to the knowing grin your father was sending the taller man. With a roll of your eyes, you motioned for him to follow, "Suit yourself. Come along then, there's no time to waste."

As the two of you set out towards the ship dock in town, his tall frame loomed beside you, serving the fantastic purpose of shielding you from the glaring sun. Breaking the silence, you ventured, "So, I'm assuming the Codonopsis roots and Colla Corii Asini were effective in helping Lady Park feel better? Since you got more on your last visit."

He beamed, nodding in agreement, "Oh, yes! They really were. I was planning to tell you about it on my last visit, but, well, you know..." He trailed off, trying to move past the incident before continuing, "But yes, they did wonders. Her morning sickness and fatigue improved immensely soon after taking only the first batch. If we continue to administer this, she should be able to get through the first three months with ease. And I... I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you so much, Miss Ryu."

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread in your heart at the knowledge that your expertise had been put to good use, that you had been of help. Moments like these made you feel as though all the hard work you had put into studying had paid off; the sense of accomplishment was truly remarkable. With a nonchalant shrug, you responded earnestly, "Just doing my job."

Becoming increasingly intrigued by the conversation about medicine, he eagerly delved further, "I've been pondering it, and I'm still astounded by your depth of knowledge, even in foreign herbs. Frankly, I believe you surpass some senior experts in the field. It may be impertinent of me to ask, but... what's your secret?"

With a soft laugh, you shook your head, "Sometimes, there are aspects that textbooks and conventional lessons fail to impart. That's why hands-on experience is crucial. There's no secret to my knowledge; I simply allow my curiosity to guide me and take the initiative to delve deeper beyond the fundamentals. You'll see firsthand in just a moment. Perhaps it's good you came."

Just when he thought his admiration for you had reached its peak, you consistently proved him wrong. Beyond your shared passion for medicinal knowledge, there was an intangible quality that distinguished you from other women he had met. You exuded confidence in yourself, not in a brash manner, nor did you conform to the typical feminine archetype attempting to win his favour. Instead, you were authentically yourself. Every action you took reflected your unique personality, which he found irresistibly appealing.

Where have you been all this while?

He couldn't fathom that you had been so close yet remained unknown to him for all these years. As a devoted patron of your father's apothecary, he had frequented the establishment without ever realising that you were nearby, just behind the store's walls. He couldn't be more grateful to fate for allowing him to finally cross paths with you.

"Woah, watch your step!" Your warning snapped him out of his thoughts as you pulled him close, narrowly avoiding a hole in the uneven road. You slapped him on the arm and said, "Please pay attention to where you're going. The roads here won't be as well-paved as the ones in the city, since we're now on the outskirts. Come on and stay close; we're almost there."

With a chuckle, he rubbed his arm and playfully saluted, "Yes, ma'am." He couldn't believe you had slapped him so casually; no one had ever done that. His heart fluttered at the interaction, realising that's what he liked so much about you. Since day one, you have been unpretentious. Around you, he felt comfortable enough to be himself again. There was no need to uphold the image of the perfect physician everyone knew him to be. He could be silly, clumsy, a mess, and you'd never make him feel bad about it.

As you arrived at the ship dock, Yunho's sense of wonder was palpable. The place bustled with activity, just as he had anticipated, mostly with men who appeared to be merchants conducting exchanges or, like yourself, collecting orders directly from suppliers. He made sure to stay close to you, feeling reassured when you took hold of his wrist to guide him through the crowd towards your destination.

"First time here?" you smirked, noting his slightly overwhelmed expression, to which he nodded hesitantly, "Y-yes."

You snickered, "Figures. Just stick with me, and you'll be fine."

He nervously bit his lip, "Yeah, I'm not going anywhere without you. Don't worry."

"See that ship right at the end?" you asked, pointing towards one of the largest vessels in the area as you both approached it. He nodded in acknowledgement.

"That's our supplier, kind of a family business," you explained, "The Guo family from China has been in this trade for years. They're known to grow their own herbs and supply them all over the region."

You smirked as the familiar face of Madam Guo came into view, "And there's the lady boss who handles customers while the boss checks the stocks. Don't worry, she's actually the owner's wife, so you won't embarrass yourself like you did before again," you teased, playfully reminding him of his previous mistake, which flustered him.

"Oh my god, it was one mistake—"

A new voice chimed in as you both reached the ship, "Ah, my dearest Miss Ryu!" The woman exclaimed with a thick Chinese accent as she stepped forward to embrace you. You chuckled, returning the hug, "It's lovely to see you again, Madam Guo."

"And who might this handsome young man be? Finally got yourself a chaperone, I see," Madam Guo asked, her playful tone evident as she wiggled her brows.

You scoffed in disbelief, "Him, a chaperone? More like the other way around. But anyway, he's a friend, or perhaps an apprentice, whichever works. He's a physician here to learn more about herbs."

Did she just call me her friend...?

"Y-yes, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madam Guo. My name is Jung Yunho, and I'm a physician just as Miss Ryu said," he greeted, bowing respectfully, doing everything to remain composed and hide the fact that he was dying on the inside.

The middle-aged woman grinned knowingly, "Nice to meet you too, Physician Jung. But is that really all you are? What a shame, you two would make a cute couple."

While he sputtered like a fool, you snorted and gestured for her to focus, "Please, let's get down to business."

"Of course, sweetie. Follow me," she said, throwing a teasing wink at Yunho before wrapping an arm around you and leading you towards the bags of supplies lined up in front of the ship, "So, how are your parents doing, Miss Ryu?" As you engaged with the woman, the doctor couldn't shake her words from his mind. 'A cute couple' — he liked that idea more than he cared to admit. If only it could come true, he wouldn't mind being mistaken for a couple with you.

The bond between you and Yunho strengthened significantly after your eventful joint excursion to the ship dock. He proved to be quite helpful, offering to carry the supplies you had collected.

However, it was an incident during your return to the apothecary that truly changed your perception of him. As you passed by an injured man involved in a carriage accident, his demeanour shifted instantly. With remarkable professionalism, he attended to the wounded man, showcasing his expertise and skill. It was a side of him you hadn't seen before, and in that moment, you couldn't help but feel a newfound admiration for him.

For the first time, he embodied the charismatic and excellent Physician Jung who was widely praised by the townspeople. You finally understood why he had earned such acclaim for his expertise.

While you had grown confident enough to consider him a good friend, the doctor, on the other hand, was grappling with his feelings for you. After each session, he would return to the general's estate seeking advice from the mistress on the best approach to pursue you without being too forward. Despite his desire to openly court you, he wanted to ensure that your feelings were mutual before making any moves, fearing he might scare you away.

Following Lady Park's suggestion, he opted for a more gradual approach, using the opportunity to learn about herbs as a means to get to know you better, and vice versa. By taking things slowly, he hoped to foster mutual feelings between you.

As he prepared to enjoy his lunch break at his clinic, he couldn't help but smile at the thought of spending the evening with you. Tonight's session held particular significance as you would be teaching him how to harvest specific nighttime herbs for optimal quality. It promised to be a new and exciting experience, and he was just happy about the opportunity to share it with you.

"What's got you smiling like a creep?"

Just like that, the sound of an annoyingly familiar voice sliced through the doctor's pleasant mood like a knife, abruptly snapping him out of his reverie. His smile vanished as soon as he locked eyes with the dressmaker. With an exasperated sigh and a roll of his eyes, he responded, "What do you want, Kim Hongjoong?"

Yunho held his breath momentarily, his mind racing with anxious thoughts. What if Seonghwa had betrayed him and told his friend everything about Miss Ryu? What if Hongjoong was here to tease him after finding out? Oh god, his life would be over—

But to his surprise, the older man's expression was one of genuine distress as he took a seat across from the physician, "Look, ugh... I never thought I'd say this, but I need your help. Can you lend me an ear? I'm... well, I'm in a bit of a situation."

What started as a brief lunchtime conversation stretched into half a day, with the dressmaker pouring out his heart about his latest client, the enigmatic Miss Baek, whom he clearly harboured feelings for. By the end of their exchange, though a bit flustered that Hongjoong had caught wind of his recent visits to Ryu's Apothecary and your presence there, he was simply relieved to have managed to extricate himself from the conversation in time to close up shop. But one thing was certain; any fleeting relief Yunho felt at the general's discretion evaporated instantly.

Of course, Seonghwa told him everything.

Relieved to see the dressmaker finally departing from his clinic, the physician wasted no time in packing up his belongings and closing the shop. If only Hongjoong hadn't taken up so much of his time with his endless chatter, Yunho would have already been on his way to the apothecary. He cursed the talkative man for being so long-winded; he had worked hard to gain your trust, and he didn't want to jeopardise it again due to tardiness.

"Ugh, I hope that Miss Baek continues to give him a hard time. If I end up late because of him, he's going to pay," the doctor grumbled to himself as he hurried out of his clinic and towards your store. While part of him knew you wouldn't mind him being slightly late, he didn't want you to be okay with it. He wanted to be a man of his word, to be someone you could trust.

Arriving promptly, Yunho found Mr. Ryu in the midst of closing up. The elderly man's face lit up at the sight of the taller man, "Ah, Physician Jung, right on time! She's in the back, as usual, waiting for you. Now, it'll be late by the time you two finish up. I'm trusting you to escort her home after your session, is that alright?"

Yunho straightened up and bowed respectfully, "Of course, Mr. Ryu! Don't worry, I'll ensure she gets home safely."

"Very well then, I'm leaving her in your hands," the apothecary said with a teasing wink, "You've got this."

Feeling a flush of warmth in his cheeks, Yunho waved your father goodbye, understanding the elderly man's implication. It wasn't a secret that your parents wished for you to settle down, and they had made it clear on more than one occasion that the doctor had their approval. The only remaining factor was you and your feelings.

"Oh hey, there you are," you greeted warmly from your usual spot amidst the plantation, a natural smile gracing your features as you met his gaze. It was a smile that stirred something in his heart, though he kept that to himself, "Before you come over, could you please grab me a pair of harvesting scissors and the herb stripper?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied with a salute, already accustomed to your directives. By now, he was familiar with most of the tools on your rack. Over the past few sessions, he had made an effort to acquaint himself with the intricacies of your work, determined to be helpful even as he continued to learn. Besides, he wanted you to know that you could rely on him, and that he could shoulder some of your burdens. He wanted you to see him the way he saw you.

"Thank you," you murmured, taking the tools from him and feeling him settle beside you. Your hands immediately got to work, launching into an automatic lecture tone as your focus zeroed in on the four moon garden herbs you would be harvesting tonight: the White Coneflower, the Lavender, the Culinary Sage, and the Silver Queen.

"Beautiful," he whispered, his gaze fixed on your side profile illuminated by the moonlight and the surrounding lamps instead of the herbs. It was the first time he had seen you in this soft, dim light, and you looked truly ethereal, the atmosphere lending an intimate and romantic feel to the moment.

Oblivious to his stare, you smiled in response, "They are exquisite, aren't they? Sometimes it pains me to have to harvest them. But they serve a greater purpose than just sitting here and looking pretty."

"Well, I believe that's what adds to their beauty, wouldn't you agree? The fact that they serve a purpose beyond mere aesthetics," he remarked, subtly hinting at his admiration for your depth and substance. To him, you were more than just a pretty face, and he found that incredibly appealing.

Noticing a stray strand of hair framing your face, he instinctively reached out to tuck it behind your ear. You tensed at his touch, turning to meet his gaze, and in that moment, he realised what he had just done. Clearing his throat nervously, he stammered, "I-I was just trying to help. It looked like it was bothering you."

You nodded, trying to mask the fluttering sensation in your chest at his gesture. He was probably just being polite, you reasoned with yourself, but you couldn't deny the allure of his presence in the soft glow of the moonlight. Quickly refocusing on your task, you blinked and responded, "Oh, umm... thank you. I appreciate it."

The tension in the air was palpable as you finished the remainder of tonight's session, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken words and newfound awareness. It was as if a shift had occurred, leaving you both acutely conscious of each other's presence in a way that hadn't been there before.

As you locked up the apothecary for the night, the physician turned to you with a casual invitation, "Would you like to grab something to eat before heading home?" You paused, considering the offer. Your parents were likely done with dinner by now, so joining him wouldn't be a bad idea. With a nod, you replied, "Sure, let's go."

Despite his calm demeanour, a sense of anticipation fluttered in his chest as you walked side by side, his mind buzzing with excitement, "Come on, I know a stall that sells amazing black bean noodles," he suggested, leading the way with a smile.

Moments later, you were both seated at the stall, eagerly devouring the delicious noodles. With wide eyes, you exclaimed, "Oh my gosh, you weren't lying. This really is amazing." He chuckled at your enthusiasm before reaching over to wipe a stray noodle from the corner of your lips with his thumb, "You eat like a child, you know that?" he teased gently.

Your heart skipped a beat at his touch, and you couldn't help but feel a warmth spreading through you at his words. Despite your unladylike eating habits, he didn't seem to mind. At that moment, you found yourself imagining what it would be like to be with someone like him, and surprisingly, it didn't seem so bad at all. In fact, it felt quite nice to imagine being by his side — Jung Yunho.

Just when the physician felt confident about the progress between the two of you, just as he was considering broaching the topic of a potential courtship, an unexpected turn of events threw everything off course. An argument erupted during one of your recent sessions, escalating into a silent standoff that led to his prolonged absence.

It all began innocently enough, during one of your routine sessions. Feeling more at ease around you, he summoned the courage to ask, "I was wondering... do you know of any herbs that could heal or remove scars permanently?" Your response was a curious look, prompting him to elaborate, "I've been searching for solutions to fully eliminate Lady Park's scars for a while now, but to no avail. I've sought advice from others, but no one seems to have a solution. Given your extensive knowledge, I thought you might be aware of any foreign herbs that could help."

After pondering for a moment, you nodded slowly, "Actually, yes. There's a herb called the Gotu Kola. It's renowned for treating various conditions, particularly wounds and skin issues. There have been rare cases of it being used to heal scars." His hope surged until you added, "But... it's native to India and Indonesia, and there haven't been any imports of this herb so far."

"Oh... I see," he sighed dejectedly, his shoulders slumping.

Disheartened by his disappointment when he left your father's apothecary, you became determined to find a solution. After diligent inquiries among experts, you finally unearthed a crucial piece of information: the herb was indeed present in Joseon, though in limited quantities and not widely known.

"Really? The herb is here in Joseon? Where?" Yunho's spirits lifted upon hearing your update. However, all hope plummeted when you disclosed its location, "Apparently, an Indian traveller planted some on specific parts of the Naksan mountain some years ago. It thrives in the well-drained soil, moist position, and full sun exposure."

"The Naksan mountain...? Then it's practically inaccessible," he murmured, his earlier enthusiasm extinguished once more. You furrowed your brow, "What do you mean? Of course, it's possible. We could embark on a journey to find it ourselves. Where there's a will, there's a way."

He massaged his temples, "Do you have any idea how perilous trekking a mountain can be? We're not seasoned adventurers. We might not even survive the trek to the plant, let alone make it back in one piece. If it were so simple, don't you think someone would have already ventured there to harvest it and capitalise on it? There must be a reason it's not readily available here, don't you think?"

"Forget it, just... forget I asked," he implored.

But you persisted, adamant in your determination. You went out of your way to conduct thorough research, pinpoint the exact location of the herb and gather information on all the necessary essentials for the journey. Excitedly, you broached the topic once more, only to be met with a less-than-favourable response. Yunho sighed, squeezing his eyes shut, "Please, Miss Ryu, let's just drop it."

Frustrated by his reluctance, you erupted, "If you're a coward, just admit it. You sought a solution, and I've offered one. How can you give up so easily without even trying?"

"A coward...? Is fear the only thing you hear from me after everything I've said?" he retorted incredulously.

"Well, is it not?!" you challenged.

He scoffed, "Please, don't be stupid. You're not thinking clearly, and I don't see the point in arguing further. I've made my decision. We're not doing this, and that's final. It's just not feasible."

And since then, there had been no sight or sound of him. According to your father, he would drop by only for medication, never staying to see you. It had been a week since then, and if he thought his silent treatment would deter you, he was sorely mistaken. It only fueled your determination.

I'll prove you wrong, Jung Yunho.

Using the week to make all necessary preparations, you informed your parents that you would be venturing out to gather herbs. It was technically true, though you omitted certain details to avoid a lecture. You understood that they would worry, believing it to be dangerous, especially if you were going alone. However, you had always been independent, confident in your ability to handle things on your own.

You couldn't wait to see the look on the doctor's face as you presented him with the herb, the look on his face as you called him a coward, and even more so, the look on his face when he realised just how wrong he had been and how right you were.

As you began your journey, optimism fueled your steps. Everything unfolded smoothly, just as you had envisioned. With a trusty map in hand, you followed the right path, guided by determination. Kind passersby, fellow travellers or herb pickers like yourself, helped point you in the right direction when needed. All seemed well until the distant rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning pierced the air, causing your stomach to sink. But refusing to let it deter you, you pressed on toward your destination.

Goddamnit, not now please!

In your haste, you brushed against branches, tearing your hanbok fabric and leaving tiny cuts on your skin. At times like this, you couldn't help but think about the physician. Perhaps you missed having that gentle giant by your side. Pushing aside such thoughts, you focused on the task at hand. Despite the drizzle, you persevered and were determined to reach your goal.

Nearing the spot marked on the map, you muttered to yourself, "Come on, it should be around here somewhere." Scanning the surroundings for the distinct plant with fan-shaped green leaves and delicate flowers. But as the sky darkened and the rain intensified, it became increasingly difficult to see. Frustration bubbled up as you searched, muttering curses under your breath.

"Shit, shit, shit, where is it?"

In a moment of distraction, you failed to notice a sizable rock in your path, resulting in a twisted ankle and a painful fall. With a cry, you landed on the ground, scratching your palms as you shield your face. As you struggled to rise, the realisation of your predicament set in. Your ankle throbbed, swelling with each passing moment.

Oh god, how am I going to get out of here?

Desperate and defeated, you leaned against a rock, tears streaming down your face. Regret washed over you as you cursed your decision to go on this journey alone. Maybe Yunho had been right; perhaps you should have listened to him. Now, stranded and injured, you felt foolish and vulnerable. But as you looked around for something that could help you walk, a glimmer of hope emerged as you spotted a patch of what appeared to be Gotu Kola.

With trembling hands, you retrieved the rough sketch you had brought along, confirming your discovery with wide-eyed astonishment, "Oh my god, I finally found you," you whispered, a surge of determination rising within you once more.

Meanwhile, Yunho entered the apothecary with a heavy heart, closing his umbrella as he stepped into the shop to collect his usual batch of medicine for Lady Park. His concern deepened when he saw your father pacing anxiously, "Is everything alright, Mr. Ryu?" he inquired, furrowing his brows.

The elderly man looked up, relief flooding his features at the doctor's presence, "Oh, Physician Jung! Look, I'm not sure what's going on between you and my daughter, but please, you have to help find her!" he pleaded, his voice trembling with worry.

Yunho's heart squeezed uncomfortably at the urgency in the apothecary's voice, "Wh-what? What do you mean? Where did she go?" he asked, his own anxiety mounting.

Your father began to ramble, explaining that you had mentioned going out to pick herbs earlier in the day but hadn't specified a location, "She's been gone for more than half a day now, and it's raining heavily. I'm worried sick about her. What if something's happened?" he fretted.

The doctor's breath caught in his throat at the revelation. He could hazard a guess as to where you might have gone, but he needed confirmation, "I... I might have a clue where she went, but I need to check. Can I please see her work desk?" he requested urgently.

"Yes, of course. Anything to help you find her," Mr. Ryu agreed with a nod, desperation evident in his eyes.

Approaching your desk, Yunho wasted no time searching through your notes, where you meticulously recorded every discovery. His heart skipped a beat when he reached the final page, where a rough sketch of Naksan mountain with a red X marked a specific area, accompanied by the words 'Gotu Kola' scrawled above it.

Oh my god, I cannot believe this woman.

Shocked and alarmed, the physician knew he had to find you, and fast. The thought of anything happening to you filled him with dread. He couldn't bear the idea of something befalling you, especially since your actions were spurred by his own request. If only he hadn't broached the topic of finding a remedy for scars. If only he hadn't spoken to you so harshly. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was all his fault.

"I'll find her, Mr. Ryu. I promise, I'll make this right," he assured your father before setting out, clutching your notebook in his hands and carrying a bag of essentials the elderly man had helped pack. Braving the harsh wind and rain, he made his way toward you.

In the meantime, you huddled under the protective canopy of a tree, knees drawn close to your chest, feeling utterly helpless. Despite succeeding in gathering as much Gotu Kola as possible, you were still stranded atop the mountain. The rain showed no signs of relenting, and your sprained ankle made descent impossible. As you sat there, feeling the cold seep into your bones, you could only pray that someone would pass by and notice you in your predicament.

As time dragged on, your hopes of being discovered began to wane. Despite the rain lightening, the darkening evening sky brought a fresh wave of anxiety, your heart pounding in your chest. No one was going to find you now. Would you even survive the night on the mountain? You shivered uncontrollably in your wet clothes, your untreated ankle throbbing with pain, and wounds scattered across your body. It seemed unlikely you would make it.

Damn, I wish that idiot was here...

Oddly, amidst the despair, your thoughts turned to the physician. If only he were here with you, perhaps the situation wouldn't feel so distressful. With hooded eyes, you stared blankly ahead, silently wishing for him to miraculously appear before you.

You furrowed your brows as a figure approached, the sound of your name echoing through the rain-soaked air. The voice was unmistakable, and you snorted in disbelief. Could it really be Jung Yunho? But as he knelt before you, his hands gripping your shoulders, his concern felt all too real.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice urgent.

You blinked several times, reaching out tentatively to touch his cheek. To your astonishment, he was solid, undeniably present. Tears welled up in your eyes as you broke into sobs, throwing your arms around his neck and holding him close, "Oh my god, I can't believe you're actually here," you whispered through your tears, "I guess you aren't such a coward after all."

He sighed in relief, returning your embrace and stroking your head gently, "No, I am. I am a coward because I was so afraid, so scared of... of losing you," he confessed, his voice strained with emotion. As he pulled back slightly to look at you, his expression was filled with worry, "Please don't ever scare me like that again. I told you it was dangerous. Look at you," he scolded gently.

"I can't believe you ventured all this way alone. I thought you were smarter than this, but I guess even smart people can be idiots sometimes." The doctor in him immediately began assessing all of your injuries, retrieving a bandage from his bag. With careful hands, he secured your sprained ankle to support it and prevent further swelling and bruising. Once he finished, he pulled out an extra layer of cloth from the bag your father had packed and wrapped you snugly in it, ensuring you stayed warm for the time being.

You scoffed, defiance flashing in your eyes despite the fluttering of your heart at his earlier words and his caring actions, "Say what you want, but I have no regrets because I found it..." you said, holding up the bag full of the Gotu Kola herb, "The only regret I have is not knowing it would rain. Otherwise, I would have made it just fine."

He was momentarily speechless before a small laugh escaped him as he shook his head, "As much as I love how determined you are, it frustrates me sometimes."

"You do? Love how determined I am...?" you echoed shyly, feeling a blush creeping onto your cheeks, or maybe it was a fever.

He smiled warmly, gently cupping your cheek, "I do. But as much as I'd love to confess my feelings to you right now, we really need to get out of here. We'll have plenty of time to talk when we're safe. Now, come on, hop on my back." Turning around and gesturing toward his back, he offered you a way out of the predicament and perhaps, into a new beginning... with him.

Somewhere along the way, you lost consciousness on Yunho's back. Trying to maintain composure, he carefully navigated the descent from the mountain. Fortunately, upon reaching the bottom, kind townspeople offered a ride back to your home on their cart. He held you close throughout, hoping to provide warmth with his body heat, knowing the fever was taking its toll.

He found it hard to believe he had actually climbed a mountain to rescue someone. Normally, such feats were beyond his capabilities. But the mere thought of you in danger propelled him forward. If only you knew the power you had over him, driving him to extraordinary lengths.

Upon arrival, your parents swiftly attended to you, guiding the physician to your room where he diligently treated your wounds. Drifting in and out of consciousness, you found solace in the familiar surroundings of your room as your mother changed your wet clothes. Spotting Yunho beside you once more, tending to your injuries, you caught his gaze. He smiled and leaned down to kiss your forehead, whispering, "It's okay, you're safe now. Rest, sweetheart."

And you did, your heart finally at ease.

The following days passed in a blur as he visited you daily to check on your recovery. Today was no different, and upon his arrival, you recognised the familiar scent of the tonic he brought. It was the standard blend of herbs used to revitalise patients with colds. As he attempted to feed you, you protested, "I can do it myself."

Yunho clicked his tongue, moving the spoon out of your reach, "Just be good and let me take care of you," he urged gently.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you relented, allowing him to feed you. Swallowing the bitter medicine with a wince, you remarked, "You've already been taking good care of me for the past few days. Don't you have a clinic to run, Physician Jung?"

He chuckled, wiping the corner of your lips with his thumb, "Are you worried about me?"

Blushing, you looked away while he continued, "Don't worry, I have a substitute physician for whenever I'm not around. Besides, how can I focus on work there if I'm busy worrying about you?"

Turning back to him, you bit your lip nervously, "So, about that confession you were talking about..."

With a grin, the physician set down the bowl on the table beside your bed before reaching for your hand, "I've been waiting for you to ask for some time now. It's probably no surprise, but I... I have feelings for you."

As you squeezed his hand, he continued, "I'm not sure when it all started, but perhaps I might have liked you since our first meeting. Despite usually being composed, seeing you just threw me off. Truthfully, I've never given the idea of settling down a thought. All my life, I've been married to my work. Sure, I've met countless women who tried to appeal to me, but I've never been swayed."

Gently intertwining your fingers, he added, "Just when I thought I never would, you came along and changed everything. Initially, I thought it might have been your extensive medicinal knowledge that intrigued me, but now I realise it's much more than that. I've been waiting to be sure you liked me back before making my move, but then..."

Tears welled up in his eyes as he confessed, "God, you have no idea how much I regret putting you in danger. I should have spoken to you instead of avoiding you. When I found out you were gone, I felt like my life was over... I wouldn't have forgiven myself if anything were to happen to you," his voice cracked with emotion.

"I'm here now, you saved me," you reassured, gently cupping his face and turning it towards you, tears clouding your own vision.

He sighed, leaning into your touch, "You are, and I need you to know that I care deeply about you. I want to be the one to protect you, to be the one you can rely on, and to be there for you. Most of all, I want... to be loved by you. Will you let me be the one?"

"If not you, then who else?" you teased.

The atmosphere instantly lifted, and your smile illuminated his mood. "You'll be my only one, Yunho," you whispered, closing your eyes as he leaned in to capture your lips with his. Pulling back slightly, he murmured against your lips, "And you'll be mine."

Your father jumped with excitement outside your room, while your mother's joyous tears flowed as she eavesdropped. Finally, their hopes and dreams were becoming reality. They had worried you wouldn't give Yunho a chance after declaring your disinterest in marriage. They were relieved to see you letting him in. With a smack on your father's arm, your mother scolded him, "Alright, now that's settled, get back to work." Despite the playful reprimand, your father left happily, a smile adorning his face.

As weeks passed and your routine continued, with sessions held every few days, the significant change was evident – the physician was now more than just a friend. Stepping into the apothecary, he greeted, "I'm here, Mr. Ryu!" The elderly man grinned, waving back, "You might as well call me father already, Yunho-yah," he joked.

He blushed, bowing before hurrying to the back to tell you what your father had said, "Sweetheart, you won't believe what your father just said to me..." he began, trailing off as he realised you weren't there.

"Sweetheart...? Where are you—"

His words were interrupted by a mischievous "Boo!" from behind, startling him. In his surprise, he yelped and stumbled over his own feet, falling backwards. You reached out to help, but he grabbed your arm, causing both of you to tumble down together. As you landed on him, laughter erupted, reminiscent of the first time it happened.

"You cheeky thing," he murmured, leaning in for a kiss. When you pulled back sooner than expected, he let out a small whine, "Wait, what did my father say to you?"

"I'll tell you if you kiss me again, pretty please," he teased, a smirk spreading across your face, "Only because you asked so nicely," you replied with a chuckle.

Just as you leaned in to kiss him again, your father's voice interrupted from the entrance, "Hey sunshine, is the latest batch of ginseng ready yet— oh. Gosh, don't mind me, kids!"

As the elderly man hastily left, you buried your face in the doctor's chest, feeling embarrassed by the interruption. It seemed this was something you'd both have to get used to - the occasional interruption in your private moments. Yet, when you looked up and saw Yunho grinning, you realised he didn't mind. Like you, he was simply happy to be part of your little family.

You once thought it impossible to find someone like your father—someone patient enough to love you despite your unladylike habits, borderline stubborn nature, and no-nonsense attitude, someone who could accept you and all your flaws wholeheartedly—only to realise he had been here all along.

You were right, mother; he's the one.

You won't believe how many times I went over this. I'm not entirely happy with it even though I've managed to put in everything I had in mind. Maybe I'm overthinking it, but I sincerely hope this was decent!

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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[hypedupshawty]

Fan Theory/Speculation (contains spoilers)

So, through the act of watching OPLA (for about the 60th day in a row), I noticed something interesting.

Notice anything… interesting about Sanji’s right middle finger? He’s wearing a ring. This detail struck me as intriguing as his animanga counterpart is not seen wearing any sort of accessories such as rings. Many fans have noticed that certain things were added or removed from the live action adaptation, so in all honesty, this ring could just be passed off as another minute change designed to help bring flair to the character of Sanji.

But it’s just stuck with me, and given the amount of Easter eggs and tiny elements of foreshadowing the live action offers us, I can’t help but feel as if this particular ring is some sort of element to that. So I decided to do to some research into it.

It turns out that the type of ring Sanji is wearing is known as a “signet ring”. They are different from many mundane rings as they were typically only worn by high ranking persons and even royalty. The ring is embedded with often times a unique family crest, and the patriarchs of such families would use these rings to seal important documents and such with wax.

With that information clarified, here’s my absolute favorite part of this theory.

It’s already interesting enough that Sanji has been given a signet ring to wear, but the positioning of it on his hand also has a strong meaning.

Historically, the positioning of rings was a way to display certain emotions/ranking/statuses, and even still they have a cultural impact. How about we look into what a ring on the middle finger signifies, hmm?

Now, there’s a lot to unpack there, but with knowing Sanji’s past and personality through the animanga, the things that stick out to me most are power, strength, and rebellion. For those who are far enough in the series to know about where Sanji hails from, I’m sure this particular detail will pack a heavy punch for you.

I feel that this is the producers very subtle way of foreshadowing Sanji’s background in a way that isn’t blatantly obvious; from his status as a member of a royal family whom he’s rejected and rebelled against to the trials he’s overcome — strength and power.

It seems to me that this is Sanji’s way of literally sticking his middle finger to his family and saying, “fuck you, look how far I’ve come. You didn’t break me down.” A blow of both wearing a signet ring with his family’s crest (primarily only worn by the patriarch) but also wearing it on his middle finger to signify his strength in the rebellion against them.

The funniest thing is that even if this isn’t a signet ring with his family’s crest, it’s still a way to mock his father in that he was completely disowned by him, but is still donning jewelry that represents the royal power that his father thought him undeserving of.

That’s all, folks! Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

A/N: please don’t forget that this is JUST A THEORY that I came up with using legitimate research. It doesn’t mean that it’s true.

[cutekittenlady]

Planes, Trains, and Autobots

Summary Fic Part 2

[Previous] [Next]

((Srsly I need a title for this thing. Willing to take suggestions.))

Opening up on the Maltos House where, after the end of the first season, Bumblebee and the other Autobots have started taking efforts to educate the Terrans about Cybertronian culture and history in more detail. Something Alex enthusiastically takes part in.

(Really this is just an excuse for me, as a fan, to import whatever aspects of the previous lore I find most appealing, as well as inserting some stuff of my own.)

While they are doing this who should finally appear?

Ratchet. Because Ratchet needs to be in Earthspark. I will take no arguments.

(Definitely prefer his characterization as an older more experienced cybertronian medic so kinda going off that here. Generally for this fan speculative Earthspark version of Ratchet I see him, as always, being the Autobots top combat medic as well as one of their most senior and experienced members with a long friendship with Optimus. LIke a lot of the other Autobots, hes accepted Megatrons change of heart but unlike the others he doesnt necessarily get along with him and is not above bringing up past grievances or criticizing Megs for current as well as past decisions hes made. Hes generally a good hearted if grmpy guy, and a highly ethical medical practitioner with strong views.)

Optimus had asked Ratchet to finally come and meet the Terrans both to further introduce them to more potential allies they could rely on and also because it was becoming increasingly important that they finally gain an understanding of how the Terrans health works so that they can best meet their needs if they're ever hurt or in need of any other kind of medical aide.

Cue some adorable moments of Ratchet putting the Terrans through various basic exercises and roping them in when they try to show off their abilities to him while he remains unfazed. The Terrans initially think this means Ratchet doesnt like them, but Bumblebee clarifies that Ratchet is just so used to the various powers and abilities of all the cybertronians hes treated over his millions of years of life that hes almost, quite literally, seen it all. Besides which hes far more concerned with figuring out areas of the Terrans health that might need his attention rather than anything else. Lol obviously cue Ratchet being grouchy and immediately undercutting whatever it is Bumblebees just said.

Eventually the subject of Conjunx Endura (Cybertronian concept like marriage which I believe was introduced in the IDW comics) somehow comes to the Terrans attention and they try asking the various Autobots (and maybe Megatron?) about it but the group gets flustered FAST and plays hot potato with the subject until it comes to Ratchet who takes up the subject while deriding the others for not being able to get ahold of themselves to actually explain one of their most important ceremonies to the kids.

((Note: As an inherently asexual species thats nonetheless capable of the full gauntlet of emotions while ALSO living for millions of years, I tend to h/c that to the cybertronians the concept of being in love and married is an incredibly intimate subject that, historically, most younger bots aren't taught about until they're considered experienced enough in other things to grasp the gravity of the subject. The Terrans are, at most, a year old or so. So them asking the various autobots about the subject is, socially speaking, like your toddler asking you where babies come from.))

Ratchet thinks if they're old enough to ask the question, they're old enough to get an answer. Still Dot and Alex insist on being present since a) despite his enthusiasm Alex has no idea what the Conjunx Endura is, b) the terrans are all their adopted children, and c) are themselves insanely curious about what could make the autobots and Megatron so flustered. Which is good, because Ratchet winds up needing their help as his explanation of the concept is incredibly dry and tends to reference a lot of aspects of Cybertronian culture the Terrans just dont know. Dot and Alex, as adults who happen to be married, are able to compare and contrast the concept to their own marriage to help the Terrans understand.

Ratchet does insist that the two are different in various ways though Dot is quick to hammer home that the important part is that its a special ceremony only to be launched with a special person you deeply love romantically. Something Ratchet agrees with and makes clear that while he wants the Terrans to understand what a Conjunx Endura IS, they're far far too young to pursue anything of the like and are definitely too young to learn about the Conjux Ritus, the set of rituals meant to tie two Conjux Endura together.

Alex and Dot thanks Ratchet for letting them learn about something so personal to the Cybertronians but do ask, out of curiosity, why the others were so flustered about it. Ratchet explains that because Conjunx are so personal many consider it an embarrassing subject to broach in mixed and professional company, and asking a bot you dont know really well about their conjunx or whether or not they have one is considered tactless and even rude. When asked why he isn't embarrassed about the subject, he explains carefully that he actually has a conjunx of his own and "after a million years together the embarrassment of the subject just sorta wears off" though he doesnt pursue the subject of his Conjunx any further.

Instead he changes subject and tell Dot and Alex to keep in mind that the Conjunx Endura can go wrong. On Cybertron there were bad actors who would lure unsuspcted bots into forming a Conjunx for favors, gain social standing, or other perks. At best they'd then abandon them allowing the victim to make an appeal and get the whole thing nullified, but at its worse it could trap bots into loveless onesided connections, or a toxic relationship.

Ratchet is surprised to find that Dot and Alex are shockingly accepting of this, saying that sadly marriage amongst humans can run much the same risk.

Alex even making a small comment like, "Just like my soap operas/stories!"

Again they thank Ratchet for telling them all this, and for looking after the kids by making sure they're informed.

Dot tries to prompt the kids to thank Ratchet only to discover most of the group had long since gotten distracted at some point in the conversation with only Nightshade and Jawbreaker really paying attention throughout the whole thing.

Alex tries to apologize but Ratchet responds with some dry humor that having at least 2/5 of young bots fully paying attention throughout the whole explanation is actually a pretty good turnout and that they can try explaining the whole thing to the others again "in due time."

They're then interrupted by the announcement that Breakdown has arrived at the Maltos house.

[wavernot4love]

some The Jaws Of Life takes, now that the album has collectively sunk in for me a bit more, from the perspective of a PTV fan of nine years:

- gonna be bold and say in its own way, this album gives me the most a flair for the dramatic vibes of anything they've released since, ESPECIALLY flawless execution

- emergency contact feels somewhere in between flair and selfish machines, with a modern twist. even lyrically it reminds me of some strange little track that might be in the middle of selfish machines.

- i also saw someone say, before i listened to the album, that it in a sense feels like floral & fading embodied by an album. and in hindsight, i can understand that. i think based on misadventures + things the band has said about this album's direction, people should go in expecting a take on ptv comparable to moments like that, which also manage to encapsulate the past. i will say it reminds me of collide with the sky the least of all the albums, instead choosing to recall ptv's origins, further develop, yet also reinvent, the direction of misadventures, and chase the future of the band.

- and if you want to go HARD to a song? well, you've got the moment that introduced us all to this era, pass the nirvana. truly a track that pushed the boundaries of what ptv's "heavy" side can mean, in my opinion.

- flair and selfish machines were truly NOT *excessively* heavy albums and i wish people would consider that more. did they have their moments? absolutely. but, in fact, that dreamy, confessional, brooding, sort of far out vibe (and take on post hardcore) those albums have most of the time has always been, to me, the quintessential aspect of ptv, and my personal favorite. and the reason selfish machines is my favorite album. and that element is very much there on jaws, just translated more into this evolved sound. to clarify, i'm talking moments like these few

and for me, that's why a massive, yet atmospheric track like even when i'm not with you (+ its counterpart, resilience) feels just right in pierce the veil's discography.

- and then there's moments (like the title track, which initially had me going from "wait, is this a semblance of selfish machines? no, that's not quite right... i don't think i've heard this from them before", or so far so fake's infectiously melodic hooks) that i can't specifically trace back to a specific era, yet feel so unequivocally ptv.

what i'm trying to say, essentially, is that ethos that makes ptv the incredibly unique, somewhat twisted, deeply emotional entity it always has been is abundantly and familiarly there, it just presents itself in a refreshing way.

this is not collide with the sky 2.0. and that, it shouldn't be.

i could talk about pierce the veil forever, man. such an original goddamn band, historically such a unique spin on post hardcore that i've never seen another band quite capture + an ability to go beyond defined genre limitations, one of the bands that made me love music in the first place nine years ago. feel free to share your takes <3

[razieltwelve]

Interview (Final Rose)

"You know," the old woman said. "We used to put bets on which one of us would die last. It was pretty funny back then." Her lips twitched. "But it's a lot less funny now."

The interviewed wasn't sure whether or not she should laugh. In the end, she decided to press on. "How do you think history will view you and the other heroes from the past few generations?"

The old woman chuckled. "They're already mythologising us. I wish they'd at least wait until I was dead, but I can't really blame them for getting on with it since I've been sticking around a lot longer than anyone expected." She grinned. "The thing about people is that they go from heroes to legends remarkably quickly. Just look at my parents and siblings."

"Oh?" The interviewer leaned forward. "Could you clarify?"

"Take my sister, for example. Yes, she basically wrote the book on logistics and how to combine disparate social, political, and military systems, but nobody ever talks about how she killed just about every plant she ever owned. Nobody ever mentions the grumpiness, her tendency to approach social situations with the delicacy and subtlety of a bazooka, and her soft spot for people in her family that could just as easily give way to tyranny."

"Some people might say that her contributions to logistics and overarching civilisational systems theory were more important."

"And those people would be idiots. Those are things she did. They weren't who she was. A thousand years from now, people will be poring over all the stuff she did and wondering how the hell she pulled it off. I can guarantee you that basically none of them will consider the possibility that who she was played a large part in allowing her to do the things she did."

"What do you mean?"

"Ever wonder why she came up with ways to combine disparate systems? She was sick of having to deal with everybody's crap. Developing a way to control the entire thing let her spend more time with her family and less time stabbing people who couldn't get along."

"I... see."

"And don't even get me started on my parents. I love my mother. She was an absolutely amazing parent. But people are already glossing over or ignoring her early life and how much of a jerk she was back then."

"You're calling Lightning Farron a jerk?"

"Absolutely. I'm her daughter. I get to do that. My mother was a jerk for much of her early life. Her idea of leadership was terrorising people into doing what she said. It took throwing her onto a team of equally stubborn idiots for her to change. Even then, I'm not sure she ever would have if she hadn't met my mom, who was basically the first person in her entire life that she couldn't just kick the crap out of."

"You want people to remember those things?"

"Of course! I don't want people treating us like we were gods! I want people to remember us how we actually were because how can you possibly appreciate all the good properly if you just ignore all the bad? How are people going to learn anything from our lives if we just pretend that we were perfect to start with?"

"That is one way you can look at."

"And it's not just my family. It's all of the others too. My Aunt Lumina hasn't even been dead for more than a few decades, and people outside of our family are already trying to downplay her role in my Aunt Vanille's success."

"But your Aunt Vanille was arguably the greatest genius in Remnant's history, wasn't she?"

"She was, but she never would have done as much as she did if my Aunt Lumina hadn't been with her all those years. Who do you think she bounced ideas off? Who do you think proofread her papers and got her to clarify herself? Who do you think got her to put her thoughts to paper in a way that other people could actually understand? If my Aunt Vanille had her way, her papers would have been written in supremely compressed Ancient Dia. There would have been maybe ten people in the world who could have understood them. But now you've got a whole bunch of historical 'experts' proclaiming her some kind of isolated, solitary genius. That's bullshit. My Aunt Vanille was a genius, yeah, but she didn't do all of her work alone. What do you think Raine and I did all those years? Just hang around and drink coffee? And the less I say about how my Uncle Hope's contributions have been minimised, the better. Honestly, if it weren't for Penny, people would have written him out of history already."

"That's a very strong stance to take."

"I take it because some of you people are idiots. Some people would rather spin some fanciful story than actually talk about what really happened. That's fine, but don't call it history."

"Is there a lesson you'd like to pass onto the future?"

"Yeah. People need to remember that we weren't the first major civilisation on Remnant. There were others before us. Each and every one of them got wiped out by the Grimm. Our victory was built on a foundation of blood and sacrifice that stretches back millennia. We cannot forget our past because we owe it not only to ourselves but also to all the people who dreamed of victory over the Grimm to build a brighter future. I'll be kicking the bucket in a few years, ten at the most, and then it won't be long before there isn't anyone else left except Penny and the lawnmower, that old curmudgeon, who can remember everybody else. People are going to forget. That's inevitable. But I want them to keep the past in mind because without it, we wouldn't have a future ahead of us."

"I... see."

"Look, we shouldn't chain ourselves to the past, but we shouldn't forget where we came from either. Cherish the past, savour the present, and brighten the future. Look to the stars, but don't forget to keep your feet on the ground."

Excerpt from an interview with Diana Yun-Farron given approximately a decade before her death. Diana notably outlived every single major figure from the previous generation and her generation and most of the major figures from the following generation as well. She remains the oldest known bearer of Ragnarok by a considerable margin.

[foxymoxynoona]

To Kill A King (Ch. 8)

Banner and linebreaks by the talented @awrkives

Summary: What’s more charming than Prince Seokjin? Nothing, obviously. Except maybe the rotating palace guests who each smile and bow and charm in an attempt to hide their true motives. Fortunately Seokjin has a close circle of friends (well, servants) who watch his back and endure his humor and help him navigate the tumultuous seas of heartbreak, love, and an arranged marriage, not necessarily in that order. If only they had helped him keep a closer eye on his bride-to-be’s handmaiden, who arrives with her own agenda… or maybe it would have been better if he had noticed her less? One thing is certain as this royal drama of the heart plays out: there are many people competing to kill a king.

Main Pairing: Prince Seokjin x Female OC Genre: Historical Fantasy World, political conspiracy, romance Rating: 18+ Content Warnings & story tags: includes explicit sex (mxf, fxf), possibly graphic violence/injury later, love and sex triangles or uh quadrangles?, sort of e 2 l, sort of bodyguard trope, sort of arranged marriage, a lot of plotting murder (it’s literally in the title), maybe character death, grief, pining, angst, love, oral (f receiving), I don’t know everything yet as the story is long and still being written

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The energy shift in the palace as the day of the masquerade ball approached was impossible to miss. Lady Zselyke explained to Nasimiyu that decorations would take place the night before, as they slept, so that the morning of the ball they would awake to a world transformed, and that everything would be taken down in the wee hours after the ball ended and day broke so that not a trace of the festivities lingered. Everything and anything could happen in that one day, and while “it will pale in comparison to the tawdry affairs the King and Queen used to throw… that’s for the best, and it will still be the best moral ball this city has ever seen!”

“What precisely does she mean by that?” Nasimiyu asked the girls the second Lady Zselyke had left them that morning, off to tend to preparations. 

The way the girls’ faces lit up as they leaned in and motioned her close gave Nasimiyu the instinct to back off, but she instead leaned forward.

“I hard they used to hire people to have sex in dark corners,” Lidmila whispered. “You know, to be suggestive.”

“I heard they didn’t need to hire people to have sex in dark corners because they put aphrodisiacs in all the food so people just did it,” Afua said with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

“I heard the masquerade balls were always just screening events for a massive… you know… that took place in a private chamber–” Çiğdem began.

“Excuse me a moment, with the King and Queen?” Nasimiyu clarified, eyebrows reaching the sky. Honestly she wouldn’t have put such debauchery past the king except that he seemed allergic to anything wild and fun like that and more about hunting and money and unnecessary wars. But to hear the queen –of whom she had heard words spoken as though she were nothing but a pure and innocent angel– included in such things and for the girls to repeat such things shocked her.

“Yes!” they squealed as Miss Tasa, a recent addition to their teas, scoffed, “No. Those were just rumors. My mother says there was no such thing.”

“Sounds like your mother wasn’t invited.”

“Can you really envision the king and queen involved in something like that?”

“My mother would cry to hear anyone repeat rumors like that about the queen,” Lidmila insisted. “I don’t doubt there’s debauchery when everyone’s got masks on and can pretend the rules don’t apply for a night, but really, to say the King and Queen were behind it…”

“Just the king then,” Çiğdem conceded.

“Say what you will about the queen but no one questioned his devotion to his wife,” Afua agreed. “He’s never even remarried. I doubt he was doing things with other women…”

Nasimiyu found their inability to use the proper name for things obnoxious at best. It tempted her to push them over the edge. Just ask a direct question “so you’re saying the King fucked around? You’re saying they conducted a massive orgy behind the ball?” and try to get them to sound like adults when they spoke about raunchy things.

But she didn’t, because also there was this impulse in her to protect such an innocent side of them. They would have to grow out of it fast now that they were out in society –and several made no secret they had hopes of growing out of it at this very ball.

“It’s not a time to throw yourself away,” Miss Tasa insisted. “Just because you can.”

“Everything is a secret but nothing is actually a secret,” Lidmila agreed. “Don’t do anything you don’t want following you the next day.”

Çiğdem rolled her eyes,  “It’s very obvious, isn’t it? There’s always a wave of babies born so many months after a ball.”

“Is there?”

“Well… it seems like it…”

“That would be more babies born in…” The girls broke off to count on their fingers. Early August would mean babies born in–

“But masquerade balls usually aren’t had in the summer,” Afua interrupted. “Usually that’s a winter thing. The summer balls are usually maskless. People behave better when they have to show their face.”

“Why the break from that tradition now then?” Nasimiyu asked curiously. No one had said to her that there was anything odd about the ball being a masquerade. 

No one had any guesses they were willing to admit. When Nasimiyu crossed her eyes and stared them down, as she often did when they expressed hesitation to be honest with her, they fidgeted and eventually crumbled 

“Well–” Çiğdem started, but Lidmila interrupted, “I’m sure it’s just to make the ball as exciting as possible.”

Nasimiyu nodded, “All right. Çiğdem would you like to take a turn with me and say what you were about to say–”

“She just meant–”

“No, don’t–”

“She only means it’ll be so much fun for everyone to–”

“It’s gossip,” Nasimiyu surmised. “So tell me. Do you think I can’t handle the gossip or that I don’t deserve to know what’s being said?”

All the girls looked at her with wide, panicked expressions.

“If you’re to be my close social circle, I need you to be my eyes and ears,” she added, more gently.

The girls looked at Lidmila, who sighed gravely before admitting, “The gossip is that it’s in the hopes that masks will help you and the Prince become a little… a little more at ease with each other.”

“Why?” Nasimiyu asked. “The problem certainly isn’t his face– not that there is a problem! We simply are private with our courtship. Ours is a lifelong partnership, not a… a spectacle.”

“But people enjoy a spectacle,” Çiğdem offered with an apologetic look. “It might help to give them a little bit of one.”

“You’re sick,” Tasa snorted. “You just want a front row seat at the drama.”

“I do not! I know there’s no drama. I mean it purely for political reasons! People come alive at a good love story,” Çiğdem insisted. 

Nasimiyu leaned back in her chair, grinning. When Lidmila glanced at her, she nodded, not only as if unbothered by this gossip but as if it were all a part of her plan. In a way, it was. There was a fine line to walk, perhaps, between seeming like a cold-hearted shrew and a woman not yet won over, but she had no doubt how important a victory over peoples’ hearts it would give her if the kingdom watched her fall in love with Seokjin. Show, don’t tell. Love at first sight was forgotten, it was shallow and easily broken. But the romance of falling in love, bringing everyone along for it, it would be a masterful move. 

That was why she had been slow to warm to Seokjin. No other reasons.

“I take your suggestion to heart,” Nasimiyu assured them. “Thank you for your honesty. I admit I may seem a little shy in my affections… it’s… flustering, to be face to face with the Prince’s charm. I haven’t acclimated yet.”

The girls all swooned.

“Perhaps the masks will help with that,” Nasimiyu conceded, then sighed, “Or perhaps they’ll make it worse. You don’t think it’ll make him bolder and more charming do you?”

“Oh dear, it might…”

The girls tittered about this possibility and how Nasimiyu ought to handle it and did their best to tease out of her what her costume for the night looked like –but Nasimiyu was distracted, her attention caught by the event she had anticipated when choosing this place to set down for tea: Namjoon and Mindeulle exiting a particular meeting room after their daily morning lectures. 

Because apparently, even when not in Therepin, the two good citizens met with other Therepins in the capitol and spent at least an hour, no more than three, in lecture. The topics ranged from whatever someone felt motivated to give a lecture or lead a discussion on –politics, literature, art, the latest results of some test. Often they were religious, which Nasimiyu had absolutely no interest in, but her curiosity simmered at joining on another day. Maybe a day in which Namjoon was presenting.

She didn’t want to seem too eager though. It was also the reason she didn’t wave for them when they rushed out of the room with the rest of the Therepins. Namjoon was still speaking with someone but Mindeulle noticed them right away; at least Nasimiyu thought so, the back of her neck tingled like they had looked over.

A second later, Lidmila waved her hand and called, “Miss Mindeulle!”

“Honestly, don’t shout!” Tasa gasped, touching her arm. Lidmila looked mortified, but the damage was done; many heads had turned to them. At least Mindeulle did come over straight away and looked pleased to have been hailed.

“How was your lecture?” Nasimiyu asked her kindly, fishing for an invitation.

Mindeulle, to her surprise, sighed, “Boring today, I’m afraid. It got my brother all riled up though, I think he’s going to speak tomorrow and lecture everyone on the virtues of his lengthy counter-argument….”

“What was the topic?”

“Boring,” Mindeulle said again with a short wave of her hand, instead asking, “What is the topic of this party here? It seems much more friendly.”

“We’re talking about the masquerade,” Afua said, as if it was a secret and not the exact thing all the young people around the palace were talking about.

“It’s so nice you’ve arrived in time for the ball!”

Mindeulle nodded eagerly, “I agree, and I’m equally as glad my brother didn’t know about it before we got here or he might have had us take a detour so we’d miss it.” The girls all giggled about it, understanding the implication that it took Nasimiyu a moment to catch up to: that her brother didn’t necessarily trust her at a potentially debaucherous ball like a masquerade.

Maybe his ears were burning, because he came over as well, in time for Nasimiyu to ask safely within the flow of conversation, “Is it true, ser? You don’t enjoy a masquerade?” 

“A what?”

“A masquerade?” Lidmila repeated, and Nasimiyu was not the only one confused why he’d be confused by the word.

“Ah! The masked ball, right. No, I don’t care– Mindy, you don’t actually propose to argue against me if I lecture–”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Mindeulle asked. “I disagree with you.” Now Nasimiyu considered that Mindeulle’s cheeks were flushed and her energy was maybe not a result of excitedly escaping lecture and joining a gaggle of girls giggling over a ball. But her attention was torn three ways: between that observation, and the dash of excitement that Namjoon was going to speak in the session soon, and the dash of shock that he cared so little for balls that he couldn’t even give a whole breath to them. 

Nasimiyu liked balls. And she suspected Namjoon would cut a good figure at one, though now it dawned on her she didn’t know why she had expected that. Simply because h e was handsome? But he could be inelegant in a situation like that…

She stomped right over Namjoon and Mindeulle speaking and asked, “Do you dance, Lord Namjoon?”

“Dance? No,” he scoffed at the same moment Mindeulle answered gleefully, “He does! Though he doesn’t like to admit it.” Her accurate prediction of her breather as he fulfilled that prediction made the ladies laugh and appeared to fluster him.

“Perhaps if I worked at it,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand, as Mindeulle insisted, “He works very hard at it in secret. To impress whom, dear brother?”

“Eh, uh, no one,” he said which made the girls laugh again but Nasimiyu didn’t think he was being cagey. To her, he looked distracted. Still thinking about the debate with his sister from a moment before. Mindeulle slid easily between the topics but Namjoon was slow and clumsy to transition.

To test her theory, she prodded, “Surely you are at least going to the ball though. Wouldn’t it be a deep offense not to?”

“Of course he’s going,” Mindeulle said. 

“Uh–”

“Does your morning lecture linger in your attention?” Nasimiyu asked quickly.

“Yes.”

“Yes you’re going to the ball?” Lidmila pressed.

“Um…” He laughed and shook his head. “Next you ladies will ask if I have my attire ready and who gets my first dance.” He cast a rather crooked grin at Nasimiyu that had something sharp behind the eyes, as if he knew she’d been trying to trip him up –and succeeded. 

For a brief moment, Nasimiyu felt a connection with him, as if they were the only two adults present, grinning over some foolishness that went over the childrens’ heads. For a brief moment, Nasimiyu felt her heart start at the idea of having Namjoon’s first dance at this ball he wanted so little to do with. 

Then Mindeulle reached around Nasimiyu to whisper loudly, “I think his first dance is already spoken for.”

“Mindy… It’s not… ah…” he broke off. Nasimiyu didn’t know what that meant, or why he was suddenly rubbing the back of his neck as if it was hot from the attention. 

Çiğdem looked almost predatory as she pressed, “So… it is or it isn’t?” Afua kicked her shoe, no doubt to remind her how furious the mamas would be if any of the girls arranged their own first dances without maternal approval.

Nasimiyu didn’t need the maternal approval of course, but as a betrothed woman, her first dance was set. No blush of seeing the men vie for her attention or finding sneaky ways to try and secure it ahead of the ball. Certainly Namjoon wouldn’t be among them.

Not that she wanted him to be! It was impossible to tell if he actually could dance or if his sister was just taunting him. Was he better or worse than Seokjin? How was Seokjin actually?

In a fit of mercy, Nasimiyu decided to undo the tangle she had started, and instead suggested, “Tell us what your lecture was on, that we can share what’s on your mind if it’s not a ball. We have minds that benefit from intense debate too.” She glanced at her companions, who all conveniently looked away. Lidmila’s eyebrows were clearly raised as she stared down at her hand. They were caricatures of young women who did not give a flying fuck about a Therepin lecture and just wanted to gossip about the ball and first dances.

“It’s a morality debate,” Namjoon explained, face lighting up at the opportunity. “How do our intentions affect a moral assessment of our actions? If I didn’t mean to cause harm but I still do, does my action get a pass–”

“No, don’t guide her in your framing,” Mindeulle interrupted. “Stop that right now! How can we be held morally accountable for consequences we have no control over?”

“Because you are a young woman and the decisions you make don’t have the same far-reaching–”

“Ha!” Mindeulle practically shouted, very unladylike. Nasimiyu’s eyebrow quirked with interest. She knew Mindeulle was not always as soft spoken as she seemed, but she hadn’t heard her shout like that before. “That is already immorality on its own. Sex should have no bearing on morality. Women are as capable of damage as men.”

“Well that’s true on a personal level,” Namjoon muttered, as if he’d forgotten himself. Suddenly he cleared his throat and corrected, “But we can’t give powerful men –or women, all right– a moral pass just because they couldn’t be sure things would turn out this way or that. They begin an immoral war and those who are killed in it condemn the war for its consequences–”

“Surely this great man could have predicted the likelihood that men would die,” Nasimiyu interjected. “Was it a worthwhile risk? Death itself may not be immoral–”

“If loss of life of those who have no true choice in whether they risk it for a war isn’t immoral, then what is?” Namjoon demanded, leaning forward like he was going to reach forward and grab Nasimiyu in his protest.

Fuck, did she wish he would.

But just as overwhelming in the moment was Mindeulle arguing, “Yes, that’s exactly my point, the king’s intentions were to preserve or to risk! That is where the morality should be determined. He judges an action is worth it because the risk is low. The result is worse than he feared. Is he to be condemned–”

“Depends why he took the risk,” Nasimiyu suggested.

“We can’t know the outcome of our actions, we have to do the best we can with the information we have,” Mindeulle insisted, to which Namjoon argued, “There’s no practical application of that. You have dead children lying in the streets and you want to insist that’s moral because the leaders did the best they could?”

“What dead children?” Lidmila gasped as the others covered their mouths and tittered.

“Ah, sorry, sorry, ladies, I’m sorry, I got carried away,” he said, tone instantly shifting.

“Did you predict the outcome of getting carried away?” Mindeulle teased.

Namjoon glared at her, “It doesn’t matter, I upset them.”

Nasimiyu was fascinated every time she saw them interact. It was certainly nothing like her relationship with her own sisters. Just as fascinating, the way they were with each other seemed to carry over to Seokjin as well; the poking, the teasing, even that element of rivalry and respect. It was obvious Namjoon and Seokjin had known each other a long time. 

Frankly, when Namjoon apologized to her, she found herself offended. She didn’t want apology. She wanted to keep talking! She wanted to suggest the possibility of an act being amoral and see what he thought of that. Did everything have to be good or evil? Was it possible for an act to have no moral bearing whatsoever? What about morality that changed by the context, or by the judge! 

“Is this the sort of thing you often debate in those lectures?”

“Ah, no, no,” Namjoon insisted. “Sometimes they are calmer. We aren’t supposed to get so…”

“Rowdy,” Mindeulle suggested as Lidmila offered, “Passionate?” Nasimiyu eyed Lidmila’s face and wasn’t the least bit surprised by the admiration she saw there leveled at Namjoon. What young lady wouldn’t be captivated by him: tall, handsome, strong, intelligent, kind. A few days prior he’d shown Nasimiyu a tiny plum bonsai tree he traveled with always. A tree! What a gentle soul… but strong in his convictions and in his body…

“You ought to come to one of the lectures,” Mindeulle, blessed MIndeulle, suggested. “All of you are welcome, of course.”

“Oh, I don’t think my mother would let me–” Lidmila murmured.

But Nasimiyu feigned a casual demeanor and said, “I can attend, if you think it’s valuable and I’m welcome.”

“Of course you are,” Namjoon agreed with his sister. Well that sealed it for Nasimiyu.

Still, she added, “On the terms that you, ser, also attend the masquerade with the same degree of respect with which I’ll attend the lecture.”

“Ah…” He sighed and looked away, bemused. “I didn’t realize balls were so important to you.”

She didn’t like the way he said it. Maybe he meant it playfully or maybe it was a serious jab. Either way, she looked down her nose at him and argued,

“Socialization, culture, music, costume, beauty– are those things not also important? To cast aside grievances and differences for one night and simply enjoy good food, good dance, and good company?”

“You state your case very well,” Mindeulle mused.

Namjoon too looked amused and shook his head, “Very well, I will take the ball as seriously as I do my studies, and look forward to your thoughts when you join our morning lecture. Mindeulle can suggest which one is good for a lady.”

“Why does that sound like an insult?” Nasimiyu said without thinking, eyes narrowing.

“I meant no insult,” he insisted as he stood. Then paused, in light of his recent morality defense, and added, “But if I hit a mark, you have my apologies.”

With a bow, he turned to go, only waving over his shoulder as Çiğdem called after him, “You never did answer us about the first dance!”

“Cigny!” Afua gasped and grabbed her arm. “Shouting that after a man… what will your mother think?”

“I’ll tell her I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Oh dear, maybe you ought to all come to that lecture,” Mindeulle laughed. 

“Do you really debate your own brother? In front of everyone?”

“It depends whether the old men manage to shut me up,” she told them, and Nasimiyu found her admiration for the girl growing. Mindeulle was feminine and delicate and charming and sweet, yet she had a sharp mind and apparently knew when and where to strategically use it. The fact that the king himself read letters written by her! Nasimiyu was desperate to read them now; she hadn’t yet got around to it, though several sat in her room as previously requested. She’d read Namjoon’s and marveled at his mind. Perhaps she did Mindeulle a disservice not to equally marvel.

Oh dear. Was Nasimiyu herself being sexist?! Was it only because Namjoon had a certain charm– but Mindeulle had that charm as well! She considered the woman now, trying to be fair, trying not to overlook her. It was easy to see nothing more than a beautiful simple young woman.

Maybe that was on purpose.

“What about you, Miss Mindeulle?” Nasimiyu asked. “Do you like a masquerade?”

“I’ve never been to one! I’m taking my costume very seriously though. I do hope you like it, Princess.” There didn’t seem to be anything meaningful behind the smile except kindness and excitement. One moment she’d been passionately debating with her brother on philosophical matters; now she shifted easily to enthusiasm for fine dresses and social affairs.

Nasimiyu felt a growing certainty that Mindeulle absolutely must be a permanent part of the Privan court. Left to Mindeulle’s choice, she believed the woman would stay. How to convince Namjoon… a different matter entirely. Unless they both stayed.

Mindeulle was still staring at her, as if waiting for an answer. 

“I’m sure I will,” Nasimiyu assured her, and looked away to Lidmila’s gentle smile. She reached for her forgotten tea and a cookie to hide her fluster as Mindeulle lamented, “It’s very low cut. I suspect my brother will be furious. That will be part of the fun!”

“Careful you don’t catch the wrong type of man,” Tasa gasped. “And at your first masquerade! We should stick together at the ball.”

Çiğdem snickered, “Absolutely not! I shall be too busy dancing.”

“With who?!”

“It’s not a very good masquerade if I already unmask, is it?” she joked, which earned giggles and titters.

Suddenly Mindeulle reached out to gently touch Nasimiyu’s hand and said, “Don’t let my brother make you feel guilty for enjoying fun. He’s not familiar with the term.”

“Fun?”

“Yes. He’s a great bore. I thought you might have noticed.”

“Actually I find you both very entertaining company,” Nasimiyu insisted.

“Oh Lidmila, you’ve spilled your tea!” Afua cried as the ladies fluttered around her, grabbing napkins and mopping it from her skirt.

Lidmila herself only smiled, “I’m such a goose sometimes. Don’t fuss over me, it’s only a small spot.” It was, in fact, a very large one. “I agree with the Princess, we’re so glad to have you in our company these days! I believe this will be the best masquerade Priva has ever seen!”

Mindeulle echoed, “I am grateful to be here as well. I believe the company is the best there has ever been found in Priva.”

Nasimiyu didn’t know whether to admire or repel at the sudden cheer from all sides. It felt artificial. It all felt fake and she couldn’t figure out why but it was exceedingly uncomfortable now. She felt like she’d missed something. She looked around but Dulce wasn’t with her today, subjected to this fakery. No one had been fake a moment ago, had they?

Oh, were they just all getting competitive over Namjoon? Or possibly even herself, if it seemed like she was playing favorites? That thought flattered her. But of course, these social interactions could determine the standing of these young women in the future.

Graciously she agreed, “Yes, I believe the ball will be one to remember, and that Privan society continues to improve with such wonderful minds. I’m glad to have arrived at a time like this!”

But she didn’t think her speech had quite the elegance of either Mindeulle’s or Lidmila’s and it wound up leaving a salty taste in her mouth for the rest of the afternoon.

And also, there was nothing wrong with liking balls. Honestly, her esteem of Namjoon took a hit because of that.

Seokjin was making such a big show of re-enacting his favorite parts of the latest Kalamouche novel to make Jimin and Jungkook laugh that he didn’t notice when Dulce entered the kitchen. 

There was no way to ever predict which evenings she’d show up; just because Nasimiyu turned her nose up at dinner didn’t necessarily mean Dulce would be the one sent to fetch her more food later that night. 

Seokjin hadn’t had the time to hang out in the kitchen recently either. Despite his best efforts to stay out of it, he’d been pulled into more of his father’s work lately; nothing remarkable, but while so many of the typically present advisors and nobility were still off at the beaches of Sartia, the councilroom needed filling out with more bodies as they discussed important but boring things like trade embargoes, taxes, public works projects that needed to happen before the weather turned, policies that were coming under fire either from noisy nations like Therepin or random nobles who’d found a way to benefit personally from a change. And while normally he might fight to stay disengaged, Seokjin was trying harder to be the prince Nasimiyu thought she was marrying. It was no secret she desperately wanted into the councilroom and had no right to be there until they wed. He might as well garner some respect in there by the time he could finally allow her in by his side.

But it was exhausting. It was zapping precious resources in his mind that ought to be dedicated to figuring out a way out of the impending ball –the one he had no realistic hope of evading because it was in honor of his betrothed. 

At least, thank fuck, it was a masquerade. Even though everyone there would obviously know who he was even with a mask on, he still felt a little protected. He’d insisted on it with Zselyke when she was planning the damn thing and, to his surprise, he’d won. Despite it being the wrong season for it or whatever. Who cared? Why did a ball even have a season? 

“The assassination attempt,” Seokjin said, pushing up from his seat. He wobbled a little thanks to the alcohol warming his blood. He took a step forward and then lunged, brandishing a spoon like a sword, then just as quickly spun and pretended to have taken the sword in his gut.

“It was real?” Jimin asked, eyes going wide, egging him on. “Who did it?”

“Kalamouche,” Seokjin informed him. “Staged! To what end? It’s so dramatic, to try and pull something like that off!”

Jungkook, perched on the counter as only he was allowed by Yoongi, grinned and prodded, “Why do you think he did it?” 

Seokjin saw the way he and Jimin looked at each other and answered dramatically loudly, “Conspiracy! Drama! Pity dick, I think, to be honest–”

“Pity dick?” Yoongi asked. “I thought he was in love with a woman.”

“Yes, no, that one,” Seokjin said, gesturing to Yoongi with a flair that made Jungkook laugh, “He meant pity-puss.”

“I am a dignified royal prince I would never say that–” Seokjin deadpanned, hand pressed to his chest. The sight of the spoon reminded him of his play, and he continued, “He’s bamboozled the court, his lady love swoons at his alleged death, and then he’s able to surprise her with his life–”

“At the masquerade,” Hoseok guessed.

“Just so!” Seokjin agreed, brandishing the spoon at him. “The royal court is none the wiser to their true intentions because everyone believes his death! People see what they want to see–” He broke off to do a flurry of shuffles, jabs, and parries with his spoon–

Only to stumble at the sight of Dulce standing quietly to the side.

He wasn’t quite embarrassed, but still flustered to hide it, “Speak of the fox, who moves on silent feet sneaking into our kitchen!”

“We weren’t speaking of foxes,” Jungkook corrected.

“Why do you betray me thus?” Seokjin demanded with a laugh, reaching out and clapping his bodyguard on the arm. “I’m trying to move us past my performance with the spoon. Read the room, Jungkooka.”

Dulce simply stood there, waiting for him to finish. When she stood still, she became like a statue. He didn’t understand. The more he tried to stand still, the more he became aware of needing to blink, or an itch on his neck, or hair tickling his ear, or a muscle twinge in his foot. Suddenly breathing took physical effort.

Yoongi addressed her before she said anything, asking, “Did you come for food for the Princess? You didn’t come for a few days so I didn’t put a cart together already.”

“Only something small,” Dulce answered him but stayed standing on the far side, as if hesitant to enter their circle. She always did that and frankly Seokjin understood. He felt comfortable when it was just this particular group of folks in the familiar corner of the kitchens but otherwise he had no interest in breaking into an established social setting. Earlier in the day he’d come upon Nasimiyu sitting with her ladies and had needed a minute to gather his strength to go say hello –to his own betrothed sitting in his own gardens. Someday he hoped she would be an anchor, and going to her anytime, anywhere would feel like going home. But for right now, she was not that to him.

“Wake up,” Jimin said, clapping his hands not far from Seokjin’s face. He blinked and shook his head and realized he had spaced out. Dulce had been coaxed into the kitchen and now inspected Yoongi’s workspace as he stepped away to pull together “something small” for the picky-eating Princess. 

“I’m awake,” Seokjin bumbled and batted JImin’s away and crossed his arms and leaned against the counter.

“I want to know more about your theories on Kalamouche,” Jungkook demanded, and Hoseok laughed, “Yes, show us again how that went? Drin will be so impressed with your spoon technique!” 

But Dulce was asking Yoongi a question so Seokjin ignored them with a wave of his hand so he could hear, “What are you making?”

“Why, does it look familiar?” Yoongi countered, and Seokjin felt a small jolt that Yoongi would speak to her that flippantly. It sounded rude to him. 

Dulce’s indifferent response made him realize that actually Dulce might be in the kitchen much more frequently than he was. He wasn’t always here. He wouldn’t know if she was here on nights he wan’t, talking to Yoongi or the other kitchen staff.

He realized that must be the case as she answered, “Barely.”

“Ouch.”

“Ah!!” Seokjin gasped. “A joke! Is that what just happened? Are you two making jokes in the kitchen?”

“It’s not a joke, she’s insulting my cooking,” Yoongi snickered.

Dulce argued, “I’m not, I just am not sure it’s successfully Paloman, what are you putting in it? Something doesn’t smell right… why are you cooking that anyway?”

“Does the Princess like Paloman food?” Hoseok asked.

“No,” was Dulce’s definitive answer, like maybe this had been discussed before.

Yoongi waved off the suggestion, “I’m just experimenting. I’m trying to create something I saw once…”

“Tamales,” Dulce clarified. “But your filling needs to be cut up more finely or it’ll poke through the masa too much and they’ll fall apart. Did you even use cumin and paprika?”

“They’re in there.”

“Not enough then, I can’t smell them….”

“Is that why you have all the corn husks?” Jungkook asked, pointing to the basket. Seokjin had thought they were just leftover from cleaning corn earlier in the day but Jungkook’s curiosity made him curious too.

“You explain it,” Yoongi gestured to Dulce. Her eyes narrowed with such a transparent lack of amusement that now Seokjin was certain she must come to the kitchen to speak with Yoongi regularly. He’d thought that much outward display of emotion was limited to–

To what, the time they’d walked through the city together and he’d worn her down?

His own thought embarrassed him. He kept quiet to listen as Dulce begrudgingly answered, “You fill the masa, that’s the cornmeal mixture, with meats or beans or vegetables and wrap them in the cornhusks to steam. It’s not that different from your dumplings.”

“I don’t need to cut the beans up though,” Yoongi said. “Or… do I?”

“Whatever you want,” Dulce answered and stepped back. Yoongi waited. Seokjin waited, watching them both. 

“How would you do it?” Seokjin asked her, trying to nudge her.

“I wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Be making tamales. I don’t really care about food.”

Seokjin scoffed and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, “How can you say that? I know it’s not true! You have big opinions– probably it’s killing you right now to know he’s making them in a way that’s not right!”

“Why does there have to be a way that’s right? Rules about food are…” She trailed off and Seokjin crowed with happiness that she’d briefly engaged. 

“Stupid?” he guessed.  

“You should know the rules before you break them,” Yoongi shrugged. “Some of the rules keep you from poisoning yourself with undercooked food.”

“No one’s going to die if the beans are whole instead of roughly chopped,” she answered. Seokjin couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled at her clever but not very subtle way of making a suggestion.

To tease her, he cried, “Wah! You can’t say that around me! Now you have condemned me to death!”

“What?”

“Huh?” Hoseok asked, also leaning around and not seeming to understand at first Seokjin was playing. 

“Yah, now I’ll choke to death on a black bean! Life is full of dramatic irony! It’s why Kalamouche is such a work of art, it perfectly mirrors the absurdity of real life!”

“Oi, you’re spending too much time with Namjoon,” Yoongi grumbled with the clear intention of riling Seokjin further. He’d come to the kitchens to complain about his distant cousin many times. His not-so-subtle requests to fill the menu with seafood and mint chocolate desserts had been ignored, and only led to merciless teasing when it was pointed out he also hated mint chocolate. Would be worth it he had grumbled and slunk away, wish unfulfilled.

Jungkook, restlessly shelling walnuts even though Yoongi had told him he didn’t have to, snickered, “Kalamouche isn’t a work of art.”

“He’s not a fan,” Seokjin sighed. 

“I am, but I enjoy it for what it is.”

“Which is what?” Seokjin demanded.

“Funny. It’s pretty funny sometimes.”

“You should keep those cornhusks soaking in water until you’re ready to fill them,” Dulce said quietly to Yoongi, as if no one else would hear. 

“I washed them off.”

“It makes them more pliable and less likely to crinkle or tear if they soak.”

“Ah ah ah, it sounds like you know something about cooking,” Seokjin said, leaning in closer. 

Dulce yanked up a knife and Seokjin leaned away with a nervous laugh.

“Even a numbskull can chop beans,” she insisted. 

“Oh I thought you were going to make a joke about throwing the knife instead of catching it,” he said, obviously alluding to their time in the city– which no one in this kitchen knew about. To keep from raising questions, he quickly added, “Do you know how to use it? The sharp side goes down,” at the same moment she insisted, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t know how to use a knife?” Jungkook asked, eyebrows raising.

“I… do? To chop beans? Yes…” Dulce’s head tilted the slightest bit, a quirk of confusion Seokjin hadn’t seen before. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Yoongi said. “I can do it.”

Just as quickly, Dulce settled the knife and began roughly chopping the pile of black beans, jaw set as if she was ultimately annoyed by the joke that she didn’t know how to use it. 

The joke had to end because it was obvious she did. The quick way she rocked the knife and turned the cutting board was obviously a strong skill. She slid the knife to keep beans from escaping. All activity in their corner of the kitchen froze in admiration of the skill.

Dulce glanced up and their gazes caught; just a coincidence, because he was leaning close watching her. 

“You’re very good for someone who doesn’t know anything about cooking,” Yoongi mused.

“I… it’s just chopping beans…” She looked at Yoongi, and then back at Seokjin.

“She’s not a professional! A professional knows not to look away from a knife while cutting–” Seokjin teased. “Agh!” he cried out for her when she chopped too close as she turned the board. The blade slides right into the meat of her palm. He felt it, even though she didn’t say anything at all, just set the knife quickly to the side and pulled away from the food.

“Shit,” Yoongi said for her as well.

She shook her head and admitted, “I don’t suppose a professional cuts themself just chopping beans… it’s not my place… I was showing off…”

It was so fucking endearing. Seokjin reached for her without thinking, yanking the handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to her palm as red began to seep from the cut.

“Ah, here, let me,” Jimin suggested diplomatically, reaching Dulce at nearly the same moment.

“I’ve got it.”

“It’s all right,” Jimin said, and slid his hand beneath Seokjin’s to nudge him away. He winked at Seokjin, so Seokjin winked back. But actually he was annoyed and wished he’d nudged Jimin right back off.

“What, she cut her hand, I can’t help–”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be holding hands with a maid in the kitchen,” Jungkook suggested.

“I should just let her bleed to death?”

“It’s really not a bad cut,” Dulce insisted. “I won’t die.”

“Oh, take her right to the healer. A maid isn’t any good without a hand,” Hoseok gasped, looking quickly away as the handkerchief began to show the blood.

“I’ll take her right away,” Jimin offered, but Dulce tried to turn away from him and take the handkerchief herself, insisting, “It’s all right, I can take myself.”

Jimin turned with her and pressed, “Allow me.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s only a little scratch.”

“Ah, that’s not a scratch,” Hoseok murmured, regretting his glance.

“Only a scratch,” Seokjin repeated. “This is a scratch? What does a true wound look like to you? Let him take you in case you faint.”

“I won’t faint.”

“It’s all right to need assistance,” Seokjin said, a little more pointedly. “Are you embarrassed? Who hasn’t cut themself in the kitchen when confronted with my distracting face?”

“That’s… not….”

“It’s a joke,” Jimin assured her. “You’re worrying the prince, if you don’t let me escort you he’ll insist on it himself and do something dramatic like carry you through the halls–”

Dulce’s eyes went wide as she admitted to Seokjin, “I thought that part in Kalamouche was mortifying. I would have fallen on my dagger if I was lady–”

“Mortifying?! It’s romantic!” Seokjin laughed. “What do you mean, mortifying? Ah now I want to know what you thought of everything– you read it? I want to know how you read it. I think your mind is strange–”

“Are these beans good now? I’ll mix them with the chicken –not the pork ones though, yeah? Maybe some rice in the pork ones,” Yoongi mused, and looked to Dulce. Everyone seemed to forget she was bleeding, even herself.

It gave Jimin the opportunity to take her hand and nudge, “All right, Dulce, walk with me. If you feel faint, lean on me. I’m stronger than I look.”

“I don’t doubt that,” she murmured, letting him pull her away. Seokjin was sure she let him, and a little surprised she gave in with such a little fight, and even more surprised by the compliment. 

They were at the doorway when Yoongi called, “I’ll send the food to the Princess!”

“I’ll take it,” Jungkook offered, swaying a little when he got to his feet. 

“There are other servants.”

“My shift’s done anyway, time to head home. Warm bed and all that…”

“Whose warm bed?” Hoseok teased and Jungkook just wiggled his eyebrows. Delivering a tray was certainly beneath Jungkook but he wouldn’t be dissuaded, and Hoseok went with him too because he’d started to sweat out the alcohol and wanted to bathe.

Yoongi returned to his tamale project in the silent wake of their departure. Seokjin filled a pot with water at his direction to soak the corn husks in like Dulce had suggested.

“She definitely knows how to cook,” Yoongi mused.

“It’s a shame she cut her hand.”

“Not sure that was an accident,” Yoongi snickered. “You were watching her face too closely.”

“Ah, I did distract her, you mean?” Seokjin grinned, and stroked his cheek. Yoongi didn’t even look at him, his attention focused on the mixing of ingredients. 

After a pause, Yoongi admitted, “I don’t know what I mean. Except I think she’s the type of person who doesn’t like to be noticed and then you stand there and stare at her too closely.”

“What does that mean?! Me?”

“I don’t mean anything,” Yoongi quickly corrected. “You just seem very comfortable and more familiar with her lately.”

“I was thinking that about you,” Seokjin argued. 

“Ah well we talk about food sometimes. I noticed she doesn’t want to help unless you do something badly in front of her and then she has a hard time not stepping in.”

“So it’s your fault she cut herself then. You goaded her.”

“She should just participate,” Yoongi argued.

To that Seokjin agreed, “She’s slow to warm to people, even in spaces she’s obviously welcome.”

“Well I wouldn’t say our little kitchen parties are a normal experience for servants. Definitely not in Marvono. The other staff that came with the Princess talk about the Prince’s temper and the Princess-Mother’s strict rules about behavior…”

“You’re saying they aren’t as fun as me,” Seokjin grinned.

“I’m saying you don’t know what it’s like because even when you’re shy, you’re the prince. You don’t know what it’s like to be like us. If we fuck up, at best we’re fired and out on the street. Could be in a jail cell or on the executioners’ block.” Yoongi pointed out.

“Well you know all about that,” Seokjin taunted. “Are you saying your brush with death made you cautious?”

“The life does that. It either beats it out of you or you decide ‘fuck it’ and go out in a blaze of glory–”

“The life of being a commoner?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi confirmed with a shrug, like it was no big deal after all. “When life sucks you’ve got nothing to lose, but she seems happy with her position. Maybe she’s just careful about risking it. We’re still your people. Your betrothed still isn’t sure about any of us so her staff are careful too.”

Seokjin thought about this. Mindlessly he swirled the cornhusks around in the pot of water, enjoying the rippling feeling against his fingers. 

“Do you have feelings for her?” he asked, the question slipping from his tongue before he could stall it.

“Do I?”

“You answer a question with a question?”

Yoongi sighed, “I don’t know why you’re asking me that. I just told you, I don’t think she wants to be liked. I don’t think she wants to be known. She’s a loner.”

“Like you.”

“I’m not anymore,” Yoongi argued. “You wouldn’t leave me alone and I had to adapt.”

Seokjin’s grin grew wider as he taunted, “Admit it, you like us.”

“You’re all right.”

“You’d be lonely without us.”

“There’s a difference between lonely and alone.”

Seokjin didn’t even respond to that bit of wisdom because oh how deeply he knew that to be true. At balls, for instance. Surrounded by dozens or hundreds of people, women asking for a dance at every turn, drinks and conversation all around, and yet he never felt more alone, or less like he belonged. But other times, curled up in his bedroom with a book or a puzzle and just his animals and the sea breeze for company, he felt perfectly content. Not lonely at all. Sometimes he thought he could live his whole life in that room and be perfectly happy.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Yoongi said. “Too sweet for the likes of me.”

“She is sweet…” Seokjin considered. Yes. She was. She just didn’t want you to notice it. Nasimiyu didn’t seem like the kind of princess who would value sweetness. She wanted her servants strong and crisp and Dulce was those things too but…

But there was something about Dulce that just seemed very lonely. Even as Nasimiyu’s favorite. She seemed to be someone who liked being alone but Seokjin felt saddened by the idea that hers was a lonely life of service. She deserved closeness with others, to whatever degree she wanted. He thought she wanted to be comfortable here in the kitchen, he just felt like that was true.

In that case, maybe she and Yoongi were perfect together.

And Yoongi hadn’t said he didn’t have feelings for her.

Seokjin tried to picture it. He highly respected and trusted Yoongi, even knowing his political background. Youth, Yoongi had chalked those days of activism up to, and now lived a quiet but stable life in the kitchen. With any luck he really would be running the whole thing soon; his campaign of figuring out what foods kept Nasimiyu happy seemed to be going well if she was only sending for evening snacks instead of entirely new meals. 

Of course Nasimiyu would be devastated should Dulce fall in love and settle down as someone’s wife… and Seokjin ought to want Nasimiyu to have whatever she wanted…

But even if that was other people’s lives and happiness?

Ah, he struggled to concede that. He didn’t think that was right. Nasimiyu could stay friends or work out something else if Dulce still wanted to be both wife and employee, but Nasimiyu’s needs weren’t more important than Dulce’s happiness.

Of course all of this was just alcohol-fueled speculation on his part. Just a thought triggered by how carefully but increasingly familiar she was entering their “kitchen parties.” A thought triggered by how curious she had looked when they’d happened upon that wedding in the city after they’d run into each other in a closet of erotica. Just a thought triggered by how startled she had seemed when Seokjin took her hand to stop the bleeding.

She deserved that kind of companionship. She was a sweet girl. She deserved to have someone take care of her, to not always be on her own. 

But who? Yoongi? Jimin, who had rushed to volunteer walking her? Jungkook who teased her and didn’t stick around long after she left? Taehyung who raved about her looks and might have an interest in taking her home to her people in Paloma?

“She needs her One,” Seokjin chuckled to himself. One Two Three, it would be perfect. Who was her One though?

Yoongi just snorted, “You’re drunk. Either go to bed or help me stuff these tamales, I’m going to be doing this all night.”

“How many are you making?”

“Three batches.”

“How many are in a batch?”

“About sixty…”

“And with that I wish you goodnight,” Seokjin said with a sweep of his arm and a low bow. Yoongi laughed and called for other staff to come help him. But Seokjin did stay for a little longer, trying to think whether any of his friends could be a good match for sweet but shy Dulce, but struggling because he couldn’t really see any of them working quite right….

Dulce wasn’t quite sure what made a pussy pretty, because the ones she had liked didn’t seem to have any real consistency between them. Not that her roster of conquests was anything too remarkable, below twenty with men and women combined, which was low considering her advanced age, lack of attachment, high-stress job, and ample opportunities. Forming attachments was the hard part for someone like her, but casual sex? Easy when she wanted it. She just didn’t want it as often as some, maybe more than others. Hard to say for sure. She didn’t really compare notes.

At least not after two different women had told her she was too repressed. 

Nasimiyu was one of them, and it was never clear whether she meant it sincerely (relax, Dulcie, tell me what you want) or a taunt (prove me wrong.) The infuriating part of course was that Dulce was the first woman Nasimiyu had ever been with, the only woman, and Dulce was the one to teach her so very many things, so who was really the repressed one?

It was just that Nasimiyu was a quick learner. And confident; that ego of hers and her apparent ease with Dulce made her very good at it all. On the rare occasion she did something unpleasant or unwanted, a flicker of remorse or embarrassment would flash across her face and then be suddenly gone. Only a few times in their relationship had Dulce felt like Nasimiyu really exposed herself in any vulnerable way, but she didn’t hold that against her. She knew Nasimiyu felt like she had a role to play, even in the bedroom with Dulce, just like she knew that Nasimiyu knew it was a role she played. They played along that Nasimiyu was the one in charge, that she demanded her pleasure or chose when to graciously give it. They played as if it was their arrangement that Dulce followed Nasimiyu’s lead, but it was just that, just a play. 

A title didn’t matter when Dulce took hold of Nasimiyu’s head and held her mouth in just the right place until her eyes rolled back in pleasure. 

“Don’t stop,” she gritted out, back arching off the bed, legs twitching as she tried to hold herself still under the flicks and slather of Nasimiyu’s tongue. The twitching got stronger, her body begging for a break, clit stabbing tendrils of too much pleasure up through her center until the involuntary bucking pulled her away. The gasped groan hurt leaving her throat as she curled forward, but Nasimiyu pushed her back onto the bed and slid over her body to wipe the mess of Dulce’s orgasm from her lips onto Dulce’s neck. Even that touch made Dulce shudder but Nasimiyu continued, as if preening Dulce back into rest.

“My turn?”

“Not yet,” Dulce told her, slowly stretching out her legs. She let her eyes close and relaxed, embracing the numb mind that followed after the onslaught of pleasure. 

Nasimiyu mumbled something unintelligible, then complained, “I’m desperate now…”

“Hm, just wait,” Dulce said. Her arms and legs popped as she stretched them as far as she could. Nasimiyu playfully pinched at her nipples and Dulce batted her away, “Just give me a minute, I’ll take care of it.” 

“Liar, you’re going to fall asleep.”

“When have I ever fallen asleep after cumming?”

“You came harder this time.”

“Yes.”

“You went too long without cumming,” Nasimiyu continued. “I don’t think you’ve cum in a while.”

“Hm.”

“Do you get off on depriving yourself? That seems true,” Nasimiyu mused and Dulce smiled with her eyes closed. That was somewhat true. Dulce did enjoy making Nasimiyu cum without necessarily letting her return the favor. Sometimes she took care of it herself later, remembering the way Nasimiyu had looked and sounded and tasted. Other times she just made herself move on unsatisfied. It kept her sharp. Orgasm made her too… lose. Lazy. Soft.

Besides, there was power in sex, and it was better she keep the scales balanced this way. There was a vulnerability she felt in letting someone else make her cum; she liked to control whether that happened or not with another person. 

“Maybe,” Dulce said, eyes cracking open. “Maybe I’m just selective about when I let you see me like this.”

“Yeah? Then who else is seeing you like this?”

“Hm.”

Nasimiyu’s eyes narrowed, an obvious uncertainty whether Dulce was teasing her or not. Nasimiyu didn’t like to share, something she made no secret of in the time Dulce had known her. Even though there had never been some exclusive relationship established, even though Dulce didn’t ask anything like that of Nasimiyu, they had known each other only a short time before Nasimiyu’s jealous narrow gaze traced her shadow at the tavern they used to meet in.

Thinking about it made Dulce warm again. It was nice to feel wanted. She suspected the scarcity of her response was what kept Nasimiyu interested in her anyway. If she’d been easy and simple and bubbly and drowned Nasimiyu in affection –much as Nasimiyu wanted the attention– she’d have been dropped in a moment. Don’t try so hard, she had told Seokjin, and she thought that was the best advice she could give. Maybe Seokjin had already made it impossible for himself simply because he wanted Nasimiyu so badly. 

How were the two of them going to work, even temporarily? Dulce let her gaze roam across Nasimiyu’s body reclining next to hers, every inch of it beautiful. Every inch of it accessible to her right now. She reached out and thumbed her bumpy dark nipple and Nasimiyu grinned proudly. She caressed the breast, trailed her fingers down the warm skin of Nasimiyu’s belly, she slid her fingers down through the dark curls between Nasimiyu’s legs, glistening with obvious need. Nasimiyu was no less obvious, quick to widen her legs and try to rock against Dulce’s stroke.

She couldn’t see it. He’d be so brazenly eager in his worship of Nasimiyu’s body, that she was sure of. Would Nasimiyu look at him with that same increasing frustration and desperation? No doubt her mouth would look pretty around a cock but Dulce preferred her lips swollen from sucking on a less invasive sex. Nasimiyu might laugh at his cock. She had a hard time picturing Nasimiyu intimate with a man, though knew she’d had at least two lovers before Dulce. Had they ever figured out how to touch Nasimiyu just right, like Dulce had? Would Seokjin’s own eagerness to master Nasimiyu’s pleasure be a further obstacle in his attempt to win her affections, or would that be the secret for him? Nasimiyu liked to pretend she was so independent, so tough, so controlling, especially in the bedroom, but it was an act. She was the kind of woman who wouldn’t admit it but needed to be held after you made her cum hard and then pretended like it was a favor she was doing for you. She demanded to be the best you ever had.

Seokjin would probably love that.

“Come here,” Dulce said, sliding her hands across Nasimiyu’s inner thigh. 

“Yes?” Nasimiyu asked, cocking her eyebrow knowingly.

“I’m not done,” Dulce said. Sometimes it was hard to bite back the smile, like in the face of Nasimiyu’s obvious frustration. “Unless you’re so needy–”

“I’m not,” Nasimiyu scoffed. “It’s fine. This is what I mean about you go too long, it’s hard to work you loose–”

The lecture was too much, Dulce laughed. 

“All right, princess,” she teased, and tugged on her thigh. “Let’s see who gives first.”

Nasimiyu’s eyes lit up as she lifted higher, settling herself over Dulce’s face. 

“Wait.”

“Wait… for what?” Nasimiyu asked. Dulce didn’t answer her, just gazed and admired, spreading Nasimiyu’s pussy with her thumbs. “Oh, you like it?”

Dulce lifted up to lick, appeased by Nasimiyu’s deep sigh.

“Looks like I’ll win…”

She didn’t have to see Nasimiyu’s glare to feel it as the princess herself leaned forward and nudged Dulce’s legs wide apart so she could reach with that bossy tongue of hers. 

It was a draw. And afterwards Nasimiyu draped herself across Dulce in the bed, teasingly calling her “my little doll”, acting like she’d managed the whole thing so well. It made Dulce fond again, smoothing over some of the recent wrinkles between them. How did others not see so easily through the front Nasimiyu put up? Even her own parents didn’t seem to understand the blend of hard and soft that made up their daughter. They doubted her in the wrong places; they ignored her in the ways that might have drawn them closer together.

No doubt Seokjin wanted to be this for Nasimiyu, and that would have a tragic conclusion no matter what. Who would be this and more for Nasimiyu once her false marriage came to an end? Would Dulce still be here…?

No. She couldn’t be. She’d be gone before Nasimiyu turned the tables and Dulce reached for a hand that was no longer reaching for hers. She wouldn’t haunt the hallways and closets and kitchens of this palace a moment longer than she needed to. Right now she felt ambivalent about thinking of life after, life beyond, but as the sweat cooled on her skin, she already felt some of that restlessness return.

What was she doing here?

Was she really so afraid of Prince Hamisi’s threat?

Was Nasimiyu what kept her here?

Her day walking the city (with the Prince, not that it was relevant) had awakened a restlessness in her. She was beginning to feel like she was intruding. She knew too many people here now and too many people knew too much about her. The cook Yoongi shouldn’t be exploring Palmoman cuisine. Jungkook shouldn’t wink at her when he passed her in the hallway. Jimin shouldn’t sidle up next to her while they were working and chat like they were old friends.

The Prince definitely shouldn’t have grabbed her hand when she cut herself. 

She looked at her palm now, at the bandage she’d taped there. The other maids insisted she wear gloves, that the cut was too gruesome for service. Slipping with the knife was supposed to have been her escape from the kitchen, the plan hatched as soon as she realized she had stepped too far into the Prince’s circle. 

That was a slippery slope, the one leading into that group. Those people were too simple, too easy to get along with, too diverse in tastes and temperament so that it was harder to feel at odds than it was to fit in.

Dulce wasn’t here to fit in. She wasn’t here to get familiar. Most of those people were probably going to die. Prince Hamisi would be ruthless in the turnover when Nasimiyu took over; anyone that close to the Prince would be considered a potential threat. 

Honestly, the alternative was bad too. They clearly genuinely cared for him. The thought of them keeping their positions in this palace without the Prince at their center… it was tragic…

“I can’t believe you faked an injury. That’s so…” Nasimiyu snickered, taking Dulce’s hand and brushing her fingers over the bandage. The caress was a thoughtless one; it hurt. Not that Dulce would say that.

“So Kalamouche,” Dulce mumbled. She’d read the second and third books now as well, since they were in the palace library. Kalamouche was always doing brainless things like that to get out of trouble. Hurting himself, saying something embarrassing or wrong, making jokes when he should be serious, anything to distract, smooth over, or escape a situation. He was quite obviously inspired by Prince Seokjin. 

Nasimiyu either didn’t hear her or didn’t notice, just mused, “Speaking of fake, I have your dress.”

“My dress?”

“I bought you one,” Nasimiyu grinned, sliding her hand up Dulce’s side in a lazy caress.

“A dress?”

“For the ball. And a mask, obviously.”

“The… ball?”

“The masquerade?”

“It’s not for servants.”

“So don’t be a servant,” Nasimiyu said, and stretched out on her back. Now it was Dulce’s turn to trail her fingers around the mounds of Nasimiyu’s breasts. Her dark skin goosebumped and Dulce’s mouth was drawn to it. “I swear people won’t even recognize you once you let your hair out of that braid and put a mask on, but if they do, no one’s going to pitch a fit.”

“The other servants will.”

“So fuck them. I mean, not actually fuck them, but who cares? Tell them I told you that you had to.”

“Yes, love hiding behind my lady’s skirts–”

“I know you do,” Nasimiyu grinned and leaned in. “Come on, it will be fun. It’s not a party without you.”

“I can’t party at this thing.”

“Why not? No one will know who you are. They’ll be too drunk to remember anyway.”

“A party with nobles…” Dulce grimaced.

“We’ll make our own fun. You’ll have fun dressing up. Going in disguise.”

“I already am in disguise.”

“You have to. I insist. It’ll be dull as fuck–”

Dulce’s hissed “shhh” cut Nasimiyu off in a second; her face must have shown the gravity of that shush, because in looking at Nasimiyu, Dulce saw in the mirror over the fireplace that the bedroom door was cracked and that someone stood at it listening. No doubt they could see her and Nasimiyu in bed together. Who knew how long they’d been listening but even just hearing what Dulce had just said was enough.

“Dulcie–”

Dulce leapt from the bed, grabbing Nasimiyu’s robe and pulling it around her shoulders as she sprinted at the door, knowing the person would see her coming and run. 

They slammed the door and took off. 

She yanked it open and leapt out, not stopping to think about whether guards would be out there or not. She knew if the eavesdropper got away right now, she’d be fucked; she couldn’t tell who it was to chase them down later. 

The good news was, they were slow, far slower than Dulce. She darted around the corner in the direction of the footsteps and caught the person as they rounded the next corner:

A palace servant, not one of Nasimiyu’s. Dulce didn’t even remember his name, though certainly knew it was not someone who should have been peeking into Nasimiyu’s room in the first place. 

She slammed him into the wall easily and he let out a yell that would bring people running. She punched him in the face to startle him into silence while demanding,

“What the fuck were you doing, spying on a Princess’ bedroom?”

“Got an eye full for my trouble,” he spat. “How’s Prince Seokjin going to feel knowing his betrothed’s a whore fucking her maids?”

“He’ll slit your throat for slander.”

“And you– what are you?” he demanded. He was tall but clumsy, awkward in his motions. Afraid of her, even though she was smaller. Either the situation or her obvious rage had him ready to piss his pants despite his attempts to sound threatening. “What are you really?”

“The wrong person to fuck with.” She yanked the silk belt out of the loops of the robe. “Why were you looking in her bedroom?”

“None of your business.”

“Someone ordered you? Or you’re just a fucking pervert?”

He decided not to answer that and just began to shout again and try to push her off, but she clung to him like an angry cat 

“HEL–”

Dulce was faster than his voice. She had hoped to get more information out of him, just in case he was working on someone else’s command. It would look suspicious when he didn’t return if so but the risk was too high if she didn’t act fast.

She looped the belt around his throat and leapt behind him, yanking hard enough he fell backwards. Just as quickly she turned again so she could quickly tighten, twist, and tie off the belt around his throat. He tried to scream but couldn’t. He tried to fight but it was no use. 

Despite the ease with which she could do such work, it wasn’t a joy to Dulce. It was a means to an end for her, killing someone. In this case, to protect Nasimiyu, to protect herself, and to protect any other women, for that matter, from this man who peeked into their bedrooms at night. 

She was doing a good thing. Doing a bad thing wouldn’t have slowed her down, but it helped her to justify it as she wrestled him until there was no more wrestle left in him, gone with the life and breath she’d robbed him of.

Winded herself, there was no time to waste on the cover up. It was a miracle no one had come by yet. She grabbed hold of his feet and dragged him as quick as she could back around the corner to Nasimiyu’s room, where the Princess waited in the ajar door with horror on her face. She opened the door as Dulce dragged the body in, then slammed it shut behind and leapt away from the results of Dulce’s work.

“He saw us!”

“And heard me,” Dulce confirmed. She eyed Nasimiyu and thought she looked a little faint. “Wouldn’t say why he was looking into your room in the first place–”

“Did you hear something?” they heard through the door. Both froze, as if someone could see through it. Nasimiyu looked ready to yell but Dulce shushed her and leaned against the door to listen.

“He knew when the guards patrol the hallway,” Dulce realized. “They’re back at the end of the hall.”

“That was so close, they would have seen you–”

“They would have seen me fighting off a man sneaking into your room,” Dulce said. The cover formed in her head, although damnit, she’d strangled him with the belt. That wasn’t how a princess would defend herself against an intruder; it required a ruthless commitment. A stab would be better, but then how two explain the ligature marks left around the man’s neck? Slicing over them would be too gruesome; Nasimiyu might actually faint at the blood. She looked a little like she wanted to faint now.

“What do we do now?” Nasimiyu asked, gaze fixated on the lifeless man. 

Dulce looked around the room. She looked at the body. She tried to calculate what would be most believable. Nasimiyu was a complication actually. Dulce wasn’t sure how well she could hold up a lie under pressure. Last time they’d been in a situation like this, she’d done a shit job of it…

Dulce slipped the robe off and handed it to Nasimiyu, explaining, “Play dumb and seem panicked. Can you do that?”

“Yes…”

“Put the robe on. I’m sticking him in the closet. You’re going to notice your robe is missing the belt, go to check the closet, and then…”

“But who killed him then?”

Dulce shrugged, “I don’t know. They’d better figure that out, hm?”

“What if someone innocent gets framed?”

“They won’t,” Dulce assured her without knowing if it was true. “Put that on.”

“But why am I only noticing the belt missing now?”

“Yes, why? Don’t get complicated.”

“I… I was…” Nasimiyu was distracted by Dulce dragging the body to the wardrobe. She had to hoist the tall man up, arms flopping all over. It was hard to fit him in with the clothes, but Nasimiyu dragged most of them out and hurried them to the actual closet. Then she helped Dulce get the door closed, and stood awkwardly in the center of the room while Dulce quickly dressed.

“I fell asleep naked and woke up cold. It’ll fluster the guards so they won’t ask more.”

“Good,” Dulce nodded. “I’m going out the window. Give me a few minutes, then open the wardrobe and scream like a dead body has fallen on you.”

“He was a bad man, you think?” Nasimiyu asked, looking once again to Dulce for assurance. For a woman who moved so confidently through life with her privilege a crown on her raised head, she did not handle ambiguity well. It came from not being used to getting her hands dirty in this sort of thing. 

Could Nasimiyu have killed the man if she’d been the one to catch him? Could she have done it to protect herself? Could she have done it to protect Dulce?

Dulce didn’t want to answer that. She dressed in haste, tying the last knots as she scoped out the wall she would have to scale and the roof she’d dart across to get to the courtyard and then go to her room from there. Someone might see her up there. She needed to not move like herself.

“Good men don’t crack women’s bedroom doors in the middle of the night,” Dulce pointed out. “Good men don’t blackmail women.”

“Good women don’t lie to their betrothed and plot his overthrow…”

“His death,” Dulce reminded. 

Say it. Say what this coup will really mean. That body in the wardrobe is only the first that will happen in the palace to support you.

Nasimiyu let out a deep breath, “I’m ready. Go quickly. I’ll count to a hundred.”

“Count to three hundred. You’ll count faster when you’re nervous,” Dulce argued, then was gone out the window before Nasimiyu even got to three.

Honestly, someone who trembled the way Nasimiyu did at one dead body shouldn’t be in charge of the lives of millions. That’s what Dulce thought anyway as she scaled the roof in the moonlight. Though she supposed someone had to do it, and better a sweet woman like Nasimiyu than someone to whom a dead body was nothing. Maybe Dulce’s rationale was backwards, she realized. 

Well, Dulce was no sweetheart and no great thinker. There was more blood than this on her hands. And somehow she’d still sleep tonight and wake in the morning and with any luck the fucking guard wouldn’t wander off from Nasimiyu’s room ever again.

The guard rotation had been significantly increased, but Seokjin still spent the greater part of a day patrolling the palace himself. 

It wasn’t right that this had happened to Nasimiyu. Not in what should be her new home. Not when he didn’t have a fucking clue who had done this or why.

Wearing down the marble flooring wasn’t getting him any answers though. She’d been moved to a different wing completely, one she was allowed to pick herself in an attempt to lull her back into a sense of comfort. It was crucial that they not only make clear they were taking this seriously and would figure out what had happened and who was a danger to her, but also that she find a way to feel happy and comfortable here again.

Or, well, maybe for the first time.

That she had chosen the late Queen’s wing as her own should not have been a surprise. Seokjin had told her she could pick any wing. If not now she would have had her pick once they married anyway. Still, it was a bold choice. Seokjin ignored the titters and whispers when she made her selection, but was relieved when she at least agreed to leave the late Queen’s quarters alone, choosing instead the second full size suite. While his mother’s room had a window to the sea and a window to her favorite garden, Nasimiyu’s was blocked off entirely from the sea with all windows centering around a small private courtyard. 

Because Nasimiyu had easily agreed not to disturb the other master suite –”my family maintains it as an homage to my late mother and brother so if you would please–” “I understand and I’ll make sure my staff do as well”-- he had not bothered discussing it with his father. It was all quickly done, because obviously Nasimiyu couldn’t spend another night in a room where such an attack had happened. 

His father had been summoned when the attack happened, even though it was the middle of the night, but he’d ultimately put the handling of the situation into the hands of Seokjin and the chief of palace security and gone back to bed. 

Not for another night and day, once Nasimiyu was all settled in the new wing, did his father send for him to join him his private sitting room.

Seokjin was one of only five people allowed in the room despite its intended purpose as an intimate reception room. King Donggun kept most receptions formal, preferring the less personal receiving room closer to the throne room. Here he accumulated the things not fit for his sparse and cold bedroom (which Seokjin had not seen since his mother’s death, when he’d gone to his ailing father’s side to beg him to cling to life) but also not fit for the public gaze; the things only his head valet, two maids, and his chief aide could look upon. And his son.

Seokjin, hands clasped behind his back, gazed upon the paintings lining the walls of his father’s private reception room with the same blank stare he always did. As an adolescent he’d been agog at the detailed oil paintings of sex. So so so much sex. Men with women, men with men, women with women, groups of them all tumbled together, sometimes with masks on their faces and nothing else, other times casual and unabashed in their exposure. On shelves beneath the debaucherous gaze of these paintings were statues and vases much the same, interspersed with the heaviest, most expensive gems to be found in Yeonhalbi arranged as casually as pebbles. Some were in jewelry, a few pieces of the late queen’s but mostly the king’s own. Crowns he refused to wear and kept only for display. Necklaces, rings. This wasn’t his dressing room; he had far more jewels there in a vault the size of a room kept under constant guard.  

Other darker oddities taunted Seokjin from their corner shelves, from where they’d given him nightmares as a small boy: a shrunken head and a necklace of nails taken from a foreign people his grandfather had exterminated in order to claim their island and its resources; a mummified hand taken from a mountaintop in Paloma where ancient people did such things to their dead, shortly before the ritual site was ransacked for the gold and jewels that funded his great-grandfather’s sea voyages; a strange long-legged sea creature preserved in a jar that had sucked the face off his great-grandfather’s youngest son on one such voyage; a tiny pair of leather shoes belonging to the youngest child of the previous royal family the Kim family had wiped out when they ascended the throne; more things, each as distressing as the former. Seokjin felt these trophies like a hand around his throat, an homage to the complicated grasp of power that came with being a leader. The people who mummified their dead had done so to young children as well; the exterminated people had tortured their enemies before turning them into trophies. Were these customs brutal or misunderstood? Was his family right to have put an end to those people, or just another spiked hand punching down at the same weak people? Would he commit atrocities to one people trying to help another when he was king? Did you know you were committing atrocities at the time and do it anyway? Did you have to?

“See anything that calls to you?” King Donggun asked as he entered the room wrapped in a silk robe shot with gold and a heavy jeweled belt that dragged the ground. 

“Why do you keep these things?”

“Why do you keep your animals? Your books. Your wood carvings.”

“They bring me joy,” Seokjin answered, afraid of his father saying the same.

His father smiled up at the paintings and said, “Some of those bring me joy. They remind me of a time in my life…” He chuckled. “We shall see if your masquerade lives up to the ones of my time.”

“It’s still your rule.”

“I am but a shadow of the king I once was,” his father sighed. Before Seokjin could offer empty words, he raised his hand, “Once your father… well. I will not scandalize you with the details. One of my sons was born with the lust of a wild beast like his father and the other turns bright as a tomato as a hint of fucking. You know which son you are.”

“Yes…” Seokjin said through gritted teeth. All right, look. He had lust! He was no virgin. He longed for a healthy, happy sex life. Just because he wasn’t launching himself headfirst into orgies like his father allegedly had… “Allegedly.” It was true.

Though to make the rumors even his own father endorsed more complicated, to Seokjin’s knowledge his father had not been close with anyone, even briefly, since the death of his mother.

Seokjin avoided looking at the paintings too closely, not interested in knowing whether his mother or Taehyung’s appeared in them. Taehyung believed they did. A brutal fight had ensued after that, Taehyung had been sent away…

Seokjin had never bothered to look closely for the truth either way.  

Instead he gestured to the macabre collection and pressed, “Do those bring you joy, father?”

“Hm.” His father strode to one of the shelves and lifted a bleached skull with a hole in it. Seokjin didn’t remember whose skull it was. He wasn’t left in ignorance for long: “This man tried to assassinate my father. Yes, it brings me joy that we survived.”

“Isn’t life enough of a trophy? Why the skull…?”

“A trophy? These aren’t trophies. How… peasant,” King Donggun frowned. “Those are trophies,” he said, pointing to the animal heads hung on the wall around the door. There was a reason Seokjin always walked backwards out of the room, and it wasn’t propriety. Anywhere else he would ignore the rule about not turning his back to the king but here he’d rather not see the animals, robbed of their lives, stuffed up and made up to look like a mockery of life. 

When he was king, he’d have the heads taken down and buried. Even the elephant, allegedly the very last one of its kind.

Imagine being proud of that legacy.

“What’s the difference?” Seokjin mumbled.

“Those animals look strong and fierce and wise! I’m proud of those! This… this is all a man is. Bones. Bones and breath and a pinch of something that evaporates when he dies. How easy it is to end someone’s life. In the end, what’s the difference between my father and this man who tried to kill him?”

“Higher bone density from a better diet?” Seokjin quipped.

“My father outlived him,” was the answer his father gave. “In his tomb, my father is no more than this skull and sludge by now. But we told people he was more than this and so people saw in him more than this. They see in me more than this. They see in you the potential to be more than this. Even in death, we will never be ‘just bones.’”

His father tossed the skull and Seokjin yelped to catch it and then yelled again and set it hastily down on the desk. He could happily go his entire life without touching the bones of another person. That was just not an intrinsic need of his. He understood what his father meant, but frankly he didn’t want to think about bones at all. He didn’t want to think about what his legacy would be, or the need to get started building one since he didn’t have anything significant to his name to date that could help him transcend being more than “just bones.” By now his brother had been a celebrated military commander. Honestly, if left to his own thoughts, Seokjin didn’t much care about legacy or transcending. If his life were his own choice, he’d live it the best and happiest he could and not worry about what anything thought of him later. He’d die and someday be nothing more than that skull, no more or less able to reap any of the benefits of having left a legacy. 

But he didn’t want to think about death. He didn’t want to think about absence and loss and the pain of those he left behind –assuming by then he would have someone to leave behind, someone who would mourn his death. 

Nasimiyu?

Not if she was killed first!

The thought made his stomach cramp painfully. 

No. He wouldn’t allow it. He understood the ever-present risk of assassination as a royal, and as his betrothed, Nasimiyu was taking on that danger as well. But he wouldn’t allow her to be hurt, he couldn’t. He’d already lost so much in his life, he couldn’t lose his wife, too.

As if reading his thoughts –or perhaps following his own macabre path as he stared at the dead things collected in the room– his father asked, “How is the search for answers on whatever that business was in the Princess’ room?”

“The business,” Seokjin repeated, face lowering into a serious stare. It sounded mocking to his ears. “The business where someone snuck into my betrothed’s room to do her harm–”

“Well we don’t know what he was doing there,” the King pointed out. “Or who killed him and then stuffed him in the cupboard like an out of style robe.”

“Appa…”

“It’s an odd business, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Seokjin could agree with that much. 

“No leads?”

“None yet,” Seokjin admitted. “Servingman Bak was just a regular servant. No one has found anything in his background yet that shows him with any association with Marvono, any hard feelings towards us, any political or social affiliations other than loyalty to our house. He has a father with some medical debt, so there could be bribery involved.”

“You’re looking at him as an attacker, but what if he’s the victim? He’s the one who ended up dead,” his father insisted. He motioned to the skull. “Your grandfather put the hammer in him. Who put the hammer in your servant?”

“He must have deserved it, he had no reason to be in Nasimiyu’s bedroom.”

“Ah, now you sound like a Prince. Confident even when you have no reason to be,” his father grinned. Seokjin didn’t like it. He recounted his own words and tried to calm that defensive flash of anger. 

He would not let harm come to Nasimiyu. From any direction.

“The corpse could be a warning to you,” his father suggested, sinking down into a chair at his table for Baduk. “Someone letting you know they have access to your betrothed.”

“Yes, we’re increasing security around Nasimiyu.”

“Or someone trying to cast doubt on the Princess,” he added. The look he gave Seokjin was far too entertained for Seokjin’s liking. “The servant was strangled with her silk belt, yes? You’re sure she didn’t do it?”

“Appa!”

“If it was in self defense, we wouldn’t lift an eyebrow, but then why hide it–”

“Don’t say another word about it, it was not her.”

“You know this how?”

“You didn’t see how shaken she was by the whole thing. It wasn’t an act. She’s always so reserved and– and she’s not good at hiding the truth from her face,” Seokjin added, unwilling to admit he had briefly wondered the same thing in the early hours this morning, exhausted by another night of searching that had returned nothing but robbed him of all sleep. Quickly he had banished those thoughts. 

Sowing those doubts might be exactly what someone had hoped to do though. It was diabolical, but it made more sense than any other working theories. What, someone had seen a man break into Nasimiyu’s room, killed him instead of alerting a guard, then hidden the body in a closet? Maybe a maid had done it and been afraid of retaliation, but what maid could possibly be strong enough to take on a much larger man like that? Besides, their reactions had all seemed sincerely frightened and without deceit when the inspector had walked each past the body.

A warning to Nasimiyu… perhaps. But if so, it seemed to have missed any specific message; she claimed not to have any knowledge why someone would leave one of the Prince’s dead servants in her closet. Wouldn’t it be her own servant if they wanted to send her a message?

Who would do something so diabolical and–

“Namjoon,” Seokjin muttered under his breath.

The king’s eyebrow quirked as he smiled, “Keep your accusations private, my son. That’s a serious thing to level against your own cousin.”

“He’s smart enough to do some twisted–”

“To what motive?” the king asked.

“Ruining my happiness once again.”

“Yes you seem so very happy,” his father chuckled, and began to set the board. “He must be beside himself with envy of your arranged and awkward nuptials.”

“Awkward! Appa–”

“Anyone with eyes can see you two haven’t warmed to each other yet. If he wanted to ruin your engagement, he wouldn’t need a dead body to do it.”

“Your words are unfair–”

“Unfair? Truly?”

“They’re unkind.”

“Ah, well. It’s not my nature to be kind. But flirting with your betrothed isn’t the same thing as tucking a dead body into her wardrobe–”

“So you admit he flirted with her!” Seokjin cried and whirled on his father, even though it meant dead animals in his periphery. The whole time his father had denied Namjoon’s culpability in the whole affair. His father was far too fond of Namjoon, and Seokjin had never felt that more than when his fiance succumbed to Namjoon’s charms and his father had said it was his fault.

“A happy woman can’t be flirted away,” his father said, that old refrain. “A smart one knows she can keep her husband happy and flirt on the side if she wants.”

“An unfaithful queen is punishable by death–”

His father waved his hand, “You’re chasing whisps, my son.”

“He flirted my fiance away and then didn’t even marry her as if that was proof of his innocence.”

“Did they fuck? I never heard… seems like a poor deal for him if he earned your eternal hatred and didn’t even get to fuck her.”

Seokjin hissed and looked away. It was obvious his father had set the game for the two of them but he didn’t feel like joining right now. He was already miserable about Nasimiyu and exhausted by the hunt without any obvious leads, and now his father was turning over old hurts too. Would there ever be a day he didn’t cringe at the letter she’d left him detailing how deeply her love ran for Namjoon? Making sure he understood that her love for Seokjin could never compare, that any feelings she’d had for him were before she understood what it truly meant to be in love?

Maybe Nasimiyu could mend those wounds but she did not yet seem interested in the task.

His father was watching his face. Seokjin turned away again but his father offered,

“You dodged a poor match with that one. You want me to put it plainly? She was a weak mouse, too easy to crush under your heel. Princess Nasimiyu is made of stronger stuff. Namjoon isn’t in the way of your arrangement with her.”

“He is.”

“From what I’ve seen, he seems to be trying to keep his space. If you’re that insecure about it, send him away. Ah, but that would mean sending Mindeulle as well…” The king gave him a knowing smile and made his first move in the game.

“I don’t have the authority to send anyone away,” Seokjin countered, debating whether to sit, wanting to go, struggling to resist his father’s attention even when it was painful.

“I’ll allow it. Say the word! But Mindeulle goes too–”

“What’s that to me? Why do you say it like that?”

His father paused. Slowly he clasped his hands over his belly and leaned back.

“Do you wish I had chosen her as your betrothed instead of Nasimiyu?”

“No,” Seokjin said quickly. “Why would you ask me that? I’ve known Mindeulle her entire life. She is barely an adult– practically my younger sister–”

“Is that so? I thought about it…”

Seokjin froze. He really, really didn’t know what to say. 

“I have my reasons I didn’t pursue the match. Do you demand to know them?”

“No.”

“Good.” The king nodded, satisfied. “It doesn’t matter anyway. You are not a good match. You may think you are because you are alike in many ways, but she would have soothed and softened you into a clay for her brother to shape. Do you see?”

Seokjin nodded. Mindeulle was all the good things her brother was not, but of course Seokjin could see the wisdom in what his father said. He hadn’t hoped for a marriage with Mindeulle. He’d never thought of it at all. She had seemed so childlike until only the last couple of years, and his fondness was a deep but innocent love. He held her in high regard despite her unfortunate high opinion of her brother. She was the only reason Seokjin could tolerate Namjoon’s presence. 

“You have to work for your marriage just like you work for your throne and your title and your kingdom. You would have been afraid to fight with Mindeulle. You would have spoiled her and she would have spoiled you. Princess Nasimiyu is a challenge. She will make you stronger. Unless…”

“Unless what?” Seokjin asked when his father didn’t continue.

“Unless you allow Namjoon and Mindeulle to come between you.”

“If you’re worried about it, father, why don’t you send them away?”

“Because you cannot let other people repeatedly take what is yours, Seokjin. I cannot solve all of your problems. You must appeal to your wife. You must learn to work alongside the people you like and the people you dislike all the same. Your marriage must be able to withstand whatever temptations or circumstances or troubles come your way because you will never be able to predict them. Your marriage must be stronger than any person, any feeling, any word, do you understand?”

“Was yours?” 

He hadn’t meant to ask it. The words simply rolled off his tongue, that troublesome habit of his. He genuinely didn’t know if it would anger his father, though certainly it wasn’t the sort of question a son should ask.

“Yes,” his father answered calmly. “Yes, it was, Seokjin. Beyond anything you could understand.”

“Well.” Seokjin didn’t know what else to say. He hadn’t meant to attack his father’s marriage anyway. He was just tired and confused and afraid for Nasimiyu’s safety. “Well I can’t stay any longer, I have to continue the search for whoever threatened my betrothed, unless you have any leads for me.”

“I do not. But come, stay for a game with–”

A knock at the door preceded the king’s valet stepping in and bowing, “My apologies, the ‘visitors’ are ready to be greeted.”

“What visitors–”

“Spies,” the king sighed with a wave of his hand in Seokjin’s direction. 

“Spies? You just told me you don’t have any leads–”

“I am certain it is unrelated to your closet body issue. Not even good spies, but troublesome stubborn ones. Destin.” His father’s lip curled as he named the principality he liked least of all. Poor, distant, uneducated like Paloma, but not quiet about it like Paloma. Probably because their land was far less suitable for farming or any other sustainable industry. Every so often on cycle Destin activists made it to the capital and staged protests but they were always quickly shut down.

“What do they want?” Seokjin asked.

“Oddly enough, they won’t tell me yet. Unusual for Destin, eh?” his father actually looked amused by it. “So I am going to ask them myself.”

“Be careful,” Seokjin suggested impulsively as his father abandoned the barely-touched gameboard.

The king laughed, “I’m not the one to be concerned about. But Seokjin, a word of advice. No matter what, do not delay the masquerade.”

Seokjin’s face remained neutral, but actually that was exactly the meeting he was off to next, to let Lady Zselyke know the whole thing needs to be called off.

“Why not?” he asked carefully. “There has been a serious threat–”

“You do not know what has happened. If we overreact to every threat, we will be seen to live in constant fear. Besides, you’re likely to get your leads from the ball, if there are any to be found.”

“You think so/.”

“There’s something about putting on a mask,” his father said, grabbing one on display and holding it over his own face for example. “We become nobody. We become everybody. A king can be nothing. A servant can be queen.”

“And an assassin could get right up to Nasimiyu without any guard–”

“Well they already did,” the king pointed out. “Didn’t they? The truth is we are always on the cusp of death and no guards or walls or sword-training can truly prevent that. You have to convince the world that’s not true. Convince them we are not easy to kill. Have the ball without fear. Now I am going. I doubt you wish to linger in this room without me. You always were easily frightened…”

Seokjin bowed to his father and exited ahead of him without another word. 

Have the ball without fear! 

Truthfully such a thing wasn’t possible. It was simply a matter of more fear or less. Different kinds of fear. Fear his betrothed might be murdered or fear he might step on her toes and she’d wish to murder him.

No, he couldn’t make jokes about this.

He went to speak with Lady Zselyke and the royal guard to see what could be done to make the ball safer without it being obvious they were afraid. That they were in fact easy to kill. That underneath their luxurious clothing and heavy jewels, the royal family was in fact nothing but bones too.

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[princeescaluswords]

Hi, I’m the anon who messaged about Scott being a Paragon. I wanted to say thank you for your response. I’m someone who adores the characters who fit the Paragon, due to them most often being kind, gentle and powerful so that was how I viewed Scott. But you clarified something that needed.

I do think I will still slot him in with those characters, personally, not as a paragon as you did make me see the error there, but due to those shared qualities that make them my favorites.

I'm a little uncomfortable with terming our difference in perspective an error, to be quite honest. While the quest for a definitive truth is the goal of all investigation, when it comes to archetypes, genre, and other literary tools, I always try to keep in mind that there are no hard and fast boundaries.* I do appreciate that I managed to be persuasive!

On the other hand, Scott McCall and the men who carry the title in the MCU of Captain America, Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, have many things in common, so it's nowhere near an error to put them in the same category. The original purpose of this post was to underline what they had in common since the last post was about differences, but I got sidetracked in the best way.

Have you ever noticed how similar the plots of Captain America: Civil War and Teen Wolf's Season 5 were? I mean, it's quite astounding once you start identifying parallels. In order to reach nefarious goals, evil masterminds use an individual with historic ties to drive a wedge between the two primary heroes of a team dedicated to protection of the innocent, tearing the team apart by picking at their psychological and moral differences. I wonder if the Russo brothers cribbed from Jeff? I am kidding, of course. Similarities between plots are seldom because of plagiarism or a lack of creativity; they arise because of similarities in setting and in character, but they are no less creative because they bear resemblance to each other.

Scott McCall and Steve Rogers:

"They're not the bad guys. They're the victims. We shouldn't be killing the people we're supposed to save." / "If I see a situation pointed south, I can't ignore it. Sometimes I wish I could."

The most fundamental similarity between Scott McCall and Steve Rogers is the idea that true compassion requires direct action. It's easy to express compassion if it doesn't cost you anything, but Scott and Steve both understand that their moral codes demand more than just lip service. If Scott is to be "The Protector of Beacon Hills" that means he has to protect everyone in it, not just the people he likes, and that includes people like the chimeras such as Donovan Donati. Chimeras should not be punished because they had a genetic predisposition to aid the Doctors in their unholy experiments, and while Donovan was a petty criminal and a hothead who threatened the sheriff right in front of Scott, he didn't do anything that deserved execution. Similarly, if Steve is to live up to the ideas behind Captain America, he cannot let the whims of a bureaucracy that has proven itself inept and/or corrupt to Steve repeatedly in his lifetime dictate when he uses his power for the use of others. Specifically, if he is convinced that Bucky does not deserve to be made a scapegoat for the U.N. bombing, he can't allow the Sokovian Accords to tie his hands.

Stiles Stilinski and Tony Stark:

"You're the True Alpha! Guess what? All of us can't be True Alphas."/ "Sometimes I want to punch you in your perfect teeth."

Strangely enough, this is even the most powerful comparison. Both Stiles and Tony are pushed to do things that are ethically suspect because of deep set trauma. Their thinking has been clouded by events in the past that they have been unable to overcome. Stiles conceals Donovan's completely accidental death, playing into Theo's hands, because of deep seated insecurity caused by Claudia Stilinski's disease and the Nogitsune possession, neither of which he could have prevented. Stiles has no reason to think that Scott will reject him, but he's so convinced of his own negative evaluation of his nature that he justifies deceit, treachery, and violence because of it. Similarly, Tony is still smarting from the absolute disaster that his decisions wrought in Age of Ultron, even though they were inspired by history and the Scarlet Witch. Tony has already in the past refused to hand over his power to the government, but he's willing to do it now out of some misguided attempt to make up for the damage Ultron caused even though this won't really fix anything.

Theo Raeken and Baron Zemo:

"We won't tell Scott. 'Cause you can't lose your best friend, right? Even though we both know, you never needed him."/ "An empire toppled by its enemies can rise again. But one which crumbles from within? That's dead... forever."

Theo and Zemo both understand that the way forward is not through direct confrontation, which would only cause their enemies to pull together. Instead, they play on elements that remained unaddressed in the controlling relationship. For Theo, he picks at what my friend @momentofmemory called, very correctly, the Pedestal Problem. In response to Scott's rise throughout the series, the people around him have forgotten he's human as well and as a human there will be things he can't fix, but Scott's own sense of moral obligation won't let him not try. Baron Zemo understands that the superhero identity requires a distance from the system which suits the general public -- they can't protect the world without being alienated from it, and that alienation is, in itself, a weakness.

I had a great deal of fun comparing the two. I hope you appreciate my analysis.

*As an aside, allowing for a multiplicity of perspective in media analysis does not nor should ever equate with "all views are equal" You have to have evidence or at least deal with what actually existed within the media.

[oatbugs]

in no way do i want to come across as aggressive or nitpicky (your blog is so lovely and vibrant and showcases such a kind personality!) but it feels strange to describe a photoset of modern iran as “ancient things”….. market stalls are a beautiful part of the culture today. pls give some thought to orientalist aesthetics that portray the east as so “ancient and beautiful” bc they in turn uphold the idea of the west as “modern and civilized”

hi !! first i need to clarify that the particular tag you're referring to is not to do with market stalls specifically but anything to do w iran at all ! if you go through my blog you'll see i use that tag not as a descriptor of images but as a way to categorise posts to do w iran !

i get where ur coming from but...it's my own culture and i do associate it w being an ancient one and i think that's a beautiful thing irrespective of any western perception of it ! by no means do i think it's outdated; i'm acknowledge its age and richness and depth !! i know i and many other iranian ppl pride our culture for having such a rich history, and that is not us succumbing to any western perception of the country, but rather seeing its endurance and depth in spite of it .

the term 'middle east' itself is highly orientalist but we need to be frank that westerners really do not view everything (west asian countries are very often demonised) orientalist as ancient and beautiful, especially iran. you don't see iran described by westerners in any way other than (very often) Vehemently Negative And 99% Inaccurate . to iranian people, the age of the culture IS a point of pride, me included. this was long before i stepped into the west and judging by literature from the past few hundred years, it has been the case for a very long time .

i don't mean this in a bad way, i found it genuinely interesting that you ascribe "the ancient and beautiful" descriptor as one that is relative to west, and that somehow it constrasts with "modern and civilised" when they do go hand-in-hand . in ascribing the acknowledgement and pride we have in our history to some sort of orientalist comparison you are placing the west as the pivot around which everyone else rotates . my culture or what i think of my culture does not exist relative to the west . i am not in turn upholding the west's inflated ego by acknowledging my own country's history. i feel that, ironically, these commantaries always have a tinge of orientalism to them because they are unable to understand that eastern cultures as viewed by their native people pivot around their own axis . the west is not the focal point of everything - the commentary creates the comparison in the first place.

i will always acknowledge that behind each love, each glance, each pomegrante eaten in a humid beautiful busy street market, every beautiful thing in iran is thousands and thoudands of years of history . if you are iranian, you will know why this is important . the government's constant attempt to strip the people of an accurate historical account, of the language itself, and of their own culture makes it so that iranian people must hold a tight grip onto the age and depth of their culture in fear of it being lost . history is important . old is good and ancient is wonderful . this acknowledgment is an iran-centric commentary .

i hope this made sense !! also i appreciate u looking out for iranians a lot, i hope this didn't come out aggressive in any way at all ! if u are iranian then ur cool + lmk if this made sense etc and have a wonderful day :) i havent slept at alll last night, abt to go to sleep now but im barely awake so i hope this is cohesive !

[script-a-world]

How could I have an alien society that is mostly illiterate if they aren't royalty or an official but not have it be classism or anything backwards? Is that possible? By having other things being more or less equal so this comes across as a choice rather than uneducated?

Tex: Historically, writing was invented as a means to preserve important information, such as notable events and/or notable people. One’s (religious) history was often a main point, as well as noting down whomever was a ruler at such and such time, and any accompanying major construction projects (see: temples, pyramids, roads, etc) or meetings with other groups of people (see: treaties, wars). Natural disasters may feature on the list, but in the past have typically been attributed as an Act of God and are usually filed under “deity of the day is angry with us”/“deity governing aspect of natural disaster is revelling/in a different mood”.

Anyone in that context who didn’t learn how to read and/or write was usually illiterate because they didn’t need to be literate - they weren’t of the religious class, they weren’t a historian, they weren’t royalty or nobility, and probably weren’t merchants, either.

However, in much the same vein as modern parents who want their children to have better lives, parents in past cultures would take any available opportunity to have their children tutored in even the smallest bit of literacy, because it would open up doors that would otherwise be closed to them (see: ancient Egypt and late imperial Mandarin).

The multiple times mass-production of printed text has been invented and the subsequent revolutions of the lower classes to greater equality showcases the idea that if the option for literacy exists as a form of communication, people were going to grab at it with both hands.

In such a context, the only way for illiteracy to not be classist or “backwards” (I’m assuming you mean some form of immoral or perceived as disgusting in a moral setting) is for everyone to be illiterate - i.e. there is no written form of language to not know. If you’re still wishing to fulfill the goals of my first paragraph, try out a verbal history, such as story-telling and/or traditional music/cants.

Utubazu: Plenty of complex cultures have not used writing or not used it widely. So far as we know, no South American civilisations had widespread literacy (it's a matter of significant debate whether quipu were a writing system or not). Nor are any pre-Columbian North American civilisations north of Mesoamerica known to have utilised writing (obviously, we can't know if they wrote on something perishable, and we have only one European account of the complex urban cultures of south-eastern North America and the Mississippi before their collapse). 

Throughout history literacy has often been a specialised skill, there's a reason scribes were skilled professionals in many cultures. This was for a variety of reasons - often just that most people only needed a very basic level of literacy for their day-to-day lives because handwritten texts took time and resources to produce, which made them valuable and rare. Most people's general interaction with writing would be limited to essentially receipts and memos, which tend to be pretty formulaic, and perhaps prayers and spells, which are also generally formulaic. 

Another factor is that not every writing system is alphabetic. Logosyllabic systems like Chinese, Egyptian Hieroglyphs and Cuneiform could have hundreds or thousands of characters, which is a lot to remember and require years of study to master (and often it's not just a case of switching to a simpler system, not every language works like Indo-European ones, and languages like Sumerian and those of the Sinitic family can have a lot of homophones and require the large number of characters to clarify what is meant). Other times the written language can fossilise old forms and pronunciations, slowly diverging from the spoken (or signed, theoretically) language(s) until they bear little clear resemblance. English isn't even the worst for this.

Other times there might simply not be a written form for the language of the community. There are many languages in the world today that are generally or entirely unwritten. In this case literacy means learning another language, which takes time and resources and is therefore not necessarily practical or even useful for everybody.

[demonslayedher]

Blog Housekeeping: Ask Guidelines

I am Tumblr-dumb and can't manage to find the mobile links to pages I've created in the past, so I'm working around that with a new post to link to. THE ASK BOX IS ONLY OPEN PERIODICALLY. Please do not send meta or research Asks via PMs, I like to leave that open in case people want to ask anything about my fanwork or stuff like that.

Ask Guidelines

ASK BOX IS ONLY OPEN PERIODICALLY! Announcements may or may not be made about its status, so check back when you’re curious. If you have a theory you’d like to put forward, no need to wait for my potentially slow response–the more KnY blogs the merrier!

Rules can get too stiff, here are some general guidelines: 1. Please limit yourself to one Ask with one topic/question so that other people have a chance too before I have to close the box again. 2. When asking a meta questions, please focus on topics anyone in the KnY fandom might enjoy: character study, setting, interpretation of canon details, etc.

3. Please respect the angles I use to interpret canon (more focus on historical and cultural context, less focus on applying labels, as that’s not my area of expertise).

4. While I do have self-indulgent headcanons and such, and I will go into them if prompted, I try to keep that somewhat separate from close readings of canon. As much as I love trying to stay within the realm of canon as God-touge may have intended, I can’t help that I’m a fangirl too! This started as a fangirl blog, after all. 5. This blog strives to keep a general comfort level in a similar tone to KnY. While that means some dark topics, I like to keep this fun for myself too.

***

For more specific, fanfic-y questions: Please refer to my references page first. As fics can go in any direction, though, there may be other details that are hard to find or clarify. If it’s something I might be able to give a short answer to, feel free to PM, and I’ll do my best to be helpful. However, I’ve gotten more of these than I can handle, and I have trouble saying no. Please think of me as an occasional springboard for when you’re stuck as opposed to a beta reader. Also, I write a lot more fic than I read, so I’m more likely to engage an idea than actually be struck with the infrequent mood to read fic. EDIT: Really sorry, everyone, I've gotten more of these than I can give proper thought to! I hope the ideas I've provided in the past have been helpful in the writing process, but I can no longer accept DMs for fic research or feedback. Also… Although I’ve fallen into being a meta blog, I make fanworks too. When the box is open, it’s perfectly fine to leave Anon compliments. <3

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

Hi, just a little question without any tws.

I recently graduated from school and I had specialized in history. I had a great history teacher who was a great talker and it was fun listening to him. He wrote some books, historical fiction books about the real life of real people. It was his baby and he talked occasionally about it. I recently saw, that one of his book is avaliable on my secondhand-book website. He is not famous or anything and it was the first time I saw it avaliable. And I thought about buying it though it doesn't cover my favorite historical episode, but since he is such a great talker and an expert on his field (he also teaches at university) and mainly because I am very curious.

But:

I don't have a social life, no friends and only abusive family. I often daydream (when I walk the dog) and mostly dream about, you know, becoming famous or anything and meet all the people from my past again (since I have no present-people). And surprise them, and make tell me, how proud they are of me, that they never knew how "smart, good at something etc." I am. I know that I tend to overrate the relationship I had to the people of my past. Probably normal, when you daydream about them daily. Most people have probably forgotten me or, in this case, I was one student of many.

I often need to remind myself of that, that I made "relationships" up by thinking about these people a lot but that this is not mutual. Those people are much closer to me than I am to them. I really hope you get what I mean.

And my "daydreaming-pool" includes my former teacher. It is a big pool so it is not like it is about him or a special kind of person. Much daydreaming requires many people or it'll get boring. I am afraid if I'll buy the book and read it, I will continue to overrate the relationship we had. I'll know something about his private life, I'll know the book he spent his freetime on or the historical people that he finds most interesting etc. And I'm actually trying to stop thinking about past-people so much, at the moment.

I am unsure if I should read that book. If it would feed the fire of my daydreaming. Or maybe it will be a kind of "wake up" moment. You know, like when you idolize someone and then talk to them in person and it is 100% clear that you'll be disappointed.

What do you think?

Hi anon,

It sounds like you spend a copious amount of time daydreaming. I'm wondering if you're familiar with maladaptive daydreaming. It usually is characterized by choosing to daydream over things such as spending time with others, doing hobbies or work, and is often detailed, complex, and over long periods of time. It's also somewhat common for people who experience maladaptive daydreaming to have a history of trauma, as you said your family is abusive as well. I just want to clarify that this is of course not a diagnosis of any kind, but it sounds like your daydreams are unusually complex, and so you may want to consider exploring that with a mental health professional. A professional can evaluate your experiences and help you better balance daydreaming and meatspace.

I hope I could help. Please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

[johnnyrobish]

Sen. Tommy Tuberville Defends White Nationalism on CNN

Sen. Tommy Tuberville (R-Al) created a major uproar during his appearance on CNN this past Monday - after he was given an opportunity by host Kaitlan Collins to clarify remarks he made last spring, where he appeared to be advocating that “white nationalists” should to be able to serve in the U.S. military.  In a May interview with a local Alabama radio station, Tuberville criticized Biden Defense Secretary Lloyd J. Austin for his efforts “to weed out the white extremists and the white nationalists” from the military.  Tuberville categorized it as part of a Biden Administration effort to politicize the armed services and accused Pentagon leaders of “ruining our military” and driving away supporters of former president Donald Trump.  Even though Tuberville claimed he rejects racism, he still pushed back against host Collins when she told him that “by definition, white nationalists are racist because they believe their race is superior to others.”  Tuberville responded that “that was only her opinion” and at one point in the back-and-forth characterized white nationalists as people who hold “a few probably different beliefs,” adding “My opinion of a white nationalist, if someone wants to call them white nationalist, to me, is an American.  It’s an American.”

Oh, my mistake.  I must have been doing the math all wrong, but I get it now - white nationalists aren’t racists - and Nazis aren’t antisemites.  I mean, Tuberville acts like, “Hey, we’re simply talking about ‘white nationalism.’  Why do you libs have to bring race into the discussion?”  Sen. Tuberville then claimed the reason “libtards” are attacking white nationalists is that they hate “conservative values.”  Oh really?  So “hate and bigotry” are now considered “values?”  Who knew?  

Of course, in response to Tuberville’s remarks, Republican Party apologists were quick to point out that the GOP is actually a “pretty big tent” with many different types of people.  Indeed it is a “big tent with many different types of folks.”  Why its a big tent full of homophobes, misogynists, racists, bigots, wealthy oligarchs, conspiracy theorists, the willfully ignorant, general nutcases, and heartless, soulless social Darwinists - who these days refer to themselves as libertarians.  And hate - pays the rent on the tent.

Historically, just as Africa is considered by most anthropologists to be the "Cradle of Humanity,” the American South is now vying for the title the "Cradle of Stupidity.”  You see, folks like Alabama’s white supremacists are one of the primary reasons Alabama consistently ranks near the bottom in nearly everything that matters - that is, with the possible exception of “stupidity and ignorance!”

Now, in all fairness, Tommy Tuberville may not be the best US senator ever elected, but he’s definitely one of the dumbest.  And let us not forget there is quite a lot of competition for that title.  So, is it any wonder the good folks in Alabama decided, “Hey, THIS is the guy we need to represent us in Washington?”  Because white nationalists know you don’t elect a Republican to do anything “for” people.  You elect Republicans to do things  “to” people.

If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve just read, please consider joining me at:

[soul-dwelling]

I think the whole "BREW" thing must be something that got lost in translation. Especially because it gets called the temptest, which is the name of a play involving a magician (like Eibon), who was based on John Dee, but just googling any combination of these terms doesnt seem to lead to anything. Just giving two names seems weird, wonder if this one of these kanji pronounciation things or something else

… "Tempest.” It was staring me right in the face and I missed it. Thank you for pointing this out--this went right past me before. Good catch.

It also clarifies why the story made Eibon this mystery magician. And while it doesn’t justify the “death of a beautiful woman” / “lost Lenore” trope in the anime with Eibon’s wife dying, that is typical for a Prospero character: I don’t remember whether his wife died during the shipwreck, but if we have only Prospero and his infant daughter, that stands to reason she did die at some point. Almost makes you wonder how a story would go about Eibon’s kid…

The Soul Eater Wiki lists the Japanese for “BREW” and “Tempest” as ブリュー and 波乱. But my quick search online for Shakespeare’s Tempest as performed in Japan refers to the play as テンペスト. Soul Eater using 波乱 seems to refer less to “tempest” than to “upheaval,” so while still a word that can mean a weather problem (there is that tornado on Lost Island in Soul Eater), it may be more like “trouble” or “tumultuous” than it is in Shakespeare, where it’s both a literal storm and the political upheaval of Prospero’s plans. I’m not sure what context led the translators to go with “Tempest” for BREW, but my Japanese is severely limited, so I can’t speak to this. Maybe I'm wrong and there are Japanese stagings of The Tempest that use a different word than テンペスト.

In any case, given how underbaked I think Eibon’s story was in the anime, and how underutilized he was in the manga, if the story had tossed in more John Dee and Prospero references to Eibon, I think that would have enriched his story, or at least hinted at more to him and given just enough information through these historical and literary allusions to let the audience make reasonable educated guesses, or at least small leaps as opposed to wild leaps of logic, to figure out what his deal was.

[sunshineandaisies]

Dirty Paws & Wet Kisses

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Modern AU)

Words: ~3.7k

Warnings: language, floofs and fluff

Note: if you ever read anything written by me that includes dogs, their names will always be kinda extra or related to historical figures (i.e. my dog is actually named Theodore Roosevelt) and I will try my best to make their names increasingly extra with every fic that involves dogs

You’d argue that your four year old sheperd mix was the most well behaved dog in all of New York until your dying breath.

Most days.

During your weekly trips to the park on Sunday afternoons, she would sit at your feet, lounging in the sun as she watched joggers go by and playfully saying hello to anyone - be they human or dog - that stopped by to pet the pretty pup while you read whatever book you’d picked up from the bookstore earlier that week.

Sure, there were a few times that she would whine and stare down any squirrel that strayed too close to her, but she never left your side.

Maybe that’s why you had grown so complacent, why you’d stopped looping her leash around the bench to secure her to your side and simply kept the leash within your reach beside you on the seat of the bench.

And it was because of that complacency that you were sprinting across the park, chasing your naughty dog and drawing judgemental stares from other park-goers.

“Hazel!” you called after her. “Hazel, I swear to god I’m taking all your toys away when we get home!” Right after you took a nice long bath to soothe your aching muscles. When was the last time you’d run this much?

You lost sight of her when she disappeared around a hedge, and the internal panic that set in was almost worse than the time that you accidentally emailed your creative writing professor the Harry Potter fanfiction you’d written instead of your final paper. (You still got an A on the assignment, but that’s besides the point).

You see her as soon as you round the corner, happily licking at a stranger’s face as she sat between his legs, and-

Holy shit, your dog led you to the most attractive man you’ve ever seen.

The stranger took note of you before you had a chance to say anything, and he raised his brow at you while angling his face away from Hazel’s kisses. “Does this belong to you?” he asked, pinching the tags on Hazel’s collar between his thumb and two fingers. “Hazelnut Mocha.” He snorted. “Is that your dog’s name or your Starbucks order?”

You weren’t sure if it was the amused smile that curled his lips or the quirk of his brow, but his teasing made you feel personally attacked. You crossed your arms across your chest. “Maybe it’s both.”

He shrugged, scratching the spot behind Hazel’s ear. “I suppose that’s one way to never forget your dog’s name or your coffee order.”

You hummed noncommittally before approaching and tugging Hazel away from the handsome stranger. It took considerably more effort than you had thought it would. “I’m really sorry about her,” you apologized. “She’s never like this. I don’t really know what happened.”

He brushed your apology off with a smile. “Don’t worry about it. If a cute girl wants to give me kisses, I certainly won’t complain.” He winked at you, and you wanted to just melt on the spot.

“Well, uh, I should, um-” You cleared your throat, stepping away and dragging a disappointed Hazel along with you. “Again, I’m really sorry. Even if you didn’t mind.”

You turned and hurried away before his smile made your mind any more frazzled.

Two weeks passed before you decided to show your face at the park again, and this time, you were sure to secure Hazel’s leash to your bench, ensuring that there would be no chases across the park and embarrassing encounters with handsome strangers.

The pup resigned herself to her fate and laid at your feet in the grass, her tongue lolling out of her mouth and her golden eyes shining in the sunlight. She greeted the other dogs that passed, and you thought nothing of it until you heard someone call her name.

Well, shit. You knew that voice. That voice had haunted your dreams for three nights straight after the incident two weeks ago.

“How have you been, pretty girl?” he asked, and you hesitantly lifted your gaze from your book to see him knelt in front of you, patting Hazel’s head as she yipped happily and dragged her tongue over his face in sloppy kisses.

Despite your proclivity to stare at handsome men that showered your dog with attention, your eyes were dragged away from the pair when a wet nose nudged your leg. “Well hello there,” you greeted the brown and white dog that sought your attention. You quickly marked your page and returned your book to your bag before petting your newest furry companion. “What’s your name, handsome?”

“Bucky,” the stranger answered.

You glanced up at him briefly before turning your attention back to the brown and white dog. “Aren’t you a handsome boy, Bucky. Yes, you’re so handsome,” you cooed. The stranger chuckled, and you glanced up expecting to see Hazel mauling him with more sloppy kisses, but instead, he was staring at you, amusement dancing in his blue eyes. “What?”

“I’m Bucky,” he clarified before nodding towards the dog. “That’s Dodger.”

“And you just assumed that I was talking about you when I called him handsome?”

And in complete contrast to how he had acted in your previous interaction, he actually looked embarrassed, nervously scratching the back of his neck while fending off even more kisses from Hazel. “I seem like a complete asshole, don’t I?” he asked sheepishly.

You laughed. “Well, I mean… Don’t let this go to your head or anything, but I suppose you are kind of handsome, too. You know, in a handsome stranger kind of way.” You felt your cheeks flood with warmth, and you averted your gaze, hoping he didn’t see just how flustered you were after your admission. You tried to breeze past it altogether by giving all of your attention to Dodger once again, petting him and praising him for being such a sweet boy.

After a moment of you and Bucky speaking only to each other’s dogs, you cleared your throat and commented, “I didn’t realize you had a dog. Was he at the park with you the day that Hazel practically assaulted you?”

“He’s not my dog.”

You blinked. “Oh. Is he your girlfriend’s dog?”

And just like that, all hints of embarrassment disappeared from his face. He quirked a brow and smirked at you. “My girlfriend?”

“Or boyfriend,” you added hastily.

He snorted and shook his head. “It depends on who you ask.”

You cocked your head to the side, and the action conjured up an image of Hazel doing the same whenever you would try to hold an actual conversation with her. “Uh, what?”

His gaze flitted to the ground as he smiled an amused little smile that had you biting your lip and shamelessly staring at the man. “It’s a bit of a joke among my friends,” he began. “Dodger is my buddy Steve’s dog. Some of our friends like to make it seem like we’re dating, but we definitely aren’t. We just know each other way too well.” His smile widened when he looked back up at you. “So to answer the question that you indirectly asked-”

You furrowed your brows in confusion. “What?”

“-I’m single, sweetheart.”

You gaped at him, trying to form an appropriate response. This man was frustrating - frustratingly handsome, frustratingly smug, frustratingly able to read you like a goddamn open book. How dare he correctly assume you were trying to figure out if he was single or not?

The sound of a phone ringing interrupted your thought process, and Bucky gave you an apologetic look after glancing down at his phone. “I gotta take this,” he told you. You heard him greet the other person on the other end of the call before calling for Dodger. As he turned to go, he paused for a moment, pressed the phone against the front of his shirt to muffle the receiver, and called over his shoulder. “See you around, Hazel and Hazel’s mom.”

Right. You never gave him your name.

You were cursing yourself for nearly a month for not getting his phone number before he disappeared, and you’d be lying if you didn’t admit that you had a smidge of hope that you’d run into him at the park again... But alas, no luck.

You were starting to think that you’d never see your handsome park stranger - although, he wasn’t really a stranger anymore, was he? - but exactly 37 days after your last encounter with Bucky (aka handsome park stranger), Hazel brought you back together in the most heart attack inducing way she could manage.

You’d been sitting on the patio of your favorite little cafe, catching up with Carol and Val over coffee and fluffy pastries, and Hazel had been behaving herself aside from the occasionally whining and begging when any of you would touch your food.

She was behaving until she wasn’t.

You still don’t really know what set her off, but one moment she was sitting prettily and staring up at you with her golden eyes and the next she was breaking free from her leash and sprinting down the street and out of your sight.

You posted on social media asking everyone to be on the lookout for your Hazel and called your friends to help you search for her. You spent hours walking up and down the city streets and through the park that you frequented with Hazel. You called all of the shelters and animal control to see if anyone had brought Hazel to them instead of calling you. You talked to anyone and everyone that you passed on the street, asking if they’d seen your girl.

You tried so much to get your girl back, but nothing panned out.

You were in tears and your feet were sore from walking all over the goddamn city by the time you and the others returned to your apartment, resigned to wait for someone to contact you. Just as you were about to say goodnight to everyone and turn in for the night (read: cry yourself to sleep), your phone rang, and an unfamiliar number flashed across the screen. You shushed your friends and answered the phone.

Please be someone who found Hazel. Please be someone who found Hazel. Please be someone who found Hazel.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Your heart leapt into your throat at the sound of his voice, and for a moment you forgot that you had just been on the verge of a panic attack. “Take a deep breath for me, okay. I can practically feel you panicking through the phone. I have Hazel. She’s okay.”

“Thank you,” you breathed, nodding at your friends in response to their questioning looks. “Thank you so much, Bucky. Is she okay? Where did you find her? Should I meet you somewhere?”

He chuckled. “She’s fine. A little dirty, but she’s fine. As for where I found here...Well, I think your dog has a little crush on me, sweetheart.”

You grabbed your jacket from the coat rack and slipped it on before grabbing your keys. “What does that mean?”

“I came home and found her wandering around the courtyard at my apartment.” He sounded far too amused with the situation, and you definitely weren’t feeling up to dealing with his smug attitude. “She certainly made herself at home here. I may need to fight for shared custody after this.”

You rolled your eyes. “Just tell me where I should meet you.”

“I’ll send you my address.”

And just as he had told you, as soon as you ended the call, he shared his location with you. You swiftly assured Carol and Val that Hazel was okay, and you asked them to lock up when they left before beginning your walk to Bucky’s apartment.

Ten minutes later, you were sat on the floor of his living room, holding Hazel close to you and alternating between scolding her and telling her how much you love her as you tried to hold your tears at bay. Bucky sat on the couch, arms rested on his knees as he watched the teary-eyed reunion with a small smile curling his lips.

“You know, sweetheart,” he spoke up, drawing your attention away from Hazel, and you finally noticed the muddy paw prints on the front of his white tee. “I’m not much of a dog-person but-”

You gasped, covering Hazel’s floppy ears. “How dare you say such nonsense in front of Hazel!” You pressed a kiss between her eyes, whispering, “It’s okay, girl. Bucky didn’t mean it.”

“I did,” he countered, chuckling when you glared at him. “I’m more of a cat-person, but I suppose I can make an exception for Hazel. After all, she seems pretty attached to me. Not that I can blame her.”

You snorted and rolled your eyes. “She has awful taste in men,” you teased.

“I don’t know,” he argued. “People say that dogs are impeccable judges of character.”

You stood, dusting your jeans off and turned to face Bucky. “Thank you,” you told him, the sincerity clear in your voice. “I don’t know what I would have done if I couldn’t find her. I- I seriously owe you. Whatever you want, just name it.”

His blue eyes twinkled with mischief, and you immediately regretted your offer. “What about shared custody of Hazel?”

“Whatever you want that’s not that, just name it,” you amended.

“What about a date?” he asked instead.

Your eyes widened in surprise and you gaped like a fish, mouth opening and closing, opening and closing, over and over again as you tried to form a response. You certainly hadn’t been expecting that. He watched you with curious eyes, waiting patiently for your answer. Finally, the gears in your brain began to turn again and you answered, “As flattered as I am, I’m not really looking to date right now.”

Disappointment flashed across his features, but he smiled and all trace of disappointment was gone in an instant. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You don’t owe me anything for being a decent person and making sure Hazel got back to you.”

You smiled softly at him, your fingers carding through Hazel’s fur. “Thank you, Bucky. Really.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

After that night - and after you and Bucky officially had each other’s numbers - you and he would text throughout the week, and you often sent him pictures of Hazel being increasingly goofy as the days wore on. You’d even invited him to the park one Sunday to see Hazel again, but he’d quickly turned you down, asking for a rain check.

He had a date, after all.

So instead, you took Hazel to the park and sent him pictures of the pretty pup lounging in the sunshine, greeting other dogs that passed by, and even licking the camera lens on your phone when she finally noticed you holding your phone out towards her to get the perfect angle. A smile never failed to appear on your face every time he sent a heart eyes meme in response.

Despite the near constant texting, you didn’t see Bucky again for over three weeks, and you’d only seen him because you had run into his friend Steve at the dog park.

It took a moment for you to realize that the brown and white dog that Hazel had instantly greeted once she’d been released from her leash was Dodger, but as soon as the realization sunk in, you looked around for Bucky.

There weren’t many people present, but you couldn’t find Bucky among the dog parents that lingered around the edges of the dog park.

You crouched down to greet Dodger, scratching him behind the ears and happily accepting his greeting kisses. “Hello, handsome. Is your uncle Bucky here?”

“Y/N?”

You turned your head in the direction of the voice, and you furrowed your brows when you saw a tall blond man that you didn’t recognize. Holy shit, was Hazel a handsome stranger magnet? “Do I know you?” you asked, doing your absolute best to keep your voice steady.

“Right, sorry,” he laughed. “I’m Steve. Bucky’s mentioned you a few times.”

You put two and two together quickly. “You’re Dodger’s dad!”

You spent the better part of the next hour chatting with Steve as Dodger and Hazel chased one another around the enclosed area, and you sent a picture of you and Steve to Bucky, happily claiming that Steve was telling you all of Bucky’s most embarrassing stories. (Bucky had sent a text to Steve within seconds of reading your text, but Steve refused to tell you what Bucky had said all while laughing so hard he nearly cried).

By the time Hazel and Dodger were laying at yours and Steve’s feet, panting and entirely worn out from an afternoon of playing, you were ready to say your goodbyes, but Steve quickly caught your attention before you could go.

“I’m meeting Bucky and a few other friends at the bar in about an hour. Would you be interested in getting a drink?” he asked, smiling so widely at you that you just couldn’t say no.

And that was how, after dropping Hazel off at home and making sure she was fed and had a full bowl of water, you found yourself at a sports bar, slinking through the Friday night crowd towards a table in the back.

You spotted Bucky immediately, and you smiled widely when his eyes widened and he choked on his beer before promptly standing to greet you. “What are you doing here, sweetheart?”

“Sweetheart?” you heard one of the men you didn’t recognize ask the others.

“Y/N,” Steve explained, and as if that was all they needed to know, the other two nodded. Steve smiled up at you, greeting, “Glad you found the place okay.”

Bucky quickly ushered you into the booth, sticking you between him and the only other woman present. As he introduced you to the others - Clint, Sam, and Nat - his arm snaked around your shoulders casually.

“So you’re the famous Y/N,” Sam asked, a teasing smile on his face as his gaze flitted from you to Bucky, and Bucky groaned in response.

You chuckled. “I wouldn’t necessarily say ‘famous’.”

“Oh, trust me,” Sam said, “as much as this guy talks about you, I’d say you’re pretty damn famous in our circle.”

You glanced at Bucky, biting your lip in a futile attempt to hide your amused smile. “Is that right?”

He huffed. “Hazel’s the real famous one, sweetheart.”

“Liar,” Nat accused. She turned to you, one perfectly shaped brow raising. “For weeks, it was Hazel’s mom this and Hazel’s mom that, and after that it was Y/N sent me this picture and Y/N told me this joke. I feel like I already know you, and I just met you.”

“So how’s Hazel?” Bucky asked in a clear attempt to change the topic. “Did she have a fun day with Dodger?”

You spent your evening getting to know Bucky’s friends better, sharing stories about Hazel, and listening intently anytime one of them told you a story about Bucky that had your sides aching from laughter. At the end of the evening, you had four new contacts in your phone and plans to meet up with Nat for lunch the following week.

“Need me to walk you home, sweetheart?” Bucky asked when you walked out together, but you shook your head.

“Nah.” You held up your phone, showing him the screen. “I got an Uber.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, nodding. “Okay. Text me when you get home?”

“Of course.” A red Toyota Camry pulled up to the curb, and after confirming it was the car that was supposed to pick you up, you stepped towards it. Ever the gentleman, Bucky opened the door for you, and you slid into the backseat. “Good night, Bucky.”

It was while you laid in bed that night, unable to sleep while Hazel snored beside you, that you realized that the handsome park stranger - the one that was more of a cat-person but would make an exception for Hazel; the one that was dating Steve depending on who you asked; the one that was constantly talking about you to his friends so much that they felt like they already knew you - had wormed his way into your heart.

Did that make Hazel your wing-woman? She certainly did have a proclivity for bringing you and Bucky together, even in indirect ways.

He was on your mind all night and throughout the following day, and by the time your customary trip to the park rolled around on Sunday afternoon, you were buzzing with anticipation. Would he be there again? Would Hazel inexplicably get loose from her leash and lead you straight to the man that had you feeling like a teenager with a crush again?

As romantic as it might have been, you didn’t want to leave those answers up to fate. Instead, you sent him a text not long after you woke up, letting him know where he could find you if he wanted to see Hazel that afternoon.

Unsurprisingly, it was Hazel that saw Bucky first that afternoon when he arrived at the park, and unsurprisingly, she tore her leash from your grip and sprinted towards him, nearly tackling him as he crouched closer to the ground to greet her.

Surprisingly, you were actually jealous of your dog as you watched her give him sloppy, wet kisses.

“What’s that look for, sweetheart?” Bucky asked, angling his face away from Hazel. “Everything okay?”

“Quick question,” you told him. “Is that date still on the table?”

He grinned at you with that smug grin that you had scoffed at the day you first met, that same smug grin that made your heart flutter in your chest and made your breath catch in your throat and made you want to press kisses to his face and-

“I was wondering when you’d take me up on the offer, sweetheart.”

[this-is-my-jaam]

Cultural Representation in Dragon Age/Fantasy in General pt.1

So I made a post not too long ago about my gripes with the aesthetic design with the Dalish in Dragon Age. A user by the name of fallowhearth then introduced me to the work of Bret Deveraux and his breakdown on the historical inaccuracy and generally racist design of the Dothraki in got, which got me thinking about something that bothered me, but I hadn’t been able to figure out why until I read the essay.

A lot of people claim to have based fictional races/societies off of real cultures, but the actual representation of said cultures, mostly non-white cultures, is based more on stereotypes of a culture than the real culture. The steppe peoples and nomad societies tend to be the most insultingly incorrect from my own observations. Really, any culture that lives in away that the modern western society would consider unconventional.

So I’ve already done a dive into Dalish fashion, but it occurred to me that practically nothing of the original aesthetic design for the Dalish seemed to have any relation at all to the cultures that the Dalish were based on. In fact, I can’t really place where any of the design is pulled from apart from the medieval fantasy chainmail (which is a European style chainmail btw). There are plenty of cultures that wore fur throughout history, but none that I could find use it exclusively for pauldrons. Which makes sense because what would be the point even. I know I already complained about it but the fur shoulder pads are so truly baffling to me. We’ll get back to this later, but the main point is that just throwing together random tidbits of a culture together without any understanding of the original purposes of literally anything that you are ‘representing’ sits really wrong with me. 

So lets dissect the cultural designs of Dragon age and their presumable real world design inspirations. Strap in again folks because this one’s going to be long and in multiple parts or else you’ll be scrolling for an hour to get past this post. Again, this is all my opinion and I mean no offense. I don’t intend to speak for any of the ethnic groups to be mentioned in this rant, only to point out a commonality in fantasy worldbuilding that really bothers me. You are under no obligation to agree with me, constructive criticism is awesome, but please keep it civil.

The Dalish  

Since we’re already here, let’s break down the Dalish. I’m going to approach this from a few directions: 1) The Jewish, Romani, and Native American people that the Dalish were based on, 2) Cultural bias and stereotyping in pop media and 3) Fantasy design tropes.

Just to clarify, this isn’t meant to be criticism directed specifically at Bioware’s art team. Artists build the image of the game, but ultimately answer to an Art Director who answers to Corporate. I’m sure the artists that worked on these games and designs are lovely people, and meant no harm in any way. They just worked with what they were given, which was not a whole lot if we’re being really honest. I think this was in part because the Dalish were already present in DA:O before a lot of the lore was super established and they only had so much money for development. You can clearly tell that a lot of thought was put into many of the other cultures’ designs for DA:2 and Inquisition, but the Dalish were in DA:O so they had to design around that to keep the canon somewhat consistent. So no beef to Bioware’s creative team, I’m going to place the blame on EA because they ruin everything that they touch. The writing team however, I have some questions for. Namely, why? Actually, I know why and it’s also EA. Moving on.

1) Jewish, Romani, and Native American Culture

Now, I am by no means an expert in Jewish, Romani, or Native American history/culture, so I apologize for any inaccuracies that there might be in this post. If you see something inaccurate or you know of any other parallels that you want to talk about, feel free to add to the conversation. I try to reply to all of the comments that I get and I appreciate learning new stuff and being corrected on things that I am wrong about. Again, please be civil.

None of these cultures exists in the aesthetic design of the Dalish. At least not that I’ve been able to tell. The writers claim that the original inspiration for the Dalish are the Roma and Jewish people. I’m pretty sure that this is because of both the nomadic lifestyle of the Dalish, and the persecution they face in lore. The Romani people are believed to have originated in India and migrated Westward, the rich culture unique to the Romani people being a melting pot of cultural elements as people married into the culture and it expanded. I don’t think too much of the Dalish was inspired by the Romani people aside from the travel culture, the persecution and ostracization they faced, and their mysterious historical origins. We’ll get into my beef with westernized views on minorities and mysticism later though.

As for the Jewish people, I’m not entirely sure which parts of Jewish culture the writers were using for inspiration, but I definitely see the historical parallels. I think that the early Elven Kingdom was probably inspired by the creation and fall of Babylon and/or Jerusalem. And the current treatment of Elves within Thedas and the Exalted March itself is likely inspired by the Church endorsed Crusades, where the Jewish people were the target of mass genocide for ‘killing Jesus’ because the Church is fucking awful and war makes money. The ‘leaders’ of the crusades were usually religious nobility, committing war crimes because religion. Both offending armies even used the Templar name. Fucked up history fact: Pretty much all of the crusades weren’t actually about religion so much as stealing territory or making money. Just look up the Children’s Crusade. So the clearest common thread that I can see is the blatant discrimination and persecution, so if that’s all that the inspiration is, then Y I K E S. I was already unimpressed with the alleged Jewish inspiration in the Dalish culture but holy shit.

To be clear, I don’t think that there’s anything wrong with using history to inspire your writing. Some of the best stories are the ones inspired by real historical events and figures. But when you’re building a culture for a story and you chose to pick only the darkest parts of the culture’s history and none of the beauty of the culture itself, it rubs me the wrong way. This is all speculation seeing as how I was not in the writing room for these games, but I honestly can’t find any other parallels to the Jewish people with my limited knowledge, and if I dedicate myself to fully researching all of the potential parallels then this project will never end. Anyone who knows more about the Jewish culture and history, feel free to share your own opinions and thoughts. I really hope that I am just too uneducated in Jewish culture to see better parallels but all the ones I’ve found so far are not great. I’ll get back to this later, but I need to move on to discussing Native American cultural parallels because this post is already way too long.

My assumption is that the clan structure, philosophy, and spiritualism is inspired by the Native American people. The clan structure of Keeper > First > Second > other professions is probably based on Chiefdoms. Many tribes also hade roles specified to individuals, like hunting or weaving or building and so on, and others were more loose. Philosophies like the Vir Sulevanin or the codes of living based on individual gods are probably inspired by various religious practices and law structures. It’s hard to tell specifically where any inspiration was taken because there are a lot of nations that exist under the term Native American and as far as I know, the writers never specified any tribes. I don’t take much issue on the clan structure and the idea of the Dalish cultural lifestyle being loosely based on Native American culture. The execution is ass. For one, we barely get to see any of this stuff in practice, in game. You get to do a little with Hawke and Merrill in DA:2, and you get bits and pieces from DA:I, but overall, It’s a lot of tell, not a lot of show. What bothers me the most is how the culture is presented to the player. Most of your companions and NPC characters treat Dalish culture as lesser or too different to even bother trying to learn anything about it. If you play a Lavellan in DA:I, your own character acts very surprised that Josephine knows even two words in Dalish, and yet all of the Dalish that we meet speak the King’s language (I think that’s what English is called in DA, but I could be wrong). It makes me uncomfortable on a number of levels to have the culture presented this way to the player, especially when your responses usually make you complicit or an active participant of this problem. Sounds a whole lot like the oppression and discrimination that Native Americans deal with today and have been dealing with for centuries now. The biggest problem that I have with creating a parallel between the Dalish and Native Americans is how Dalish history is presented, particularly through Solas.

If Solas didn’t exist, I wouldn’t really have a problem with how the Dalish culture was built around lore and oral tradition. A downtrodden but proud elven people is kind of a refreshing inversion on the typical High Elf fantasy trope actually. Until you introduce the High Elf himself and he shits on the entire culture for reasons that I still can’t fully understand. If you talk with him in Haven as a Dalish elf about the Dalish people, he relates them to ignorant children. This does not change throughout the game. The only time he actually expresses that he might have misjudged the Dalish has nothing to actually do with the Dalish, just that he likes hanging out with your Inquisitor. Um, what the fuck? Solas’ whole guilt over the past thing translating into ‘I hate the Dalish because they’re not like the old elves wah,’ fucking pisses me off. I get that the Vallaslin bother him because they were originally slave markings and unnamed Dalish clans chased him off for trying to tell them ‘you’re whole culture and history is wrong,’ but if that’s all there is to him hating the Dalish then I have problems. He acknowledges that his actions led to the elves suffering, but he isn’t willing to accept the elves as they are now. He’s mad at the victims rather than the problem which is ridiculous. But now, because the game decided that Solas is a tragic villain and most of the elves side with him, it validates his belief that the Dalish culture is wrong. And if that don’t scream Manifest Destiny then I don’t know what does.

So, the thing that all of these groups have in common, and the thing that shows up the most often in media, is that fantasy minority groups are based almost entirely on real life minority groups and are depicted almost always as victims in need of saving or extinct. I’ve got a fun fact, minority groups weren’t always minorities, and weren’t always persecuted. I’d like to see that in media for like at least five minutes or something because this sucks. And framing these groups as victims for a western coded player character to rescue is the classic white savior shit that I can’t stand. Again, I’ll go deeper into that later, but I’ll end it on this last note because I need a nap now.

Culture is not defined by suffering. The Jewish people and Native Americans have faced trials and persecution for centuries, but their culture is not defined by that. The people within a cultural group are more than just their hardships. It isn’t inspiration from a culture to fantasize only about their abuse. And choosing to focus explicitly on the hardships and then turning those oppressed people into the ‘bad guys’ bc of some forced grey morality bs makes everything so much worse. If you create a society ‘based on’ existing ones, you need to actually address the positives of a culture as well. Do not present the people in a way that implies ‘less than’ to the player character. And most importantly, Do not write an oppressed people based on an oppressed people only to try and justify any part of their oppression. 

And this is only part 1. Send Help. I haven’t even finished with the Dalish Art History project I already started.

to be cont.